Cry For the Baron (18 page)

“Home.”

“Woking,” said Mannering.

 

 

Julia's maid answered his ring. Julia came out of the drawing-room to greet him, superb in a black evening gown with a rare orchid at her breast, shoulders and arms like alabaster. “You ought to have a key,” she said. “What will you drink?”

“Gin and something, please. I'm sorry you're going out.”

“I'm not, so we can have a delightful evening together. Or is your wife coming?” As Julia went to the cocktail cabinet, Mannering watched the smooth grace of her movements and tried to picture Enrico Fiori by her side.

“How well do you know Toni's restaurant?”

“I haven't been there for months.”

“Come tonight?”

Julia brought him a pink gin. “You like asking for trouble, don't you?”

“Thrive on it. Will you come?”

“Yes.” She sipped, eyed him smilingly, but wariness lurked in her lovely eyes. “What's the reason?”

“I want you to bring something with you.”

“What?”

“One of the imitation
Tears.”

Julia turned away, took a book from beneath a table, opened it revealing photographs; it was a thin album covered in wine-red leather. She nipped over the pages, came to a photograph which occupied a whole page, studied it but didn't speak. Mannering joined her and saw Enrico Fiori. The photograph was so lifelike that it might have been taken yesterday. The lowered lids, the solemnity of expression, the heavy jowl – everything was there. Sinister?

Julia closed the book.

“Enrico, I'm beginning to think you've met your match,” she said slowly. “So you discovered the paste
Tears
yesterday? Why did you leave them?”

“Everything is useful at the proper time and place. Tonight I want a fake because Enrico asked me to go to Toni's and leave the
Tear
there. He's so used to finding imitations that I shouldn't like to disappoint him. Why five, by the way? Only four have been stolen, as far as I can trace.”

“He bought one, years ago.”

“So you've a right to it!”

“When he discovered that the others were not what he wanted he passed them on to me. I seldom saw him in a temper, but several times he lost his self-control completely. I didn't feel safe – and I usually felt safe with him. After he'd cooled down he gave a
Tear
to me.”

“And you didn't feel blood on your fingers?”

“I didn't know how he'd got them then. I knew he only wanted the
Diamond of Tears.
We were in America at the time. I knew that he'd visited an old man about the
Tear,
that the old man wouldn't sell. Two days afterwards the old man was murdered—you know how. The following day Enrico gave me the imitation, after blowing off as he had before.” She spoke very softly and coldly. “The fact that the old man had the
Tear
was splashed all over the American newspapers, that was the first I really knew about the diamond's history. I walked out on Enrico then, and we've never lived together since.”

“And Fay?” asked Mannering.

“When Enrico began to show an interest in Fay I made it my business to find out why. When I learned that she was going to inherit the
Tear,
I was worried about what might happen to her. I asked him how he knew. He gave me those extracts from Jacob Bernstein's Will; I suppose you saw them in the deed box.”

“Yes. How did he get at the Will?”

“He heard a rumour that Jacob had the
Tear
and sent a burglar to search for it. The man brought back those extracts and other information.”

“You've an answer for everything.”

“I haven't. I don't know why Enrico wants the
Tear.”

“Does anyone else want it?”

She didn't answer, and Mannering said: “Why did you stop Fay from talking to me the other day?”

Julia said. “Come with me.” She led the way to her bedroom and went straight to the dressing-table, unlocked the drawer and took out the narrow jewel case. The five tear-shaped artificial diamonds glowed and winked up at them. The platinum settings were lovely. She held the open case out to him.

“Take which one you like.”

He took the box, closed it and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. “Thanks.” He turned to leave the room, but she caught his hand, making him turn round. They were very close. She was nearly as tall as he, and again she looked like the painting of a Madonna. Her lips parted slightly, she held her head back and gazed at him between her lashes; and she didn't let go of his hand.

“John, don't go on, please don't go on.”

“So you've something in common with my wife.”

