Cry For the Baron (12 page)

“Signor, you send for the police?”

A constable loomed behind him.

“Yes,” said Mannering, “It was—” No, it wouldn't do to say that it was a mistake. He smiled at the constable. “You've probably got a call out for me—Mr. Mannering.”

“Haven't heard of one, sir.”

“Oh. I thought Superintendent Bristow wanted to know where I was.”

“I was at the call-box five minutes ago and heard nothing, sir. Are
you
Mr. Mannering?”

“John
Mannering,” murmured Toni. “It is, then, the mistake. There is nothing the matter with the signor, and this is a respectable restaurant. So. You will forgive me, signor, while I take the constable downstairs?”

Mannering smiled at the policeman, who nodded and went off.

The meal was perfect.

The arrival of Bristow, on the heels of coffee and liqueurs, did nothing to spoil it.

Toni ushered the Superintendent in, said that he was honoured, insisted on opening another bottle of wine, and asked them if they would excuse him, he had work to do downstairs. Bristow sat in an armchair opposite Mannering, with a glass of wine at his side, a cigarette jutting from his lips.

“I'm told you've got a crack on the head.”

“I have, Bill.”

“You deserved it. Why the devil can't you listen when I warn you?”

“I couldn't help this one. I was shanghaied on my own doorstep, five minutes after asking you to look after Lorna.” Lorna! “Is your man—” Anxiety sharpened his voice.

“Lorna's at Chelsea, and I've a man back and front. I'm not playing with this business.”

Mannering relaxed. “Thanks, Bill. Did you find your prisoners at the Hula Club?”

“Yes. What's this about Green?”

“To tell you that I have to tell you everything.” Mannering stretched out his legs, lit a cigarette and began to talk, until there was little about that night's events which Bristow didn't know. Toni Fiori kept out of the way, Mannering spoke in a low voice so that there was no fear of being heard outside the door.

Bristow said:
“Hmmm.
One of these days you will really get yourself into a mess that you can't get out of. But I suppose it was unavoidable tonight.” What he really meant was: “You've got results which we couldn't have got in a week, and I'm not going to complain about it.”

“Enrico Fiori's queer notion that I have the
Tear
really began it,” said Mannering. “Have you any idea why he wants it?”

“No. We've always known that he sailed close to the wind at times. Do you know what scared him away?”

“Have you discovered anything about Fay Goulden?”

Bristow said slowly: “She's the daughter of a Professor of Medicine, who was at Bonn University for twenty years before the war. She was brought up in Germany. Her father disappeared under the Hitler regime. Bernstein looked after her for a few months and then sent her to England. I don't know any more than that and can't be sure that it's all there is to know. It might explain why Bernstein made her his heiress, but—” Bristow shrugged. “Do you know where she is?”

Mannering sat up sharply.

“Isn't she at her flat?”

“No. She left at half-past seven, according to her maid. She was to have been at the Hula Club at nine o'clock, but no one saw her there. Enrico Fiori left at half-past nine, alone and in a hurry. He was tipped off about something, but we can't find out what. If you've the slightest inkling as to where we might find that girl, you've got to tell me. Fiori may think that she has the
Tear;
you know what happens to people he suspects of having that. Was she the girl at Bernstein's shop that night?”

 

 

“I've no idea where she might be,” said Mannering. The picture of a dead woman hovered in his mind's eye, and he seemed to hear Harry Green screaming. “Find her, Bill.”

“We'll find her—sooner or later.” The qualification sounded ominous. “And don't evade my questions. Was she at Bernstein's shop when you found him?”

Mannering said; “No.” That was true. “Does it matter?”

“She could have killed Bernstein.”

“Work on Green carefully and he'll confess.”

“And she might have taken the
Tear,”
Bristow said. He stood up abruptly. “I've taken plenty of chances with you, holding back information is bad; deliberately lying to us is going too far. Did you see the girl at Bernstein's?”

Mannering said: “Nothing I've done has hampered you.”

“So you saw her.” Bristow looked aggressive and angry – but it was simulated anger. “How long have you known her?”

“Twenty-four hours or less.”

“That's a lie.”

“Gospel truth, Bill.”

“You've been lying from the start. You knew more about Fiori, Fay Goulden and the
Tear
before you went to the shop. It wasn't chance that took you there. Why did you go? Who else is interested in the
Tear?
Who are you acting for?” Questions flashed out as Bristow stood towering over Mannering, forcing the issue because he believed that Mannering's power of resistance was at a low ebb. “I'll pull you in for questioning if you don't answer. Forget the ‘all friends together' business. Remember that this is a murder investigation, and we've been after Fiori for years—since the first
Tear
crime was reported. This isn't a simple business. It's big. We can't have you withholding information. I'm serious—do you want to spend a night at the Yard?”

“I knew nothing about the
Tear
that I couldn't read in any. newspaper and I've a customer who wants it for his collection. A reputable customer—Lord Amman. I've told you all I can and all that matters. Stop wasting your time with me and find Fay.”

