Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  Joy’s searching gaze lost something of its brightness. They both moved, as if compelled by a force they didn’t understand, and held each other tightly. Joy was sobbing, Francesca crying silently. Cissie couldn’t stand it any longer; she turned away with a catch in her breath. The policewoman was tougher, but her eyes had a very bright sheen.

  “Cissie,” she said, “go and make some tea.”

  Cissie sniffed, and went off.

  The quiet words seemed to affect the two friends. They drew back from each other, and turned towards the bedroom. Francesca went in first. Joy closed the door, pushing it so that it slammed. The policewoman didn’t open it, believing there was nothing to fear with someone else with the girl. She went into the kitchen, where Cissie was blowing her nose.

  “This might be the very thing she needs,” the policewoman said. “Better leave them for ten minutes or so, before we interrupt.” She took a packet of cigarettes from the dresser, lit one, and then said: “I’d better report that Joy Lessing’s back. She looks as if she’s had a rough time, doesn’t she?”

  “She looked awful,” Cissie muttered, and then flashed irritably: “I wish you wouldn’t puff that smoke all over my face.”

  “Sorry. Keep your hair on.” The policewoman, now looking completely relaxed, went into the hall. The telephone was in the living-room, in sight. She heard a reassuring murmur of voices from the bedroom.

  She went to the telephone.

  “Oh, it’s been dreadful,” Francesca said. “Did you - did you know about - Daddy?” It was the first time she had mentioned her father. Something in Joy’s coming had helped her, she was able to speak without breaking into tears.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Joy said, “I just couldn’t believe it, darling. Knowing how you loved him . . .”

  Francesca caught her breath.

  “I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been,” Joy said. “Especially after his letter to you. It must have . . .”

  Francesca exclaimed: “What letter? Joy, what do you mean?”

  “Don’t you know?” breathed Joy. Her pretty features were oddly set, her eyes hard and clear. It was as if she were looking for something which she expected to find.

  Gradually relief crept into her eyes; into her manner.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, “I hate to tell you.” She paused again, and moistened her lips. She saw the horror Francesca’s eyes, as if the truth were dawning on Francesca. “You - you loved him so much, I know, but . . .”

  “Joy, what is it? Tell me!” Francesca stood absolutely motionless. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

  “But - but it’s so cruel,” Joy whispered, and there was a catch in her breath. “I was - I was taken prisoner, the men were brutes. Beasts!” She paused, as if she could not force herself to go on, the memory was too horrible. How was Francesca to know that she was improvising with desperate speed, seeking something plausible, seeking the thing which would drive her to the final point of desperation; to death by her own hand. “They - they told me what it was all about. Your father - Franky, darling, I hate saying it, but he was one of them. He worked with them, then stole these jewels from them. They were fighting each other. He - he knew they knew the jewels were here, that’s why he sent for them. He didn’t mind risking even your life, Franky, but you can forgive him, he was so desperate, so . . .” She broke off, choking.

  Francesca looked as if she could not move.

  “I hate myself for telling you, but you’ve got to know,” Joy went on, with fierce intensity. “He was there when the men attacked you and took the jewels from them, and he took them back. But he couldn’t get away. They went after him. He wrote a letter to you, before they killed him. Didn’t you get it?”

  The question came abruptly, almost fiercely, but Francesca did not notice that.

  “No. No - Oh!” Her eyes grew large. “There was a letter. I had it with me when I went out to - to see Daddy. I just put it in my pocket.”

  Joy said swiftly: “Which coat?”

  “I - I haven’t got it now. It was in the river, and . . .”

  “Oh, there,” said Joy, and turned away, to hide the fierce light of her relief. Then she went on: “He told his - his friends that he’d written to explain everything, to ask you to forgive him. He thought he would be able to escape, but knew he dared not come back. That’s everything. Oh, Franky darling! If only I could help in some way, anyway.”

  Francesca stood with her eyes almost closed, as if she hadn’t heard. But she had. She opened her eyes slowly and said: “You can help me, Joy.”

  “Oh, darling, just tell me how!”

