Cry For the Baron (19 page)

There was hardly room to stand upright. Big suitcases, two trunks, a dressing-table, dozens of parcels and bundles, stood or lay about the dusty floor. He sneezed.

“Now
perhaps you're satisfied. Who are you?”

“A friend of Fay Goulden.”

She started. “Who—”

“Let's get down,” Mannering said. He went first and helped her down. As he stood with his back to the landing he wondered whether there had been anyone downstairs, whether he would have been wise to make sure of that first. There was no alarm. Downstairs the kitchen and dining-room were empty. The only light was in the living-room, where he had been with Bristow.

“Now will you tell me what you want?” Her voice was shrill. Her grey eyes looked enormous. She had lovely smooth skin, was prettier under this light than by day. She wore a sky blue dress and a fluffy sky blue scarf. By the side of an easy chair was a tray with the remains of her supper, a coffee pot, an evening paper and a book lying open and face downwards. It made a simple picture and she looked a simple creature.

“I want to see Kenneth Yule.”

“He's gone away.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. He was detained by the police, the fools, and he hasn't come back here. He telephoned to say that he would be away for a few days.''

“Where does he usually go when he's away for a few days?”

“It might be anywhere.”

“And he doesn't leave an address?”

“No!”

Mannering said abruptly: “How long have you been living with him?”

“I've worked for him for two years. I do
not
live with him. You're as bad as the police.
Are
you a policeman?” She stared at him and he knew that something puzzled her, some indication that he was disguised, perhaps; even a hint of familiarity.

“No, I'm not a policeman. Why does Yule want the
Tear
—the
Diamond of Tears?”

He expected her to say that she didn't know what he was talking about, to protest, to threaten to call the watching police. Instead, she backed to her chair and sat down heavily, and all her colour fading from her cheeks. She moistened her lips and looked at once old and young – old with a weight of care and anxiety which had suddenly descended upon her.

She said: “I don't know.”

“Did the police ask you about the
Tear?”

“No. Who—who
are
you?”

“Still a friend of Fay Goulden. Do you know where she is?”

“No. But—” She caught her breath, as if she had been on the point of blurting out something else and had stopped herself only just in time. She groped for a cigarette. He lit it for her, wondering how he could find out what she knew.

“But you think you might know?” he said sharply.

“I've no idea.”

Mannering pulled up a stool, sat down, and looked up at her. She drew at the cigarette until it glowed red for a quarter of its length. Her pallor wasn't assumed, she was scared now – and she had been scared from the moment he had mentioned the
Tear.

He said: “Let's have the truth. Yule works for Fiori.”

She gasped: “No!” The cigarette dropped from her lips into her lap. She let it stay there, gripped the arms of her chair and glared – and her fear had turned to terror because of the name Fiori. He took the cigarette away and tossed it into the hearth.

“He works for Fiori. Why lie about it?”

“He doesn't. He
couldn't.”

“They both want the
Tear,
and—”

The telephone bell rang, sharp, loud. She closed her eyes. Her bosom was heaving. The telephone was near the fireplace and he had to stretch across to reach it. He touched it, but didn't lift the receiver, and the bell kept ringing. She made no move to answer it, seemed eaten up with the terror which a man's name had caused.

Was the caller Fiori?

Had Mannering been followed here?

He lifted the receiver, hesitated, then touched her arm; she opened her eyes. He handed her the receiver. She looked as if she didn't want to take it, so he put it into her hand, was ready to snatch it away if there seemed any cause. He heard her say unsteadily: “Hallo? Who is that?”

She paused, then gave him back the receiver and said: “It's for a—a Mr. Mannering. So you're Mannering.” But there was no feeling in her voice, she didn't care who he was.

And the caller? Fiori, of course it was Fiori.

He felt as if a door had opened and an icy blast had swept into the room. He didn't take the telephone at once, but tried to think how Fiori could have known or even guessed where he was. Guessed? The man
knew.
In spite of all his precautions he had been' followed here. It was as if Fiori had a secret host watching in the darkness of the night. Mannering took the telephone, and put it slowly to his ear. Above all things Fiori wanted to unnerve him.

“Well, what is it?”

“John, you'd better come back,” said Lorna.

 

 

Mannering said: “Why?” Lorna, of course; he had told her where he was coming, he was a victim of his own foolish fears. “What's it all about?” he asked.

“I think you'd better come back. Julia Fiori has been hurt.”

“Hurt?”

“That's all I know. One of Chittering's friends rang up just now, and Bristow called me. I was going to call you, anyhow, I've a lot you ought to know.”

“Such as?”

“Chiefly about Kenneth Yule and the early victims,” said Lorna. Her matter-of-fact voice told him that she was on edge, trying hard to school herself not to show emotion. “One of them was an old man, an American—remember?”

“Yes.”

“He was Kenneth Yule's grandfather,” Lorna said. “There isn't any doubt, John. The
Record
people discovered it. They've checked with the Yard and it's quite true. It's only just been realised. Yule inherited all his money from that old man.”

“What about the others?”

