Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  “Is there a picture here at all?”

  “No, only at the office. How’s Francesca?”

  “She wanted to go home, but the policewoman and I persuaded her to rest here for a bit. I gave her two of those sleeping-tablets I had last month, and she dropped off in ten minutes or so. The policewoman’s gone.” Lorna was frowning; when frowning, she looked almost sullen. “She was absolutely distracted. Her father complex is so strong that she’ll probably get worse and become a psychiatric case. Men like Bernard Lisle ought to be . . .” She broke off.

  “He could have lost a beloved wife, become a psychopathic case himself, and shifted all his love to Francesca.”

  “That’s what did happen, obviously.” Lorna could be as illogical as anyone. “It couldn’t be more cruel.”

  “Francesca may be tougher than you think,” Mannering said hopefully. “Some women are!” He slid his arm round her waist. “When she comes round, get her to talk about Joy Lessing.”

  “Will it help?”

  “It might,” said Mannering. “Three questions of varying importance keep nagging me - and nagging Bristow, who is himself again. Who said I had them and why? What happened between the time Francesca was attacked and when her body was found . . .”

  “Don’t say ‘her body’ like that!”

  “You’re being too squeamish, my sweet.” But Mannering’s expression made it clear that he didn’t really think so. “And third, why was Joy kidnapped? Sometimes I think that’s more important than anything else. Finding Joy might be a good thing for its own sake.”

  “Do you really think they’ll hurt her?”

  Mannering simply squeezed her waist again. Then the telephone bell rang, and he went across to it, saying “I had a bad time for food yesterday, see what Ethel can manage now, will you?” He lifted the telephone, and Lorna got up but didn’t go out of the room, just stood and watched. “Oh yes, put him through.” He put the mouthpiece against his chest. “Bristow.”

  He paused.

  There were footsteps outside. “Excuse me, mum . . .”

  “Yes, Ethel, we’re ready. Dish up, will you?”

  “Yes’m. I didn’t want to hurry you, but you know what saddle of mutton is if it’s overdone, can’t do anything with it. Will Mr. Mannering carve, or shall I?” Ethel hovered in the doorway.

  “You carve, will you?”

  “Hallo, Bill,” said Mannering. “Paris already, that’s quick.”

  Lorna went out, and Mannering knew that she was on the way to the extension in the hall.

  “Police are quick, everywhere,” Bristow said, with a mild sarcasm. “But you have your points. The Marquis de Cironde et Bles had two daughters. One died at seventeen, the other at twenty-six. The elder one left a widower named Bernard de Lille. Lille wasn’t in the Marquis social sphere, and there was some family estrangement. There are pictures of the whole family, including this Bernard de Lille, in a book called Famous Families of the Loire. There’s a British edition, so it should be at the British Museum, even if it’s unobtainable anywhere else.”

  “Well, well,” said Mannering, very softly. “So now we know that Bernard Lisle could have had some moral claim to an interest to the Fioras. He might even have told Francesca the truth - that the cross were her mother’s.”

  “He might have decided that he ought to steal them back,” said Bristow dryly. “I can’t find any evidence that he was wealthy enough to buy them. How’s the girl?”

  “Lorna gave her some phenobarbitone.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Bristow, “but when she comes round, try to make her talk. I’m not sure she’s told us everything, and she might talk more freely with you.”

  “We all have our uses,” Mannering murmured. “I’ll try.”

  He rang off.

  Ethel called joyfully: “Everything’s ready, mum!”

  They went into the dining-room. Hungry though he was, Mannering ate mechanically; he said very little.

  Lorna faded into the background, a trick she had. Faint sounds of singing came from the kitchen; so at least Ethel was happy.

  Mannering said abruptly: “Why did they want to kill Francesca? Why wasn’t it enough to rob her? What happened in that hour we can’t account for?”

  He jumped up, and went out. Lorna waited, looking at his nearly empty plate, guessing the burden on his mind; and guessing where he had gone.

  He stood looking down at Francesca Lisle.