“She's very lovely, and so deeply in love with you. I can understand any woman being in love with you.” Julia smiled, her lips curving and making her more enticing, more desirable. “Don't go on. You think that you've the measure of Enrico, but no one has. I sometimes think that he has the special dispensation of the Devil.” She drew nearer, her soft encompassing warmth soothed and yet excited him. “Tell Enrico where to find the
Tear,
and be done with it all.”

“It would be easy, if I knew where to find the thing.”

She said: “Oh, you fool!” and let him go, moving towards the door. He thought it was because she didn't want him to see her expression. “You know where it is, but it's useless trying to make you see reason. Do you still want me to come to Toni's?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I'll try to be as truthful as Enrico. He has eyes everywhere—you know that.” Mannering was behind her as he talked. She led the way into the drawing-room and took up her glass but avoided looking at him. “He knows I've been here several times. If he sees us together at Toni's he might get the wrong idea. If he gets the wrong idea he might get angry, and angry men make mistakes. But you don't have to come.”

 

Toni himself welcomed them warmly. If he were surprised at seeing Julia he made no comment. It was good to see her again, very good to see Mannering, he hoped Mannering's head was better. He had been reading – this in a whisper – about the case in the newspapers. He was distressed that his brother was involved – why, the police had actually been here to question him, Toni!

But he had satisfied them that he knew nothing about Enrico's affairs. Now! For dinner …

They left at half-past ten. A single fake diamond, wrapped in cotton wool, was hidden between the cushion and the back of Mannering's chair.

 

Julia said: “Don't come up. I should hate you to go away, and I know you wouldn't stay. Thank you, John.” The pressure of her hand on his was cool, firm. “Goodbye.”

“I'll report progress tomorrow,” Mannering said.

“Will you?” She drew her hand away, turned and hurried into Clay Court, where another commissionaire in resplendent uniform, just visible in the light of the hall, saluted her smartly. Mannering sat at the wheel, watching a C.I.D. man opposite who lit a cigarette. No other car was in the street, no one approached, he did not think he had been followed to or from Toni's. But he had that feeling of being watched. Of course the C.I.D. man was watching. He let in the clutch, and jerked his head up when he heard a thump; more crash than thump, as if two cars had collided.

He drove round the block, and saw nothing; drove off, and was not followed.

He parked the car in a side street off Edgware Road, walked several blocks and came to a small shop. A light glowed at the back, although the shop itself wasn't lighted. He rang the bell. A little old man opened the door, a man who was well-known in London theatrical circles, for he was a supreme artist in makeup.

He peered up, frowning, for he had not switched on the shop light. Then: “Why, Mr. Mannering!”

“Hallo, Solly! Am I a nuisance?”

“It is always a pleasure to see you. Come in, please come in.” Solly stood aside; Mannering went to the room at the end of the shop. This was a familiar workshop. Solly was obviously in the middle of preparing grease paint; there was a strong odour of grease in the warm room. An electric fire glowed beneath a little oven in one corner, pigments in small jars stood on a long bench.

“What's going to happen to your secrets when you retire?” asked Mannering.

“When I retire I shall be dead,” said the old man, and smiled as if that were a pleasure to anticipate. “My two sons will carry on, I hope. They show promise, especially Matthew. You have time for a cup of coffee with me, upstairs?”

“I wish I had.”

“I thought it unlikely, with so much going on. I also read newspapers! Now, how can I help you?”

“I want to pay a visit without being recognized.”

“So. Well, you know the difficulties, it is never easy, but” – the old man chuckled – “if you wanted it to be really safe then you would not come to me, you would do it yourself. You wish to pass unnoticed, yes, not under close scrutiny. Sit down, please sit down, and I will see what I can do.” Solly touched a chair of the kind usually found in a barber's shop, unfolded a case-mirror on the wall, switched on a light above Mannering's head, and spread a towel round his shoulders.

