Cry For the Baron (9 page)

Each man had died the same way.

Not one had been recognisable afterwards; each had been identified after long investigation by the police. The medical reports, brief and revealing, told what had happened to them before death; and the quiet room seemed filled with dark shadows.

He turned to the story of the woman's death – and started back, dropping the papers, sheering away from them as if the horror had come into the room. For fastened to the last story was a photograph of what had once been a woman; mutilated, despoiled. He steeled himself to pick up the papers again, to turn the photograph over and to read of what had been done to a wealthy woman of renowned beauty and intelligence – and then, he made himself study the photograph.

Darkness fell slowly, yet it was a long time before he stretched out a hand and switched on the light – and as he touched the switch the telephone bell rang. He let it ring and jar through his head, then took off the receiver and said harshly: “Who is that?”

“I'm glad you've read them,” said Julia Fiori. “Now will you believe me when I tell you you must give up the
Tear?”

 

 

He could fetch the
Tear
from the post office, leave it in some obvious place, go out and keep both Susan and Lorna away from the flat until the thieves had been and gone. Or he could tell Bristow what he had done, and leave a note to tell the thieves that for the
Diamond of Tears
they must apply to Scotland Yard.

Or he could go on as he had started.

The first method would remove all fears, real and imagined; and betray the memory of Jacob Bernstein. The second might well anger the thieves, make them suspect that he still had the jewel. Even if they believed him they might call off the hunt until Fay inherited everything, including the
Tear,
then strike again.

That amazed him most; his absolute conviction that at all costs they would get the
Tear.
He might save himself, yet leave Fay a potential victim of a great horror.

Only fear would allow him even to consider that.

Questions crowded into his mind.

Why had Julia kept five imitation
Tears
in her jewel-drawer? Why had she kept a note of Bernstein's will? How had she obtained it? Would he be wise to see Bristow again, tell him everything, leave him to tackle the job? Would it really help Fay or anyone if he himself persisted? There must be a limit to pride, was there really anything stronger than pride tormenting him, urging him to carry on?

Better see Bristow, now, while the mood was on him. He needed to conjure up only two pictures in his mind's eye; Lorna, as she was, and the woman as she appeared in that photograph.

He started at a tap on the door.

“Yes?”

“I'm just going, sir, is there anything else you want?” Fair hair, confined in a tiny hat above a freckled face, appeared at the door.

“No thanks. Have a good time.” It was Susan's evening off-duty.

“Oh, I
will.
I'm going to a dance,” said Susan. The front door slammed. The only sounds came from outside, a hum of traffic, the mournful hoot of a tug on the river. He stood at the window, looking out over the lighted streets on both sides of the Thames, his resolve weakening even now. But for Lorna he would take a chance. While he had the
Tear,
and while the others had a chance to get it from him, he could draw their fire and perhaps lure them into a mistake they wouldn't make with Bristow.

He put on his hat and coat, slapped his gloves against his thigh, and went out, pulling the door behind him, shutting out the light.

Two figures loomed out of the darkness; one in front, one behind him. He saw the first, drew back, felt his hat tipped over his eyes and a blow smash on the back of his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

 

There was too much light. It hurt his eyes, no matter how tightly he kept them closed, and the pain spread from his eyes to the back of his head, his head and shoulders seemed to be on fire. He heard a strange grunting, groaning sound, which stopped abruptly as he realised he was making it himself. The light was like fire, too – the fire of lightning, white and brilliant but there all the time; it didn't fade.

It hadn't come suddenly, but slowly and with increasing effect, lite the remorseless pressure of a tightening vice. He heard the drumming of the blood in his ears. He could think of nothing else, gave no thought to where he was or how he had got there, or to what had happened before. There was no past; only the agonising present and a menacing future.

Then other sounds came; a muttering, as of voices. They seemed far away. There was a shadow over his eyes, which gave him slight relief. It disappeared, and the light blazed mercilessly down on him. The voices drew nearer, as if someone were talking to him.

A new pain streaked through his head; he knew that fingers were touching and probing. That stopped, and he realised that he was gasping with mingled pain and relief. He could not distinguish the words, but knew that the speaker was close to him. Someone touched his arm, pulled up his sleeve until it tightened about his forearm and the blood pumped vigorously through the veins, pain in another place. He felt a sharp prick in his forearm and a lingering pressure which made his arm swell until the shirt and coat sleeve were like iron bands round it. He had been given an injection.

