Free Help From The Baron by John Creasey Page A

door and went out, nodding to Prinny, who had retired to the doorway behind the counter. Then Mannering turned right, towards Whitechapel Road.
    Looking into a newspaper shop next door was a youngish man. Mannering had one swift look at him. He had a sallow, clean-shaven face with a dark dusting of stubble nothing could banish completely, smooth features, a well-cut suit and a new Trilby hat of navy blue. This man didn’t look at Mannering. He stared at the magazines and paperback books in the window, and could undoubtedly see Mannering’s reflection. Mannering did not give him a second glance, but walked past, taking long strides, making his gait look a little unsteady.
    He stopped at the corner. Traffic rumbled by. A cyclist cut in too close to the kerb, and made him dodge back. That gave him an excuse to look round; the well-dressed man had disappeared.
    Mannering crossed the road, which was cobbled, very hard on the feet and slippery too. Opposite, there was a public-house, near it a cafe. Big enamel dishes were in the window with sausages, tomatoes, eggs, onions, hamburgers and rice pudding, all cooking - everything but the rice was sizzling in fat. Mannering went in. The smell of frying, hot and choky, struck at him overpoweringly. Farther along, forty or fifty men and a few girls were sitting close together on long benches, hot food in front of them. Nearer the door was a long service counter, opposite it some stools and a shelf. A few people sat here, eating. Mannering ordered sausages and tomatoes, helped himself to a knife and fork, which were spotlessly clean, although bendable without much effort. He squeezed into a place opposite the counter, from where he could see Prinny’s shop. It was ten minutes before the good-looking man came out of Prinny’s, and by that time Mannering had finished eating.
    The man came his way.
    Mannering kept where he was. A girl with fluffy hair was between him and the window, so he wasn’t likely to be noticed if Prinny’s visitor crossed the road here. A small car, a black Austin saloon, slid towards the man, who got in. Mannering could not see the driver. He moved swiftly outside and stared after the car.
    “K42AB,” he said aloud; and repeated the number, then scribbled it on a small pad which he slipped from his breast pocket.
    He looked towards Prinny’s. No one was near that shop or the newsagent’s, except a man on the other side of the road, lounging as a bookie’s runner might lounge. Mannering didn’t get a good look at him, he was too far away, but he carried away a mind picture; including gingery hair.
    He moved quickly towards a telephone kiosk, but a man was talking earnestly into the mouthpiece, and holding a copy of the Evening News Racing Special up against the box. He might be an age putting on his money; instead, he finished almost at once, and left.
    The kiosk smelt of vinegar and fish and chips.
    Mannering dialled Quinns; Trevor answered in his best Bond Street manner, Larraby came on the line sounding like an angel.
    “Josh,” said Mannering briskly, “get hold of a runner who knows his way about the East End, and have him keep tags on Prinny. He’s scared and he’s being watched, and I’d like to know who by.”
    “I think I know just the man for the job,” Larraby said promptly.
    “I don’t mean Josh Larraby,” remarked Mannering dryly. “Anything turned up?”
    “I - ah - have had to change the window,” Larraby told him smugly. “Senhor Costelho is leaving London by air tonight, and wanted to take the jade with him. I thought of putting . . .”
    “Congratulations! Fix that runner first and the window afterwards,” said Mannering. “Leave it empty if you must. ‘Bye, Josh.”
    He rang off.
    No one showed any special interest in him. A policeman, strutting past, obviously remembered his face, but couldn’t place him; the man kept looking back. Mannering saluted him with the haste and humility a policeman might have expected from