Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  Seen by strangers, or by anyone at the beginning of a case, Bristow groomed himself to be father confessor and sword of justice in the one spare frame. He dressed well, nearly always in light grey, and liked to wear a Homburg a shade or two darker. He also liked to have a gardenia in his button-hole, and his brown shoes to shine.

  When he entered Mannering’s office he looked at his best; a spruce five feet eleven. His manner had a confidence that would have seemed like cockiness in a smaller man. It was easy for Simon Lessing not to notice the wrinkles under his eyes, and to be fooled into thinking he was nearer forty than fifty-five.

  He was almost hearty.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mannering, I hope I’m not disturbing big business.” He hardly seemed to glance at Lessing.

  “I never have any big business,” Mannering said. “I have to slave.”

  Bristow grinned at Lessing. “Hark at him!”

  “Mr. Simon Lessing, Superintendent William Bristow,” murmured Mannering. “Mr. Lessing called to see me about Francesca Lisle, Bill.”

  Bristow couldn’t have moved more quickly if he’d been pricked with a pin. Suspicion poured into him; he glanced from one to the other, and finished up by concentrating on Simon Lessing.

  “May 1 ask why?”

  “He was worried because Francesca didn’t sleep at home last night, and the police had been talking to her maid.” Mannering brushed that aside as unimportant. “I take it that you know I was at the party.”

  Bristow grunted. “Yes. Yes, I know.” He wasn’t as happy as he had been, but was very much the detective.

  “What time did you last see Miss Lisle, Mr. Lessing?”

  “Just after ten o’clock.”

  “Can you be more precise?”

  “Well - no,” said Lessing, and looked awkward. “I know it was about ten. After, because the clock struck in the hall just before I left. A few minutes after ten, say.”

  “And I left at twenty minutes past eight,” Mannering murmured. If the light of battle were in his eyes, it was very dim. “What time was she found?”

  “Half-past eleven or so,” said Bristow, “she . . .”

  “If you could be more precise . . .”

  Bristow jerked his head up, glared; and then became the man whom Mannering knew well, human, probing, always keeping at his job if not always on top of it. A man who was always trying to do three things at once, quick on the up-take but slowed down by the weight of routine and the difficulties of being a detective.

  “Very glad you two were there last night, you may be able to help. Do you know Miss Lisle well, Mr. Lessing?”

  “Fairly well, but my sister Joy knows her better.”

  “Family friend, eh? Do you know Mr. Lisle?”

  “I’ve never met him.”

  “Mannering?” Bristow switched with a snap.

  “No,” said Mannering, “Francesca’s been to Green Street occasionally, that’s all. You’ve discovered that she has the same obsession as my wife, I imagine.” He had a deep voice, a dry way of talking, a quirk at his lips which suggested that it wouldn’t take much to make him smile at the follies of the world and of C.I.D. men. “Do you know how she got into the river?”

  “Pushed.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pushed!” exclaimed Lessing, and jumped up. “Good God, do you mean someone tried to murder her?”

  “Know anyone who might want to?” Bristow flashed.

  “Do I? Lord, no! Look here . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Mannering said, “this is simply the Scotland Yard process of riling you. Any idea why it was done, Bill?”

  Bristow had taken something out of his waistcoat pocket. It was just a fluffy piece of cotton-wool. He rolled and squashed it between his finger and thumb, glancing at Lessing as he did so. He looked at Lessing for a long time, giving the impression that he wasn’t sure what to make of him, nor what question to ask next.

  “Did Miss Lisle possess many jewels, d’you know?”

  “No idea,” Lessing said. He was quieter, and getting over the shock. “No, I don’t remember . . .” He broke off.

  Bristow was quick to pounce. “What is it you do remember?”

  “As a matter of fact, she was wearing a jewelled cross last night,” Lessing said. “It was really something. But Mr. Mannering . . .”

  “See it?” Bristow asked Mannering.

  “Yes, Bill.”

  “Valuable?”

  “Very.”