“I haven't learned much about any of them, but all three were Jewish—and the two men escaped from Germany before the war. The woman was the wife of an American collector of precious stones. The
Record
people say they haven't been able to trace any relationship or connection between the woman and any of the men. The only significant thing is that Yule was the old man's grandson.”

“Have you discovered anything more about Kenneth Yule himself?”

Elizabeth Warren leaned forward. Her hand moved and touched his, as if she wanted to wrench the receiver away from him; her fingers were cold on the back of his hand.

“A little,” Lorna said. “Larraby came in half an hour ago and has a report. Yule was orphaned when he was quite young, and went to Repton and Oxford. He joined the
R.A.F.
and did well—he won the
D.F.C.
in Cyprus. His grandfather was killed a few months before Yule left the Service. Yule went to America and was there for six months, clearing up the estate.”

“That's his history—what's his reputation?”

“A gay dog. One girl after another, until he met Fay Goulden.”

“Still think he's in love with Fay?”

“The evidence—” began Lorna, but Mannering didn't hear the rest. Elizabeth Warren struck at his hand, knocked the receiver away from his ear. She leaned forward, eyes blazing, mouth open.

He put the receiver close to his ear again.

“Sorry, I missed that.”

“We mustn't stay talking. Can you come back at once? Bristow said it was urgent. He asked me not to tell you more over the telephone, but—it's Julia. She's asking for you. She's at St. George's Hospital.”

 

Elizabeth Warren sat beside Mannering, huddled in a musquash coat, shivering now and again although it couldn't be with cold. The police car followed, and although Mannering drove fast he made no attempt at evasion. He didn't talk until he was away from the common and driving towards the by-pass. Passing lights shone on the girl's pale face and glistening eyes.

He said suddenly: “In love with Kenneth?”

She didn't answer.

“So you are. And he's in love with Fay. It's how things happen, and it won't hurt for long.”

She said: “He
can't
be in love with her!”

“You think he's gone to her now, don't you?”

She didn't answer, and he needed no answer. Her story, or part of it, was as clear as the white streaks on the road which showed starkly in the headlights. The speedometer touched seventy. The warm fur was close to his arm, but a keen wind cut through the driving window. He wound it up slowly, swerved past a rumbling lorry, saw the twin orbs or the car behind him in the driving mirror.

“It's really a good thing,” Mannering said gently. “He's bad, I'm afraid—as bad as they come.”

She turned her head abruptly: “That's not true!”

“He's nearly as bad as Fiori.”

“Don't say that!”

“What do you know about Fiori?” Mannering asked.

She said: “I hate the sound of his name, I hate everything about him.” She shivered again. “I'm not going to talk, I've nothing to say! I'd kill myself rather than let Fiori get me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know—what he's done.”

“Are you sure that Kenneth doesn't work for him?”

“You must be crazy! Of course he doesn't, he hates Fiori. He's afraid of him, anyone who knows Fiori must be afraid of him, but—Fiori killed a—a close friend of his, killed—”

“His grandfather.”

“So you know that?” She was startled, and turned to look at him. Lights flashed by, the car was in darkness one moment, brightly lit the next. “Yes. The
Tear
belongs to Kenneth. It belonged to the old man, so Kenneth has every right to it. He's been looking for it for years.”

“Why?”

“It's his!”

“He's wealthy. One diamond more or less would make little difference to him. He doesn't know much about jewels, does he?”

“He's learned a lot since he started to look for the
Tear”
Elizabeth said. She talked of the diamond as if it were a familiar thing and she knew it well. “He was even going to buy it. I've helped him look for it. We know what happened to the others who were supposed to have it, we know what Fiori did. And in spite of having to fight against Fiori, Ken's kept on. He wouldn't let anything stop him.”

“Oh, he's a fighter.”

She didn't respond to that.

“Why did he start going round with Fay Goulden? Because he knew she would inherit the
Tear?
”

Elizabeth cried:
What?”
and started so violently that she knocked his arm. He lost control of the car and it swerved towards an oncoming lorry. The lorry passed within a few inches, a vague shout came from the driver. Elizabeth took Mannering's hand, pulled at it, dug her fingers into his knuckles until it hurt. “That's not true! It can't be true!”

“Take it easy or we'll crash.”

Her grip slackened, but she didn't let him go.

“It's quite true, Elizabeth. Jacob Bernstein left everything to Fay Goulden. As he owned the
Tear
before he died it belongs to her, not Ken. It's no use talking about it belonging to Kenneth; Jacob had a legal right to it.”

“It can't be true,” she whispered. “He wouldn't do that. Not Ken, he wouldn't do
that.”

Mannering tried to sound casual. “Do what?”

She didn't answer. Her hand fell from his, between them, he could feel it limp against his leg. “Do what, Elizabeth?” he asked again, but she was silent, When they passed beneath a lamp he looked at her. She lay back, chin thrust forward, her eyes closed, her pallor dreadful. He pulled into the side of the road. The police car passed and drew up in front. He felt the girl's cold hand and knew that she had fainted, this wasn't just an act. He stretched to the back of the car, pulled up a rug, folded it behind her head, so that her neck was supported. He had no whisky flask. Her handbag lay on her lap. He opened it, but there was nothing of use there.

