Free Hide the Baron by John Creasey

and—”
    â€œYou know how it was,” Greer said slowly. “Gedde came along, Pete lost his head and hit the old man too hard. But you worry too much, Lucien.”
    â€œI always worry enough,” Lucien Seale told him, and his lips moved with great precision; greatly exaggerated, it would have looked like a ventriloquist’s doll talking. “And whether they are safe or not, we still have a grave problem. Mannering and the girl saw me.”
    â€˜Me’.
    The man named Greer didn’t speak.
    â€œI dare not risk being recognised,” Seale said. “There is enough in that box to put me inside for the rest of my life. You know that. Mannering probably knows, as the old man sent for his help. The woman Joanna might know. I can’t take risks on being recognised. We have to decide how best and how quickly we can kill them.” That came out quite flatly. “Mannering must be dealt with first; he could be as dangerous as the police. He would search for me, I wouldn’t dare show my face. The girl—she can wait for a little while.” Seale placed one large, knuckly hand on the top of the newel post at the head of the stairs, and went on coldly: “We should deal with Mannering tonight.”
    â€œBut he’ll be on the look-out,” Greer began. “He may not have seen the photostats, may not know—”
    â€œTonight,” Seale said coldly. “It’s too big a risk, we can’t wait.”
    Â 

Chapter Eight
The Mannerings
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    Lorna Mannering heard the car turn into the street, looked out, recognised John’s Rolls-Bentley and stood at the window, looking down and feeling almost as eager as she had done when they had first come to live here; after their honeymoon. She craned her neck, so that she could see him get out, watched the way he closed the door and turned, glancing up as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
    He felt just about as she did.
    She was wearing a black cocktail dress, trimmed with red. She looked lovely, and knew it. If a few strands of grey touched her wavy dark hair, it didn’t matter; if there was a hint of wrinkles at her eyes, that didn’t matter. There was the quality of youthfulness about her. She moved to the door, and opened it as he came up the last flight of stairs. This studio flat was at the top of a narrow, four-storied house in Green Street, and it overlooked the distant Thames, for houses rased by the bombing hadn’t been rebuilt.
    Mannering paused, eyes widening. “My, my! Who’s been taking years off your age?”
    Lorna laughed; if he’d tried for a week he couldn’t have touched a better phrase.
    â€œApproved?”
    â€œDior himself would approve.”
    â€œIt’s a new dressmaker at a quarter of the price,” Lorna said; “I hope she isn’t discovered too soon, it’ll go to her head.” She kissed him. “We’re going out to dinner.”
    His face dropped.
    â€œOh, Lor’. Not social?”
    â€œAlone,” said Lorna. “Ethel twisted her ankle this afternoon. It’s nothing serious, but she ought to rest up for a few days. So we’ll snack whenever we’re at home, and have the main meals out.”
    â€œOh, well,” said Mannering resignedly. “I suppose we can’t have everything in one seductive body, painter, wife and cook.” He went into his study and opened a cocktail cabinet which was in fact an old Jacobean court cupboard. “Need I change?”
    â€œNo. You look a bit down, darling.”
    â€œThings went wrong, and I can’t see any way of putting ’em right.” Mannering poured whisky for himself, sherry for Lorna, and as they drank, told her what had happened and what conclusion he had reached. She knew that the case would nag at him until it died a natural death or until he saw some way of helping the injured man or Joanna Woburn.
    â€œAs far as I can tell