Cry For the Baron (11 page)

“What about that knife?”

The man turned over. “It's in my pocket. I can't get my hand in.” So the knife was in his right pocket. Mannering slipped his hand inside and felt the knife, larger than an ordinary pocket knife. He drew it out and examined it, opening every blade. His own knife was much better, but there was a long button-hook attached—and it wasn't intended just for doing up buttons, no burglar's kit was complete without one. He weighed the knife in his hand.

“What's your name?”

The man said: “I'm Harry Green. What the hell?” Green couldn't keep his gaze away from Mannering and the knife as Mannering turned to the dressing-table and opened the drawer, took out the reels of cotton and selected a red one. His eyes widened. “Do you know
that
trick?”

“You can't catch crooks without knowing how they work.” Mannering went to the door, bent down and peered into the tiny lock. If he were right about its construction he could get it open – and suddenly he was in a fever of impatience, angry with himself for having waited so long, for wasting time in talking. Fiori surely wouldn't leave him much longer, he'd need time for this. He pulled at the end of the cotton, made a little ball of it between his fingers, and pushed it into the keyhole with the hook. Then he poked at it, pressing tightly, unreeled more cotton and squeezed it in. He was conscious of Green's tense gaze, could guess Green's thoughts: this wasn't the first time he had tackled a lock in this way. He took the nail file now. The cotton sped through his fingers and was packed tightly into the lock round the hook blade, but before it was half full the reel was empty.

Mannering started on another; blue.

The second reel was empty before the lock was jammed tightly with the cotton, and the knife jutted out. He drew back. His forehead was filmed with sweat and he realised that his mouth was open, he was breathing through it. His fingers and wrists ached, but he hadn't been aware of any ache before.

Green said hoarsely:

“It might work.”

The bed creaked as he got up.

Mannering rubbed his right wrist slowly as Green drew near him, looked round, made sure that no violence threatened; but Green did not appear to have thought of violence. His breath came in short, wheezy gasps, his burning checks made him look a sick man.

“Mannering—”

“Well?”

“If we get out I want a break!”

“If we get out I've more to worry about than holding you.” Mannering went forward, gripped the knife handle, poised himself, and then began to turn. It wasn't easy, the cotton didn't seem to yield. If the trick worked it would get round the barrel of the lock and gradually force it backwards. The cotton might be too tight, you often had to try half a dozen times. His wrist ached with the strain, he felt Green's breath on the back of his neck.

The knife was turning slightly.

He grunted, held it in position with his left hand, rested his right.

“Let me have a go,” Green hissed.

“I'll manage.” Mannering began afresh, straining every muscle, grunting with the effort, feeling pains shooting up his arm to the shoulder, and pain came again at the back of his head. But he felt the hook turning, twisted harder, twisted until his wrist felt as if it were breaking. He tried the handle and pulled; the door didn't budge. He rested again, holding the handle tightly with his left hand, afraid that it would slip back.

“Don't waste time!” Green muttered. “Fiori might—”

Mannering said: “That would be our bad luck.” He gripped the knife with his right hand again, felt the hooked blade move a little more freely, strained himself for a final turn, and thought he heard a muffled click. Green exclaimed aloud, snatched at the handle and pulled.

There was light in the passage outside.

 

 

Green said: “We've made it!”

“We've started to make it, there's a long way to go. What floor are we on?”

“Basement” Green stood in the middle of the passage and looked left; several doors opened from the passage. The ceiling was high, the walls papered expensively in yellow, and a thick brown carpet stretched from wall to wall. Mannering glanced right; only one door was in that direction, standing ajar. He moved towards it, and Green muttered: “Don't waste time!”

Mannering said: “This is going to be rough on you.” He jabbed his clenched right fist at Green's chin, snapped the man's teeth together, and struck again. Green's eyes rolled as he sagged backwards. Mannering stopped him from falling, supported him and dragged him along the passage to the door on the right. He kicked the door open. The passage light shone on a small, bare room, with whitewashed walls, a chair, a small table. On a table was a large crucible, which glowed red even now. It was electrically heated, and the branding iron which stood on top of it had been made red hot in there before Green had been burned.

There was a key in the lock.

Mannering came out, closed and locked the door, then walked cautiously along the passage. There was a faint sound of music to which people were dancing, if Green had told the truth. He didn't worry much about Green. If he got out the police would soon raid this place; they would have Green free before he could come to more harm from Fiori.

If he got out.

He paused by the first door, tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He switched on the light in a small office, severely modern but untidy. Papers were strewn over the desk, some had fallen on to the floor, drawers had been left open, and he could see right into a continuation wall safe.

His heart started to hammer against his ribs as he went out, passing the next rooms. No light shone beneath the doors. There was a blank wall at the end of the passage, and he found himself at the foot of a short staircase which led up to a closed door; at the head of the stairs a single electric light burned dimly. He should have made sure that no one could come from behind him. He raced back. Both rooms were empty; one was a bedroom, the other a small lounge, where a table was set for dinner for two, and a bottle of champagne stood in a silvered ice bucket.

