Free Held At Bay by John Creasey

shouldn’t pull a gun, I’ve got one. Be quiet, or I’ll use it!”
    The gas-pistol was in the Baron’s hand as the words came, Salmonson saw it first, and his right arm stopped moving, his expression of anger changed to fear. The Baron backed two paces along the hall, speaking as he moved.
    â€œCome in, and back into the shop. Half a word and I’ll shoot you both.”
    His voice was harsher than usual, and there was a note of savagery in it that would have scared bigger men than William Salmonson. The other was still muttering under his breath, but under the persuasion of the gun both of them obeyed the Baron.
    Footsteps, slow and heavy, were sounding along the pavement.
    â€œPull that door to,” ordered the Baron, and the burly man obeyed. Salmonson’s eyes were narrowed, his lips were pressed tightly together. Mannering saw all the danger signs and knew the man would make his effort very soon. He followed them into the shop, relieved beyond measure when the door was shut.
    It was dark, but he could make out the men clearly enough. He moved towards the light switch, Salmonson’s grunt came very clearly, and he lashed at Mannering’s knee. Mannering stepped back swiftly. The kick carried Salmonson off his balance and Mannering went forward and crashed his fist into the burly one’s face – for he was the bigger threat. The man staggered back against a show case, and glass boomed and rattled. In the glare of the light Salmonson staggered forward, with his hands scraping the floor. Mannering waited: in the bright light his hazel eyes seemed ablaze with fury.
    â€œI’ll teach yer not to try them tricks, yer bloody fools! What’s yer name?”
    He glared at Salmonson, but the fight had gone out of the man when he had hit the floor, and his lips were quivering.
    â€œI—I’m Salmonson.”
    â€œSo you’re the boss of the outfit.” He was making as sure as he could that Salmonson did not suspect that he was Mannering, and the harsh voice and the uncouth words rang truly enough. “Got a bit’ve a shock I reckon. You ! Keep still!”
    His gun swivelled round towards the burly man, who was probably in the late twenties, thick-set, ugly, and judging from his cauliflower ears, a boxer. Not a man to meet at close quarters, and the gas-pistol might be needed. Mannering preferred not to use it, for without it the only evidence of the Baron in the raid would be the blue mask, and Granette had already staked a claim to that.
    â€œBe careful, Britten, be careful!” Salmonson’s words came quickly, high-pitched and agonised. The Baron’s eyes were dancing now, for the boxer raised his hands reluctantly towards the ceiling. He would have put up a fight, but Salmonson’s order stopped him.
    â€œYou’re a wise guy,” grunted the Baron. “Pleased to know it, Mister Salmonson! Only you ain’t so wise as some think. Left a nice little list o’ names and addresses for me, didn’t yer?”
    He saw Salmonson’s eyes widen, saw the merchant sway on his feet.
    â€œNo, no! I don’t know what—”
    â€œBluffing don’t suit you,” said the Baron arbitrarily, “you was born to tell the truth.” He laughed roughly at his own joke, but all the time he was desperately anxious to get away as soon as he had made sure there would be no immediate pursuit. More, he wanted to put the fear of death into William Salmonson. “Why, you louse, blackmailing women is about all you can manage. Understand. Blackmailin’, I said! Know the stretch for that? A cove got ten years the other day for trying to squeeze five hundred, and I reckon you’ve touched for a cool hundred thousand. Take you all your life to work that off,” added the Baron, suddenly revelling in Salmonson’s fear and the part he was playing.
    Britten spoke for the first time.
    â€œWell, wot are yer going to do