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The Warning: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
The Warning: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
The Warning: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
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The Warning: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

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A ruthless killer is on the loose and forces the John Mannering (aka ‘The Baron’), a retired jewel thief and master cracksman, to once again step outside of the law in order to hunt down the murderer, and also save his own skin. A victim had issued a cryptic warning before dying: 'Tell M. danger from Paul K'. It is clear Mannering is in extreme danger, but why, in what form the fatal blow might be delivered, and where he can start the pursuit remains to be deduced. Events lead to a hair-raising trail in which Mannering cannot afford any mistakes.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 1, 2015
ISBN9780755138487
The Warning: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Author

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

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    Book preview

    The Warning - John Creasey

    Chapter 1

    The Man Who Wanted Mannering

    ‘Mr Mannering!’ the man called hoarsely. ‘Mr Mannering!’

    A dozen people in Bond Street looked at him, but no one answered, no one turned – not even the tall man walking some way ahead.

    ‘Mr—Mannering!’ The caller’s voice was wavering, as if with exhaustion. His voice had been loud when he had first called out, but was now little above a whisper. ‘Mr—Mannering!’

    The tall man, walking with long, easy strides, drew further away.

    The caller missed a step, stumbled, and would have fallen but for a girl who grasped his arm.

    The girl saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, and the shadows of fear in his eyes as he leaned against her. Others passed, ignoring them, as the girl – who had never seen the man before – supported him gently.

    ‘Must—see Mannering,’ he gasped. He pointed unsteadily towards the backs of twenty men and as many women. ‘Must—see him.’

    The girl peered forward. She wasn’t sure what to do, or if, indeed, she could do anything, but the desperation in the brown eyes held her.

    The tallest man in the crowd turned a corner and disappeared. The other gave a hoarse cry, and started to run again. Desperation gave him strength, and he moved quickly for a few yards, then all but fell.

    The girl, tall and fair, looked round agitatedly. A taxi was crawling towards them. She raised her hand, and the driver pulled up. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘We’ll find him.’

    She helped the man into the taxi, alarmed at his weakness, watching him anxiously.

    The cab turned the corner. This was a one-way street, with narrow pavements, where some of London’s most exclusive shops were to be found.

    Two women were coming out of a gown salon, where a single dress cost an average man’s monthly income. No one else was in sight.

    The cabby slowed down.

    ‘Whereabouts, Miss?’

    ‘Just—just wait here.’ The girl climbed out hastily, leaving her handbag on the seat. She looked distractedly at the shops, then chose one that was small and very narrow. On the fascia board above her head was one word: Quinns. In the window, against a deep red-velvet background, lay an enormous diamond.

    The girl opened the door and stepped into shadow and coolness. An old man with silver hair moved forward. ‘Good afternoon, madam. Can I help you?’

    ‘Is—is there a Mr Mannering here?’

    ‘Why, yes, there is.’

    ‘Ask him to come to the taxi outside,’ said the girl breathlessly. ‘Please ask him to hurry.’

    She turned back to the door, without noticing the tall man who had appeared from the far end of the shop and was walking towards her.

    He said easily: ‘I am John Mannering. In what way can I help you?’

    ‘There’s a man outside—’ she began, then half-ran towards the taxi. Mannering was just behind her.

    ‘Here he is,’ she said. ‘You—’

    Her voice trailed off. Mannering peered over her head and saw a man slumped down in the corner. ‘Let me come,’ Mannering said.

    The girl moved aside, mechanically. Minutes passed and brought with them a tension which the girl could not properly understand. Mannering backed out of the taxi.

    ‘I’m afraid it’s too late,’ he said gravely, ‘the man’s dead.’

    John Mannering, owner of Quinns, owner of a reputation that was in its way unique, took the girl’s arm and led her back to the shop. The old man with the silver hair was coming forward.

    ‘Your name?’ Mannering asked the girl, almost casually.

    ‘Lee – Garielle Lee. I don’t—’

    ‘Josh, take Miss Lee upstairs, and make some tea, will you? Don’t worry, Miss Lee, I’ll look after this.’ He went into a small office on the right, and reached for a telephone.

    ‘Scotland Yard; can I help you?’ asked a girl operator.

    ‘Is Superintendent Bristow in?’ asked Mannering. ‘Hold on, please, I’ll see.’

    Mannering waited for perhaps a minute, then a well-known voice came across the wire. ‘Bristow here.’

    ‘Still wallowing deep in crime?’ asked Mannering.

    Bristow’s voice took on a new note. ‘So it’s you, John. Yes, I’m busy.’

    ‘So that’s how it is,’ said Mannering. ‘All right, Bill, I’ll look after the corpse myself, and—’

    ‘Corpse?’

    ‘Body.’

    Now what have you been doing?’

    ‘It arrived in a taxi, with an agitated young woman. I haven’t seen the man before, and I’m not sure how he died, but I think you’ll find he was poisoned.’

    ‘Where is this?’ demanded Bristow.