It may have been chance; it may have been because Bristow's voice was raised and could be heard outside. Whatever the reason, Toni Fiori chose that moment to come in, apologising, hoping that the superintendent and Mr. Mannering had nearly finished; he had work to do here.

“I want to go home to bed,” Mannering said. “Have you time to drive me home, Bill?”

Bristow growled: “I'm going back to the Yard. I shall come and see you again later.”

Mannering sat in the back of the taxi, which had waited for him outside, and the real danger to Fay was menacingly close. Mannering felt cold, not just because of the chilly night or the fact that he was tired, his head still ached and he was near the limit of his physical resources.

Would it help to go to Fay's flat?

Or would it be best to try to see Julia Fiori? Had she gone with Fiori? Questions – dozens of questions which he couldn't answer, and underlying all of them the simple fact that he had helped to put Fay Goulden in danger. But, he wouldn't go to Clay Court; the police would be there. And the police would question Julia.

A car stood outside his flat. Lights blazed from the front window, and he thought he saw Lorna looking out. He didn't want to talk to anyone except Lorna, and not much to her. He paid the cabby. By the time he reached the front door it opened; Lorna appeared.

“All safe,” said Mannering. “No great harm done.”

Lorna looked at him intently, and startled him by saying:

“Chittering says—”

“He's here, is he?”

“Yes.” Lorna drew him inside, closed the door, and stood looking at him in the dim light which came from the landing above. He put his arm about her, and they stood very close together; he could feel the beating of her heart. She was frightened. She would be until this affair was over, whatever she said and whatever she did.

Chittering called from upstairs: “Break it up!”

“We'd better go,” said Lorna. “You do look dreadful.”

“I'm all right. How much do you know?”

“All that I know,” said Chittering cheerfully. “Read it in the
Record
in the morning.” He stood at the door of the flat, still in evening dress, like a smiling cherub. “So romance is not dead. Been baiting Bristow?”

“He's been baiting me.”

“You can't have your own way all the time.” Chittering's smile lingered as they went inside, but there was no smile in his eyes. “Have you heard about Fay?”

“Yes.”

“Bad business. Her Kenneth is distraught.”

“Where is he?”

“Looking for her in all the familiar places. He wouldn't wait for a police escort, but one of the brighter young men of the
Record
is going the rounds with him, and I'll have a report before long. Did you go to Toni's café?”

“There are two Fioris.”

“I wondered when you'd catch up with that,” said Chittering. “Toni the Restaurateur seems a nice little man, but I wouldn't take him at face value if I were you. Has Bristow any idea where the
Tear
is?”

“He can only guess. Chitty, will you run the story of Fay's disappearance very hard. Get a good photograph, splash it on the front page, and ask for your readers' help. If you can, persuade the news agencies to feature the story. We've got to find that girl.”

“Leave it to me, John.” Chittering said seriously. “I'll see you.”

When he had gone, Lorna said grimly: “You're going to stay in tonight, if I have to tie you to the bed.”

Mannering grinned. “Just hold me down,” he said, and yawned – and now his head was throbbing and seemed likely to split. He couldn't even worry much about Fay, not as much as he knew he should.

He woke at eight o'clock next morning.

Lorna's bed was empty and he could hear voices, probably coming from the kitchen. The only other sounds came from outside the flat. A pain at the back of his head told him that he wasn't going to have a good day. He sat up, and the throbbing, grew worse. He pressed the bell at the side of the bed, and the ringing had hardly stopped before Lorna came in.

“Good morning, darling,” said Mannering. “Sleep well?”

“If you mean, did anyone call, no.” Lorna came and sat at the side of the bed and took his hands. “You look as if you spent the night on the tiles. How's your head?”

“Only cracked.”

“We ought to have had a doctor last night.”

“It isn't a big crack.”

“You might get concussion—anything. Let me see.” He moved his head gingerly forward; she stood up and parted his hair, searing his scalp with pain. “It's a big bump! Does anyone in this establishment know how to make tea?”

“Susan's bringing it in. And you're to have breakfast in bed.” She was sharp-voiced, as if holding herself in check only with a great effort. Then she went on tensely, “Chitty told me about that secret police report, and what happened to the women. I've always hated the
Tear;
I hate it even more now. Have you told the police that you have it?”

“No,” said Mannering and jested, “I forgot.” Then his manner changed and he reached out for the telephone. “There's something else I forgot—in fact I didn't even think about it. If ever I tell you I'm good, explain in words of three letters how bad I am.” He began to dial. A detached voice answered his call, while Susan came in with a tea-tray. “Is Mr. Chittering in the Reporters' Room?” asked Mannering.

Soon Chittering said: “Who's that?”

“It's nice to know you never go to bed,” said Mannering.

“I've slept like a top, and have just looked in. Have you seen the blatt this morning? We've had thirty-seven people on the line already, telling us that they've seen Fay, from Land's End to John O' Groats. Anything new?”