  “Ever seen this?” Bristow seemed to snap his fingers, and send the cotton-wool floating to the floor. He revealed the round diamond. The beautiful gem did as it would always do where there was light; seized that light, and threw it back in the room a hundred times brighter.

  Bristow rolled it along the desk, as he might a marble, and it made a trail like a meteorite touched by a rainbow.

  Mannering stopped it.

  Bristow was looking at Lessing.

  “Mr. Lessing?”

  The question was unnecessary, for Lessing’s expression made it obvious that the sight of the diamond bewildered him; and it wasn’t the bewilderment of a man who had something to hide. There was wonderment, too.

  “No,” he said slowly. “You mean, have I seen it before? No. Was that Francesca’s?”

  “Ever seen it before, Mannering?” asked Bristow, and settled back in his chair. “That’s why I’m here, of course, for expert advice - and 1 don’t know anyone with a greater knowledge of precious stones than you.” He almost purred.

  “Don’t you?” murmured Mannering, in that gently sardonic voice. He opened a middle drawer in the desk and took out a small black case; opened this and showed a pair of tweezers, some needles and a fragile-looking pair of calipers. Then he turned round and took a set of tiny brass scales from the shelf behind him, a set more likely to be found in a scientist’s laboratory than in an office.

  To Lessing, this was all new ground; to Bristow, it was almost routine; and to them both, it was fascinating. That was due less to anything Mannering did than to his obvious and utter absorption in what he was doing. It was as if only he and the diamond were in the room.

  He picked it up in the tweezers and placed it on the scale. The tiny needle of the scale pointed to 4.7 carats. He jotted this down on a note-pad, then placed the diamond on the desk, next measured diameter and circumference with the callipers. All the time, the scintillas of fiery light chased one another in brilliant, changing colours. Still completely absorbed, Mannering switched on an Angle-poise light and swung it round. It did the impossible, and gave the diamond more brilliance. He took a watch-maker’s glass from a drawer, screwed it into his right eye with the speed of long practice and, holding the diamond in the tweezers, took his time over inspecting it.

  Bristow, obviously used to performances like this, sat and smoked.

  Simon Lessing looked and felt bewildered. This wasn’t his world. The reassuring thing was the evidence that Mannering knew exactly what he was doing, and that a highly placed Yard official came here for his opinion. It added to the legends he had heard of Mannering, brought the fabulous down to earth.

  Mannering dropped the watch-glass and caught it, put the diamond down, and grinned at Lessing.

  “It isn’t really mumbo-jumbo,” he said, “no one waves any wands. Bill, can you reach that book called Seventeenth-Century Cuttings and Styles? Thanks.” Bristow’s chair creaked as he stretched for the book. “I think you’ll find this stone was cut by van Heldt, of Amsterdam, I’ve never seen smaller facets, and he holds the record. If it’s his, it’s probably listed.” He opened the book. There were several pages of very small print, then plate after plate of pictures all of jewels. Most of the plates were coloured.

  Lessing watched as Mannering flipped over the pages; he had lean, brown hands, strong-looking, the nails a good filbert shape. He stopped moving at a page in which diamonds were shown against a black background. At a swift glance, Lessing saw other
jewels, brooches, rings, pendants, a tiara, a cross. On one side were lists of measurements.

  “Ah,” said Mannering, and allowed himself a moment’s vocal satisfaction. “I think that’s it. The Fiora Collection.”

  Lessing could see that the words held some deep significance; that showed in Mannering’s eyes. Bristow grabbed the book, then shot a swift, suspicious glance at Mannering.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Nearly. See the cross, too. Francesca Lisle wore that last night, or one remarkably like that. True, I didn’t recognise it then. Put the main tiara stone - this one - and the cross together, and I don’t think it’s coincidence.”

  Bristow was studying the measurements, his cigarette dropping from the corner of his lips, one eye screwed up against the smoke. Lessing sat very still, and Mannering now seemed to be avoiding his eye.

  Bristow put the book down.

