Cry For the Baron (14 page)

There was a small puncture and a tiny smear of blood.

 

 

An attendant came up and put a towel by the side of the hand basin in front of Mannering, looked at him curiously, and hovered near. Raising his arm, Mannering could just touch the spot with his mouth. He squeezed it between his teeth, and sucked vigorously, knowing that everyone else in the cloakroom was watching him with increasing curiosity. The attendant came closer: “Anything I can do, sir?” Mannering shook his head, went on sucking, then spat into the hand basin. The numbness seemed to be spreading, but that might be because of the pressure of his teeth; teeth marks showed clearly on his arm, the little puncture was on top of a red ridge.

“Sure
I can't do anything, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

He could go to a doctor, there would be one in the hotel; or to a chemist, there were several nearby – but would either be able to help? Would anyone be able to judge what this was until the symptoms began to manifest themselves? They could only guess at what had been injected. The simple fact was that someone working for Fiori had jabbed a hypodermic needle into his arm – well, some kind of needle or pin. There hadn't been time for the man to press the plunger for long, whatever had gone in was likely to be quick acting. He should soon know.

The wise thing was to consult a doctor.

“If there
is
anything I can do, sir—”

“You're very good. Where can I find the hotel doctor?”

“First floor, sir, I think it's room—Charlie!” The attendant shouted across to another. “What's the number of the doctor's room?”

“One-o-nine,” answered Charlie.

“Hundred and nine, sir. Send someone up with you, if you like.” The attendant, a small man with an anxious, worried face, helped him on with his coat, and offered to take him to the lift. He preferred to walk. He fancied that his arm was stinging, but that might be because of the bite. He walked quickly along the first bedroom floor, and found the door of Room 109 open, with a man coming out, another saying: “Yes, look in tomorrow.” The speaker was genial, plump, prosperous-looking. He smiled at Mannering. “You're lucky, I was just going on my rounds.”

“Thanks.” Mannering entered a small reception room, followed the doctor into a surgery, wondered if he were making a fool of himself. The doctor waited for a few seconds, then asked: “Well, what's the trouble?”

Mannering said: “Wind up, chiefly.” He took off his coat and remembered that he had dropped a cufflink downstairs. “Can you tell me whether this was made with a hypodermic or an ordinary needle?” He bared his arm, and the doctor shot a surprised glance at him. “And if you can guess what shot was put in, I'd be happier.”

A few seconds seemed an eternity.

“Hypo,” pronounced the doctor. “Just a moment.” He took a long-handled glass off his desk, switched on a small electric light attached to it, and studied the puncture. “Yes a hypo—and it was done through your shirt; I can see one or two tiny pieces of fluff attached to it. It's a subcutaneous injection, which usually works very quickly. Are you trying to tell me you know nothing about it?”

“I felt a jab.”

“Is there any reason why—” began the doctor, then gulped and drew back. “I
thought
I recognised you. You're Mannering. Has this anything to do with the case?”

“It could have, and be intended either to frighten or to kill.”

“Have you told the police?”

“I couldn't get up here fast enough.”

“I see you've been sucking it. Probably as good as anything I can do. I'll cauterise it, that may help if there's anything venomous there. It hasn't gone straight into the blood stream through a big vein. Do you feel anything?”

“A numbness—more imaginary than real, I think.”

“It could be. Almost anything jabbed in there will give you a sensation of numbness. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you feel anything at all—giddiness, anything like that? Sleepiness?” The doctor laughed. “You certainly aren't falling asleep!” As he talked he was opening a bottle, dabbing the puncture with cotton wool. He rubbed Mannering's arm briskly; now the place stung badly. “Hurt? That's good! How long ago did it happen?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Then it wasn't any drug with an almost instantaneous action, like some of the barbitones. It may prove to be nothing at all. You know—” the doctor laughed again, not with humour – “almost anything could have been put in, bacteria, any drug in solution. The proper thing is to have you under supervision for a few hours or even longer. But you won't want to sit back and do nothing in case symptoms develop.”