  She lay on her back, sleeping very quietly, her lips and breast hardly moving. Lorna had drawn the curtains, and the half-light added to her beauty. Bristow wasn’t sure the girl had told everything she could, and Mannering was equally doubtful but - did she know the significance of everything she knew? Did she herself know why these men had tried to kill her?

  They might try again.

  He raised his head, sharply, then went to the window, which overlooked Green Street. Some distance along sat a man in a small open tourer; one of Bristow’s men. In the other direction, a man and a boy in dungarees - one of them looked like a boy, anyhow - had a manhole cover up, and were spending a lot of time examing whatever mysteries of wires and pipes lay beneath. Bristow was carrying out his job thoroughly; no one would enter the building without being seen.

  Would anyone try?

  Mannering went out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly. The study door was ajar. He went in here, because the window overlooked the back of the houses in Green Street and yet another bombed site; when one knew where to look, London was still full of these.

  Building had started on some small houses on the site; one of the men “working” there was a Yard man.

  So Bristow took this and the situation as seriously as anyone could. The real danger would probably come later; when they had kept Francesca safe for a while and weariness set in; or when they grew used to the idea, and were careless. It was absurd to think that there was danger now.

  Wasn’t it?

  Mannering went back into the dining-room. Lorna was squeezing a piece of bread, making it into a little pellet.

  “Bristow had a man following us all the way,” she said. “I can’t believe - ”

  “It’s giving me the creeps,” Mannering growled. “There’s a quality of horror that gets into the blood. The man in the office, the ruthlessness, Francesca in the morgue . . .” He sat down heavily. “I must be getting old or soft in the head. What’s the pudding?”

  “Plum duff,” Lorna said.

  He was no longer hungry.

  He felt as if he were living in a room filled with mist, and that out of the mist expected danger might come at any moment. Yet he could see nothing, had only a sense that danger was near.

  Why had they tried to kill Francesca?

  Why had they kidnapped Joy?

  Who had told them that he had the Fioras?

  Where were the other Fioras now?

  Mannering was in the study at half-past three, when the telephone bell rang. Lorna had gone out, to see an art dealer who had offered for some of her paintings then being exhibited; Mannering had encouraged her to go. He had talked to Larraby and Trevor, and kept in touch with business. He had checked over everything that had happened, and the four questions remained as insoluble as ever.

  Now, the telephone made him start.

  “John Mannering here.”

  “Mannering,” said Ephraim Scoby, “I’ve just had a message from a friend of mine who’s had a talk with Simon Lessing. So you didn’t take me seriously.”

  This was Scoby’s voice, beyond all doubt. Voice, laconic manner, ability to startle and to surprise. Yet it was a relief to hear him. There was hope that he could swing over to the attack now, and get Scoby worried and uncertain.

  Mannering said: “I took you very seriously.”

  “You know where to take those jewels tonight.”

  “I shan’t take them anywhere.”

  “You know about Joy . . .”

  “Joy Lessing may be a nice girl,” Mann
ering said. “I don’t know her well. I’ve seen that she’s pretty and I’m told she’s good. I’ll do everything I can to help someone I don’t know - except lose a fortune. Your offer was chicken-feed, and you know it. Think again. And what I said before - if the girl gets hurt, you’ll get named. I’ll take that risk.”

  “So you’re greedy,” Scoby said softly.

  “That’s the way it is,” Mannering told him. “I’m not easily scared, either.”

  Now he had stuck his neck out as far as it would go.

  The man at the other end of the line actually laughed.

  “So you’re not easily scared! You have two dicks outside the front door and another at the back, you can’t see out of a door for Bristow’s men, and you’re not scared! But Bristow can’t protect you. He can’t protect anyone. I’ll get you, Mannering, if you don’t come across.”

  Mannering rang off.

  He was sweating.

  He was still feeling hot at the forehead and neck when Ethel came in to ask whether he were ready for tea. He said yes, as the telephone bell rang again.

  “Yes, Ethel, thanks. If the door bell rings, let me answer it, will you?”

