Help From The Baron by John Creasey Page A

Scotland Yard.
    The one cheering piece of news had been that Francesca would probably be able to leave soon.
    Where would she go?
    The Lessings’ flat?
    Mannering stood up. Lorna would expect him on the dot of six, and he couldn’t blame her. He would be pre-occupied at the Plenders’, but would undoubtedly be forgiven. He could have calls put through from the office and the flat to the Plenders’. Lorna would complain but accept it. Lorna . . .
    The telephone bell rang.
    “That’s wonderful,” he said, “it’ll begin now that I ought to be on my way.” He lifted the instrument.
    “Mr. Chittering has called, sir,” Trevor said.
    “John,” said Chittering of the Record, as he came briskly into the office. “You are a double-dyed villain.”
    “Why sound surprised?” asked Mannering. “Chair?”
    “Thanks. A treble-dyed rogue of the nastiest kind.”
    “Have you been talking to Bill Bristow? Cigarette.”
    “Good idea. No. A man named Ephraim Scoby.”
    “Ephraim?”
    “Scoby. At least, that’s the name he gave me at his hotel, and it sounds too unreal to be false. How well do you know him?”
    “I don’t think I do.”
    “He was outside Quinns this afternoon when you told me in that heavy-handed way of yours to make myself scarce.”
    “You mean . . .” began Mannering, and chuckled. “So you followed him. Where?”
    “All over London. At first I don’t think he knew he was being followed, but afterwards I came to the conclusion that he did, and was enjoying it. Finally, he invited me to have a drink. I’ve just left him.”
    “Has there been time for it to act?” asked Mannering.
    Chittering sounded blank. “For what to act?”
    “The poison.”
    “You misjudge Citizen Ephraim Scoby. He is the whitest of white sheep, the pure young man who would not tell a lie, do a dirty trick, cheat, defraud or otherwise be illegal. He only wants to make sure that others get their rights. I know all this,” added Chittering, “because he told me so. Earnestly.”
    “He sounds untouchable.”
    “He’s in very great trouble - emotional and ethical trouble, you understand.”
    “Good.”
    “He doesn’t want to tell the police that you have the Fiora Collection,” announced Chittering.
    He didn’t smile. He didn’t play with his cigarette, his hair or anything on the desk. He just sat there without expression, and his clear blue eyes, childish in their directness, were upon Mannering. It was a shock to Mannering, and it took him several seconds to adjust himself to the swing of events. At last he said: “What a villain I am. And I hadn’t realised it.”
    “Got ’em, John?”
    “No.”
    “Not holding them for the rightful owner and drawing the crooks’ fire, are you?”
    “No.”
    “I hope I can believe you.” Chittering relaxed. “Between you and me, I don’t care for this Scoby chap much. He is the ultra-smooth kind. He has it all under control. He doesn’t threaten, just says what a pity it all is and hopes that you won’t live to regret holding those jewels. He says he is quite sure that you have them, and he seems to mean what he says. In fact,” added Chittering with a grin which made him look positively angelic, “he appealed to me, as a gentleman and a friend of yours, to persuade you to deal with him. After all, he said, no one would want you or your reputation to suffer.”
    “He’s not bad at all, is he?” murmured Mannering; but he looked worried. “I wonder who gave him the idea that I had the jewels.”
    “He didn’t give me a clue. He did say one thing that got under my skin, John. You know how it is.” Chittering helped himself to another cigarette from a box which Mannering pushed towards him. He became very serious. “Thanks. A lot of verbiage rolls off one. This man is economical in what he says, and I always had a feeling that there was something more behind it. The thing he said was this: ‘Francesca Lisle was lucky, but not every girl in the case can