A policeman got out of the car in front and looked back, as if wondering whether to come and find out what had happened.

Elizabeth's pulse was beating faintly and her lips moved as she breathed. There was nothing to worry about, no reason why Mannering shouldn't drive on. He opened both the front windows wide, let in the clutch and started off, driving slowly at first and giving the police car plenty of time to catch up. It was very cold, now. They were at the end of the by-pass and he turned towards Roehampton and Putney. At the top of Putney Hill she stirred, whimpered a little as if she were dreaming. At the foot of the hill, as they drove on to Putney Bridge and across the Thames, her eyelids flickered.

He gave her a few minutes respite, then said: “Better?”

“I—I'm all right.”

He didn't ask more questions; she wouldn't answer, because she was completely numbed by what he had told her. Why?

 

Lorna opened the door at the flat, Larraby hovered about the kitchen door and Susan's shadow showed on the floor. Mannering said: “Hallo,” and led Elizabeth Warren in. Lorna took charge of the girl and helped her into the drawing-room. Elizabeth seemed unable to move her legs freely. Lorna helped her to sit down in an easy chair, pushed a pouffe beneath her legs, and said to Mannering: “Who is she? What's happened?”

“Yule's house-keeper, and she's had a shock,” Elizabeth took no notice of them. She stared blankly ahead of her. He drew Lorna aside and lowered his voice. “Don't force her but encourage her to talk. She's in love with Yule, is afraid he's deserted for Fay. The shock came when I told her that Fay was old Jacob's heiress. Direct questions won't—”

“I'll manage.”

“And you also want to know where she thinks Yule might be. Any news of Julia?”

“Bristow telephoned again a quarter of an hour ago and I said you'd called up and were on your way. I didn't tell him where you were.” Lorna brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You can't see Julia like that, she won't recognise you.”

“That's one reason why I came here first.”

Ten minutes with cleansing cream and a rough towel brought back the normal Mannering. Ready to leave, he glanced into the drawing-room where Lorna was looking through a magazine and Elizabeth sat with a cup of tea at her side; she didn't seem to have tasted the tea. “I'm off.” Lorna nodded, Mannering went out and Larraby hurried out from the kitchen. Was there anything he could do?

“Stay here and entertain Susan, and make sure that you shout ‘police!' if any strangers look in.”

Mannering drove fast through the deserted streets to the hospital. A detective-sergeant in the hall came forward: “We've been waiting for you, Mr. Mannering.” He led the way along wide corridors which smelt of disinfectant, and rubber flooring muffled their footsteps. The man had no time for talking, made no comment when Mannering asked how Julia Fiori was.

They went up one flight of stairs, along another passage and round a corner. A policeman in uniform stood outside a door. He opened the door as they approached, and subdued light came from the room beyond. Mannering stepped in and saw Bristow sitting by the side of a single bed, a doctor in a white coat standing near him.

All he could see of Julia was her eyes and mouth.

Her head and face were heavily bandaged; so were her shoulders. The room was warm, a sheet and blanket were spread over her as high as the breast. He could see the outline of her body as far as the knees, below that the bedclothes were
flat.
He felt a surge of horror that went through him like a knife. Julia's legs had been amputated.
Julia's.
He drew back, knowing that those great eyes were turned towards him. She was conscious in spite of what had happened.

This didn't make sense; none of it made sense. How could such horror have come upon Julia in the short time since he had seen her? Why wasn't she still unconscious, under the anaesthetic? He moistened his dry lips, stepped forward and saw her right arm move; her right arm wasn't bandaged. She drew it gently from beneath the blanket. There was an angry red scratch on the white skin, and two dark bruises. The fingers moved weakly; she was beckoning him to go nearer. The bandage over her face covered her chin and her nose; the smell of the anaesthetic was very strong.

She moved her lips. “John.” He lip-read rather than heard the word.

The doctor drew back, Bristow stood up. Neither spoke to Mannering. Bristow turned away from Mannering's single, searing glance. Mannering knelt down on one knee and took Julia's hand gently. He remembered her as she had been when they had examined the paste
Tears;
as she had been at Toni's. Tall and lovely, superb body, superbly gowned. Now she was a wreck.

“What can I do, Julia?” He spoke softly, close to her, wondering if she could hear. The doctor said: “I doubt whether she can hear you.” Mannering bent closer. “What can I do?” She didn't move now. Her fingers rested in his, there was no strength in them. He knew that she was dying; it wouldn't be long before she had gone.

She whispered: “Look after—my child. Ella, look after Ella. Please. Don't let him hurt her.”

Ella?

“I won't,” Mannering said. It was useless to speak, because she couldn't hear him. She was looking into his eyes, not at his lips.

He forced a smile, drew back a little so that she could see the whole of his face.

“I'll look after her—I'll look after Ella.”

Ella? He'd heard the name in this case before, but where? Who was Ella?

The whisper came again. “Look after Ella. Don't let him hurt her. Please don't let him hurt her.” He had to put his ear close to her lips to hear the words. Bristow crouched low over the other side of the bed; Mannering could hear his heavy breathing.

“I'll look after her.” He smiled again with his eyes.

And Julia also smiled.