  “Go - go and talk to Cissie and the other woman, the policewoman,” Francesca said. “Tell them I must rest, I can’t bear to talk to anyone for a while. Will you - will you keep them away?”

  “Well, yes, of course,” said Joy. “But how will that help?”

  “Joy, please, don’t argue!”

  “Well, all right,” Joy said, and felt completely triumphant. She hesitated, turned away, and then went out. She looked back once, then closed the door. She could hear radio music from the kitchen; the maid and the policewoman were in there. She stood by the door.

  She heard the bedroom window open.

  She waited.

  Francesca opened the window slowly and deliberately. Outside, there was a small balcony. The obsession to kill herself, was so great that she didn’t think of anyone who might be waiting outside. In fact, a Yard man was there.

  He didn’t look up.

  Francesca went nearer to the edge of the balcony. This was the third floor, and it was a long drop. The river was dark, and there were no stars, the only light came from the street-lamps and the room behind her.

  Suddenly, noise broke the quiet. Tyres screamed. Cars swung into sight, one from either corner. Francesca knew they were converging on here. She did not know why, she only realised that unless she jumped soon, they would stop her from going to join her father.

  She stepped up on to the balcony. The man in the street was looking at the approaching cars. Francesca raised her arms, ready to dive on the the stone below.

  She didn’t notice the shadow behind her. She didn’t hear the furtive movements, because of the cars below. She swayed. It wasn’t so easy, something seemed to be drawing her back. She actually swayed backwards, then gritted her teeth - and sprang.

  A hand grabbed her dress.

  Francesca fell, but didn’t go far. The hand clutched her tightly. She kicked and struck out blindly, but all she did was to scratch her hands and stub her toes. She was dragged back remorselessly, hearing a voice which sounded like Cissie’s, then heard a scream.

  She felt herself lifted back on to the balcony, then half-dragged and half-carried towards the window. The light was bright.

  “Let me go,” she sobbed, “let me go. I want to die! I want to die!”

  The policewoman said: “All right, dear, just take it easy.” She hoisted her through into the bedroom, where Cissie was standing, with the door wide open. Joy wasn’t here.

  “Make her let me go!” sobbed Francesca.

  “She’s gone,” Cissie cried, but she wasn’t talking to Francesca. “I couldn’t stop her, she kicked me and ran away.”

  “All right,” the policewoman said. “They’ll catch her down below.”

  But they didn’t catch Joy Lessing.

  She appeared in the hall as the police came in, two of them in the lead. The tenant of the downstairs flat had opened the door for them, and her flat door was open. Joy rushed into the flat, slammed the door, ran into the front room; it was in darkness. She reached the window and flung it up, and was climbing out before the police had time to reach her.

  She raced across the Embankment towards the river. Men were ten yards behind her when two more police cars came screeching up. One man risked his life and darted over to the far pavement. By that time, Joy had reached the parapet and was standing on it, poised to dive. The river was high, and few
lights shimmered on the black, oily-looking surface.

  Joy Lessing dived in.

  By the time the policeman had reached the parapet, she was twenty yards away, swimming strongly. The first policemen didn’t go in; two men did, but their heavy serge uniforms were sodden in a moment, they hadn’t a hope of catching her. She seemed to be swimming strongly towards the other side.

  By radio and telephone, the police in Battersea and Lambeth, Chelsea and Fulham, were all alerted, and the River Police were told. On duty near Lambeth Bridge, not so far down river, was Sergeant Worraby.

  “If she was swimming, it doesn’t help to know where she went in,” said Sergeant Worraby, “but if she went under pretty quickly, she’ll be over by Rickaby’s Wharf, south side. If she banged her head against those barges moored opposite the Battersea Power Station, she would fetch up at that little beach near the Fun Fair. You know. But we’d better keep a sharp look-out everywhere. Swimming strongly, they said.”

  “Wonder why she jumped in?” said Jem Norton musingly.

  “Caw strewth, you and your ruddy questions,” grumbled Worraby. “Never stop, do they? Worse’n my kids, before they grew up. At least they did grow up!”

  Norton fell silent for fully three minutes. Then “Blowing a bit,” he said. “Think it’s going to rain?”

