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Alias the Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Alias the Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Alias the Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
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Alias the Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

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John Mannering (aka ‘The Baron’) bought the Dellamont Emeralds in Paris. They were beautiful, expensive - and sinister. But Mannering, connoisseur of precious gems, chose to ignore their history of misfortune. Then things began to happen - an attempted robbery of the famous jewels; and a quarrel with Lorna Fauntley. Seemingly separate incidents, yet all connected. The strangest thing of all was that someone was impersonating the Baron ….

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 1, 2014
ISBN9780755136858
Alias the Baron: (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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    Alias the Baron - John Creasey

    Chapter One

    THE DELLAMONT EMERALDS

    GALINET pulled open a drawer in the Louis Quinze desk, and took out a bunch of keys. His hands, so unexpectedly slender and white for the plump, ruddy-faced Frenchman, moved upwards with the fingers wide apart and the keys jingling from the tip of his right thumb.

    ‘It is your wish, M’sieu Mannering. I warn you, the Dellamont emeralds make bad blood. I would not say that to stop you buying. I am your friend, and I would not have you possess the Emeralds of Discord.’

    ‘The Emeralds of Discord, are they?’ John Mannering said. ‘Do you know, Galinet, I’m more inclined to have them now than when I came in.’

    ‘Sacre Dieu!’ Bright, angry grey eyes were turned towards the tanned, handsome face of the Englishman, made angrier by the smile in Mannering’s steady, hazel eyes. Mannering stood up, a head taller than Galinet, who was short as well as plump. ‘Zere you go, ze English! What is your vord—obstinate, yes, I’homme volontaire. It is always so, vit’ …’

    ‘Steady now, I haven’t bought them yet. Or do the emeralds get premonitions?’

    ‘You will always laugh, M’sieu Mannering, never was there such a man for taking the world not serious. But’—Galinet gave a shake of his grey, unshapely head—’I have done my part. I would not quarrel with you. But those emeralds, a bas, trouble they will cause for you.’

    He opened a small safe standing against the wall of the exquisitely furnished room, and Mannering smiled at the simplicity of the lock. Any cracksman could force the safe within five minutes. Yet jewel merchants, who often took risks, suffered fewer losses than collectors who boasted the impregnability of their strong-rooms. The jewels would only be in that safe when someone was in the room, of course.

    Mannering’s thoughts were interrupted as Galinet brought a small black case from the safe, leaving the door wide open and showing several cases of similar size inside. Mannering, whom some people knew as the Baron, jewel thief extraordinary, reminded himself that he had come to buy honestly. But there was a fortune in Galinet’s Paris salon.

    He watched the ugly little Frenchman with amusement. There were jewel merchants who traded only for profit, others who had the collector’s passion for precious stones. Galinet was of the latter. Unlocking the clasp of the case he opened it with a gesture. In the bright sunlight streaming through the window of the first-floor room in the Rue de Rivoli, the Dellamont emeralds glowed like green fires.

    There were eleven stones, with an exceptionally fine one in the centre, the others graduating perfectly and all cut to exactly the same shape and scale. They were strung on platinum which looked too light and fragile to bear their weight, and the clasp was studded with emeralds. The fascination of exquisite gems, an appeal to finer senses long trained to feel the subtle attraction of precious stones, drove everything else from the minds of the two men.

    The emeralds seemed alive.

    Large unwinking eyes, in which were buried the secrets of past owners, possessed of a legend which Galinet had used to try to frighten Mannering, were lying on the white velvet cushion as though demanding worship.

    Galinet took the clasp, lifting the necklet slowly and handing it to Mannering. Mannering held it a foot in front of his eyes.

    ‘I’ll have them,’ he said at last, and Galinet breathed heavily, as though the tension had snapped.

    ‘So. I hope you will not wish you had never decided to buy.’

    ‘You know, Galinet,’ said Mannering, ‘you sound almost as if you believed the legend.’

    ‘As if I do!’ The little man flared up again. ‘Who am I to question it? Those who have owned the Dellamont emeralds lose their friends. Did not Napoleon have them, as one by one his friends deserted him? Did not the sad, unhappy Josephine know their influence? Have they not been owned by three noble families of France who have been forced to rely on their friends, when adversity came, and who were betrayed? Did not the great American Mensull buy them, only to find himself ruined, friendless, and deserted? In the three years since Mensull died, they have been awaiting a man to defy the legend. M’sieu, I will make you the wager. In six months you will wish you had not seen the Emeralds of Discord.’