He hardly spoke while he worked. When he had finished the mirror showed Mannering a round-faced man with a sallow complexion and a broad, close-clipped moustache, heavy eyebrows, an expression of sour discontent.

“It will do?”

“You're still a genius,” said Mannering. “Now I want to go out the back way.”

 

He walked quickly along the narrow alley at the back of the shop, along side streets until he came out near the sprawling area near Paddington Station. The chug-chug of trains sounded clearly on the still night air. He approached a large garage and stood in the shadows near it. By hunching his shoulders he took inches off his height; no one would recognise him here.

A lanky, laconic garage attendant said: “Self-drive car? Sure. Twenty quid deposit.”

“That's all right.”

He chose a Hillman Minx, modern and fast enough. He drove through the crowded north-west of London and across country to Richmond, then along the main road to Woking Common. He parked the car a mile from the cottage and walked the rest of the way. As he drew near he saw lights shining from two windows, one upstairs, one down. There were no lights nearby, but he could pick out the figures of two men, one at the back, one at the front; Woking policemen. One of them came forward as he approached, and shone a torch into his face. Mannering blinked, protested: “What's all this?”

“Sorry, sir.” The torch went out, the man satisfied that he could describe this visitor. Mannering opened the garden gate; the hinges creaked but he doubted whether the sound reached anyone at the cottage. He walked softly, quickly. He paused at the tiny porch, looked round, could not see the police and knew that he could not be seen. He would rather break in than be admitted, but – the temptation to force entry and shock whoever was there came sharply; he forced it back. He groped for the bell and heard it ring inside. Movements followed at once, and a light showed through a small glass panel in the door.

Elizabeth Warren opened it and the hall light fell on Mannering's face. Being behind her, it showed her head and shoulders in silhouette, revealed her for a really pretty woman. Her brown hair was fluffy, she wore a scarf round her shoulders. She stifled a yawn.

“Good evening.”

“Is Mr. Yule in?”

“No, I'm afraid not,” she said, and smiled. “I haven't any idea when he'll be back. I'll give him a message if you like.”

“I'll stay,” said Mannering.

He took her arm, thrust her back into the hall, stepped in and closed the door. She had no chance to stop him, and his bulk hid her from the watching police. As the door closed he let her go. Anger, surprise and fear chased each other across her face.

“This is—”

“I know, outrageous,” said Mannering. “Don't waste time and don't waste words. I want to see Yule.”

“He's not here!”

“Then who's upstairs?”

“No one else is in the house, but there are—”

“Police outside. You ought to feel happy with police protection. I'm sure Yule is.” He took her arm again, pressed hard enough to make her silent. “Who's upstairs?”

“No one!”

Mannering said: “We'll see.” He turned her round, forcing her towards the stairs. The stairs were narrow and crooked. She stumbled half-way up and he saved her from falling. The light shone on to the landing from a bedroom; it was empty.

“I told you no one was here!”

“And I don't believe you.” But as they stood looking at each other the house seemed silent. She was probably telling the truth. He went with her into the other rooms and now she led the way without being forced, and recovered from the shock of fear and was defiant. But she hadn't called out for the police.

There were three bedrooms and a tiny bathroom, all well furnished. One was obviously Yule's, another as obviously hers. He went along a narrow passage near the landing, seeing the loft hole with the cover in position. By it was a ladder.

“How often do you go up there?”

“Seldom.”

“Did the police go up today?”

“I don't know where the police went. You've no right to do this.”

“We'll go up now.” Mannering put the ladder in position and motioned to her to go up. She drew back, tight-lipped, pale, attractive in the poor light from the landing.

“No!”

“Don't let's argue,” Mannering said. “Up.” He took her arm again. This time she mounted the ladder, slowly; was she nervous of slipping or of what would be found in the attic? She reached halfway, put up her hands and shifted the hatch cover; the attic was dark. She put her hand inside and switched on a light, then clambered into the attic. He joined her.