by John Creasey
What was Ricardi doing at Ballas’s house?
Mannering pushed that thought out of his mind and studied the Exhibition Grounds. The buildings were sharply defined, clean and new. A great tower overlorded them all, close by a huge arena. Dotted about everywhere, he could see men working at tremendous speed: they were only six days off the official opening by the President of the United States.
Was it simply coincidence that Alundo was to speak here?
What would happen if that formula on the microfilm were known – and used, say, in the great auditorium where he was to give his lecture?
Deeply troubled, Mannering thrust this thought away.
It was time for landing.
A small van drove towards and kept pace with him as he brought the plane to a standstill. When he got out, a mechanic was there to meet him with a casual “Howdy?” He pointed towards the offices. A huge sign saying HEMISFAIR OFFICIALS was on one side. As Mannering went towards this, he was intercepted by a pleasant looking girl.
“Did you tell Flight Control you were from Mexico, sir?”
“Yes. But I’ve nothing to declare.”
“If you will just attend to the formalities, sir …” There was a cursory examination and a welcome: “Glad to have you in San Antonio, Mr. Mannering,” and then the girl escorted him to the HemisFair offices. Everything was pleasant, orderly, under control.
“We have so many visitors by air we have a special section for them here at the airport, sir … Mr. Who? … Mr. Mannering? Mannering? You mean from London, England … We have an exhibit from you!” The clerk’s eyes lit up with interest, quite suddenly Mannering was treated as a celebrity. “If there is anything we can do, sir … Yes, sir, Mr. Steven Marshall is in Austin right now but he’ll be glad to see you when he gets back … Yes, sir, your exhibits arrived safely … Yes, sir, there are flights from here to Chicago non-stop … Yes, sir, you surely can use a room with a telephone …”
First, Mannering washed, had a light meal at a coffee shop, then went to a small room set aside for visitors who had come on HemisFair business. He was new enough to the practice of dialling long distance numbers to be startled when the Palmer House Hotel in Chicago came on the line almost as soon as he finished dialling.
“… we may have a room, sir, we have the Mid-West Cotton Packers Convention here and are fully booked, but … If you will wait a moment, sir.”
Mannering waited two minutes before they promised him a room on the third floor.
He rang off, and called Registration at the Conrad Hilton.
“Why, surely, Mr. Mannering, there are some messages for you … Would you care to have me read them … I certainly will, sir … Miss Ethel Alundo tried to reach you twice, and will call later … Mr. Ricardi called last night, no message … Mrs. Mannering of Green Street, London, England, called, will you telephone as soon as you can, it doesn’t matter what time …” The girl’s tone changed. “They’re later than we are, sir, because of the time zones … And will you call Mr. Mario Ballas, sir, at La Racienda, Mexicali 7-3142.”
“What time did that call come in?” Mannering asked sharply.
“It’s marked two-fifty-five, only a few minutes ago. That’s all the messages, sir.”
“Thank you very much,” Mannering said. He rang off, glancing at his watch and confirming that it was nearly three o’clock; that meant it would be eight o’clock in England. He put in a call for Lorna, then leaned back in his chair, wondering first what his wife, and then what Ballas wanted. What could the old man want? Not to plead, but possibly to reason – more likely to threaten. How could he threaten now? Mannering leaned across and put in a call to Ricardi’s flat. It rang for a long time, but there was no answer – so Professor Alundo wasn’t in, either, mused Mannering. He could picture Ricardi at Ballas’s Mexico home. Was he a regular visitor? Were they in league with each other?
But it was too easy, too often fatal, to jump to conclusions.
Why had Ethel called him?
He lifted the receiver, dialled O, then asked for Mexicali 7-3142. He had a curious sense of apprehension as he waited for the ringing sound. He did not have to wait long before a man answered; and at the sound of the voice, Mannering realised that during the whole of his stay at La Racienda, he had not once heard, or seen, a woman.
The man said: “Who is that?”
“John Mannering,” said Mannering.
There was a strange inflection in the other’s voice.