  Worraby scarcely breathed an answer; he didn’t care if it rained or snowed.

  They didn’t say anything for ten minutes or more. By then they were approaching the Power Station, belching smoke which was dimly visible against the sky, whitey-grey on black.

  “What’s that?” Norton cried, and the searchlight swivelled round and fell upon a policeman’s helmet. Worraby, in a good temper again, fished it in. As he did so, something slid from the side of the launch to his feet. He picked it up. It was a letter, once sodden but now dry. It was curved round to the shape of the boat-hook, which had kept it in position and out of sight.

  He peered at it.

  “Miss F. Lisle,” he read aloud. “Lisle! Blimey! Jem - it’s that letter we took out of the coat last week.”

  They turned and started down river, completed the run three times, and sent in negative reports until Worraby decided that there was only one likely place left, unless the girl was still swimming. He had the letter in his pocket, still unopened.

  “If she got as far as Lambeth Bridge, she’d fetch up near the Festival Hall steps. You know, where that Lisle girl was, Monday.” He kept his sharp look-out as they neared the Festival Hall, helped by the floodlit buildings on the other side.

  “Hold it!” Worraby called suddenly. He peered at the water where it shimmered under the light of the searchlight. “There she is,” he said. “Hard astern, get me in the other side.”

  Five minutes later, Joy Lessing’s body was aboard. Worraby was bending over her.

  “Jem.”

  “Yeh, sarge?”

  “Radio back, will you? Say we found her, and I’m trying A.R. but I’m not hopeful. Nasty gash in her forehead where she hit something. I reckon she was kept down under them barges, and didn’t have a chance. Okay, okay, get on the ‘phone, I’ll look after her. And cut out the sleeping-beauty muck, too.” “Okay,” Jem said, but didn’t move. “Sarge.”

  “Yeh?”

  “Think we gotta hand in that letter? You’ll get the kicks for it being on board, and . . .”

  “Listen, Jem,” Sergeant Worraby said in an unexpectedly mild voice, “we slipped up, and we’ll say so.” He looked at the letter again.

  25: THE LOVE OF FRANCESCA

  A Police Surgeon gave Francesca a needle of morphia, which was both wise and kind, and she was taken from her flat to a nursing home, unaware of what was happening.

  Before then she had told the police and Mannering what Joy had said, as if she wanted to make them understand why she had to die.

  Mannering went to the Green Street flat.

  Lorna was in his study; she always waited there when he was out on an errand from which he might not come back.

  He told her, quietly, finished the story about Simon Lessing, and went on “Scoby had to find out how much Francesca knew, had to let Joy talk to Francesca. They couldn’t understand why Joy hadn’t been named to the police, because they were sure Francesca knew about Joy. The policewoman at Riverside Walk heard some talk about a letter which Francesca didn’t get. There’s a missing clue. I don’t suppose it will matter much, unless . . .” He broke off.

  “Unless what?” All the strain had gone from Lorna’s face, making her look years younger.

  “Unless it tells us where the Fioras are,” Mannering said. He gave a wide grin. “I told Bristow about the jewels Scoby planted at Quinns, there won’t be any complications about that.” He scowled, as suddenly as he had smiled. “I wonder if they picked up Scoby, or any of his men.”

  “Bristow will tell you soon,” Lorna said. “Don’t worry any more. Francesca’s safe, and Joy . . .” She didn’t finish.

  Mannering managed to scoff at her. “Feel strong enough to pour me out a whisky-and-soda?” he asked. “I think I could sit back and relax.”

  In fact, he felt like prowling, but it wouldn’t help. The telephone bell didn’t ring. He fought against the desire to telephone Bristow, who would probably be out and about.

  Then the front-door bell rang, and he couldn’t get to it quickly enough, was actually touching the handle when Lorna exclaimed “Be careful! It might be . . .”

  “It’s Bristow,” Bristow called, in a voice which no one was ever likely to imitate successfully.

