Cry For the Baron

by John Creasey

  “I can tell you twenty other ways you can make a fool of yourself,” said Mannering. The pages of the second book fluttered smoothly through his fingers as he watched the Yard man. “But go ahead, hold me. That will teach me to send for the police when a friend of mine has been murdered.”

  “Friend.” Gordon sneered the word.

  “Yes. And I choose my own.”

  Gordon lit a cigarette and flicked the match across the room; it fell at Mannering’s feet.

  “I asked you how you got in here.”

  “And I told you. The murderer opened the door for me. If he wasn’t the murderer I’ll eat my words.”

  “You saw him?” Gordon jumped up from the desk. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Because his face was masked and his hat pulled low over his eyes. And he kicked me before I knew what was coming. All I can tell you is that he was on the tall side, five ten or eleven, well-built, wearing dark clothes and a black Homburg. I gave the details to the constable two minutes after I spoke to him, and presumably they’re going the rounds. Do you want me here any longer?”

  Gordon growled: “Yes.” He went out of the room, and Mannering picked up the third book and put it on his lap; the pages turned smoothly.

  The police were working quietly, no one else took any notice of him. Downstairs, Gordon’s voice was raised, hectoring the constable.

  Mannering picked up the fourth book. There were a hundred books in this room and he had no reason to think he would find a hiding-place in any of the first few which came to hand.

  The pages stuck.

  Gordon came back, scowling. Mannering slid his forefinger between the pages, and touched the soft texture of cotton wool.

  “Are you keeping anything back?” Gordon demanded.

  “What should I keep back?”

  “We can never tell, with you,” Gordon said. “Are you sure Bernstein had the Tear on the premises?”

  “Yes.” Through the cotton wool Mannering felt something hard. The Tear? Or another jewel? He let the pages fall flat again, and kept the book on his knees while Gordon went to the safe; the keys were in the lock.

  “Did Bernstein keep a record of what he had here?”

  “I think so. In a little black loose-leaf book.”

  “See if you can see it on the desk, will you?” asked Gordon, and began to take the jewel-cases out of the safe. Mannering left the book on the chair and went to the desk, but he wasn’t interested in the little black book. What should he do if he found the Tear? Hand it over? It would be held until Jacob’s will was proved. Eventually the Tear would be sold, presumably at a public auction.

  A man – or woman – wanted it badly.

  Bernstein had told him that he was to have a visitor about the diamond; little doubt that the visitor had come and killed him but – had he found the Tear? If not – could it be used to trap the murderer?

  He found the little black book and took it to Gordon, who gripped Mannering’s arm without warning, looked straight into his eyes, and demanded: “Who was the girl? Out with it—who was the girl?”

  Chapter Four

  The Will

  Gordon’s fingers were big and strong, and pressed painfully into Mannering’s forearm. Two of the other men looked up. Mannering said: “Now what’s on your mind?” but made no attempt to free himself.

  “Who was the girl who was here when you came?”

  “There was no girl here when I arrived.”

  “The constable said he saw a girl leave this place a few minutes before you shouted for him.”

  “He may be right.”

  “If he’s right she was here when you arrived, because he didn’t see her come in—and you must have arrived before he turned the corner. Your car was here. That girl must have been here. You’ve told us what time you got here, how long it was before you sent for us. Twenty minutes—remember? It takes the constable twenty-five minutes to do this street, both sides. When he tried the door here it was locked. You’ve made one of your mistakes—who was the girl?”

  “Where was the constable when he saw her?”

  “At the corner.”

  “Care to come for a walk?” asked Mannering.

  “I want the truth out of you!”

  “I want to get at the truth. Gordon, you know I didn’t kill Bernstein, and you also know you can’t stop me trying to find the killer. Come and see whether the constable can be sure that a girl left this house.”

  Gordon said: “He is sure.”

  “All right, let’s see if we can shake his confidence.”

  Gordon let him go. “Bristow will probably be here soon, we’ll see what he has to say.”

  The Yard man turned back to the safe and began to consult the little black book. Mannering returned to his chair, picked up the book and opened it near the front, where the leaves weren’t cut. He began to fiddle with the leaves again until he could feel the shiny surface of the hidden stone. He fingered the cotton wool.

  Soon he was able to feel the hard surface of the stone. With the book half open he felt round the wool with his fingers, gradually prizing the jewel up. At last he held it between his thumb and forefinger. The book was half-open now – if anyone looked his way they would surely wonder what he was doing. Seconds mattered.

  The jewel was tear-shaped.

  Gordon turned and growled: “Was his writing always as bad as this?” He looked into Mannering’s face, and his gaze didn’t fall to the book.

  “Yes. He was an old man, you know.”

  Gordon grunted and turned away. Mannering kept the jewel between his thumb and forefinger and slowly withdrew it. Then he slid it into his pocket. It was easy to pull out the wad of wool and slip that out of sight. He sat back, the closed book on his knees, nerves and muscles tense. The excitement of having the Tear in his pocket affected him like strong wine, going to his head, numbing his mind. If Gordon looked at him he’d give something away.

  He fought the excitement, got it under control.

  Gordon took a folded document from the safe and said: “I wonder who gets his money?” He opened the document, glanced through it, and spoke without turning round. “Any idea?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you were such a close friend of his.”

