Hide the Baron by John Creasey Page B

inside him, going as deep as bitterness and self-reproach could go.
    This man was dead.
    The man who’d just come in, a Yard man on street duty, came at the double. He slackened his pace when he saw the ‘policeman’, looked into Mannering’s bleak eyes, and started to excuse himself. He had actually spoken to the man, asked him what Division he’d come from; the letters on his uniform had tallied with his story; he couldn’t be blamed …
    â€œNo one’s blaming you,” Mannering said tautly. “No one’s blaming anybody.”
    But a man who might have talked was dead.
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    By the middle of the morning the police were able to say that the dead man was a Peter Arthur Byall, with a record for robbery with violence. He had been in France for some months, and had only just returned to England. He had rooms at Highgate, where his landlady swore that she knew nothing about him. He also had a motorcycle, and might be the man who had stabbed Lorna. A call went out for anyone who knew anything about his movements during the past few weeks, but there was no response.
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    â€œThe one inescapable thing is that you can’t feel safe anywhere,” Bristow said. “If they really mean to get you, they can strike from a dozen places and use a dozen foul tricks.” He looked into Mannering’s face, badly shaken because the man he had sent to watch Mannering had fallen down on his job; and because he felt quite sure that Mannering was in acute danger. “After this, I feel quite sure they mean to kill you. Everything else being even, they will.”
    â€œJob’s comforter,” Mannering said. “Two attempts have failed.”
    â€œI’m sick and tired of arguing with a pig-headed fool,” Bristow rasped. “I know what you feel, and I hate having to say what I’m saying. But given a man who is determined to kill you at all costs, there’s no way in which we can guarantee your safety. Know what I think you ought to do?”
    Mannering said slowly, softly: “Go on.”
    â€œIf I had my way, you’d be out of the country in a few hours’ time.”
    â€œYou forget—”
    â€œI don’t forget Lorna or anything or anyone,” Bristow said. “Lorna’s still keeping going. The last I heard from the hospital, they were optimistic. You can keep in touch by telephone. But whether you stay in the country or not, you’ve got to leave this flat, keep away from Quinns, keep under cover.”
    Mannering just looked at him.
    â€œThe same applies to Joanna Woburn,” Bristow said. “I’d pack the pair of you off, if—”
    â€œBill,” said Mannering, in a soft, smooth voice, “I think you may have got something. I really do. Lie low. Disappear.” He began to smile. “Why not? I needn’t leave England, need I? You don’t really expect me to, that was just to impress me with the depth of your feeling.” He laughed, with a burst of excitement. “I could do two jobs at the same time, Bill, look after Joanna Woburn and probe into the problem of Jimmy Garfield. Be useful to know who’ll inherit if he dies. Found his will yet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWho are his solicitors?”
    â€œHodderburn, White and Hodderburn, of Lincoln’s Inn,” Bristow said. “They’ve been handling his legal affairs for seven or eight years. Know them?”
    â€œI believe I know the junior Hodderburn,” said Mannering. “I think he might be prepared to play ball, too.” He looked and felt almost excited as he moved about the flat. “Supposing I turn myself into a lawyer, Bill, and go down to look after Garfield’s interests while he’s on the danger list and George Merrow’s hors de combat? ”
    Bristow didn’t speak.
    â€œAnd we could tell the world or the newspapers that I’ve had to go abroad, or been warned off by the