    ‘In a taxi outside Quinns.’

    ‘Just leave everything alone,’ said Bristow. ‘Don’t touch the body, don’t touch anything.’

    Mannering had a word with the taxi-driver, repeated Bristow’s message to a tall, solid-looking constable, and returned to the shop.

    Josh Larraby, his silver-haired manager, was coming down the stairs. On either side of the older man were showcases containing jewels and objets d’art, their beauty cloaked by the soft light. There were antiques, too, and exquisite miniatures.

    ‘Did she say anything?’

    ‘Nothing of significance, sir.’

    ‘I’ll go up,’ said Mannering.

    The girl was sitting back in an easy chair, sipping tea. Mannering sat down and poured himself out a cup, unobtrusively studying the girl as he did so. There was style there, he decided, both in the cut of her plain linen frock, and in herself. He noted with pleasure her long and slender hands.

    ‘This must have been a shock, Miss Lee.’

    ‘It’s—it’s quite fantastic,’ she answered in a strained voice, ‘I can hardly believe it happened.’ After a pause she went on: ‘I’d just slipped out of my office for a few minutes when I saw this man staggering along, calling your name. He nearly fell, and I saved him. He could hardly speak, but kept saying he must see you and—’ She caught her breath. ‘Then you turned the corner. He nearly collapsed, so I called the taxi, and helped him in. He was alive when I came into the shop, and – you know what happened when I got back.’

    ‘Yes, I do indeed. And he was a complete stranger?’

    She nodded.

    ‘He was so desperate! He said—’ The girl hesitated, then burst out: ‘He said that he must warn you. He said it two or three times. Warn. He talked as if he knew you, and was frightened for you.’

    Chapter 2

    The Doubting Policeman

    ‘Well?’ Superintendent William Bristow of New Scotland Yard was brusque. ‘Did you know him?’

    ‘No,’ said Mannering.

    ‘Hmph.’ Bristow looked at the girl. ‘And he was a complete stranger to you, Miss Lee?’

    ‘I’ve said so a dozen times.’

    ‘So you did,’ said Bristow blandly. ‘Peculiar. A stranger to both of you. Very good of you to have helped the man, Miss Lee. I’m afraid there will be some formalities which can’t be avoided, such as the inquest.’

    ‘Oh no!’

    ‘Afraid so. Sorry.’ Bristow’s sorrow did not alter the keenness of his gaze. ‘I’ll have to worry you to sign a statement, too. Care to come along to the Yard, or—’

    ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I must get back to the office. I work for Mr Anderson at Crane Buildings. It’s nearly five o’clock and his letters will be ready.’

    ‘Your home address?’

    She took a card out of her handbag.

    ‘It’s here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be free by six o’clock and I could see you then.’

    Mannering went with the girl to the door of the shop. Bristow followed, and Mannering saw him making signs to a detective officer, saw the man turn in the wake of Miss Lee.

    Mannering and Bristow strolled back along the shop to the office.

    ‘John, who was that man?’

    ‘I don’t know him from Adam.’

    ‘He knew what you looked like and where he could find you.’

    Mannering said pleasantly: ‘Why don’t you call me a liar and be done with it?’

    Bristow frowned. He said slowly: ‘You’re holding out on me, John, and I don’t like it.’

    ‘Bill, I called you within three minutes of seeing the body, and went straight up to the girl. I was with the body for perhaps a minute, making sure that he was dead. If there’d been a spark of life I would have sent for the nearest doctor.’

    ‘What made you think it was poison?’

    ‘The pallor of his face and the pin-point pupils,’ said Mannering. ‘I’d say that he took the stuff some time before Miss Lee found him, and that he knew he was dying.’

    ‘I hope you’re telling the truth,’ said Bristow. ‘You’ll be wanted at the inquest, too. By the way, how well do you know the girl?’

    Mannering chuckled. ‘I don’t know her.’

    By now an ambulance had taken the body away, and the police had released the taxi-driver but impounded his cab. The street was deserted. Mannering went back to the office and looked through his list of appointments for the next day – two auctions in the London area; it wouldn’t be all the world if he missed both of them.

    It was getting on for six o’clock.

    He sat back and closed his eyes – and pictured the face of the dead man. He had not told Bristow that he knew that the man’s pockets had been empty, for he’d felt in them all.

    The girl had been emphatic about the warning. Bristow would check; Bristow would soon know how much of her story of the chance encounter was true. Bristow, in the right mood, would tell him.

    Had the man taken poison himself? Would a suicide come to warn him of anything? It was more likely murder. Grant that it was, then it meant grave danger.

    The telephone bell rang.

    He lifted the receiver.

    ‘Mannering here.’

    "Hold on, please,’ an operator said. ‘I’ve a call for you. Long distance.’

    This would be his wife, Lorna, who was in the country with her mother.

    ‘John!’

    ‘Hallo, my sweet. You wouldn’t know when you’re coming home, would you?’

    ‘I must stay for a few more days,’ Lorna said. ‘Over the

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