An Affair For the Baron

by John Creasey

  “A scientist in an Anglo-American research company discovered it by accident, as so many vital discoveries are made. It is the introduction of a gas into the air which destroys the oxygen. So, people suffocate. Once released in any area, the effect is cumulative and expanding – it cannot be stopped.”

  As Ballas talked, the light in the room dimmed as if a great shadow had covered the sky; the shutters were in fact sliding silently over the windows with almost theatrical precision. Cyrus moved, and Mannering saw him put a box on a small stand.

  “… the scientist who discovered this, made a precise record of all the experiments which led up to the discovery, and reported to a colleague. The two men repeated the experiments several times in sealed rooms, always with the same result. Convinced that this secret must be kept, they agreed to destroy all records of the weapon. One believed they were destroyed, but the other took a film of the records. I want you to see part of it for yourself, Mr. Mannering.”

  A movie-projector suddenly shone its bright beam on to a screen. A coloured picture appeared – of mice, then of cats, then of rats; whole colonies of them. One moment they were alive, moving, busy, eager to find food; the next they were gasping, tumbling about, writhing – and suddenly they were still.

  Mannering felt touched by the horror of what he saw.

  “Mr. Mannering,” Ballas began again in a measured voice, “that can happen to all mankind if this secret is ever released – which it can be, by Professor Alundo.” The old man’s gaze was unwavering. “The research worker concerned was an associate of Alundo’s in a Peace Movement. He made a copy of the film and gave both copy and original to Alundo. Listen.”

  There was a click.

  Then, a voice sounded – obviously on tape. A man spoke, gasping, as if afraid; tormented.

  “I gave them to Alundo – yes, both copies … No, there are no others … Yes, the gas can be made very simply if you know the basic secret … A little released in any area will kill everyone in it, and will spread until it can be sealed off – and only the oceans and deserts can seal it off. If you had seen those mice and rats … No, there are only two copies. I don’t know what Alundo did with them … I tell you I gave them to Professor Alundo. I—No … No …!”

  The man screamed.

  The tape recorder stopped abruptly.

  Mario Ballas said: “Such a man had to die, Mr. Mannering. The other research worker also died. I had been watching Alundo very closely, and after they had met, I had this man questioned – as you heard. What he said was true – he did give both copies of the microfilm to Alundo. Alundo gave one of these copies to a friend for safe keeping – that copy I have already secured. But Alundo still has the other. We do not understand the formula shown on the film – only research physicists can do so. Our American physicists, or Russia’s. Or China’s. I do not believe that anyone should ever be able to possess such a weapon. The secret must be destroyed.” After a long, tense pause, Ballas went on softly: “Don’t you agree, Mannering?”

  “If it is all you say it is – yes, I do,” Mannering said slowly.

  “It is all I say. And so long as Alundo has his copy of the film, God knows what might not happen!” Ballas’s voice sharpened, touched again with anger. “He preaches peace and deals in war. You talk to me about the few people I have killed. My God, a man like Alundo will see millions dead, in the name of peace!” For the first time, Ballas began to push his chair back, and immediately Cyrus moved to help him; so Cyrus was a personal servant as well as a personal bodyguard.

  Ballas hardly seemed aware that his man was there, He moved slowly, and Mannering realised that he was very, very old.

  “I know exactly what I am doing,” Ballas asserted. “In the past, I have acted blindly. I killed men because they were in my way. But not these days – never, these days. If I order a man to be killed it is for a purpose I believe in.” He stood in front of Mannering, speaking with quiet vehemence: “I kill no man without giving him warning and an opportunity to change. You think of me as a murderer, but a hundred dependents of men I have killed come to me for their livelihood. Ask Cyrus Lake—Cyrus! How many years have you worked for me?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Cyrus answered.

  “And do I ill-treat you? Do you live in fear of me? I command you – tell Mannering the truth.”

  “I don’t fear you,” Cyrus said. “I serve you.”