  “So the Fioras have cropped up again,” he said, and let smoke trickle down his nostrils. “Now we’re really going to be busy. The girl had both these . . .” Bristow snapped a question at Lessing. “Did she say where she got that cross?”

  “Yes, she . . .” began Lessing; and stopped abruptly.

  When he flushed, as now, his freckles seemed to grow darker. He didn’t avoid Bristow’s eye; just stopped speaking. Bristow had plenty of patience, and Lessing’s eyes dropped first. He said emphatically: “I don’t want to do anything that might make difficulties for Miss Lisle.”

  “Reasonable enough, but take it from me you won’t help her or make her difficulties less by keeping facts from us,” Bristow said. “We use facts to prove more facts, not to make difficulties for innocent people. Where did she say she got the jewelled cross?”

  Lessing glanced at Mannering, asking a silent: “Shall I?”

  Mannering nodded.

  “It was her twenty-first birthday yesterday,” Lessing said, “and her father gave it to her as a birthday present. He said it was her mother’s.”

  “Oh,” said Bristow. “Did he?” He rubbed the side of his nose, then stubbed out his cigarette. His right eye was watering from the smoke. “Well, obviously we’re on to something hot. John, were you just social acquaintances of the Lisles, or had you smelt the Fiora trail?”

  “As I sit here, I simply thought Francesca a nice girl,” Mannering declared. “Lorna thought her a promising painter, and we went to the party because she obviously wanted Lorna to be a lion among the Slade students.”

  “H’m,” said Bristow. “Well, all right - what are you going to do about it?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I wish I could say, not a damned thing,” said Bristow, with a twisted smile, “but I’d better ask you to see if you can pick up any trace of the rest of the collection. It looks as if they’re likely to go the rounds. Better for you to do it than me; if official inquiries are started at once, whoever they are will keep their heads down. Mind if I take the diamond?”

  “Welcome,” said Mannering, and picked it up in the callipers, put it on a piece of cotton-wool, and handed it to Bristow. “Have you found anything else, Bill?”

  They’d started off with some formality; it was now obvious that they were familiars.

  “Not much. The girl was pushed in off the Festival Hall Terrace steps. We found a cigarette, plain tip, probably a Virginia One - I’m having paper and tobacco checked. And we found some cotton-wool and got a footprint, size eight shoe, pointed toe, even walker. That’s about all.” He stood up, slipping the diamond into his pocket. “I’ll be grateful for anything you pick up, but be careful - if the original thieves are on this job it could be nasty.” He didn’t pause, didn’t change his expression, but glanced at Lessing. “Any idea where the girl’s father is, Mr. Lessing?”

  “No. No, I’ve never even met him.”

  “Miss Lisle might have said something about him that would give you some idea.”

  “I think she did mention that he had an office in the City. You could try there.”

  “Oh, yes, but he hasn’t turned up there yet,” Bristow said. “Take a piece of advice from me, Mr. Lessing, will you? - hold nothing back. You won’t help anyone by hiding facts. Good morning. Be seeing you, John.” He turned the handle of the door. “No, don’t get up.”

  He went out.

  Lessing said sharply: “We didn’t ask where she is!” He jumped up.

  “We’ll find out, don’t chase Bristow now,” Mannering advised.

  Lessing hesitated, then sat down again.

  Mannering picked up a piece of cotton-wool, and began to mould it in his fingers. Lessing waited until he couldn’t wait any longer.

  “What’s behind this, Mannering? What do you know about those jewels?”

  “They were stolen from a London jewel-merchant, three or four years ago,” Mannering said quietly. “The merchant was murdered - tortured first, to make him give away the secret of his strong-room, then brutally murdered.”

  Lessing didn’t speak, but lost a little colour as the significance of that dawned on him.