The light went out; blessed darkness came.

Gradually the pain dulled. He could move and feel ordinary things, and even begin to think. He didn't think far back yet; only about the men who had talked, the injection and the relief from the glaring light. Slowly he began to wonder where he was and what had happened to him. Then he remembered Julia Fiori, and a flood of other recollections came. The most vivid was a picture of what had once been a woman, and it struck a new note of horror. It soon faded. He felt relaxed and free from pain and full of a new confidence, as if he knew that all would be well.

He moved his hands and legs.

He was lying flat, on something soft; a bed, of course. He could touch the sides without moving his hands far, so it was a single bed. He was warm, beneath an eiderdown. He pushed it back. His feet were cold, he couldn't understand that for a while, but at last it dawned on him that his shoes were off and his feet weren't covered; he drew them up beneath the warmth of the eiderdown. He was quite comfortable now, and drowsy – but it was the drowsiness before full wakefulness, not of sleep.

He heard music, a waltz played some distance away, perhaps from a radio. Footsteps drew near but passed the door which he could not see.

He sat up, slowly, expecting pain to surge through his head, but although there was stiffness there was no actual pain. He groped in his pocket for his lighter, and found it; a tiny flame flickered, showing the bed, a table and a lamp by it. He let the flame go out, groped for the lamp and found the switch. He closed his eyes against the light, but whatever they had given him had driven all pain away.

This was a small room.

The bed was in a corner, opposite a white-painted door. Alongside the head of the bed, in front of a curtained window, was a small walnut dressing-table, against another wall was a wardrobe; it might be a bedroom in any suburban house, cheaply furnished but with no little taste. There was a woolly fringe on the shade of the lamp, and by the lamp his cigarette-case, an ashtray and a glass of water. He took the glass and put it to his lips, then hesitated; was it safe to drink this? Drink up! There was no need for his captors to drug the water, they could do what they liked with him in his present condition. He drank deeply.

Soon, with a cigarette between his lips and leaning back on his pillows, he began to think more naturally. The sense of dread was missing, although he felt vaguely that it should still be with him. He caught a glimpse of his face in a side mirror of the dressing-table, leaned forward to get a better view. He looked pale, but saw neither bandage nor adhesive plaster. What had caused the pain? Where had that powerful light come from? He glanced up and saw the pale cylinder of fluorescent lighting in the ceiling; that explained it.

He laughed.

There wasn't anything to laugh about. He was a prisoner, and his captors meant business. They wanted the
Tear
– and for a while he had forgotten it. Ought he to wish that he had never seen it? Then the door opened and a fat man came in.

 

The newcomer wasn't simply fat, he was huge, but there was nothing gross or flabby about him. He was well-dressed, his pale face was impressive and handsome. He had big eyes with drooping lids. His black hair was curly and glistened in that poor light. He closed the door and crossed the room quietly, almost as if he were walking on tip-toe. He had a small cupid's bow of a mouth, red as if with lipstick. He stood by the bed looking down at Mannering.

Mannering said: “Good evening.”

“Good evening. How are you?” It was a smooth, cultured voice, with no trace of accent.

“Counting my blessings,” Mannering said.

“You have some to count?”

“I'm alive.”

“Yes, you are alive.” The man ought to smile, but didn't. “It is a good thing to be alive. Do you know me?”

“No.”

“I hope that is true,” said the fat man. “I do not want more difficulties. I come to talk to you.” His phrasing was too precise, it was strange that he had no accent. He drew up a small chair and overlapped the sides when he sat down. He placed his hands on his knees; they were small, pale hands, and on the left little finger was a huge signet ring; he wore no other jewellery, and was dressed in excellent style. “This diamond, the
Tear.
You have it?”

“No.”

“I do not want you to He to me.”

Mannering felt as if part of his mind were asleep; that there were things he had said in the past that he ought to repeat now, but he couldn't be sure that he remembered everything; in particular there was something he had told Julia Fiori – ah! He remembered and felt easier.

“You understand,” the fat man said. “It will help you to tell me the truth.”