“Mannering? It’s a good thing you called!”
“Mr. Ballas called me,” Mannering said coldly.
“Just hold on,” the speaker said; there was no doubt of his rising excitement.
Suddenly there was a scuffling sound at the other end of the wire, and a dull thud; Mannering thought he heard a sharp cry of pain. Then a woman’s voice rang clearly over the line. “Don’t hit him, please don’t hit him. Don’t—”
There was a shout, a slap, and more confused sounds, as Mannering’s fingers tightened on the receiver. At last he had heard a woman’s voice at the Mexican house; and he knew that Ethel Alundo was there, apparently in great trouble.
Was he supposed to hold on? Would anyone else speak? These and a dozen other questions flashed through Mannering’s mind as he waited. There were no sounds in the room, none from outside, and those at the other end of the line faded into silence, although he did not hear the telephone being replaced.
Then, very softly, Mario Ballas’s voice spoke.
“You are a fool, Mr. Mannering.”
“Who am I to argue?” Mannering answered. “If Ethel Alundo isn’t here in two hours’ time, I shall send for the police and report exactly what has happened.”
“And if you send for the police, they will be told that Ethel Alundo, a guest in my house, was caught red-handed trying to break into my gallery. The police won’t help her, Mr. Mannering, or help you.”
That was probably true.
“Mr. Mannering,” Ballas went on, “I intend to get that microfilm. Bring it to me, and the girl will not be hurt. I want it by this time tomorrow. Fly to any airport in Texas and telephone me. I will send for you. If you do as I tell you, neither you nor Alundo’s daughter have anything to fear. If you don’t, the girl—”
He deliberately left the sentence hanging in the air, like a threat.
Mannering said thinly: “Don’t hurt her.”
“That is entirely up to you.”
“Don’t hurt her, or you will never get the film.”
“Mannering,” Ballas said evenly, “I am too mature a man to be influenced by sentimentality. This young woman means nothing to me. A hundred like her are maimed or killed on the roads every day, a hundred like her are being introduced to drugs, a hundred like her will be raped before the day is out. She is a pawn in this grave affair, unimportant and insignificant. She may be important to her father or her lover – even to you: but she is not important to me.”
“Lover?” Mannering echoed.
“Lover,” repeated Ballas. “His name is Ricardi. Remember, I want the film by tomorrow night.” He rang off.
Mannering replaced the receiver very slowly, staring at the wall. He could picture Ballas, Ethel, Ricardi and Alundo, yet none of them seemed sharp in his mind’s eye – except Ballas. The cold-blooded way the old man talked made one thing crystal clear: the issues were too great for him even to consider the human factors.
Now, he had Ethel prisoner.
Was Ricardi her lover? Mannering had believed her when she had said she had never been to New York before, but she could have been lying; she and her father might both be deeply involved. What had Ballas called Alundo? “Now there is your evil man, Mr. Mannering, there is your evil incarnate.”
Was it possible—?
Mannering forced himself not to dwell on it, but dialled Chicago Whitehall 4-31495 again. He hardly expected an answer, but the ringing sound stopped almost at once and Alundo said brusquely: “Hallo? Who is that?”
“Mannering!” cried Alundo. “I have been trying to get you all day, where—oh, it doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is Ethel. She’s been kidnapped!” His voice rose. “D’you hear me? Ethel has been kidnapped! You’ve got to find her. Understand? You’ve got to find her. Don’t lose a minute, Mannering.”
Mannering said quietly: “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you told the police?”
“Police? Don’t be a maniac, of course I haven’t! This isn’t a matter for the police, far too much is at stake. Find her, Mannering.”
An operator’s voice broke in: “Excuse me, Mr. Mannering, but your call to London is through.”
“I’ll take it,” Mannering said. “Alundo, wait in the apartment until I contact you again. Get off the line now.” Alundo began to say something, but was cut off, and almost immediately Mannering heard Lorna’s voice.
“John! Are you there—John!”
“Hallo, darling,” Mannering said. “It’s good to hear you.”
