Cry For the Baron (8 page)

“Thanks.”

“Meaning you'll do exactly what you want to. I admit being relieved that I can't give evidence of seeing the
Tear
in this flat. How's Lorna taking it?”

“As you'd expect.”

“You're a dangerous couple when roused,” said Chittering. “When will the inheritance of lovely Fay be made public?”

“Bristow will probably want to keep it secret—and don't forget he's almost certainly watching Fay.”

“According to what I was told at the Yard, a woman was seen to come out of Jacob's shop or one near it, John. Could she have been Fay, I wonder? If she's going to inherit a fortune she'd have a pretty big motive for killing Jacob. Also, according to a whisper from the garrulous Gordon, you're suspected of knowing that the girl was at the shop and letting her escape. Gordon breathed the word ‘accessory.' What have you done to Gordon? He hates your guts.”

“That's because of what I haven't done for him,” said Mannering. “Don't worry about Gordon. Thanks for all you're doing. You'll find it's worth the trouble.”

Glittering grinned. “It's a good job I've a soft spot for your wife; if it were only you I'd stand by and watch them catch you.” He slouched towards the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat, curly head bare and untidy. “When you get anything I can print don't sit on it, will you?”

“No.”

“How convincingly he lies,” marvelled Glittering. “How Lorna lives with you I don't know. I—”

The front door bell rang, cutting across his words. He murmured: “Bristow, maybe,” and moved back into the study.

Mannering opened the front door – and saw Julia Fiori.

She was alone.

 

 

Julia Fiori didn't speak, but gave Mannering time to collect his thoughts. He whispered: “Come back in ten minutes,” and then raised his voice so that Glittering could hear; blocking the doorway with his great frame. “Oh, thanks. Yes, I'll sign.” He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper and made it rustle – and Julia made no attempt to force her way in. She turned away and he closed the door and slipped his right hand into his pocket. Glittering came bobbing out.

“No police?”

“Just a letter by special messenger.”

“Love or secret?”

“Both. What's your editor's mood these days?”

“It depends on the international situation. If it's bad he's as happy as a lark. If it's good, and he can't scratch up a headline, he makes life miserable. Why?”

“You might find one or two specially written articles helpful,” Mannering said, and went to the door. Julia would have had time to reach the street by now, and Glittering obviously suspected nothing. “You can sign them.”

“Not if you wrote them—they'd be dynamite.” Glittering left, waving from the head of the stairs. Mannering went to the kitchen and poked his head inside.

“Make tea for two, Susan.”

Pretty fair hair on a broad head, and an attractively freckled face, turned from the dresser towards him.

“I didn't know you'd both be in, sir.”

“We shan't. I'll answer the bell when it rings next.”

“Very good,” said Susan.

Mannering went back to the study and stood looking over an empty site where there had been gracious Georgian houses. He could see as far as the Embankment, where traffic crawled, and to the River Thames, sluggish and silvery in the afternoon sunlight. He could also see the end of the street, but there was no sign of Julia Fiori. He hurried upstairs to the attic which was Lorna's studio. A faint smell of paint met him. Hair cord carpeting was spread over the boards, a dozen or so unfinished canvases stood with their faces to the wall, an empty canvas was on the easel near the great skylight from which the north light came. Here Lorna spent much of her time; on a rostrum covered with blue carpet her sitters sat for weary hours – famous and unknown alike.

Julia Fiori was walking from a corner, alone. No one else was in sight, and this was a good spot for seeing most of the street. Had she really come alone? Another window of the attic overlooked the back garden of the house; that was empty of watching eyes. As he turned away the front door bell rang, and rang twice again before he opened it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fiori,” Mannering said mildly. “I thought you'd prefer not to talk with the Press present.”

Mannering led her to the study. She used a costly perfume, walked with delightful ease, was dressed in a black two-piece suit, in the height of fashion. Her wide-brimmed hat stood out beyond her shoulders.

She didn't look round.

“What did you take?” she asked.

“Nothing. From where?”

“I don't believe you. From my flat.”

“Have you missed anything?”

“Not yet,” she said, and went to sit down. She was superbly confident; a superb woman, showing no hint of annoyance or exasperation. “I told you as clearly as anyone could that you were asking for trouble, Mr. Mannering. Why didn't you take my advice?”