    ‘If I stay here much longer, you’ll almost convince me.’ Mannering replaced the emeralds in their case, sat down, and took out a cheque-book. He signed one for fifteen thousand pounds, and handed it to the Frenchman. ‘I think I’ll take them with me.’

    ‘I shall have them packed,’ said Galinet, pressing a bell for an assistant. ‘It is a pleasure always to sell to you, M’sieu. Never once have I known you object to a price.’

    ‘As soon as you overcharge, I’ll object.’

    Anton came in, short, sleek, swarthy, took the case, bowed, and went out silently. Mannering and the jewel merchant chatted for ten minutes before Mannering left the shop and walked in the blazing sunshine, seeing beyond the railings of the Tuileries Gardens the riotous confusion of mid-spring flowers.

    It was a year since he had been in Paris, but he was not likely to forget what had brought him then. Events had forced him into the busiest month of his career as the Baron. In the back streets of the Montmartre district he had made friends as well as enemies in his quest for the five jewels of Castilla. Somewhere among that warren of alleys was a man who had tried to knife him, yet lived to become a devoted friend.

    He felt the pressure of the case against his side.

    Sooner or later an emergency would come which would force him to pit his wits against the police again, to risk his liberty if not his life. Three times the Baron had ‘retired’: three times fate had brought him back to the arena.

    Reputed dilettante, wealthy bachelor, as well-known in Paris and the Riviera as in London, engaged – so rumour had it – to Lorna, only daughter of Lord Fauntley, there was always the ghost of the past, of the Baron, at Mannering’s shoulder. All over the world were people who knew his identity as the Baron; the police of four countries had unsolved jewel robberies on their records; in both England and France there were detectives who knew the Baron but lacked the proof to act against him.

    He was vaguely disturbed this morning. Galinet’s exaggerated forebodings about the Dellamont emeralds might be the cause, or else the sharpness of the recollection of his last trip to Paris.

    He walked briskly towards the Champs-Elysées, heedless of the noisy traffic, the flash of the traffic gendarme’s white baton and the shrill call of his whistle, heedless of the bright canopies of the cafés, all well filled, of the rattling single-decker buses, the sometimes curious and frequently inviting glances from the invariably well-dressed women who passed by him.

    And as he walked, a nondescript-looking man of medium height followed him, always on the opposite side of the road, and always fifty yards behind.

    From the window of a third-floor room at l’hotel Cumart, in a side street off the Avenue de l’Opera, came the harsh blare of traffic. Sharp footfalls pattered to and fro, now and again a voice was raised in greeting.

    None of which disturbed the man lying, fully dressed, on the double bed.

    His sharp features were attractive, even if the mouth was thin and straight, and the chin suggested weakness. His dark, crinkly hair was brushed straight back from a wide forehead. His eyes were opened and he stared at a mark on the papered ceiling, with his hands behind his head, his legs wide apart. On the white counterpane there were two dark smudges, made by the heels of his shoes.

    M’sieu Paul Rentu was at ease.

    A clock outside struck eleven, the half-hour, noon. M’sieu Rentu stayed where he was, although occasionally moistened his lips several times with his tongue. As the last chime of midday died away he sighed, moved his hands, swung his legs to the floor. He proved to be broad and well filled, even for his six feet. His walk to the bell, by the door, was almost stealthy.

    To the waiter who answered he said sharply: ‘Absinthe, vitemente.’

    ‘Oui, M’sieu.’

    Rentu went to the window and for a few seconds stood on the small balcony, overlooking the narrow street. The tall houses of Rue Cumart seemed to get closer together the nearer they approached the skies. A shaft of sunlight shone on a house nearly opposite the hotel, striking through a partly open window, and on to the girl sitting there with a wrap about her otherwise bare shoulders. Rentu’s white teeth showed, and he whistled. She looked across, and he waved. With a petulant expression the girl stood up, turned her back, and slammed the shutters of her window. Rentu laughed, and turned back to the room as the door opened.

