Fauntley summoned a smile, but was not entirely successful in hiding his irritation. It was rare, even for the managing director of the Fauntley Financial Trust, to find a thing like the Klobber Diamond Mines, and he had expected to get the whole fruit for himself The fact that he had been compelled to share it was maddening. His profits were cut from forty thousand to twenty-five thousand, and he was reminding himself that fifteen thousand was a lot of money.
He stopped brooding as a figure darkened the door
“Ha! Come in, Mannering, come in. Glad to see you.”
Mannering, immaculate and polished as ever, entered the office, shook hands with his lordship, inquired after her ladyship, and accepted a suggestion that he should dine at Langford Terrace that evening.
Under the warming influence of Mannering’s flattery Lord Fauntley confided that he had been stung by some darned cheap-jack of a broker, but, by Jove, he’d be more careful in the future. Then he succeeded in forcing his worries away, and chuckled.
“Still laying heavily on the winners, Mannering?”
Mannering smiled at his lordship’s eagerness.
“I was on Tanamount yesterday,” he said, “doubled with Portia. But I really came to see you about the stones, Fauntley.”
Fauntley swallowed hard. Some thirty years before he had been a clerk in the offices of a Greenwich bookmaker, whose heaviest stakes had rarely topped the hundred pounds. By unquestioned shrewdness he had climbed the backs of the masses to become a financial power, but in many ways he retained the outlook of his early days. He was unable to comprehend the coolness of Mannering in the face of substantial wins and - so far as the peer could see - only occasional losses. Mannering’s nonchalance was a thing that Fauntley discussed at any and every opportunity. “An astonishing fellow. Money doesn’t matter with him. Ever met him? Come along to my daughter’s Carnival Ball - you’ll find Mannering there.” Or”, to his wife: “Amazing fellow, Mannering. Fascinating. And - business with pleasure, m’dear - I think that idea of a ball is a good one. It’s time Lorna took a little interest in her old father, and a lot of people will come: surprising how much can be done at a time like that. Mannering will draw them.”
Very often Mannering told himself that he could not have a better publicity agent, and there was an ironical gleam in his eyes when he wondered what Fauntley’s reaction would be if the peer knew just what he was doing.
“Stones?” echoed his lordship, breaking across Mannering’s thoughts.
Mannering nodded, as he proffered cigarettes.
“Yes. I’ve heard that the Lubitz diamonds will be in the market within a week or two, and - ”
“Lubitz!” Lord Fauntley’s eyes glittered. “My heavens, Mannering, but the Lubitz collection and the Gabrienne collection would be - would be unique, unique! You’re sure of this?”
“So sure that I thought of buying them,” said Mannering.
The peer’s face dropped ludicrously.
“Ha! Of course. I’d forgotten you collect. Yes. Well, you won’t go far wrong with the Lubitz diamonds, that’s certain enough.”
“But,” said Mannering, frowning a little, “I’m more anxious to get the Gembolt sapphires, and I was thinking . . .”
He stopped, as Lord Fauntley’s lips tightened.
The Gembolt sapphires, Fauntley knew, were up for offer at the Garton Sale Rooms, at an auction to be held on the following morning. He, Fauntley, had them in his pocket, since money was tight, and he expected to get them for five or six thousand. But if anyone - Mannering, for instance - was going to bid against him it would be a different matter.
“I was thinking,” Mannering went on, “that if you give me the first refusal of the sapphires I’ll see that you get the first chance of the Lubitz collection.”
“You will?” Fauntley’s eyes sparkled. “But that’s damned good of you, Mannering, damned good! I’ll keep away from the Gembolts. Go and get them.”
Mannering smiled, and picked up his hat and gloves from the table. If Lord Fauntley could have read the working of the mind behind that smile his own would have been blasted from his face.
Jimmy Randall preferred Somerset to London, but he visited London occasionally, always making a point of seeing Toby Plender. Recently the mutual topic had been John Mannering. On the morning of the 9th of October - the date of the Fauntley Carnival Ball at the Five Arts Hall, Kensington - the topic was still Mannering, but it was viewed more cheerfully and more philosophically than before.
“It amounts to this,” said Plender. “He’s found a winning slant, and he’s following it blindly. I don’t mean horses only; I don’t even mean the tables, although I’ve heard rumours that he’s been doing well at Denver’s Club and one or two private salons. But he’s touched two or three things like the Klobber Diamonds, and - ”
“In other words,” said Randall cheerfully, “he’s turned his five thousand into fifty, and he can go to hell at his own pace.’