  7: A MAN AND HIS FRIENDS

  Simon Lessing could not have behaved better had he set out to make a good impression above everything else. Obviously he saw some of the implications of the news, and didn’t like them; but he let them settle in his mind before speaking. All this time, Mannering watched, assessing him with reasonable accuracy. Lessing came from a good family, from Public School but not a university, probably had a little money of his own, and had a mind which might become very good with a few years of experience. That clean-cut look would prejudice most people in his favour; especially Francesca Lisle. He was proving that he could hold his aggressive temperament in check.

  “Well, I don’t like the look of that much,” Lessing said.

  “Which aspect of it?” asked Mannering.

  “Francesca’s father having stolen jewels. But he said . . .” Lessing broke off.

  “The cross belonged to Francesca’s mother?”

  “Yes.” Lessing at last began to fill his pipe. “Francesca - er - positively adored him. You know what I mean.

  What a damned awful thing to say to a girl if it wasn’t true! And if she finds out that it was stolen . . .”

  “If I know Francesca, she’ll flatly refuse to believe it,” Mannering said; “we won’t lose any sleep about that. She’ll have exactly one worry - finding her father. The police will help with that, anyhow, but it may not be so easy, and they may find just his body.”

  Lessing rammed the tobacco home.

  “Yes, I’d thought of that. What an ugly situation! And Francesca won’t be in any state to be told about it.” He jumped up. “We ought to have asked Bristow how she was, what she knows, what they intend to do with her. She can’t go to the flat alone with that addle-pated maid. And who’s going to break this news to her?” Once he let himself go about Francesca, Lessing seemed very young indeed.

  “One thing at a time,” counselled Mannering. “Bristow’s a human being, and he won’t scare the wits out of her.”

  “He may think she knows how her father got the jewels. He may try . . .”

  “Of course he’ll question her,” Mannering interrupted, “but he won’t third-degree her, he won’t go against medical instructions or do anything which might give her grounds for complaint afterwards. There’s nothing we can do about it anyhow, and nothing we ought to try to do - except find out where Francesca is and how she is. That’ll come a bit later on. Has she any friends?”

  “Only at the Slade. Joy - that’s my sister - knows her pretty well. The Slade, home and her father are her only interests. I wonder if . . .”

  “We’ll find out where she is and get Joy to go and see her,” Mannering said, and that was balm to a troubled young man. “I must get busy too.”

  “You mean, looking for the rest of the collection?”

  “Or listening for rumours about it.”

  “Why did Bristow come to you?”

  Mannering c
huckled. He had very white teeth which looked bright because his face was so tanned.

  “I have some queer friends,” he said. “Jewellers and antique dealers who sometimes get hold of stuff that I can handle. Usually they offer me only goods they get by honest means, but occasionally they try to pass off something hot. A sale through Quinns puts the price up, you see. Bristow and I work smoothly together.”

  “You mean, you actually deal with - crooks?”

  “The odd thing about them is that they’re human beings all and crooked only part of the time,” said Mannering. “And am I the one to judge? There’s a fringe world, Simon. A lot of these people live half in and half out of it, and - oh, never mind.”

  “The peculiar thing from my point of view is that Bristow knows and seems to approve.” Lessing had to make his point.

  “I wouldn’t say approve. Sometimes he condones! Where can I get you on the telephone?”

  “Whitehall 91497,” Lessing said. “That’s my office - I’m an architect, just set up on my own. Joy and I have a little flat in Knightsbridge.” He wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “Mannering.”

  “Hm-hm?”

  “I want to help.”

  “I don’t know that you can,” said Mannering bluntly. “There’s nothing to stop you from telephoning Scotland Yard, finding out where Francesca is, and arranging to visit her. Why don’t you do that and telephone me later in the day?”

  After a pause, Lessing said: “Yes, I will, thanks.” He didn’t try to persuade Mannering to accept his “help”. He didn’t turn to go, either; there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes. Then words came explosively: “You are a private eye, aren’t you? I mean, you do really accept commissions, you don’t just help the police as a consultant.”

  “We have been on opposite sides of the fence,” murmured Mannering.

  “That’s what I mean. But are you committed to Bristow in this case?”