“Perhaps I like trouble.”

“You won't like this kind. What did you find out—apart from what Ethel told you? She's told me all about that.”

“Enough to make me want to find out more,” said Mannering. “Wait for a minute.” He went to the door and Susan wheeled in a tea trolley, smiled and bobbed to Julia, and went out. “Tea?” He began to set out plates and cups and saucers on small tables. “Now if you threatened to take away my afternoon tea you might frighten me.”

“You will be frightened if you go on with this.”

“Not so frightened as poor Fay. I think she is in the hands of what they call a heartless adventuress, and I don't think it's good for her.” Mannering poured out. “Milk and sugar?”

“Thank you. Fay will be all right if you leave her alone, but might not be if you harass her too much.”

“Do you travel with knock-out drops in your pocket, or have you a variety of ways for silencing the talkative and the inquisitive?” His hand was steady as he poured out milk. “I'm still worried about Fay. She's nearly a rich young woman, and I should hate to see Jacob's money get into the wrong hands.”

“Nearly,” Julia said softly. “Why nearly?”

“Probate hasn't been granted yet. And some obscure relative of Jacob may turn up and claim that he wasn't in his right mind when he made that will. As an executor I think I can make sure that it is several months before Fay inherits, and that should give me time to find out all you don't want me to know. You're taking on a lot more than me, Julia: You're taking on the law in its most tedious form. You won't be able to hurry it, any more than you'll be able to stop me from probing. And you've whetted my appetite. I haven't been so hungry for information in years.” His eyes laughed at her. “I'm glad you called, it makes you human and tells me that you're also frightened. Have a sandwich.”

She took one.

“What will make you forget Fay?”

“I can't forget her. Jacob Bernstein made me an executor of his will, so I have to see the thing through. Don't waste time trying to scare me by threatening to tell the police how much I haven't told them.”

“I'm afraid you're a fool,” said Julia gently.

“My wife would agree with you.”

“And yet I think you've some common sense, and you must know that I'm serious.” She leaned back, and he saw that her eyes were a deep blue, almost violet. She looked more lovely now than when she had been at Fay's flat. “Where have you put the
Tear?”

Mannering almost gave himself away, looked down at his tea and stirred it earnestly, then looked up as if he had just understood what she had said.

“What's that?”

“I asked you where you've put the
Tear.”

“That's hardly funny.” His voice grew harsh, he looked at her with sudden, cold hostility. “Your friend the murderer took big risks to find the
Tear;
I'll take bigger ones to get it back.

She said: “He didn't take it because he couldn't find it. You wouldn't let Fay go in. You were there from the time he left until the police arrived, and if the
Tear
had been at the shop they would have found it. Where have you put it?”

“You should use a more reliable burglar.”

“He reported immediately that he hadn't been able to find it.” Julia Fiori finished her tea and put the cup down, and said softly: “Four people have died because they had possession of the
Tear
but had no right to it. Money doesn't give you, didn't give Jacob Bernstein and doesn't give anyone, the right to own the
Diamond of Tears.
Three men and a woman have died because they thought they could keep it from its rightful owner. Others will try and others will die,
if
they hold on to it. I shouldn't feel safe walking along the street if I were in your position.”

“So you've committed all the murders,” Mannering said drily.

“I've committed none. I know the history and I know the truth about that diamond. I know that whoever wants the
Tear
will stop at nothing to get it. He'll brush you aside as ruthlessly as he did Jacob Bernstein. Where is it?”

“If I knew, you'd get it over my dead body. I don't.” He gave a short, convincingly bitter laugh. “I thought I did, but the thief was smarter than Jacob, and knew his pet hiding-place. I was anxious about it—I have a prospective customer.”

“I've told you that money can't buy the
Tear, or
the safety of anyone who owns it.”

“You've told me a lot of odd things and I don't believe half of them.” He stood with his cup in one hand, saucer in the other, and made every word count. “I shall find the killer of Jacob Bernstein; I shall find the
Tear.
If Fay Goulden wants to keep it I'll make sure that she can, safely. I know the strength of the police and of the other side. I know there are a lot of things I can do that the police can't, but before it's over the police will catch the foul brutes who commit murder for that stone.”

Julia Fiori opened her handbag suddenly, and Mannering started back, half expecting her to show a gun – but all she had in her hand was an envelope. “Look at these.”