“I haven't got the
Diamond of Tears.
It was stolen from Bernstein's shop before I got there.”

“That is what you said before, but I do not believe you,” said the fat man. “Tell me what happened when you reached the shop, why you went there—everything, please.”

He sat like Buddha in modern clothes while Mannering told him; and in the telling became much more certain of himself. He described his meeting with the man who had come from Bernstein's, described how he had searched the shop before the police had arrived, looking for the
Tear.
He even talked of a book in which he thought it had been hidden, but said that the hiding-place was empty. He believed he spoke with conviction, but as he went on he became more and more uneasy beneath the steady scrutiny of those big eyes.

When he finished, the man asked: “And this man whom you met at the door, you saw him?”

“Not clearly. It was dark, and he had a handkerchief over his face.”

“You would recognise him again?”

“No. I remember his size and build, that's all.”

“Perhaps it is enough,” said the fat man. He leaned towards the dressing-table and touched a bell-push which Mannering hadn't noticed. There was no sound, but the door opened and a man came in. The first glimpse made Mannering start back, for it was almost as if he were reliving the past. The man had a Homburg hat, pulled low over his eyes, was stocky and broad, and had a white handkerchief over the lower part of his red face. He came in quickly and closed the door, approached aggressively – and he might easily be the man who had come out of Jacob's shop.

It was the man he had followed from Fay's flat.

The fat man said: “You have seen this man before?”

“It could be the murderer.”

“You are not sure?”

“I can't be sure.”

“At least that is the truth.” The fat man turned to the other and contemplated him from beneath his lashes, and now Mannering saw that the blunt-fingered hands of the masked man were trembling. Yes, the fat man's gaze could be frightening. Mannering's own nerves were dulled with the drug, his indifference artificial. He would be frightened of the fat man if his senses weren't dulled. He did not question the danger and the horror and the capacity to frighten of this man.

“Mannering tells me again the
Tear
was not there when he arrived.”

“It must have been!”

“Tell me again, why is that so?”

“I called Bernstein up an hour before. He said he had the
Tear
there. So it must have been there. I searched everywhere and couldn't find it. Then Mannering arrived and I had to run. Who else
could
have found it?”

The fat man said: “One of you is lying.”

“It's Mannering!”

“Yes, perhaps it is Mannering, but I am not sure. I am not sure whether you can be trusted. The
Tear
is a great temptation and you have always been a greedy man. Go and wait for me.”

“I tell you—”

“Go and wait.”

The other turned and, still shivering, went out of the room. The door closed silently behind him. There was still no vestige of any expression on the big face.

“It is a bad thing to lie to me, Mannering. You understand, I must obtain the
Tear.
I will do anything to obtain it. I will not be harassed by the greed of little men or the persistence of men like you. Already you have been a great nuisance. That must not be allowed to continue, so you will stay with me until everything is finished. If you have not the
Tear,
you will not suffer. If you have—” He shrugged. “You will tell me. It is easy to make men talk. You understand me?”

Mannering said slowly: “Yes.”

“Remember the photograph,” the fat man said, and stood up with unexpected grace of movement. At the door he looked back. “Do not forget that photograph, Mannering, or that I must have the
Tear.
It is not important what you consider right. It would have been better had you not gone to that shop, because then Fay would have inherited all that Bernstein left, including the
Tear,
and all would have been well. I can afford to wait. But now the diamond is stolen and I must find it again. Again,” he repeated, and the word was like a sigh.

He went out. From the passage he called: “You will listen. In a little while you will understand what I mean.”

The door closed.

Mannering sat looking at it, and felt as he had done when Julia Fiori had left his flat. Cold, frightened. The effect of the drug was working off. There was a dull pain at the back of his head and an ache across his eyes.

“You will listen. In a little while you will understand what I mean.”

What had the fat man meant? Who was he? A name sprang to mind immediately – Fiori. If you saw him and Julia together you would have to agree that they shared something more than looks and a good presence; they shared self-confidence. This man had threatened unnamable things so quietly. He felt able to talk in such a way, to kidnap a man from his own doorstep, to bring him safely here and to behave as if he could keep him prisoner for as long as he wished. He knew exactly what he wanted and did not doubt that he would get it. He treated the law as if it did not exist.