    Instead of the waiter, a man of medium height came in. His like might have been seen a thousand times in the streets of Paris that day. He was dressed in a new blue-grey suit, brown shoes, and a new Trilby hat, although a muffler and a cap would have better suited the pock-marked, rather vicious face.

    ‘Ah, Corbertes,’ greeted Rentu, his eyes narrowing. ‘You are late.’

    ‘I am on time,’ growled Corbertes.

    ‘It is of no importance,’ said Rentu, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Sit down, my friend, there will be absinthe very soon. It will perhaps make you more affable.’

    ‘I am as I want to be,’ said Corbertes, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets and staring at the window. ‘Have them closed, Rentu, I have told you about that before.’

    ‘You talk about so much,’ said Rentu, but he stepped across and closed the windows. As he fastened the shutters the light came in only through the slatted bars. The waiter returned with a tray and a bottle of absinthe. He poured two small glasses of the greenish, bitter-sweet drink, bowed, and retired. Corbertes took a cigarette from a crumpled packet, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it from a petrol-lighter. He waved away a glass.

    ‘He was at Galinet’s this morning,’ he announced. ‘From ten o’clock until eleven. Then he walked to his hotel.’

    ‘So.’ Rentu sipped thoughtfully. ‘What did he bring?’

    ‘He had a packet, I saw the bulge in his pocket.’

    ‘Mannering would not visit Galinet unless he was buying, and Galinet would not be likely to sell him a trifle,’ Rentu remarked. ‘Is there no way of finding out what it was?’

    ‘I have arranged with Pierre to say if he leaves it in the hotel safe, or in his room.’

    ‘Are there safes in l’hotel Mirage?’

    ‘In the rooms you mean? Yes. But of no account.’ Corbertes waved his hands expressively, and picked up the glass. ‘If Mannering does not give these jewels to the manager, will you work tonight?’

    ‘As you say.’

    ‘And you will send the jewels, as usual, to Fienne?’

    ‘Of course.’ Rentu smiled with a touch of derision. ‘How often have I to tell you that I am a loyal member of our party?’

    ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ growled Corbertes. ‘You have to prove it. Remember you will be watched, you are not trusted – yet.’

    ‘The time will come when you will apologise.’

    ‘I shall see you tomorrow,’ said Corbertes. There was an unspoken threat in his voice, in the gaze from his light-blue eyes. ‘Remember, do everything as you have been told, Rentu.’

    ‘But of course,’ smiled the big man.

    His smile disappeared as the door closed behind Corbertes. For perhaps ten seconds he stared at the door, then he relaxed and gave a thoughtful, not unpleasant smile.

    Apart from two short intervals when he walked for half an hour and passed the lighted cafés enviously, he stayed at the hotel all day. At ten o’clock his telephone bell rang.

    ‘M’sieu Rentu?’

    ‘It is me.’

    ‘The man has not made any request to the manager, M’sieu. This is Pierre.’

    ‘That is excellent, Pierre.’

    ‘You will come by the side door, M’sieu, at one o’clock. The key to his room will be on the board. Twenty-eight.’

    ‘It could not be easier, Pierre. I am grateful to you.’

    ‘You should be grateful to Corbertes,’ said Pierre, porter at the Mirage.

    Just after eleven o’clock Rentu rang for a waiter, ordered a bottle of white wine, and, as the man was going out, called him back. He was in his dressing-gown and pyjamas, and he motioned to his trousers, flung carelessly over the back of a chair.

    ‘Take them for pressing, please. I want them for eight o’clock tomorrow. They must not be late.’

    ‘They will be here, M’sieu.’

    ‘I shall want petit dejeuner here, at half past eight. Not a minute later.’

    ‘It is so, M’sieu.’

    Rentu slipped between the sheets, with the wine and a glass on a table at his side, and switched off the light. In ten minutes he was asleep.