“Good,” breathed Lorna. “Darling, what have you been up to? Bristow’s been to see me. He’s had a request from the Chicago Police Department for a full dossier on you in connection with the murder of a man named Enrico Ballas. He thinks they’re going to arrest you – he really thinks so. John, what is happening? Do you know anything about the murder of this man?”
“Enough to be charged with it,” Mannering said dryly. “No need for you to worry, though, I—”
“No need to worry! I’m off my head with anxiety. Bristow said that this man Ballas is the son or nephew or something of one of the most dangerous men in America.”
“And so he was,” Mannering said. “But there’s still no need for you to worry.” He racked his brains for something to tell her that might keep her from fretting. An idea came almost on the instant; he pounced on it with alacrity. “There’s one thing you can do to help.”
“Anything!” Hope rose in Lorna’s voice of settled despondency.
“Dr. Arthur Alundo has a daughter, Ethel—”
“What has Alundo to do with this?”
“You’d be surprised! Find out where Ethel lives, what she does for a living, whether she’s engaged or has a boy-friend, particularly an American boy-friend. Get Josh to help.” Josh Larraby was the manager of his Mayfair shop; it had been he who had told Mannering of the rumour that Enrico Ballas had stolen Fentham’s jewels.
“Yes. Yes, I will. But—”
“Find out everything you possibly can about the girl,” Mannering went on, “and telephone me at the Palmer House—”
“Where?”
“The Palmer – P-A-L-M-E-R – House Hotel, Chicago. If I’m not there, try the Conrad Hilton. But darling, how are you?”
“Not terribly keen on being a widow! They still have the death penalty over there.”
“It depends on what State Ballas was murdered in, but don’t worry about the death penalty, just find out all you can about Ethel Alundo.”
“I will. Oh, there’s another thing! Bristow said that Donald Hennessy is in Chicago – he thought you’d like to know.”
“That might be very useful,” Mannering said appreciatively.
Hennessy was a Home Office official who often worked with Scotland Yard, and was an old friend of Mannering.
“John,” Lorna said. “Please be careful.”
“I’ll be careful,” Mannering promised, and as he rang off he added mentally: I doubt if there’s ever been more need to be.
He turned as he heard a deep voice calling his own name.
“John Mannering? Are you sure?” There was a tap at the door and as Mannering stood up, it opened. There was something both robust and reassuring about the appearance of the tall, powerful-looking man in the dark suit who came in, right hand outstretched.
“Mr. Mannering, I surely am glad to see you! I’m Steven Marshall. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. If there is anything at all I can do for you—” he broke off, expectantly.
Mannering said: “You’re very good. If you could get someone to reserve me a flight to Chicago as soon as possible, I—”
“Why, sure. Irv!” Steven Marshall called. “Will you find out when Flight 307 is leaving – last time I heard it was half-an-hour late. Get Mr. Mannering a seat on it.” Marshall turned back to Mannering. “But I hope you’ll come back for the opening, sir!”
Mannering chuckled.
“I’m beginning to understand what they mean about Texans! By the way, have you an agent in Chicago, named Ricardi?”
“We sure have,” answered Marshall. “Did you meet him?”
“Briefly. He—”
“He has a big cattle outfit in Texas and stockyards in Chicago,” Marshall went on, “and he’s as enthusiastic about HemisFair as I am. He was to talk to Professor Alundo and finalise the plans for the Professor’s lecture.” As he spoke, Steven Marshall gave the impression that he was asking questions. This one seemed to be: “Do you know the Professor?”
Mannering said: “I was told Alundo was coming to lecture here. Do you mind telling me why?”
“Sure I’ll tell you why. He’s a world figure, Mr. Mannering. He fights for what he believes. He gets shouted down too often, so we’re giving him a platform in Texas where he won’t be shouted down.” The new unspoken question was: “Do you object?”
“Can’t think of better reasons,” Mannering remarked. “Do you know the Professor?”