Plender laughed, making his face more like Punch than ever.
“I suppose so. 1 think he must have had something up his sleeve all the time, Jimmy. Anyhow, if you want to borrow anything try J.M.”
“Let’s go and drink his health,” said Randall.
“Y’know, I think if Marie Overndon had the chance now she’d take it.”
“Let Marie Overndon,” said Plender amiably, “go to perdition. She very nearly - ”
He broke off abruptly, for one of the first faces he saw as he entered the Junior Carlton was Mannering’s. Mannering waved and moved towards them.
“This,” he said cheerfully, “must be the seventh post mortem in as many months. Are you eating or just drinking?”
“We might eat,” said Toby Plender.
“Idea,” said Jimmy Randall.
“I’ve got a table,” said John Mannering.
The flash of his white teeth against his dark skin, the glint of his hazel eyes, the grace of his lithe body as he moved towards the grill-room of the Junior Carlton, were parts of the Mannering of old, the Mannering of money. The thoughts in his mind were strange and mixed, tinged with a grim humour, coloured by a new devilry and a new purpose.
At that time John Mannering was reputed to be wealthy beyond ordinary measure. While his balance at a certain bank was low, it was well known that he used several banks. While no broker had bought substantially for him in any shares, Klobber Diamonds or others, it was known that he operated through many brokers. While no jewel-merchant had sold him gems of exceptional value, it was known that he traded with many merchants - also, it was rumoured, through Lord Fauntley. Billy Tricker, hearing reports of Mannering’s exceptional winnings on the turf, was glad that he had taken his lucky bets elsewhere. Tricker, being a philosophical bookie, knew that his turn would come.
At that time John Mannering’s assets were one thousand and fifty pounds, an idea that had grown into an obsession now, a belief in his ability to work the idea, and the love of Lorna Fauntley, of which he was unaware.
No one knew, no one dreamed, that they would soon be meeting the Baron. When that gentleman’s exploits grew famous or notorious, according to the point of view, no one dreamed that John Mannering was the Baron.
Detective-Inspector William Bristow was a large boned man of medium height and middle age. He had spent twenty-five years in the Force - excepting, of course, for four years in Flanders - and those years were beginning to show in the grey of his grizzled hair and the lines in the corners of his eyes. Apart from those two signs he might have been twenty-eight, not forty-eight. His back was as straight as a rod, his stomach flat, his biceps passably hard, even when relaxed, and his eyes, flinty grey beneath almost white brows, were as keen and shrewd as ever. His lips smiled less often, perhaps, but his eyes laughed more.
At times he was called the Philosopher, because he appeared to let nothing worry him. At other times he was called the Posh William, because he dressed fastidiously, and wore a buttonhole on every possible occasion. At other times still he was called the Mug, because every Commissioner selected him for the most difficult, tiring, intricate, and unlikely problems. The imagination of his fellow-officers - and subordinates - at Scotland Yard was not, then, as fertile nor as subtle as it might have been.
There was one compensation, however. Certain members of the fraternity that takes its pleasures and earns its living at the expense of more orderly members of society revealed greater subtlety by calling him Old Bill.
It might have been possible for them to have selected a man more antithetical of Bairnsfather’s creation, but few people would have believed it. Bristow’s face was square, tight-skinned, and alert, while his moustache was a neat military-cum-Colman attachment. Bristow fingered it a great deal, as though endeavouring to remove the yellow stains of nicotine that soiled the greyness of it. By habit he smoked cigarettes heavily, drank beer a little and spirits usually by invitation, and shaved night and morning when the trials of his job permitted. The thirty-seven housewives who lived in Gretham Street, Chelsea - excluding his own wife - believed that he was a commercial traveller. He had two sons approaching maturity and a daughter of fifteen. Perhaps one of the most significant things about him was that he adored his wife.
One morning in the August of I936 Old Bill walked rapidly along Mile End Road, acknowledging an occasional friendly grin from the enemy who were at times his friends, frowning, wishing for winter - or at least for a temperature below seventy-five degrees - and confounding the Dowager Countess of Kenton.
