Cry For the Baron (6 page)

“Oh, I
see,
sir.”

“Glorious morning,” said Mannering. “Couldn't be better. I shall be all right in a few minutes.” The red-faced man walked quickly away in the other direction. Who mattered most? Mannering didn't take much convincing that his interest was in the driver. The small car went to Marble Arch, swung round it, then went along Oxford Street. Mannering drove close to the kerb. Immediately in front of him was a taxi, and he craned his neck, saw that the “For Hire” sign was up. Brakes squealed as they came to traffic lights. Mannering swung the car close to the kerb, jumped out and hurried to the taxi; a bulky man at the wheel hardly deigned to look round.

‘Feel energetic?” asked Mannering.

The man half-turned, and grinned, showing a brick-red face.

“Depends.”

“Double fare for following that Morris Ten, a fiver if we're still in sight when the driver gets out.”

“That fiver's mine, Guv'nor!”

Mannering settled back on his seat. Horns protested stridently at his car, parked in Oxford Street. The lights changed, and the driver of the Morris did not once look round. Mannering showed no interest in him, the taxi-driver yawned but kept close to the bumpers of the car he was following. Oxford Circus, Regent Street's wide curve – and then the Morris turned off into a side street. Soon they were driving through the narrow streets of Soho, past dozens of obscure little restaurants with foreign names and boasting foreign cooking, or past espresso bars and little shops, until the Morris driver pulled up in Wine Street.

“Straight past, next corner,” said Mannering.

The taxi-driver grunted.

He turned the corner while Mannering looked through the tiny rear window. The man sat at the wheel of the Morris looking at something which Mannering could see – the packet. Mannering thrust a five pound note into the driver's hand and said: “Wait.” He stood by the corner, in the doorway of a shoe shop. The man from the Morris got out, carrying the packet. He went into a restaurant, outside which hung a sign: “Toni's Italian Restaurant.” Toni did not seem to believe in painting his premises or keeping the outside clean.

After five minutes the driver came out; for the first time Mannering had a good view of him. He was pale and thin-faced, with high cheekbones, dark eyes and a small black moustache. He took off his hat and smoothed down his sleek black hair, looking satisfied and smug. Twice he patted his breast pocket. Then, strutting, he climbed back into the Morris.

Mannering hurried back to the taxi.

“Same again.”

“Suits me. You a copper?”

“Do I look like one?”

“Okay, okay, it's yer money I want, not yer life 'istory.” The driver swung the wheel on that remarkable lock which enables London's box-like taxi to turn almost in their own length. They reached Wine Street again while the Morris was in sight. It pulled up at a parking meter near a tall, narrow building, one of a grey terrace, which was marked: “Pandora Hotel.”

“Same again?” asked the cabby.

“Wait ten minutes, in case I want you.”

“Okay.” The cabby tucked the second note into a pocket somewhere in the hinterland of his three overcoats. Mannering walked past the Pandora Hotel and caught a glimpse of a single wilting palm tree in a brass-ribbed barrel, a red carpet and several easy chairs, an ash-blonde at a reception desk – but no sign of the little man. Inside, he saw a box-like booth marked “Telephone,” squeezed in, and dialled the
Daily Record.
It was five minutes before Chittering came on the line. No one entered or left the hotel.

“Mannering,” said Mannering.

“Hal-lo!”

“There's a Morris Ten, black, parked near the Pandora Hotel, in Wine Street.”

“Someone giving it away?”

“You might care to follow it if you want to be in this job.”

“Try to stop me,” said Chittering. “'Bye!”

Mannering left the booth and approached the desk.

“Can I help you?” The ash-blonde had a friendly eye for dark, good-looking men.

“The question is, do you want to?”

“Oh, don't
come
it,” trilled the ash-blonde, but looked delighted. “Want a room?”

“No. I'm a busy.”

“A
busy?
What on earth is that?” She wouldn't see forty again, and she talked as if she hadn't yet seen seventeen. She pressed her billowy bosom against the edge of the desk, and looked at him from bright eyes made brighter by blue eyeshade.

“Detective, to you.”

“Oh,
really!”

Mannering produced a pound note, leaned forward, and was rewarded by a whiff of cheap scent. “A man came in just now, a few minutes before I arrived.”

“Supposing he did?”

“Is he staying?”

“Yes,
and
he's alone, we don't go in for divorce and all that kind of thing
here!”

“Oh. Pity. Has he been here long?”

“Only two days,” said the woman. “At least, I
think
it's two days. I've been away, I had a dreadful cold, could hardly breathe with it, I couldn't.” She pulled the open register towards her and ran her scarlet-tipped forefinger down it. “Yes, there it is—Tuesday. And he's going today, paid his bill before he went out. Anything else you want to know?”

