A Sword For the Baron by John Creasey Page B

here to interest you,” Levinson made himself say. “What—what’s this miniature sword like?”
    â€œIt’s an exact replica of the big sword which Lord Gentian took to Quinns this afternoon,” the Cockney stated flatly. “It’s worth between ten and fifteen thousand pounds of anybody’s money. Where is it?”
    â€œI didn’t even know it existed!”
    â€œDidn’t you?” sneered Belling. He was taking the cushions out of the chair on which Levinson had been sitting; they were tapestry covered cushions, rather threadbare. He thrust his thick hands down the side of the chair, pulled them out, thrust again – and then something made him stop moving for a long agonising moment. At last he moved his hand, very slowly, and turned his head to stare at Levinson. Levinson felt himself go cold.
    â€œWhat—what have you found?”
    â€œYou know what I’ve found,” the detective growled. He pulled his hand from the side of the chair, cautiously; there was a sudden flash of light, like a red flame, then a yellow flash followed by a white.
    Levinson lost all traces of colour as the Cockney stepped closer to him. The other man drew out the jewelled miniature, between his forefinger and his middle finger. He held it up like that, so that the jewels caught the light and made a kaleidoscope of flashing beauty.
    â€œSo you didn’t even know it existed.” Belling’s voice was rough.
    â€œI tell you I didn’t. Someone must have put it there. I tell you—”
    Levinson remembered his assailant again, and felt sure that the man had come not to steal but to put this incriminating evidence here. He felt too stunned to understand, but kept reminding himself that Mannering had been at the mews flat when he had left. Mannering, Mannering—
    The Cockney detective was saying with obvious satisfaction: “David Levinson, it is my duty to charge you with being in possession of a piece of antique jewellery knowing it to have been stolen, and to warn you that anything you say may be noted down and used as evidence. Have you anything to say?”
    Levinson was thinking, desperately: “ Mannering was there after me.”
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    Chittering had gone, and Mannering was sitting in the study, feet up on a pouffe, troubled, wishing that Lorna would come back yet wondering just how much he would tell her. He had not heard again from Bristow. He kept turning over Chittering’s story in his mind, facing the inescapable fact that the big money battalions were involved in this; he was not yet sure how deeply involved. He had telephoned Lord Gentian’s home, twice, but been told by someone who sounded very frail that his lordship was out, and was expected back at half past ten. It was now nearly ten o’clock.
    The telephone bell rang.
    He was sitting within arm’s reach of it, legs stretched out; had Lorna been detained longer than she expected?
    â€œMannering,” he said.
    â€œChittering,” said Chittering, as briefly.
    He had a way of conveying a mood with silence, and somehow he alarmed Mannering. He had left only an hour earlier, after warning Mannering not to take any active part in the Gentian affair. Why had he called so soon? He kept silent until Mannering made himself say: “Joke over.”
    â€œThis is no joke, John. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    Mannering thought: The girl’s dead. Then he thought: Something’s happened to Gentian.
    â€œAll right, you warned me. What’s happened?”
    â€œYour hot-headed young assistant David Levinson has got himself arrested,” Chittering announced. “Our man at the Back Room at the Yard phoned the information in ten minutes ago. Levinson’s been charged with stealing a piece of jewellery from Sara Gentian’s flat. That’s the piece Bristow told you about, I imagine. Nasty situation, isn’t it? Either Levinson took