“No, I shan't.”

“Then stay here for twenty minutes or so. I've a couple of people to see at once, and then I'll come back. If you're still all right you can get off, but see a doctor the moment you feel any symptoms—that is, as soon as you feel anything at all unusual. Nausea, giddiness—but I needn't teach you your A.B.C. Use my telephone if you want to. It would be wise to call the police.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry I have to leave you on your own, my receptionist is down with influenza.” The doctor picked up his black case and went out. A good chap; deliberately casual, doing nothing to add to nebulous fears. Mannering lit a cigarette and picked up the magnifying glass, studied the puncture, and saw nothing remarkable about it. The sting of the cauterising liquid was much worse than anything he had felt before. He put the glass down – and the telephone bell rang.

He hesitated; it pealed again. He lifted it, and wondered what the doctor's name was – and nearly dropped the telephone, for a man said quietly: “Mannering?”

A pause; and then insistently: “Is that Mannering?”

Mannering said: “Yes.”

“He means business. I shouldn't lose any time getting rid of the
Tear,”
said the man. His voice seemed vaguely familiar, yet there was nothing remarkable about it, no hint of emphasis. “Don't forget, he means to have it.”

The line went dead.

So they'd not only followed him here but knew when he had come upstairs and where he was, had probably seen the doctor go out.

 

The doctor was back in thirty-five minutes.

Mannering felt no different, except that the sting had gone out of the puncture.

“That's fine,” said the doctor. “It was probably nothing to harm you. Have you told the police?”

“Not yet.”

“You must, and I'll have to report it.”

“You go ahead,” said Mannering. “Thanks very much, you've been a great help. How much do I owe you?”

The doctor shrugged: “Well, say a guinea.”

Mannering remembered his cufflink; the anxious attendant had it.

Outside on the pavement in front of the hotel Mannering looked right and left and saw no one he knew, no one he had noticed earlier in the morning. But he was sure that he was watched. He walked slowly to Piccadilly Circus, eyed the traffic circling, tried to decide what he had better do. Lorna was one anxiety, Fiori the other; there was Kenneth Yule, too – he ought to see Yule soon. Perhaps Cluttering had discovered more than Larraby about Fay's young man.

He called Cluttering from a call-box but the reporter wasn't in the office.

“Any idea where I can find him?”

“Who is that?”

“John Mannering.”

“He said if you called I was to tell you he would call you at Chelsea. He isn't sure where he'll be except that he'll look in at Great Marlborough Street, where Green and the other two from the Hula Club will be up before the beak.”

“Yes, of course. Thanks.”

Mannering stayed in the box. No one was near, no one appeared to be taking the slightest notice of him. A crowd of people passed; when he was jammed in a crowd someone might jab another needle into him – next time a poison which might work quickly. Fay was terrified; Lorna so frightened that she had lost her nerve; and he wasn't free from fear. He had panicked after that prick.

What to do now? He dialled the Chelsea flat. After a pause Susan answered him brightly.

“Is Mrs. Mannering there, Susan?”

“Oh,
no,
sir, she hasn't come back. And she didn't say whether you would be in for lunch, either of you. What do you think I'd better do?”

“Get something ready, in case we turn up, and tell Mrs. Mannering I called. Don't forget that.”

“I won't,” said Susan. “Goodbye, sir.”

It was hot inside the kiosk, but a cold wind swept along the street as Mannering stepped out. A taxi came along slowly, its “For Hire” sign up. He signalled it, jumped in before it had properly stopped, and slammed the door. No other taxi followed him, there were several private cars behind but none started off from the side of the road.
Could
he be followed now? The taxi drove on for a few yards, then the driver pulled up, looked over his shoulder and said laconically: “Just going for a ride?”

“Eh? Oh—sorry, Clay Court, Shepherd Street.”