Mannering pushed the pound note towards her.

“What does he call himself here?”

“You don't mean he uses a false
name?”
She giggled, and read aloud: “T. E. Benoni, so he can't be English, can he? But he
speaks
like an Englishman, ever such a nice voice he's got. Thanks everso.” The pound note disappeared down the deep plunge of her dress.

Mannering pulled the register towards him. Benoni had given his last address as Birmingham, which wasn't much help. And Benoni would be leaving soon; he had probably gone upstairs to collect his bags.

“You must have a
thrilling
life,” said the woman. “I—oh, excuse
me.”
A telephone bell rang. She turned on a swivel chair and leaned across, cat-like, to the tiny switchboard at her side. “Hallo … Well, the porter isn't here … Well, I'll
see
what I can do.” She plucked the plug out. “That was him, he wants a taxi. And I can't leave the desk with no one here, can I?”

“I'll see if there's one passing,” Mannering offered. Her “Oh, thanks everso” floated back to him as he hurried to the doorway – and saw the bundle of overcoats leaning back in the taxi smoking and reading a newspaper. The newspaper drooped, bright eyes grinned.

“Thought I'd give you a bit longer.”

“Thanks. You've another fare. A man's coming out of the hotel in a few minutes—I want to welcome him.”

“What
is
this, guv'nor?”

“Nothing that can make trouble for you.”

“Well, yer money's good. Okay.” The driver moved the cab towards the hotel as Mannering went back and called: “I've found one.” He went to the other side of the cab and stood behind it, waiting until footsteps came from the hotel.

The thin-faced man got into the taxi. “Waterloo,” he said, and sank back in his corner. You didn't go to Birmingham from Waterloo. The engine whined – and Mannering opened the door of the cab and scrambled inside. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but didn't look at the man.

“You can't come in here.” It was a trained voice; rather arty and stagey. “This is my cab.”

Mannering murmured: “Can't I?” He sat down on one of the tip-up seats, thrust his left hand into his pocket and poked the finger against the coat. “I shouldn't make a fuss, Benoni, I've been wanting to see you for some time.”

Benoni shrank back. Opening his mouth wide, he looked quite as terrified as Fay Goulden once had.

 

 

“Nice day,” said Mannering.

“Who the hell are you?”

“A man who knows a little and wants to know a lot about you, Benoni. What have you got in your pocket?”

The cab moved off with a jerk, throwing Benoni against the glass partition separating him from the driver. Mannering, his back to the partition, wasn't affected. His finger poked ominously against his coat. Benoni glanced down at it.

“N-n-n-nothing!”

“Let me have a look.” Mannering pushed his finger hard into Benoni's side, pulled the coat open and slid his hand into the pocket; he felt paper. Benoni sent a frightened glance at the back of the driver's head.

“I'll have the police—”

“Forget it.” Mannering tugged at the paper and pulled out a wallet. Inside was a wad of one-pound notes, at least a hundred. He put the wallet into his pocket, and waved the money in Benoni's face. “How come?”

“That's mine!”

“Where did you get it and why did you get it and where are you going to take it?”

“None—none of your business.” Benoni tried to look defiant. He glanced out of the window, as if he had given up all hope of getting help from the cabby. They were in a side street, where few people passed, and opposite a large empty site.

Mannering said: “You only have to talk, Benoni. I'm not after you. Who gave you this money?”

“You can't—”

Mannering opened a window, and made as if to throw the money out. Benoni lunged forward and grabbed his wrist.

“That's mine, I tell you! Give it to me!”

“When you've talked.”

“I—I did a job for a man.” Benoni collapsed in his corner when Mannering withdrew his hand. He eyed the notes as if they were the beginning and the end of his existence. “I just did a little job for a man.”

“What man?”

“I can't give a pal away!”

“Ever heard of those people who light cigars with pound notes? Care to see it done?” He pulled out his cigarette-case, opened it one-handed, and dropped half of the notes. Benoni darted to pick them up. Mannering jabbed his forefinger harder against his side, then bent his head, took a cigarette with his lips, slid the case back and fished out his lighter. “These will do for a start.” The flame came at the first flick.

The cab went slowly on, turning corners slowly.

“No! No, don't burn them, I need that money. I got to have it, I—” The veneer of culture in Benoni's voice began to crack; he licked his lips again. “I did a job for Toni.”

“Who is Toni?”

“Toni Fiori. He—he's got a joint in Wine Street, a caffe, he asked me to pass on a message for him.”

“A valuable message,” Mannering sneered. “Let's have the truth. Toni's a fence. You took some sparklers from a man in Hyde Park and passed them on to Toni. What do you think the police would have to say about it?”