  “And there are hundreds like him, their wives and families dependent on me, confident I will treat them well and fairly. Have I ever given you a raw deal, Cyrus?”

  “Never, Mario.”

  “Or anyone who served me loyally?”

  “Each according to his desserts,” Cyrus said; and Mannering accepted the statement with the simplicity with which it had been uttered.

  “Judge for yourself.” Ballas was walking about now, very slowly and awkwardly, carried away by what he was saying. “I am not a cruel man although sometimes I have to be cruel. I am not a hard man although sometimes I have to be hard. Do you know this, Mannering? Apart from the great foundations, like Ford and Rockefeller, I give more money to good causes than anyone else in America. Cancer research, heart diseases, the poor, the sick – I am a great giver, Mannering. Do you think any of those I have robbed would give so generously?”

  It was obvious that an answer was expected.

  “I doubt it,” Mannering said.

  “You are right to doubt it. Each—” Ballas broke off, looking straight at Mannering. “I tell you Alundo is a hypocrite and a fraud, and a deadly danger to the American way of life for so long as he has that microfilm. I must have Alundo’s copy, Mannering, and I mean to obtain it. There are only these two copies in existence. One I have – and to obtain possession of the other I will, if necessary, kill, torture, maim, spend all my fortune. Only when both copies are destroyed will there be no danger to America – or to Britain – or to the world. Where is it, Mannering? I have been patient with you, because there is some quality in you which I like, but—where is it, Mannering? To find it, I will tear your body apart.”

  Mannering had no doubt at all that he would.

  “I will help you find it,” he said, stiffly. “When—”

  “There must be no conditions!”

  “But there are conditions,” Mannering said.

  “Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear what I said I would do to you?”

  “You can’t get Alundo’s copy without me,” Mannering retorted; but his heart was thumping. “If you keep me a prisoner here, you will have no hope at all of getting it. I’ve told you that. I will help you find it as soon as I believe you’re right about Professor Alundo. I want to talk to him.”

  Ballas gasped: “Are you mad?”

  “Are you going to let me leave here?”

  “Not until I have the film!”

  Mannering eyed the old man levelly for a few moments, then turned to Cyrus.

  “May I have another whisky?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean what I say,” Ballas insisted. “It is quite impossible for you to get out of this house alive without my permission. And if you do get out, a barren land stretches for a hundred miles in all directions. You would perish.”

  “Whisky helps me to think,” Mannering said. He waited until Cyrus came with the glass, took it – and before the man could move away, seized his wrist in an agonising grip. At the same time, he jumped up, and flung the whisky straight into Ballas’s face. As the old man staggered back, Mannering spun Cyrus round, then chopped the edge of his free hand down on the nape of the man’s neck. Cyrus did not even groan as he dropped to the floor. Mannering sprang at Ballas, who was groping blindly for the other side of the desk where, possibly, there was a hidden alarm. It wasn’t pleasant to ill-treat an old man, but Mannering dealt as summarily with him as he had dealt with Cyrus.

  Ballas dropped like a stone; suddenly, the room was silent.

  Mannering straightened Cyrus’s body and ran through his pockets, fin
ding nothing of interest until he came to a small leather case, rather like a key-case. Inside was a tiny, fine-pointed awl, and a small phial, sealed with plastic, containing a colourless liquid. Mannering had no doubt these were the knockout drops. He unstopped the phial, dipped the point of the awl inside, and then pressed it on to the inside of Cyrus’s forearm. The arm fell limp. Then he did the same to Ballas. Standing up, he carefully replaced both stopper and awl, closed the leather case and slipped it into his breast pocket.

  Now, virtually alone, he was still in acute danger.

  He might even be watched at this moment.

  He did not think it likely—surely, if anyone had been watching, an alarm would have been raised?—but there was no certainty. He looked about the room and up into the raftered ceiling, examining its supporting beams.

  There could be spy-holes in any of these; and others, round the walls.