Of course, he must see Julia again; it was the obvious thing to do, the trouble with the obvious was that you so often failed to do it. He felt more rested and less prone to fear. Had there been anything lethal pumped into his arm he would surely know by now. An hour and a quarter had passed and he could feel nothing at all. It had been evidence of menace; like the letter and like the telephone call, just to show how easily he could be killed. Julia Fiori had told him that if she were he she wouldn't feel safe walking along the street. She'd meant it.

And
Lorna
was out.

He asked the cabby to wait, was told curtly: “Can't do it, Guv'nor.” The resplendent commissionaire greeted him with a hearty good morning, and a C.I.D. man standing in the hall looked at him with a faint smile. Mannering took himself up in the lift, and found another C.I.D. man outside Fay's flat.

“Anything new this morning?” Mannering asked.

“I wouldn't know, sir.”

The lift bell rang behind him, and the lift began to move slowly down. Mannering passed Fay's flat and remembered how badly the girl had been scared when he had first met her, terrified the second time; her danger now was chiefly due to what he was doing. All reason argued against him, but he wasn't convinced he was wrong. He rang the bell at Julia's flat and immediately heard footsteps and a voice – Julia's. He stood back, but was ready to thrust his foot in the door if she attempted to close it in his face.

She greeted him like a long-lost friend.

“Hallo! We've been expecting you.” She stood aside for him to pass, but he hesitated. The “we” was significant; someone might be there who would carry on with Fiori's good work. Nonsense! He mustn't let himself be harassed by these nameless fears. The police were actually on the doorstep, nothing could go amiss here.

He went in, Julia closed the door – and he heard the lift stop as the door latched.

“I've had the lock replaced,” Julia said, and led the way to the charming drawing-room. Mannering saw no one else outside; whoever was included in the “we” was probably in this room.

Lorna, standing in the window, looked at him without expression.

The front door bell rang again.

 

Julia closed the door without speaking, and Mannering stood quite still, watching his wife. She didn't move; they were like two statues. This wasn't really Lorna; she was steeling herself to show no reaction, to go on with what she had planned. He felt tongue-tied – with Lorna! He coughed as he forced himself to move forward and offer her a cigarette. She took one. His hand shook slightly as he gave her a light.

The caller outside was a man and he talked in a loud voice. Mannering wished him anywhere but at the flat.

“You talk about making me back out of the case, and then come and plunge yourself into it,” Mannering said. “If this is dangerous for me it's ten times more dangerous for you.”

“Now you know what it feels like,” Lorna said.

He had known a dozen times before. The agony of suspense, when something might have happened to her – perhaps when she had been late home while he was working on such an affair as this; even times when she had fallen foul of bad men who had tried to get at him through her. She knew that, and yet could talk so; it made her a stranger.

“Why did you come?”

“I thought I might get some sense out of her—and I came to find out whether she can take a message to Fiori. I meant what I said. You'll give the
Tear
to either Fiori or Bristow—and I think I'm a fool not to insist that it's Bristow. But if Fiori gets the
Tear
he'll have nothing against you.”

Mannering said: “No. I'd be high and dry, safe as houses. But Fiori will never get his hands on the
Tear
while I can keep it from him. I'd rather throw it in the river. Now there's no doubt where we stand, is there? Tell Bristow I have it—at least you can't tell him where it is. And think how happy you'll be afterwards.”

Lorna said: “I just can't stand it any more. You've got to understand that.”

There was nothing he could say, he had already said too much … It was fantastic that they should talk to each other as if they had nothing in common. It wasn't natural and it wouldn't last, but before it ended something precious in the bonds between them might have broken. Should he let her have her way? Quickly, completely, promising to feel no bitterness? He couldn't promise that so he couldn't let her have her way.

Throughout all this there had been the sound of voices outside. Julia's and a man's. The man's grew louder. Twice he mentioned “Fay,” and after the second time there came a tap at the door. Lorna turned her back on it.

“Come in,” Mannering said heavily.