A Sword For the Baron by John Creasey

me?” Levinson made himself ask.
    The bony man said: “Mr Levinson, were you at the home of Miss Sara Gentian, at 3, Hillbery Mews, this afternoon?”
    Levinson’s heart was already hammering. Above everything else, he wished that he could talk to Mannering; advice from Mannering would be invaluable. He remembered Mannering talking to a member of the staff who had been sacked, a few weeks ago, for lying to a customer about the date of a piece of Indian gold lace. The assistant had said it was circa sixteen hundred and in fact it was circa eighteen hundred and fifty. “If you’d told the truth you wouldn’t be in trouble, would you?”
    He, Mannering, had wanted to tell the police about Sara; he, Levinson, had dissuaded him.
    The massive policeman, Belling, said sharply: “Well, were you at that place?”
    Levinson said: “Yes, I was.”
    â€œThat’s better,” said the Cockney. “Very wise to admit it. Why did you go there?”
    The axiom that one should tell the truth seemed very easy to follow – but how far should he go? Should he name Mannering, and so involve him?
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Mr Levinson?” demanded Belling. He looked like a heavyweight boxer. “You must have had a reason for going there.”
    â€œOf course I had a reason,” Levinson said sharply. “Miss Gentian had been to see Mr Mannering – he’s my employer – and—”
    â€œWe know all about Mannering.”
    â€œI doubt very much if you know all about anyone.” It was a relief to be able to snap back. “He asked me to go and question her about her reason for coming to see him.”
    â€œWhat was her reason?”
    â€œYou can ask Mr Mannering.”
    â€œDon’t be smart,” Belling said.
    It would be easy to lose his temper, but Levinson told himself that it wouldn’t help. These men had every right to make inquiries, especially since the girl was now at a nursing home, and the police had spent a lot of time at her flat.
    â€œI’ll tell you what I can as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “If you want to know more about Mr Mannering, you’ll have to ask him. I went to ask Miss Gentian what she really wanted from Mr Mannering. He wasn’t satisfied that she had told him everything.”
    â€œWas she at home when you got there?”
    â€œYes, she—”
    â€œDid she let you in?”
    Levinson moistened his lips. “No,” he answered uneasily. “No, I didn’t get any answer. I looked through the letter box, and smelt gas, and—”
    â€œSmelt what?”
    â€œGas – g-a-s. Gas.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    Levinson flushed. “I tried the door, and as it was open, I went in. The smell of gas was very strong, and . . .”
    â€œThe door was open ?”
    â€œWe want the truth,” interposed the massive man.
    â€œWas it open?” demanded the other.
    Levinson said thinly: “I tell you I pushed the door, and found it open. I found Miss Gentian in the kitchen, with the gas oven on, but not lighted. I carried her upstairs and applied artificial respiration until I thought that she was out of danger. Then—” he broke off, thinking desperately of Mannering. He must not incriminate Mannering; must not say that he had been at the mews – and he must find a way of warning Mannering. What a mistake it had been not to telephone the police from the mews!
    â€œThen what?” It was Belling who had the most menacing manner. “Out with it.”
    â€œI left her.”
    â€œYou left her?”
    â€œI thought she was all right.”
    â€œWell, she wasn’t all right, was she? She’s had a serious relapse, and is very ill,” the Cockney said. “Why didn’t you telephone for us?”
    â€œI—I didn’t think she would like me to.”
    â€œSo you didn’t think she would like you