  He moved towards the door through which he had come. Was it self-opening? Or was there some trick? It could be electronically controlled; it was even possible it was protected by a ray. There was such treasure in this room – treasure measured in tens of millions of pounds. No risks would be taken with it.

  Mannering studied the door. It appeared, from inside the room, to be made of brass-studded wood, but Mannering felt sure it was of metal, almost certainly bullet- and sound-proof, and possibly impervious to fire. Neither of the men had touched it—ah! It had been closed from the outside. And locked? If he owned such treasures as these, and had two guards outside, what would he do?

  With half of his mind he was calculating how long he had before these two men came round. Not much more than half-an-hour, he judged. That should be time enough. He studied the big, brass lock, and the three bolts, one at the top, one at the bottom, one in the middle. All were shot, so they must close automatically to lock people both in and out. There must be a control both inside and outside the room.

  What would he do? He would have a buzzer at the desk, one which could be manually operated. One buzz: come in. Two: I’m coming out. And now he recalled the buzz when the lock was released and he and Cyrus had been admitted. That had been one buzz. His heart began to beat very fast. He reached the far side of the desk, and lowered himself into the golden chair. There was no bell-push in sight. He ran his fingers gingerly along the desk’s underledge, but found nothing. He examined the floor, and then shook his head. It wouldn’t be there. Ballas’s legs were too short.

  The chair itself?

  It would have to be somewhere within easy reach of right or left hand. How had the man drunk his whisky? Right-handed? A right-handed man often had the bell pushes, telephone and gadgets on his left, so that he could write and talk freely at the same time.

  The telephones were on the left.

  Mannering began to run his fingers along the jewelled arms, remembering that the spot, when he found it – if he found it – would be within easy reach of the small, slightly built man who ruled his empire from this chair. And it would not be a spot which one could touch easily by accident: it would be under the seat, perhaps? – or at the side? Mannering ran his fingers along the golden underledges, and found several round protuberances; in a lesser chair these would be the small, undecorated heads of nails, or tacks; here, each was a study, smooth, polished, beautifully engraved. He stood up, tilted the chair to one side, and saw that there were five, all gold, all delicately chased. The most convenient to touch would be the middle one. But before he pressed it, he had to be ready to act.

  If he were right, there would be a buzz of sound and the door would open. He wanted to be able to press and be at the door almost at one and the same moment. Looking down at the floor, Mannering saw that the chair was wired to the wall, and that there was little slack. So he couldn’t move the chair nearer to the door. Turning to the desk, he managed to shift this a few inches so that now there was nothing between the door and himself, then stood as far away from the chair as he could, while still being able to press the middle stud. Arm stretched out, finger at the third protuberance, he pressed.

  The buzzer sounded at the door.

  Mannering flung himself across the room, one hand at the pocket where he had put the leather case containing the awl. As he reached the door, it began to open.

  A man appeared, his face set in expectancy; it was the kind of expression one might assume for Ballas. It changed ludicrously at sight of Mannering, and the man’s right hand darted towards his left shoulder; his gun.

  Mannering kicked him in the pit of the stomach.

  The man gasped, and staggered back. As he did so, Mannering thrust him to one side, and leapt to the landing.

  On the right, halfway towards the door, stood Tiger O’Leary.

  Mannering saw the glint in O’Leary’s eyes, that unmistakable look of evil, saw it change on the instant to one of gloating, almost of satisfaction. He also saw the gun halfway from O’Leary’s shoulder holster, and knew that he had no time to reach the man before he fired.

  His fingers closed round the awl. Snatching it from his pocket, he flung it towards O’Leary.

  He saw the man flinch, but he did not back away; it was unlikely that he realised what was coming.

  The awl struck his cheek.

  O’Leary winced at the sharp pain and lost a split second’s advantage as Mannering closed with him in a desperate attempt to prevent him from shooting. One shot, however wide, would be enough to raise the alarm. Mannering gripped the other’s gun wrist, and twisted – but even as he did so, O’Leary went limp and began to sag at the knees. Slowly he slithered to the floor, leaving the gun in Mannering’s hand.