The Countess had lost an emerald brooch valued at seven hundred and fifty pounds. That had been on the Monday, three days before this visit of the Inspector’s to Limehouse. At ten o’clock on the night of the loss she had telephoned Scotland Yard to lodge her complaint, and, allowing for the six hours she apparently slept at night, she had telephoned Scotland Yard every other hour afterwards.
The theft had been a neat one, but not exceptionally clever. During a dance - the Dowager had an unattached daughter - the lights had been cut off for thirty seconds, and the brooch had been snatched from the Dowager’s corsage. Before she had stopped screaming the lights had been switched on again, whereat she had fainted, and no one had kept a cool head in the ensuing confusion.
A ladder leading to the windows at the rear of No. 7 Portland Square revealed the means of ingress, an unconscious housekeeper near the electric main switch - which in turn was near the window - revealed the burglar’s preparedness to use violence, and the fact that no one of the party had switched the light on again proved the raider, who must have done it himself, to have been of unusual daring and nerve.
The detective liked nerve, and, knowing that the housekeeper was not badly hurt, was amused. On the third day he disliked the Dowager so much that he was disappointed when Levy Schmidt, a pawnbroker in the Mile End Road, telephoned him to say that a client had tried to pass the Kenton brooch. That is to say, the human element in the detective was disappointed; the official element was pleased.
Bristow turned into the small, ill-lit shop and stood waiting amidst a row of second-hand dresses, a soiled heap of more intimate garments, a collection of cheap clocks, vases, and ornaments. After a few minutes Levy limped into his cubicle, saw his visitor, and lifted his scraggy old hands in dismay.
“Vy, Misther Bristhow, tho thorry, tho thorry! Vy didn’t you come in the private entranth, Misther Bristhow? Come thith vay, thith vay, and mind the stheps - vun - two - three - - ”
Bristow followed the Jew into the grimy parlour at the rear of the pawnshop, and marvelled to himself that a man as rich as Levy Schmidt could live in such filth. He shrugged the thought away. Levy had a perfect right to handle his own money and affairs as he liked; and Levy, moreover, was a valuable informant.
The parlour was as gloomy as it was dismal, despite the brilliance of the sun outside. It was heaped with more second-hand clothes, odd articles of furniture, crockery, and cutlery. Nothing that could be pawned was missing. Mile End patronised Levy frequently and exhaustively from sheer necessity.
“Now vot, Misther Bristhow - thit down, pleath - can I do for you? Can it be - ”
“What a lot more you’d say if you didn’t talk so much!” said Bristow cheerfully. “The Kenton brooch, Levy. You’ve got it?”
Levy nodded. His dirty, scrawny face was lined with years, and his brown, hooded eyes gleamed as he regarded the detective with satisfaction. He turned away and limped towards a square steel safe in the corner of the parlour.
“Vy yeth, Misther Bristhow, vould you pelieve it, I forgot? Mind you,” the pawnbroker added hastily, “I voth forthed to pay ten poundth for it, Inthpector; he vould not leave it viddout a pit of money. You come back ven I haff more in the thafe, I thaid, and he promithed he vould, Inthpector - just vun minute more. Hey! The Kenton brooch, hey!”
Bristow took the bauble in his fingers and peered at it. The lambent green fires in the stones greeted even the dim light of the shop parlour. Bristow pulled a photograph from his pocket and compared it with the jewel in his hand. It was the genuine Kenton brooch he was prepared to swear.
He slipped it into his pocket, wrapped in tissue-paper, and nodded at the Jew.
“That’s it,” he said. “Now who was the man? Know him?”
“Never thet eyeth on him before in me life, misther!”
“What did he look like?”
“Vell - it’th dark in the thop, Inthpector. Tall and dark and vot you might call viciouth, hey? Not a nithe man to know, hey? And his coat-collar voth turned up - like thith.” Levy put his scrawny hand behind his neck and hunched his shoulders expressively.
“Coat or overcoat?” asked Bristow.
“Overcoat, and a day like thith!” Levy lifted his hands to the ceiling. “Vy, didn’t it thout thuthpithion?”
“Why didn’t you telephone for a couple of policemen?” asked the Inspector a little irritably.
“Vell” - Levy shrugged his shoulders until the miscellaneous collection inside the pocket of his once black, now green coat jingled together - “vot could an old man like me do, Inthpector? Get the brooch, I thaid - that wath the firtht thing. And then telephone you, hey?