“No, sir. Ricky went over to England and made all the arrangements last year. He came back with the contract signed – and a very soft spot for the Professor’s daughter.” Marshall chuckled. “If the Professor doesn’t bring her, Ricky will never forgive him.”
Mannering finished his dinner, and sat back in his first class seat in a Boeing 727, glancing through brochures on HemisFair, amused by and grateful for Steven Marshall’s ready help. He had satisfied himself that Marshall knew of no undercurrents, but was sure he had set the man thinking – particularly when he had asked about Mario Ballas.
“Sure, I know him,” Marshall had said. “He has a fine old Mexican house, called La Racienda, fifty or sixty miles into Mexico. In Mexico, he’s a good citizen, and who are we to hold what he did in Chicago against him?” When Mannering hadn’t answered, the Texan had continued: “I wouldn’t condone any crime, Mr. Mannering, but in Mexico, Ballas is looked on as a saint. He’s done a great deal to help the poor there, he gives a lot of employment. And”—Marshall gave an infectious grin—“he is exhibiting some rare Mayan art and some early Spanish arms and regalia at HemisFair. Do you object to sharing part of the Jewel House with him?”
Mannering had laughed.
“No more than I would object to selling him anything he wanted.”
“We understand each other,” Marshall said with satisfaction. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, “I would like some Western-style clothes, and a pocket tape recorder.”
“There’s a store right close by the airport,” Steven Marshall had said, as if Mannering’s were an everyday request. “And I can supply the bugging outfit. Let’s go.”
That had been three hours ago. The aircraft was now flying over St. Louis and before long the lights of Chicago would be in sight. In less than two hours, Mannering would be in the city.
He was clear in his mind about what he should do.
Chapter Fifteen
Break-In
Mannering stood by the corner of Michigan Avenue near the Conrad Hilton, watching the floodlit Planetarium and the museum, seeing the bright headlights of the cars coming towards him from Lakeshore Drive, the brilliant red of those which disappeared over the road across the railway. The hum of traffic, the occasional clatter of footsteps and murmur of voices, were his only company. He walked briskly towards State Street and stood in a doorway, making sure he hadn’t been followed. The elon
gated lamps in their harsh cement posts spread a glow brightened by flashing multicoloured neon. Here, hundreds walked and buses whined and taxis and cars passed harshly. He saw a taxi with its hire sign alight, and hailed it.
“Do you know where Lake View Apartments are?” he asked. No one would have dreamed from his voice that he was English.
“Yeh.”
“Take me there.”
The entrance to the apartment building was brightly lit but the street lamps were dim. The taxi stopped. No one appeared to be watching. Mannering stepped out and handed the driver a dollar bill.
No one paid him any attention.
He had booked into the Palmer House Hotel as soon as he had reached Chicago, and had changed into the Western-style clothes he had bought in San Antonio – a wide-brimmed hat, narrow, fancy jeans, and a cowboy shirt of trimmed leather. Unless they examined his face very closely, no one would have suspected this to be the immaculately-dressed Englishman known as the Baron.
Now, adopting a rolling-cowboy gait, Mannering strolled to the front entrance of Lake View Apartments. Two men stood just inside the door; he judged them to be either Ballas’s men or police, he could not be sure which, but so far as he was concerned it made little difference. He went straight to the elevator, closely watched by the two men, and pressed the penthouse button: PH. The doors opened. As he was taken smoothly upwards, his mind, brilliant, painstaking, plodding, reviewed for the hundredth time Alundo’s desperation to retrieve the microfilm, Ballas’s ultimatum, Ethel’s disappearance and Ricardi’s flight to La Racienda.
The elevator stopped.
Mannering got out, and waited near the elevator shaft for three or four minutes. No one else came up; there was no noise. He walked towards the end of the passage which led to the penthouse. As always, there was a service door to the roof marked with a glowing EXIT in red. He opened this, and stepped on to the narrow ledge between the penthouse walls and the side of the building. The ledge was protected by a waist-high wall which he had seen from the street. He judged the position of Ricardi’s flat on the floor below, by comparing it with the street.