“Yes. Can you get the
Daily Record
to play ball?”

Chittering laughed. “There isn't an editor in London who won't. What's the new idea?”

“Will you run this: Has the
Diamond of Tears
been smuggled out of the country? Produce a mysterious Frenchman, Brazilian, Portuguese, anything you like, who was after the
Tear,
and known to have been negotiating with Bernstein for it. Suggest that it may not have been at the shop after all, that Bernstein may have been lying when he said that he'd still got it. See the idea?”

Chittering paused, then said: “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

He rang off, and Lorna handed Mannering a cup of tea and said: “At least you can still think. What do you hope to do?”

“Persuade Fiori that Fay hasn't got the
Tear.
Anything that might stall him for twenty-four hours would be a help. Darling, look up Mrs. Fiori, of 23 Clay Court, in the telephone book and find out if she's in, will you?”

“Who
is
this woman?” asked Lorna. If he didn't know her too well he would have thought her almost jealous. “Did she come here yesterday?”

“Yes.” Mannering pulled her forward, but she still yielded only to humour him. “She's enough to make you turn green with jealousy.”

Lorna pulled herself free, and dialled while Mannering sipped tea. He could hear the ringing sound faintly, but was much more worried by Lorna's frown. Her manner was beginning to disturb him. Then the ringing stopped.

“Is Mrs. Fiori there?” asked Lorna. She paused, then handed Mannering the telephone.

 

Mannering said: “Good morning, Julia,” and Lorna bit her lip, and continued to stare at him, tense and on edge. It was a long time before Julia Fiori said: “Who is that?”

“And you can't even remember my voice,” said Mannering, reproachfully. “How's Enrico?”

“I think he must be losing his touch, as you're still here,” said Julia.

“I want a word with you about Fay,” Mannering said. “Don't let anything happen to her. That's extremely important. If she gets hurt then strange and violent things are going to happen. People like you will get messed up in the process. Look after Fay.”

The pause which followed seemed to become ominous. When she spoke her voice was low-pitched and expressionless, yet he was vividly reminded of the way she had talked as she had left the flat. She even sent tension into the room. Lorna stood very still, as if she were aware of it, too.

“If anything happens to Fay Goulden, John Mannering,” Julia said, “it will be your fault, and if he thinks that she took the
Tear
I don't think we shall see her again,” said Julia softly. “If you've got it, let him know.”

“How can anyone tell him anything, now that he's on the run?”

“You could tell me, and I'd find a way.” She lowered her voice until it was little above a whisper; “I'm serious. There's one way to save Fay Goulden—by proving that she hasn't the
Tear.
If you really want to save her tell him you've got it, or take it to Scotland Yard.”

Mannering said: “It's a pity I haven't got it, you create the note of horror so well.”

“I've known him for some time,” said Julia, and rang off.

 

Mannering had breakfast in bed, but ate with little appetite. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the world was fair, but the threat hovering about Fay Goulden crept into the flat, shadowed him and shadowed Lorna. He got up just after nine o'clock, and dressed by half-past. His head wasn't as bad as he had feared; he took aspirins.

What was the best thing to do?

Lorna joined him in the study, went to the window, stared towards the river, and spoke without turning round. She looked grave, but lovely enough to make him catch his breath, to wish that he had never heard of the
Tear,
that he could wave his hand and spirit all anxiety from her.

“You've got to help her,” she said.

“Yes. How?”

“Even if it means letting Fiori have the
Tear.”

“I needn't go as far as that,” Mannering said gently. “If he's convinced that I've got it, that will do.”

Lorna swung round. “If he's sure you've got it, then he'll never leave you alone.”

“I can't just hand the diamond over, wish Fiori luck, and let him get away with it. The
Tear
has a place in this affair, as bait—good, strong bait. Fiori will take risks to get it, and I've got to make him take a risk too many.”

“Or he makes you.”

Mannering said: “There's so much we don't know. Why Fiori wants the
Tear,
where he is, what else he does, why his wife—if she
is
still his wife—takes such interest in Fay. Whether his wife—let's just say Julia—is involved as deeply as she appears to be. One argument against it is that she's still at the flat—hasn't been scared away.”

Lorna said in a hard voice: “You can give the
Tear
to Fiori or to Bristow. Either way it will help the girl and take a load off you. You can't keep it yourself and hope that it will lure Fiori into making a mistake. You might want to, but you can't.” She turned and faced him and he had never seen her show more intensity of feeling. “Because I won't let you. If you don't decide to do one or the other, soon, I shall tell Bristow everything. I'd rather see you in prison than at Fiori's mercy.”

She turned away abruptly and stared out of the window.

It was very quiet in the flat, but there was tumult in Mannering's mind. He should not be surprised by this, yet it appalled him. She was in deadly earnest, and he knew why she had seemed so strange; this had been heavy on her mind last night.

She said, without looking round: “I mean every word.”