Fiori
had
flown.

Mannering reached the door at the head of the stairs, and tried the handle. The shock of disappointment at finding it locked went through him like a physical pain. He stood back, sick and giddy, his head was swimming; the tension of hope had kept him going. He leaned against the wall, staring at the door. The small key-hole was exactly like that in the bedroom; he could get this open, but it would take as long again, perhaps longer – and he wouldn't be able to pull that button hook out easily. He licked his lips, felt physical nausea – and then saw the handle of the door move.

It turned slowly.

He gritted his teeth against the swimming pain in his head and stepped behind the door as it opened. A man said: “Get a move on!” and another grunted. Then Benoni stepped through, glanced neither right nor left but hurried down the stairs. Behind him came another man, tall, bulky, with a trilby hat pulled over his left eye, keys in his right hand. He stepped towards the stairs, then glanced round and saw Mannering.

He cried:
“Ben!”

Mannering sprang at him, smashed a right to his nose, brought up his knee and drove into his stomach. The keys fell. Benoni swung on his heel at the foot of the stairs. Mannering caught a glimpse of him while pushing the big man sideways. He grabbed the keys, then jumped through the doorway. He heard the sharp report of a shot, heard a bullet strike the ceiling, felt tiny pieces of plaster fall on to his head.

He slammed the door.

Ahead stretched a wide empty passage, more elaborately decorated, with easy chairs and sofas by the walls. The sound of music became much louder. A heavy thud shook the door as he hurried. The passage widened into a hallway, swing doors led to a foyer where half a dozen people in evening dress stood staring towards him; one woman in scarlet had her hand up to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream. A short man with a completely bald head pushed open a door and strode forward importantly. Beneath his importance there was fear, which made his voice shrill.

“What are you doing here?”

More heavy thudding shook the door behind Mannering.

“Get the police!” he said urgently.

“Police!” echoed a young man who was pushing open the swing doors. “What's up?”

“Get them.” Mannering turned and ran after the little man, who had reached the door and had a set of keys in his right hand. Before he could insert a key Mannering took his shoulder and swung him round. “They can stay where they are,” he said.

“You've no right—”

“Fiori isn't your boss any more,” said Mannering. “The police will soon be here. If you're smart you'll know when to change sides.” He looked at the door. Any moment Benoni would shoot at the lock, to force it. Mannering pushed the important little man in front of him as several men in evening dress came hurrying. Among them was a tall, fair-haired youngster.

Mannering said: “Careful. They'll try to shoot their way out.”

The muffled report of a shot came from the door; then two more. The fair youth rushed past Mannering, grabbed an easy chair and wheeled it swiftly towards the door. Three more shots were fired in quick succession. The door shuddered so the youngster pushed the chair to block the path. Others went to help him. The fear in the eyes of the fussy little man increased.

“This is outrageous. Outrageous!”

“Tell the police all about it,” Mannering said.

His head was beating like a trip-hammer. The nausea in his stomach came from hunger. Pretty, well-dressed women eyed him askance, elderly men came up – and then a welcome figure appeared. He was welcome because he was Chittering; wonderful because he was spruce in evening dress. He pushed through the crowd by the swing doors, reached Mannering and said: “So you found him, too?”

“Fiori? Yes, but—”

“Fiddle on Fiori, I mean Fay's boy friend. Our Kenneth.”

“Is
he
here?”

“And I thought you were good! He's the fair-haired Apollo running around like a lost duck because his Fay hasn't kept an appointment.”

“Where is she?”

“I came here to meet her, too. She had a date with Kenneth, telephoned to put it off an hour and said she would meet him here.”

“Where are we?”

Cluttering put his head on one side. “You're certainly not yourself. This is the Hula Club. The one night club in London with a blameless past and pure present, John, John, what's happened to you? You ought to recognise the Hula from the top, middle and bottom, and—but if you don't know where you are, how did you get here?”

Mannering said: “I rubbed Aladdin's lamp. Chitty, call Bristow, have him send men to Fay's flat at once—Fiori might take her away. And tell him that Green, one of the three men behind that door—the one with the burned face—is Bernstein's murderer. Look after this little man, he might try to run.”

Chittering gasped: “Is that
all?”

“It'll do.” Mannering hurried through the swing doors and into the foyer and upstairs. Several people called out to him; he smiled vaguely, pushed his way to the head of the stairs and hurried down. He wanted to get to Toni Fiori's café quickly. A cab pulled up as he reached the front door, depositing a young couple who held hands even as they got out. Mannering got in, said: “Wine Street,” and leaned back, closing his eyes.

With immediate tension over, pain surged through his head again; it was tender against the back of the cab. He sat forward, trying to think. Fiori was on the run – why? Fiori probably wouldn't go without Fay; if he had to go into hiding he would want to take Fay with him – and, presumably, his wife. That was guessing, one guess was as good as another.

“What number?” asked the cabby.

“Forty-seven, I think—Toni's Café.”

