A Sword For the Baron by John Creasey Page A

to – in her dreams, perhaps? She was unconscious, wasn’t she?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œWhy didn’t you telephone for a doctor, even if you were scared of the police?” demanded the Cockney.
    â€œI—”
    â€œLet’s have the truth.”
    Levinson flashed: “I can’t tell you the truth if you won’t listen to me. For God’s sake keep quiet!” He won a momentary silence. “I thought she’d tried to kill herself. I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought if I called for the police or even for a doctor the truth might leak out. Her pulse was nearly normal and I felt sure she wasn’t in any danger. I didn’t think there was any need for a doctor.”
    â€œAre you trained in first aid?”
    â€œNo, but—”
    â€œWhat made you so sure she didn’t need a doctor?”
    â€œI tell you I thought she was all right!”
    â€œI don’t think you thought anything of the kind,” said Belling ominously. “I think you thought it was safe to have a look round her flat while she was unconscious, and that while you were rifling the place she came round and telephoned us – and we arrived and scared you off. Neat trick, nipping out of that window, wasn’t it?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about!” At first Levinson was too surprised to be frightened.
    â€œLying won’t help you,” the Cockney said. “Where is it?”
    â€œWhere is what?”
    â€œListen, Levinson,” put in the massive man. “We know you were at the mews. You’ve admitted it. You answer the description of a man who was seen forcing his way into that house – he was seen by two people who happened to look into the mews. We know you took the miniature sword. Don’t waste our time. Where is it?”
    â€œMiniature—” echoed Levinson. Now fear began to thrust its way into his consciousness. “I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t search the flat. I—I left the girl on the bed, and went—went back to the shop.”
    â€œLies won’t help you.”
    â€œI tell you this is the truth!”
    â€œAnd I tell you you’re lying,” the Cockney retorted. “We want to search this flat. We can get a search warrant without any trouble, but it would take a little time. You can give us your permission and make it easier for all concerned. What’s it to be?”
    â€œYou can search as long as you like,” Levinson muttered. “You won’t find anything that shouldn’t be here!”
    â€œLet’s start, Jeff,” said Belling. He seemed eager at the opportunity. “It shouldn’t take long. This room, eh?” He barged across towards a small rosewood kneehole desk with two drawers on either side, and a shallow middle drawer at waist height. “Is this locked?”
    â€œNothing’s locked,” snapped Levinson.
    He was feeling angry, scared, and baffled. He had always thought that he was capable of looking after himself in any situation, but this was beyond him. Two minutes talk with Mannering would make all the difference in the world. He glanced longingly at the telephone. Mannering might give him permission to tell the rest of the story, he certainly couldn’t say that Mannering had been at the mews, now. But – he had left Mannering there, and if this miniature sword—
    Suddenly, he remembered the man who had been here when he had arrived; the second assailant! He had forgotten him completely until this moment.
    The bony policeman Jeff was pulling open the drawers in the desk; the belligerent Belling was shifting books from the shelves on the wall by the fireplace. They worked very quickly, as if they had been doing this kind of thing all their lives; it was an alarming demonstration of efficiency.
    They found nothing.
    â€œI tell you there’s nothing