  “Just as you like, sir.” Ethel backed towards the door. “Do you think the young lady in the bedroom would like a cup, too?”

  “I’ll see if she’s asleep still,” Mannering said, and then lifted the receiver. “This is John Mannering.” He half expected Scoby’s voice again, evidence that he was more ready for bad than for good news.

  It was Larraby.

  “I’ve just seen Simon Lessing go into a house in St. John’s Wood,” Larraby said, in his brisker, van-man voice. “He drove from his flat to Lord’s, parked the car in a side street, and was met by a young chap with overlong, reddish hair. He fits the description you gave of the man Ringall.”

  “The address?” Mannering asked softly.

  “Ninety-three Forth Road,’’ Larraby told him promptly. “It leads off Wellington Road, not far from the Underground Station. Shall I expect you here soon, sir?”

  Mannering paused to consider. Then: “No,” he said. “Come away, Josh. Make absolutely sure that you’re not followed, that no one from the house knows you’ve been watching.”

  “I don’t think you need fear that, sir.”

  “All right. Send Trevor and the others home when you get to the shop. Lock up, and then come straight here. I’ll wait until you arrive.”

  “Right,” Larraby said.

  Mannering rang off.

  There was hardly time to think, before the door bell rang three times, sharply. It was the bell from the street door and a pre-arranged signal; someone was coming up, and the police were warning him. It seemed always the same; nothing at all happening, or too much on the go at the same time. He stood up and went into the hall, hearing sharp footsteps on the stairs - footsteps which were oddly familiar. Yet he stood away from the door when he opened it, as if afraid of sudden violence.

  It was Susan Pengelly.

  “Gosh!” she exclaimed. “Frightened of me?”

  Mannering didn’t smile, but drew back. She followed him into the hall.

  “Terrified,” he said dryly.

  “Like all men!” She was almost serious.

  He led the way towards the study, and Ethel appeared in the kitchen-door, tea-tray in hand, and then did a complete about turn without rattling a cup, but muttering: “. . . get another cup.”

  Susan took one quick look round the study. Mannering had a feeling that she recognised the antiquity and the beauty of some of the precious pieces there. She didn’t sit down, and it was obvious that she didn’t quite know how to start what she had to say.

  Then abruptly: “I’ve had a telephone call from Simon.”

  Mannering murmured: “So soon?”

  “Oh, he didn’t apologise or ask me to forgive,” she said. “He’s terrified. Apparently he’s a prisoner in the same place as Joy. He says Joy’s all right, but . . .” She paused, as Ethel came in, clinking the things on the tray. Ethel went out, on a murmured “thanks” from Mannering, and Susan went on as if there had been no interruption: “He doesn’t think either of them will be for long.”

  “What else?” asked Mannering tautly.

  “It’s the same old story,” Susan said. “They want the Fioras, and they’re quite sure that you have them.”

  “What makes them so sure?” he asked, and almost believed she could answer.

  Susan Pengelly eyed him in that snake-like way she had; neck twisted round, head perched a little to one side, lips set tightly so that only the slash of lipstick showed, and eyes narrowed so that they looked as if there was shimmering liquid green behind the long, reddish lashes.

  “Either you’re very good,” she said, “or very, very bad. He says he’s seen a receipt, on Quinn’s paper, for every diamond in the Collection.” She paused, but Mannering didn’t respond, so she went on: “It was taken from Bernard Lisle.”

  21: A VISIT BY NIGHT

  Five minutes afterwards Mannering put down the telephone and watched Sue Pengelly as she poured out tea. She had a knack of making herself at home. She had really beautiful legs and hands and arms, it was a shame that she was burdened with quite such a lump of a figure; but it did not seem to trouble her.

