Hide the Baron by John Creasey

what you’re told more?” Seale asked. “When we’re ready, we can use who we want. Now we have that box, we have nearly everything. It’s just a matter of patience. Go and tell Mickey and Nancy.” Greer shrugged, and went out, obviously uneasy. Seale put on his rather shabby clothes. He didn’t smile, didn’t change his expression. He did not speak to the young woman who came in with tea on a tray, not even to answer her “Good morning, Lucien.” She did not seem surprised, but went out at once. Downstairs, she said to Paul Greer: “He’s going to run himself and a lot of other people into big trouble if we’re not careful.”
    â€œHe’ll calm down.”
    â€œI’m not so sure.” Nancy pushed her heavy corn-coloured hair back. She had big, bold features, a big, rather floppy figure; she needed corsets, not just a belt. “Know what I think? I think he’s just eaten up with hatred.”
    â€œFor whom?” Paul asked. “The old so-and-so at Orme, or—”
    â€œAnyone on two legs,” Nancy said.
    Â 
    Mannering woke, slowly.
    He felt a pain at the back of his neck and another behind his right knee. For the first few seconds he didn’t know why, or where he was; then he realised that he wasn’t in bed, but in an armchair in the study. His mouth was harsh and dry, his eyes were heavy. The whisky bottle was on the table by his side, with his glass and Bristow’s.
    Bristow’s –
    He remembered.
    He had started to move, but now sat absolutely still. He stared at the whisky bottle; there was the head and shoulders of a Highlander on it, a ruddy-faced man with blue eyes; the picture faded, and Mannering seemed to see Lorna, alive – and dead.
    He got up, slowly. His neck and his knee still hurt. He stared at the telephone. He had last spoken into it at four o’clock, when the hospital had called to tell him that the operation was over, she was comfortable, there would be no further news until next morning.
    It was half-past eight.
    He moistened his lips, then went into the empty kitchen and put a kettle on. All he could really think about was telephoning the hospital, but eagerness to do that was touched with fear of what the news might be. He made himself go into the study again, and pick up the receiver. He dialled the hospital number.
    â€œâ€¦ Hospital, can I help you?”
    â€œHold on, please.”
    â€œI’m trying to find Sister, hold on, please.”
    Hold on, hold on, hold on.
    â€œOh, Mr. Mannering, I’m sorry to have kept you.” He knew the Day Sister, and this was her bell-like voice. “There isn’t very much change to report.”
    Mannering dropped into the chair.
    â€œSo she’s—kept going?”
    â€œYes, steadily,” the Sister said briskly, “and the fact that she has got through the night makes it more hopeful.”
    â€œIf I come—”
    â€œYou could come, and be thoroughly distressed,” the Day Sister said. “If you stay near a telephone, I’ll make quite sure that you have all the news as it comes through, and you’re only ten minutes’ drive away from the hospital. I should stay home, if I were you.” The briskness softened a little. “Really, I’m most hopeful, and I know Dr. Morrison is.”
    â€œBless you,” Mannering said fervently. “I’ll be here, unless I send a message.”
    He rang off.
    He heard the kettle boiling, but didn’t get up.
    He was beginning to realise just what it would mean to him if Lorna didn’t recover, and didn’t come back. This flat, with his old furniture, its charm, its picturesqueness, would seem empty and barren without her. He was almost maudlin, and knew it, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
    That kettle!
    He jumped up.
    After a bath and shave, he boiled two eggs and made some toast. It was a bright morning and