Shadow The Baron Read Free

opened and a tall, silvery haired man with the face of an archangel, bowed from the waist.
    “Good afternoon, sir.”
    “Good afternoon,” said Plender, his frown deepening, “You’re new, aren’t you?”
    “I have served Mr. Mannering for two years, sir.”
    “Then either you’ve been out when I’ve called or I haven’t called,” said Plender. “It can’t be two years! Plender – Mr. Toby Plender. Mr. Mannering will see me.”
    “If you will please wait for one moment, sir.”
    Alone, Plender had time to glance at a few of the pieces near at hand, caskets and cabinets, miniatures, vases – all precious and valuable things – before the man he had come to see appeared from the dim recess of the shop with out flung hands.
    “Well, well!” Mannering said. “I thought the next time I’d see you, you’d be leading the prosecution against me.”
    “There’s time,” said Plender. “Well, John?”
    “Brimming over.”
    “Switzerland to blame?”
    “I haven’t set foot in Switzerland for three years,” Mannering said, and took the other by the arm and led him towards the rear of the shop. “Don’t disturb us, Sylvester,” he said to the white haired man, who bowed his practised bow, and was at hand to close the door of a small office.
    A small desk, its beauty hidden because of the narrowness of the space round it was pushed close against the far wall. Behind it was a swivel armchair, of severe office mode, and two others, rather more comfortable. Filing cabinets, shelves crammed with large books and the shining knob of a combination safe, made up the furniture.
    Plender rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture with which judges, jurors and jail inmates all over England were familiar. His gaze raked the office, and came to rest finally on Mannering.
    “Remarkable,” he said.
    “What is?”
    “The similarity. You only have to change the furniture, and you’d have a prison cell.”
    “Homely,” Mannering said. “Sit down. Tea?”
    “Thanks, later.” Plender accepted a cigarette. His eyes were still sombre, although his lips smiled. “You really look younger,” he announced. “It must be the Devil in you; he can invert the usual processes if he’s so minded, so I’m told.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” said Mannering.
    “Wouldn’t you?” Plender leaned back in his chair and rubbed his nose again. Mannering’s smile remained, but the glow of welcome had faded from his eyes. They appraised each other, two men who had once been close friends and who had drifted, more by accident and Plender’s calling, than by design. They were about the same age, Plender at forty-one, a little older.
    “You’re wrong,” Mannering announced, at last.
    “I doubt it. About what?”
    “Whatever dark reasoning brought you here.”
    Plender said abruptly: “John, why do you do it? All this, I mean, and I don’t mean the office.” He raised his eyebrows. “The shop – daily grind – servitude. Regency period manners, a place steeped in the past and meant to be nostalgic. Why?”
    “Modern business methods applied to my job.”
    “Lost all your money?”
    “I am still what is referred to in certain government circles as a bloated capitalist.”
    “So you don’t need to run a shop?”
    “For money, no. You wouldn’t understand doing a thing for the love of it, would you?”
    Plender chuckled.
    “Your trick. You don’t love being a counter jumper, surely?”
    “But Sylvester adores it. How can I disappoint him? Besides, I like the things I buy and sell. Not worrying whether I make a profit or not helps me to enjoy it. However, the profit is there.”
    “Hum,” said Plender.
    Mannering said: “Toby, I told you how wrong you were – and you still are. Listen carefully.” He paused, and when the pause was almost unendurable, went on: “I never did it, Guv’nor, so help me, I never did it. It’s them perlice. Always arter me, they are, won’t let a man earn an’onest living.”
    His