Free Hide the Baron by John Creasey Page A

they’ve got what they wanted, and they’ll lie low for a bit and then come up for air again,” Mannering said. “If the police pick ’em up I’ll be able to identify them, but—” He shrugged.
    â€œâ€™Nother?”
    â€œNo, thanks. You have a quick one, and I’ll drive!”
    He grinned. “We’ll go by taxi.”
    In fact, they went by taxi, so that there would be no parking problem. The ‘Lion and the Lamb’, in Grex Street, Soho, was small, reputable, amiable and had excellent food and a really good band. But Mannering wasn’t dancing as he could and should be. By half-past eleven, Lorna said:
    â€œLet’s get home, darling.”
    â€œMind?”
    â€œI could do with an early night, too.”
    â€œFine,” Mannering said, and paid the bill and left, with the proprietor begging him to return and half a dozen youngsters pointing him out as the John Mannering, “the antique-dealer detective, you know”. They stepped into the warm, starlit evening, and Mannering hailed a taxi. They got in.
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    A man on a motor-cycle followed them.
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    The one cure for the doldrums, Mannering knew well, was Lorna. The dancing hadn’t helped; sitting back in the cab, with Lorna’s hand in his, helped a lot. The simple delights. They were near Chelsea Town Hall when he tapped at the glass partition, and told the driver to take them to the Embankment. It was a good night for a walk; cool, pleasant. He noticed the motor-cycle roar past them, and had been vaguely aware of one pop-popping in his ear for some time. Motor-cycles were two a penny and he didn’t give this one a second thought.
    A motor-cycle was parked against the wall of a house when they reached the Embankment. He noticed this, without giving it a thought, either. The massive block of the Battersea Power Station, just across the river, was showing clearly in floodlighting. Dense white smoke rolled from one of its huge chimneys. The floodlighting reflected on the Thames. So did the fairy lights at the Pleasure Garden, sole surviving relic this far up river of the great Festival. Lights of all colours were still on their stands, but seemed to dance in the water.
    Lights from the bridges in sight were reflected too. A launch, probably with police in it, was moving slowly up-river. Odd traffic passed up and down the Embankment, including several motor-cycles; and he gave none of these a thought.
    They strolled towards Green Street, watching the river.
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    They did not see the man who walked on the pavement across the road, sometimes ahead of them, and sometimes a few yards behind them.
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    â€œIt’s a perfect night,” Lorna said quietly. “Just right.” She spoke for the sake of speaking, for words didn’t really matter. Mannering’s arm was round her waist, his hand resting lightly. They walked in step, very conscious of one another’s nearness. Mannering murmured something which didn’t count. The stars looked down on them, the traffic passed, and death drew nearer.
    Green Street was only a hundred yards away. Had there been a light in his study, the kitchen or the studio, they would have been able to see it; but they could not yet see even the outline of the top of the house. They kept near the parapet, where it was reinforced after the floods of a year or two before, reluctant to cross over. The mood would probably break as soon as they got indoors, and Lorna longed for some way of preserving it.
    Reluctantly she said: “Case still on your mind?”
    â€œIt is, rather.”
    â€œYou might see daylight tomorrow.”
    He smiled unexpectedly: “Ever the optimist! I don’t think so, I’m afraid—”
    He didn’t finish.
    The spell was broken, and without another word, they turned towards the road. Mannering still had Lorna’s arm in his, and was thinking as much about her as the case. He didn’t notice