A Sword For the Baron by John Creasey

believe that anyone else had been there, but he had been looking for small things – anything which would help to get a clearer picture. Instead of becoming clearer the picture was much more confused, but at least there was no doubt of the danger to him. If the police were convinced that he had been at the mews, if they could prove it—
    Had he left any fingerprints?
    He tried to remember. He had taken precautions when he had first arrived, because David Levinson had broken in, but once realising the emergency, had he maintained that caution? He couldn’t be sure. The Yard could easily get his fingerprints. If they found a trace of one of his at the mews, they could prove that he had lied to Bristow.
    Had Bristow really come to enlist his help? Or had he come to show his teeth? It was now obvious that the trouble with the Gentians had been going on for a long time; Bristow probably believed that Mannering had known about it for a long time, too – might suspect him of activities of which he knew nothing.
    The telephone bell rang.
    He crossed to it as the front doorbell rang; it was surprising how often that coincided. Ethel appeared, flushed, eager.
    â€œI’ll answer the door, sir.”
    It wouldn’t be Lorna; she had a key. More police or Bristow back again? Mannering plucked up the telephone.
    â€œMannering.”
    â€œOh, my sweet, you do sound severe,” Lorna said. “Are you so disappointed because I’m late?”
    Mannering paused for a split second, angry for giving his mood away to her, knowing that if she didn’t sense it at once, she would soon realise that something was wrong. Then he forced a note of lightness into his voice: “I’m furious,” he said. “You’re going to be late, are you?”
    â€œI needn’t stay, John, but Lucy has asked me to dinner. Tom’s out, and she—”
    â€œYou stay,” said Mannering.
    He heard voices at the door; David’s and Chittering’s. David’s was deep, Chittering’s quick, rather light timbred. Ethel murmured something in a tone which Mannering had not noticed her use before.
    â€œJohn, I don’t really mind,” Lorna was saying. “If you’d rather I came home—”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter a bit,” Mannering assured her. “Give my love to Lucy.”
    â€œAll right, darling.” Lorna sounded doubtful as she rang off.
    Mannering went to the study door, to find David and Chittering standing in the entrance hall, and Ethel glancing at David with her eyes rounded and huge-looking. David was the kind of young man who would look wonderful in a naïve girl’s eyes; there was a musical comedy star glamour about him. Chittering, shorter by several inches, had fair curly hair going almost white, although he had the look of a cherub. His grey eyes had a deceptively innocent look, too. The impression that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth was wholly false; he was as hardbitten and tough as any Fleet Street man. He had been a friend of Mannering for many years, was extremely loyal and reliable, but when necessary, he could be ruthless.
    Chittering shook hands.
    â€œWhat does it feel like to make yourself the obvious suspect?”
    â€œSuspect for what?” inquired Mannering. “Come in and have a drink.” He led the way into the study, pressed a bell, and was at the court cupboard when Ethel arrived, glancing again at handsome David, her colour higher than ever.
    â€œMrs Mannering won’t be in to dinner, Ethel.”
    â€œOh, I see, sir.”
    â€œBring some cold tonic water and bitter lemon, and some ice, will you?”
    â€œOh, yes, sir!” Ethel ducked out.
    â€œWhat will you have, David?” Mannering asked.
    â€œWhisky and soda, please.”
    â€œIce?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œJohn,” Chittering said. “Don’t pretend to be so blandly unconcerned. You’re in