“Oh, Toni Fiori's.” The man made it sound as familiar as Buckingham Palace. “Nearly there.” They crawled along a few yards, and a lighted window sign showed in the gloom of the narrow street: “Toni Fiori for Good Food.” Mannering jumped out, said, “Wait,” and then as an afterthought: “If I'm not out in a quarter of an hour, fetch the police.”

From the outside the café seemed a squalid, dirty coffee shop, where one would expect to find a quick-lunch counter, gleaming tea and coffee urns, probably vulgar and appalling murals. Inside, it was small but neat and comfortable; little alcoves were built round the walls, a waiter in evening dress came up and bowed, ignoring Mannering's dishevelled appearance.

“Good evening, sah.”

“I want to see Toni Fiori.”

“Yes, sah, Mr. Fiori is here,” said the waiter. “You will wait, please.” A dozen couples, sitting in the alcoves, looked at Mannering curiously. On each table was a bottle of wine; at two, bottles of champagne. Three other waiters stood about, methylated lamps glowed at two corners, a chef wearing a tall white hat stood at a covered trolley near a doorway at the far end of the room. The waiter who had spoken to Mannering didn't go to the doorway but towards a flight of stairs; Mannering followed him. There was an appetising smell, making him feel more hungry than ever.

They reached a small landing where there were three doors, all of them closed. One was marked “Ladies,” the other “Gentlemen,” and the third: “Toni Fiori.” The waiter went forward to tap on the third door. Mannering held his arm and said: “You needn't announce me.” The waiter didn't protest now, and that was remarkable. Mannering opened the door.

This was a small sitting-room, a pleasant room, with a coal fire; in a corner a radiogram was playing soft chamber music. The only occupant was a man who sat in an easy chair with the
London Evening News
open on his lap, a cigar in his mouth, an expression of surprise which could not quite hide his contentment on his round, rosy face.

“Ze gentleman to see you,” said the waiter.

Toni Fiori said: “So,” and made an elephantine job of getting to his feet. He was fat; flabby; frowning when he saw Mannering's condition. He wasn't Fiori of the Hula Club.

 

Toni Fiori was not so tall as Mannering and had to look up at him. His frown had changed to an indulgent smile, as if he were telling himself that he must humour this visitor. The music came faintly, as from a long way off, reminding Mannering of the bedroom he had recently left. The room was warm – and a bottle of cognac stood on the table by Toni's side.

“Good evening, sir, you are good to call.” Toni's English was good but with a marked accent.

Mannering felt his head swim, and put out a hand to steady himself. Toni gave a little popping exclamation, gripped his arm, helped him to sit down in the big armchair. He turned to the table, and poured out a little cognac.

“A little drink, please. It is verra good.” He held the glass under Mannering's nose. The bouquet was stimulating, and Mannering sipped, “I am Toni Fiori, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, signor.”

“Mannering. John Mannering.”

“And I can help—” began Toni, only to stop abruptly to send a startled glance over Mannering's head to the waiter. Then he turned and picked up the newspaper, flattened it out, looked at the front page and then at Mannering. He breathed: “
This
Mannering?”

Mannering thought: “Chittering will do what he can for hay. I'm beat.” He stretched his legs. “That's right. Is your brother the owner of the Hula Club?”

“That is so, signor. My brother Enrico, and it is a fine club, the best in London. Always we say: For the best dancing, Enrico: for the best food, Toni.” He bowed – and shot another startled, perhaps warning glance over his shoulder at the waiter. “You expect to find Enrico here, perhaps?”

“I did.”

“It is not often Enrico visits me. He is so rich, so important, I am poor. But there is a difference.
I
am happy. Is there a way I can help you, Mr Mannering? It will not be to find Enrico, we do not live the same lives or go to the same places. Certainly we do not. I can help—yes?”

“I'm hungry.”

“You are hungry,” echoed Toni, and threw up his hands. “It is a good place to come when you are hungry, signor. What would you like?”

“I leave it to you.”

Fiori backed away and spoke in an undertone to the waiter, who hurried off.

“Signer, if you are not too hungry perhaps you will wash,” said Toni.

Mannering allowed himself to be led into a bedroom, leading off which was a small bathroom; Mannering saw himself in the mirror – and laughed while Toni stood gravely behind him. Mannering washed his hands, the first washing turned the water almost black. How had he got so dirty? His hair was dishevelled, there were streaks of dust on his cheeks, and there was also a scratch; he didn't remember getting his face scratched. He washed three times, towelled gingerly because his head was tender, and then gently combed his hair. Toni watched with bright eyes.

In the living-room a table was laid, cutlery and damask glistened, a bottle of Chianti in its little basket lay waiting; a dish of spaghetti arrived. As Mannering began to eat, he heard voices downstairs, voices raised excitedly.

“Everything happens at once,” he said.

“Always it is the same. You will please excuse me.” Toni went out, and as the door opened the voices became louder. One was that of a waiter, the other a deep, heavy voice, as English as London itself. Then Toni joined in – and suddenly Mannering remembered what he had told the taxi driver, and knew what was happening downstairs. He stood up as Toni came hurrying in, an indignant and flushed Toni.