“What are they?”

“True stories about the murder of the other people who owned the
Diamond of Tears.
Read them, and see whether you enjoy your tea afterwards.”

He slipped the envelope into his pocket.

“Later. We're at war, Julia. More tea?”

“No. Do you remember telling me that you're a married man?”

“Well?” He spoke more sharply.

“If you don't care for your own safety, think of your wife's.” She looked straight into his eyes, which had gone bleak again. “You think you know a great deal, actually you know little.
I
don't want the
Tear.
I should be afraid of it. But I know something about those who do, and how far they'll go to get it. You'll understand more when you've read those reports. They're confidential police reports, the full story was never told in public. Jacob was lucky. He was killed quickly. But they will make you suffer, and not just physically. Mannering, you
must
listen.” Her voice was composed, her earnestness touched with desperation. “I've told you that if I had the
Tear
I shouldn't feel safe to walk along the street. Every minute of every day I should be afraid—for myself, my relatives, my friends. I've never been more serious. I'm helping Fay because she needs help badly. I want you to forget the
Tear
—let them have it, and then wash your hands of it, not because I've any regard for you or your wife, but because I'm fond of Fay.”

She stood up quickly. Although he wanted to scoff at her he felt on edge. She turned to the door, reached it first, crossed the hall and opened the front door. She didn't speak again until she was on the landing. Then: “Get rid of the
Tear
tonight. They'll come here and search for it. Let them find it. That's your only hope.”

She turned and walked down the stone steps, her footsteps ringing clearly. She did not look back, but Mannering stood by the open door until he heard her go out of the house.

 

The telephone bell rang …

“Oh, darling,” said Lorna, “I can't get away for several hours yet. I just have to stay here, unless—”

“You stay,” said Mannering. “Where are you?”

“At the Richmond Gallery. It's the Exhibition Committee, and it would be unforgivable if I left now.”

“You must certainly stay!”

“Has anything happened?”

“Odds and ends, they'll keep until I see you tonight.” He wiped his forehead, surprised to find it cold and damp; he hoped his voice didn't betray the effect of Julia Fiori's last words. “I may not be in until late. Chittering is making himself a busy bee. I haven't seen the police for some time, I think they've given me a clean bill.”

“How late will you be?”

“Not a minute later than I can help,” said Mannering. “I—here's Chittering now. I'll be seeing you.”

He rang off, dropped into a chair, and called himself a fool. Because a woman had threatened him with unknown horrors he shouldn't feel like this, but he did. Or was it because of what he already knew about the
Tear?
He touched the envelope in his pocket as Susan came in briskly. “Shall I clear, sir?” He nodded. He lit a cigarette and went across the room to the cocktail cabinet, poured a stiff whisky, sipped and drank.

“I'm crazy!” he told himself.

But he went back to the telephone and dialled Whitehall 1212, and was impatient until Bristow came on the line.

“Hallo, John. Going to confess?”

“Yes. The
Tear
has got under my skin.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I'll send you a postcard. Bill, someone who wants the
Tear
badly thinks that I know where it is. I can't give you names, but I've had a nasty jolt.”

Bristow said slowly: “Yes, you sound as if you had. What is it?”

“Threats. Against Lorna.”

“Perhaps that will teach you not to make a fool of yourself. What kind of threats?”

“Can you put a good man on to watch her? She's at the Richmond Gallery in Bute Street, and in committee for the next hour or so. After that she'll come straight here. I have to be out. I'd prefer not to have this on my mind.”

“I've never known you impressed by threats before,” said Bristow. “Well, I was going to have your flat watched, anyhow. John, don't get your fingers dirty. I tried to warn you earlier, but you wouldn't take me seriously. You've taken the other people seriously, which is something. This is a foul job.”

“Meaning?”

“Come round here one day and I'll show you the unexpurgated reports of what happened to the earlier owners of the
Diamond of Tears.
'Bye.”

 

Mannering read the reports of how three men and a woman had died; and as he read he seemed to be withdrawn from this friendly room and friendly city, to be exposed to bleakness and horror which sent a chill along his spine and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. They were written in straightforward language, with no effort to make the flesh creep – and the effect was greater than if he had been reading some vivid narrative of imagined murder.