  He looked tired, but also looked content. He allowed himself the luxury of a yawn and the satisfaction of a whisky-and-soda and one of Mannering’s cigarettes. When he’d lit that, he said “Talking of cigarettes, we found Virginia One’s at Scoby’s place in Forth Street, and the cotton-wool was the same kind that you found. One of his shoes fits our plaster cast, too. But that’s by the way. We got him in Soho. He tried to kill himself, but he’ll live to hang.” Bristow drew on his cigarette, refreshed himself with a drink, then went on with a glint in his eyes: “Next time anyone talks to me about abolishing capital punishment, I’ll tell them the story of Ephraim Scoby. He’s called himself that for a long time, but had another identity - he’s M’sieu Boutelle of Neuilly, near Paris. We found all that out. We also know the story. I came straight here because I thought you deserved to hear it. It’s really quite simple.”

  He sipped and smoked again.

  Mannering was both grateful and patient.

  “Lisle, or Bernard de Lille, was the son-in-law of the Marquis de Cironde et Bles,” Bristow went on abruptly. “We knew about that. He had met the family when valuing some jewels, for he was a jewel merchant, and married the Marquis’s daughter, much against parental wishes. So the Marquis cut them off, and his daughter, Lisle’s wife, died without seeing her parents again.

  “Later, there was the fire, and need for the Marquis to sell the jewels. We know that the dealer he used was killed for them.

  “After all that, Bernard Lisle had an idea. He’d felt bitterly that his daughter Francesca wasn’t getting her true birthright, and he decided to try to put that right. When he told her the cross was her mother’s he really meant that it should have been.

  “After hearing about the theft of the Fioras, he started a search for them. Being in the trade, that wasn’t impossible. He got as far as Scoby, was sure that Scoby either had the jewels or knew where they were. He waited until Scoby began to explore the market, then nipped in and stole them - from Scoby’s Neuilly house.”

  Bristow paused, to sip his drink.

  Mannering was smiling faintly, Lorna was sitting on a pouf with her head against his knees.

  “I needed that whisky,” said Bristow, looking in surprise at his empty glass. The decanter was by his side.

  “Help yourself,” said Mannering.

  “Oh, may I? Thanks.” Bristow replenished it quickly. “Well, that was the background. At the time he stol
e the Fioras back, Lisle considered that he had a moral right to them - or Francesca had. He took some other stuff from Scoby too, and sold it; that’s how he came into a fortune, and was able to move to the Chelsea flat.

  “But Scoby was after him.

  “Scoby had lived on and off in France, where he planned to retire as M. Boutelle. London was bound to get too hot for him soon. He planned to marry Joy and retire, and he needed the Fioras badly. They were worth a hundred thousand pounds on any market, and he had a collector who was prepared to buy without asking questions. That collector’s a man we’ll watch.

  “Well, Scoby went after Bernard Lisle.

  “Joy Lessing helped him gladly. He and she met in Paris on one of her student painting holidays. I don’t pretend to know what got into her, but the facts speak for themselves. It wasn’t just infatuation for Scoby, but went much deeper. Anyway, Joy spied on Lisle. Scoby tried a bit of blackmail - saying that anyone with the Fioras would be suspected of the original murder. And Lisle had actually sold stolen jewels - that could be proved. So Lisle couldn’t ask for police help. In the long run that single fact killed him,” Bristow declared solemnly, and sipped.

  “He found out he was followed,” the Yard man went on, “on the morning of Francesca’s birthday. He was cornered by the man Ringall. Under pressure, John, he said he’d given you the Fioras.”

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  “But why should he?” asked Lorna.

  “He wanted to convince the others that they weren’t at the flat, so made up a plausible story - that you were a high-class fence. Other people think so, too. He’d known of you, for years. He’d been nervous about Francesca’s friendship with you, because of your reputation as Hawk-eye.” Bristow allowed himself a grin. “He wouldn’t have worried if he’d known as much about you as I do! Anyhow, Scoby was quite ready to believe you were a fence - he must have known a thing or two.”

  “I’m in a charitable mood, Bill,” Mannering said. “I forgive you that canard.”

  “But if Scoby believed John had the collection,” Lorna put in quickly. “Why should he go after Francesca when her father telephoned her?”