    The bell outside was striking half past twelve when he stirred and, without switching on the light, poured a glass of white wine, sipped it, and slipped out of bed. From his wardrobe he took a pair of light-brown trousers similar to those he had sent for pressing, and he dressed quickly. From a small suitcase he took a blue scarf, a gas-pistol, and a small tool-kit which he wrapped about his waist. In it were tools he was likely to need at l’hotel Mirage. At ten minutes to one he went quietly down the stairs of the hotel, his ears alert to catch any sound. None came, for few people who stayed at l’hotel Cumart indulged in the night life of Paris, and the porter went off duty at twelve-thirty, leaving a small door locked but not bolted, for latecomers. Rentu pulled back the Yale lock, heard it squeak, and, before he was out, squirted a little oil on the lock.

    A few cafés were open on the Avenue de l’Opera, and twice Rentu passed a gendarme who walked slowly, swinging his baton. It took him seven minutes to reach the Mirage, and he turned along a side street towards the rear entrance which Pierre had left unlocked. At one minute past one, he slipped into the narrow passage and, accustoming his eyes to the darkness, walked towards the main hall.

    There was a light in there, but nowhere else. No porter was in sight. Walking on his toes and with quick, stealthy movements that characterised him, Rentu sought the key-board, found a key for Room Twenty-eight, pocketed it, and turned to the automatic lift.

    No one who saw him would have reason to suspect that he was not a guest at the hotel. The only danger would come from Mannering, inside the room. Rentu did not think the risk very great, and as he stopped the lift at the first floor he fingered the gas-pistol.

    Room Twenty-eight was near the lift, and also near the dim light burning in the passage. Rentu’s eyes narrowed as he waited for a few seconds, heard nothing, and slipped the blue scarf about his nose, mouth, and chin. He pulled his hat well down, and only a narrow line of pale skin showed between the brim and the mask.

    The rooms of l’hotel Mirage were bolted from the inside by a small, easily moved catch which was fastened to the door and slipped into a socket in the door jamb. Rentu used oil again on the key, slipped it into the hole, and unlocked the door. Only a faint click came, but the door would not open.

    From his tool-kit he took a thin-bladed knife, and inserted it between the door and the framework, knowing the position of the safety fastening. The blade of the knife touched the catch, and Rentu breathed faster as he levered it upwards. The click! as it fell back seemed ominously loud, and made him draw back sharply.

    He turned the handle of the door again, and pushed. The door moved. He opened it wider, stepped inside, and pushed the door behind him so that only a thin stream of light gleamed in from the passage.

    From inside the room came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Rentu closed the door very gently.

    Room Twenty-eight, he knew, was in two parts, separated only by a heavy curtain drawn across the doorway. There was no intervening door. From the inner compartment came the faint glow of the street lights, sufficient for him to see enough to avoid obstacles. The curtain was open; so was the window beyond.

    Under his breath, Rentu muttered: ‘The English, are they all mad?’

    He stepped cautiously towards the bed, the shape of which he could just distinguish against the pale wall. The dim light showed him the figure of the man stretched on the bed, both arms clear of the sheets, his face turned slightly towards the window.

    Rentu drew the gas-pistol from his pocket, and stepped forward until he was within a foot of the bed, two feet away from the sleeper’s face. His finger on the trigger, the gas-pistol moved slowly towards the mouth and nose.

    It was less than six inches away when Mannering moved.

    Chapter Two

    SURPRISE FOR MANNERING

    MANNERING’S mind and body had been tuned to react as one, from sleeping to waking was a transition which could hardly be reckoned in time.

    He heard the click of the lock, and woke.

    In the next few seconds he heard furtive movements of the marauder. He deliberately turned his head away from the door, for if the other shone a light on his face the twitching of an eye muscle might give him away.

    The breathing of the intruder, the stealthy footsteps, told him the nearness of the man. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw the hand coming towards him, holding the gun. These made no more than a dark blue in front of his eyes as Mannering jerked his right hand upwards.

    He held the thumb and forefinger wide apart, pushing at the other’s wrist. Caught in the V, Rentu’s hand was sent high above Mannering’s face. There was a sharp hiss of escaping gas, which spent itself against the bare wall.

    Mannering sat up, and lunged with his left fist towards the other’s face. The impetus of the first attack had brought Rentu near him; Mannering’s blow caught him on the neck, and made him yield. Mannering flung the bedclothes back, snatched away the gun, and dropped it on the bed. He sent a pile-driver to the stomach. Rentu gasped, and lost his footing. Mannering fastened

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