Benoni said! “I—I didn't know what was in the packet. I tell you I didn't know.”

“But you know Toni paid you a hundred pounds for it. Why do you need the money?”

“I'm in a jam. With a girl, she—”

“You can keep the cash,” Mannering said. “But if you warn Toni that we've had this little chat, I shall talk to the police and you and your girl friend will have to find another way out of the jam. Or she will—you'll be inside.”

Benoni muttered: “I won't tell him.”

“I'll take a chance,” Mannering said, and tapped on the glass. The driver pulled up. “I'll find another cab, and I'll post your wallet back to the address I find inside.”

He got out, and gave the driver his third bonus. “Waterloo. If you have any trouble from the boy-friend, just mention the police. He's got plenty of money, it's all over the floor of the cab.”

The driver turned his head and saw Benoni scrambling on the floor for the notes, muttering to himself; and Mannering walked quickly away.

He was near Shaftesbury Avenue when he hired another taxi, reached Oxford Street ten minutes afterwards and meekly apologised to a large constable who was standing by his car. When he drove into the thick stream of traffic Benoni's wallet was lumpy in his pocket.

When he reached Clay Court again the resplendent commissionaire welcomed him as an old friend.

 

A maid opened the door of Flat 21. She was elderly, timid and nervous. Her swift sideways look when she saw him, the quiver of her thin lips, gave that away. Beyond her was a square, pink wall; on the wall a picture with colours as vivid as Picasso's.

“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Goulden is expecting me,” Mannering said.

“Is she? She didn't say anything; I don't know whether she's in.”

Mannering smiled. “She's in to me.” He stepped past the maid and across a long, narrow hall, where black and gold striped the walls and ceiling, dazzling and harsh. One door was ajar. In front of it a shadow darkened the gold-coloured carpet. He pushed the door open wide, and Fay Goulden cried:

“Oh!”

“And how are you this morning?” He went in and she backed away. She wore a pale grey dressing-gown, high at the neck, flowing in deep folds from her tiny waist. Her hair, parted carelessly in the middle, rippled untidily to her shoulders. Without make-up she looked girlish, and her skin was fair and clear. Obviously she was as frightened now as she had been the night before.

“Don't say you've forgotten me already.” Mannering smiled at the maid. “Go out and shut the door, please.” The maid hesitated, until Fay nodded. The door closed with a snap.

“Poor, frightened Fay!” Mannering said.

“I'm not frightened!” She turned away and groped for a cigarette-box on a low, glass table. It wasn't just glass-topped, but solid. Everything in this room seemed made of the same clear material – plastic – not glass. Chairs, sofa and cushions were silvery in colour, giving the room a brittle look.

She took a lighter off the table and fumbled until it glowed. The cigarette bobbed up and down in her lips.

She said: “Who—who are you? You've no right here, I've nothing to say to you. Go away!”

“Not until I know more about your problem,” Mannering said.

She backed further away.

From outside, there came a sharp
ting!
as of a telephone bell. Mannering moved swiftly, opened the door, and heard the maid say:

“Hurry! Oh, hurry!” After a pause, she went on in a tense voice: “Is that—”

The girl was now by Mannering's side.

“You've no right—”

He gripped her hand, silencing her, but had missed the name. The maid said: “Yes, he's here, yes, come quickly!” Then the ting! came again, and Mannering, still holding Fay's arm, drew her back into the room and closed the door again. On a chair were several morning newspapers. He picked up a
Record
– and saw his own photograph, as well as Jacob Bernstein's.

“Fay, I'd like to help.” he said. “You're in a nasty spot and you know it, and I think you also know that you can't trust your friends.”

“You've no right here. Go away!”

“Someone's drilled you well. Last night you were willing enough to promise to see me. You gave me the right address, too.”

“I don't know where you got the address! I—oh, I wish you'd go.” She drooped, sat down on a straight-backed chair and stubbed out the cigarette. “I've a terrible headache and hardly slept last night. Please go away.”

“If I were a policeman, I'd take you off for questioning. Murder's been done, there's a limit to what I can keep from the police. And a time limit, too.”

He heard a sound at the door and thought the maid was back again, to protect her mistress; but although it was a woman who spoke, it wasn't the maid. The voice was deep, husky, laughing; a voice which promised much.

“You're already too late, Mr. Mannering.”

Mannering stiffened, but did not turn round. Fay raised her hands and ran past him eagerly, as if towards salvation. Mannering slid his cigarette-case from his pocket and moved forward. In a long, narrow mirror, silvered or chromiumed at the corners, he saw the rest of the room – and the woman in the doorway. Fay reached her and cried: “Oh, Julia!” The woman put an arm round the girl's shoulder protectively, while Mannering went nearer the mirror, until he could see the woman's face in it.