  “Scotland Yard says that Simon deliberately shook their man off,” Mannering told her.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Susan. “Look how he shook me off! You don’t know Simon very well, do you? He gives the impression of being the strong, silent-man type. As a matter of fact, if there were a war he’d almost certainly win the V.C. or something sensational. Simon’s all right when he doesn’t have to think. Something goes wrong with his metabolism whenever he does. He thinks that he, and he alone, can save Joy These - people - have told him he mustn’t go to the police, so he doesn’t. They’ve given him orders, and he’s obeyed them. I don’t believe he can think - I think he just feels and acts on impulse. Francesca would find him very trying. Even I do!”

  “Did he say anything else?” Mannering asked.

  “Just that I was to come and tell you this,” Susan declared. “There was another man who came on the line afterwards, and said that he was sure you would be interested to know that he could give that receipt to Scotland Yard. And it was undoubtedly signed by you.”

  Mannering said softly: “Could Scoby be crazy enough to believe that I’d sign my name to a thing that would send me to jail for ten years, even if it didn’t hang me?”

  “Well,” Susan said practically, “he says he has it, and Simon says he’s seen it, and they both said you’ll be hearing. More tea?”

  “Thanks. Did they say anything else?”

  “Not another word that mattered,” Susan said. “Simon was almost in tears - tears of vexation and despair, of course, not of weakness! He quite forgot the way we’d parted, so at least he realises that I have a forgiving nature. As a matter of fact,” Susan Pengelly went on, “I am nothing like so vixenish as I look. Do you mean to say this receipt was forged?”

  “It must have been.”

  “That’s one thing about artists like most of us,” remarked Susan, “we can imitate handwriting, can’t we? This must be good, if it can to fool the man Scoby - did you say Scoby?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s odd. He wouldn’t give his real name, would he? I met a man named Scoby in Paris in the summer vac. He was with Francesca’s father, who was over there for a few days. Joy saw him when she was sitting outside the Café de Paris, of all places for a penniless art student, on the Madeleine Boulevard.”

  “What was he like?” Mannering asked very softly.

  Susan put her cup down, leaned back with hands on the arms of the chair and her short legs sticking out straight in front of her.

  “Find me a piece of paper and a pencil,” she ordered.

  Mannering found them.

  He didn’t look at her as she sketched, although probably she would not have
noticed had he breathed down her neck. It wasn’t more than three minutes before she picked the paper up and handed it to him.

  That was Scoby beyond a shadow of doubt.

  And Scoby knew - or had known - Bernard Lisle.

  Susan said: “I haven’t lost the trick, have I?”

  “You haven’t lost the trick,” Mannering agreed fervently. “I don’t know whether his real name is Scoby, or . . .”

  The door opened, and Francesca came in.

  She looked as if all the blood had drained out of her face. It left her eyes very bright, and they seemed huge. She hadn’t put on lipstick that day, and no rouge or powder. Yet she looked beautiful. She came in steadily, but rather as if she were in a daze.

  Ethel was close behind her: “She just wouldn’t stay on the bed, sir. If I woke her up I’m sure I’m sorry, but I tried to make her stay there.”

  “It’s all right, Ethel. Hallo, Francesca. Come and have a cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you,” Francesca said. She looked at Susan without seeming surprised to see her here. “Hallo, Susan. I must go to my flat, Mr. Mannering. Will you excuse me?”

  “There’s no hurry, and you must . . .”

  She looked at him straightly. “I appreciate all you’ve done to help me,” she said carefully. “I really do. But I feel that I must go back to my flat. I can’t stay away any longer. I will thank Mrs. Mannering later.”

  “All right.” Mannering dropped all argument. “I’ll take you there.” He knew that they would be followed. It was only just round the corner, and the Yard men would watch her as closely in her own flat as they would in his. And it would give him more freedom of action. “Is your hat in the other room?”

  “Hat? Oh, yes, I forgot.” She turned round, a hand at her head, and went out.

  Susan muttered something, sotto voce: “I didn’t think I would ever come to it, but I’m sorry for her.”

  “You’re certainly not as bad as you paint yourself,” Mannering said.

  “But I couldn’t go and look after her,” Susan declared. “I’m just not the big-hearted type, I should soon repent being so full of sympathy. Think she’ll be all right?”