  Mannering put it in his pocket, bent down, and dragged O’Leary’s body into the big room. The man he had kicked, inert but not wholly unconscious, offered no immediate threat; nevertheless it would not be long before he was sufficiently recovered to shout for help. Mannering recovered the awl, re-dipped it into the phial, and pressed it firmly into his arm. Now, he was on his own.

  The door was still open.

  He went out on to the landing, walked swiftly to the head of the stairs, and looked down. The Reynolds and two Rubens seemed to look down with him.

  Nothing stirred.

  Cautiously he descended the stairs, the thick carpet muffling all sound. No one appeared. Walking quickly through the hallway, he came, once again, to the front door.

  He turned the handle – and there in front of him was the courtyard.

  He walked out, pulling the door to behind him. He remembered exactly the position of the three aircraft, as he hurried towards an open archway. He saw no one. The sun struck very hot on the back of his head. He reached an outer courtyard, where several dogs lay in the shade, and a very old man with a face as dark and lined as carved wood sat dozing. Ignoring him, Mannering went through a second archway.

  The three aeroplanes stood unattended, not far from two concrete landing strips.

  Mannering turned towards them. The first he came to was a Chipmunk, and he had flown the model often enough to be sure he could fly this one – if it were ready for flight. He stepped into the welcome shade of the aeroport, and pulled the chocks from the wheels.

  As he did so, he heard the sound of an approaching aircraft.

  Swinging himself quickly into the cockpit, he pulled the starter ring, praying the engine would start at once; and it did. He took two precious minutes to make sure there was plenty of fuel and to refresh his mind about the controls. Then, looking into the sky, he saw a twin-engined aircraft coming in. He began to taxi. Behind him, two men wearing sombreros but dressed in mechanics’ overalls, emerged from the outbuildings. One of them began to run after Mannering; and to shout and gesticulate.

  Mannering actually laughed.

  As his machine gathered speed, slowly, gloriously rising from the ground as if he had been used to handling her all his life, he felt a wild surge of exhilaration. He had achieved the impossible – he had escaped.

  Soon, he was at eight hundred
feet, and circling. He needed to head north for the United States, and he wondered how far it was away. Seeing a pair of fieldglasses hanging from the instrument panel, he focused them on the arriving aircraft, which had just landed. A man jumped out of it, staring up at Mannering.

  It was Alundo’s friend – ‘Texas Tommy’ Ricardi.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HemisFair

  Everywhere Mannering looked, there was the barren, scrub-speckled rock on which nothing seemed to move. The sun was almost directly behind him as he headed due north. He had no idea of the distance to the border, but a chart stuck to the door showed that a place marked with a cross, on the Mexican side, was about fifty miles from a small river town; that would be the Rio Grande. Mannering was troubled only by one thing: that he might be followed, might even be shot down. He was not followed.

  He flew over the narrow river which did not look wide enough to be the Rio Grande, but it was. Glancing at the chart, he saw a second cross, at a place called Del Rio, and a third, much larger; this was San Antonio.

  “At least the HemisFair people know of me,” he said aloud. “It’s only a hundred or so miles away.”

  Now that the excitement and tension were over, he felt curiously limp, his mind drained of all emotion; but he remembered very clearly all that Ballas had said about Professor Alundo.

  A laconic voice sounded over the radio.

  “You want to come in? … You sure can … Strip seventeen … You see it? … Okay, glad to have you with us. If we need you again we’ll call you Flight 0075.”

  Mannering found himself smiling, because the voice sounded so casual. He kept the radio on, in case of any change of instructions, and looked about him. The city sprawled in all directions, the land surrounding it varying from green to yellow; this was very different from the barren rocky land he had left. He saw the criss-cross of streets and the moving traffic, then turned to come in for landing and saw what appeared to be a huge map like the one marked HEMISFAIR NINETY-TWO ACRES on the wall of Ricardi’s room.