“Julia!” sobbed Fay. “Julia, make him go away. He frightens me.”

“He won't frighten you for long, dear.”

The voice which had mocked Mannering soothed the girl. It was as lovely and unusual as her face, yet it did not strike Mannering that she was beautiful. He had seen no one quite like her before and was not likely to again. There was sweetness, wisdom and maturity, such a face as a supreme artist might draw to depict an imagined madonna. Raven-black hair was coiled round her head, her cheeks were the colour of lilies touched by pink.

Her eyes met his, in the mirror, and she smiled.

“Are
you
frightened?” she asked him.

“Of what?”

“Of facing me.”

He said: “Yes. I don't want to be disillusioned. I'd like to remember you as you look now, not as you really are. But I'll face you.” He turned slowly and looked into her dark eyes.

She was taller than Fay; deep-bosomed; wearing a black dress of simple cut, and a mink stole. Her smile had faded and she frowned, as if his words both hurt and puzzled her.

“Make him go,” sighed Fay.

“Fay doesn't want me to go,” Mannering said. “Look at her, Fay. Stop letting others tell you what to do. You think you can trust Julia, but you can't—not her nor any of your friends. You can trust me.”

He broke off; another word would be too many, he had said enough to make the woman Julia wonder how much he really knew. He lit a cigarette, easing a tension which was only partly of his making. For as Julia looked at him, ignoring Fay, it was as if a mask had dropped, to prevent him from seeing her as she really was.

She said: “Fay, go and get dressed.”

“Julia!”

“Hurry.” Julia took her arm, pushed her out, and said, “Everything will be all right.” She closed the door on Fay's protest, turned the key in the lock, then moved slowly across the room towards him.

“You're not what I expected, Mr. Mannering. Be guided by me. Don't probe into the murder of Jacob Bernstein or try to find the
Tear.
Just make your peace with the police and read all about the case in the newspapers. You'll be much, much safer. I don't want you to get hurt.”

“I take a lot of hurting.”

“You're as vulnerable as anything made of flesh and blood. There's been enough hurt already, too much blood spilt. You'll make the situation worse for Fay, too. You're a married man and you lead a full life. Don't throw it away.” She put out her hand and took his; her fingers were cool, their pressure firm. “You'll be sorry if you ignore my advice. You've kept certain facts from the police too long to divulge them with safety now.”

“A man I was very fond of was brutally murdered last night.”

“Let the police do their work.”

“And a diamond beyond price was stolen.”

Her eyes flamed, and the mask was torn away.

“Stolen?
The
Tear?”

“Yes.”

“No!” she cried. Her fingers dug into his hand; she swayed, as if from shock. She stood there for a long time, then turned away, swept across and out of the room, with Mannering close behind her.

“Julia!” cried Fay.

Julia said: “I'll come in for a moment,” and went in and closed the door. Mannering heard the key turn in the lock, then an undertone of voices.

He tried to remember Julia's expression when he had announced that the
Tear
had been stolen. Alarm, dread, disbelief – she had shown all three. He tried to decide what to do next – follow Julia, or try to make Fay talk.

The maid watched him furtively from a doorway.

Soon Julia came out and passed Mannering without a word or look. She didn't speak to the maid, who hurried to open the front door for her.

The door closed; and Mannering stayed.

He went to Fay's door and tapped. She didn't answer. He tried the door; it wasn't locked. He went in, and found her sitting at a dressing-table, her robe round her shoulders, her eyes rounded with dread.

“Fay, you'll be much safer if you tell me all about it. Don't pretend any longer. You were at Bernstein's last night.”

“I wasn't there! You didn't see me! I wasn't in London, I was with friends!”

Mannering moved forward swiftly, caught her shoulders and shook her.

“Don't lie, Fay. I made a bargain with you, and now you'll keep your side of it.” He shook her again, slowly. “No cheap tricks, no lying, Julia isn't here to help you now.”

She
laughed
at him.

It was a giggle at first, with a touch of hysteria, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Although he shook her she couldn't stop laughing. She swayed to and fro, then began to shake her head. She said something that he couldn't catch, because she was convulsed with laughter. He let her go, and heard: “She is. She is.
She is!”

Mannering snapped: “Be quiet!” But Fay went on laughing.

A frightened Fay he could have managed: even had she been sullen, or shouted and threatened, he could have coped with her; but this laughter defeated him. He slapped her face hard enough to sober her if this were hysteria, but she went on laughing.

Why was she laughing?

He turned suddenly and went to the door; it was not locked. He half-expected to see someone else outside, perhaps a man; but no one was there. Puzzled, on edge, with Fay's laughter still in his ears, he went back to the bedroom. She lay on the bed facing him looking tired and relaxed.