  “He didn’t consult me when making his will.”

  Gordon said: “Maybe he didn’t, but he made you—” He broke off abruptly. Gordon’s weakness was his tongue; he couldn’t keep quiet for long. “You’re sure you know nothing about this?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “I see” said Gordon heavily. “All right, Mannering, we’ll go and try that experiment you were talking about.”

  It was cold outside, and a keen wind blew from the corner round which Fay Goulden had disappeared. The uniformed man was young, small and pale-faced; his uniform fitted him loosely. He was outside, beating his arms across his chest.

  They went briskly along the street. Suddenly Mannering stopped and said: “Wait a minute, the door ought to be closed, then opened.”

  “Why?”

  Mannering fiddled with the jewel inside his pocket, wrapping the cotton wool round it again.

  “The constable was at the corner. He looked round, saw a door open and a girl come out. Then the girl disappeared, walking away from him. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it, sir,” said the constable.

  “And we have got to find out whether it’s possible for you to be sure that the door was Bernstein’s, or whether it could have been another door, nearby.”

  “Well—”

  “Could it?” barked Gordon. “I thought it was Bernstein’s door.”

  “Do you mean you thought it was his door when you saw it open, or you assumed it to be when you
knew there’d been trouble?” asked Mannering mildly. “It would be natural enough to jump to that conclusion.”

  If the constable were prepared to swear the girl had left Bernstein’s, he was in for a rough night. Gordon was bad enough; if Superintendent Bristow arrived he would jump to the same conclusion – that Mannering knew about the girl. The result would probably mean a visit to Great Marlborough Street Police Station, and a search. They ought to search him, whether he were under suspicion or not; that was simple routine. But they could search him a dozen times now and he would have the laugh on them. He wanted to laugh as he took the jewel out of his pocket. “Wait here,” Gordon said. He strode towards the shop, his long legs slightly knock-kneed, and the constable muttered under his breath and evaded Mannering’s eye. The heady effect of the jewel remained while Mannering scanned the shop-fronts and the doorways.

  He saw the empty milk bottle on a window ledge in the doorway.

  He took out his cigarette-case, and flicked his lighter – the wind prevented the wick from catching alight. He went into the doorway.

  The constable followed, determined not to let him out of his sight. Mannering cupped his hands round the cigarette as he lit it; the pale yellow glow shone on the cotton wool. He had his back to the constable, and turned so that the man couldn’t see his right hand, slipped the jewel into the neck of the bottle and poked it down.

  Gordon came hurrying back.

  “Now we’ll see.” They reached the corner and turned to look at Bernstein’s doorway. It opened, and a dim light showed, a man came out, turned away from them and hurried off, leaving the door wide open.

  Mannering said lightly: “You might like to swear on oath which door it was—I wouldn’t.”

  “It was just about there,” said the constable.

  “About!” snorted Gordon.

  “Is that exactly what you saw?” asked Mannering. He watched the detective who had helped in the experiment come back and wait in the lighted doorway.

  “Oh, yes,” the constable mumbled. “I suppose it could have been one of the other doors.”

  “I’ll go further. That wasn’t exactly what you saw.”

  The man snapped: “Oh, yes, it was!”

  “You mean the girl left the door wide open? Didn’t she close it?”

  “Did she close it or didn’t she?” Gordon’s voice was thin and angry.

  “I only just happened to glance round,” said the constable aggrievedly. “There was no reason why I should expect trouble, the door was locked when I tried it a few minutes before. Yes, and it did shut after the girl, sir. The light only shone out for a second or two. I didn’t think of that, just now. I was concentrating on which door it was.”

  A car turned the corner of the street, its head-lamps shining on Mannering and the others as they walked back to Bernstein’s shop – and it glowed on the milk bottle and the fluffy cotton wool which rested on the bottom, there for anyone who chanced to look.

  The newcomers were Superintendent Bristow and the police-surgeon. Bristow was a spruce, grey man; grey-haired, grey-clad, with a clipped grey moustache stained yellow in the centre with nicotine. He didn’t wear an overcoat, and a wilted gardenia drooped from his buttonhole. He nodded to Mannering, and led the way upstairs. The police-surgeon, stocky and pale-faced, got busy; Bristow and Gordon went to the safe. Mannering stood by the chair and the secret book. The effect of hiding the Tear astonished him. He felt as if he had just come through a spell of great exertion; was tired, yet still excited.

  Bristow glanced through the Will and turned to Mannering. His voice was brisk but friendly; perhaps deceptively friendly.

  “So you know nothing about this Will, John?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Bernstein didn’t consult you?”

  “Why should he?”

  “It’s a custom, when you name an executor,” said Bristow dryly. “You and the Midday Bank—you’re going to have a nice time, sorting out this stuff! Quite sure you knew nothing about it?”

  Mannering said: “It would be a nice change if someone here believed me once in a while.”

  He joined the two Yard men and took the Will. Gordon looked as if he wanted to stop him, Bristow followed the sensible course; as an executor Mannering had every right to see the document. It was typed, easy to read, and quite short. There were three beneficiaries: the Jewel Merchant’s Benevolent Association; Lorna Mannering – and a name which Mannering didn’t see at first, it was over the page. Shock after shock: the first that he had been named as executor, the second that Bernstein had left anything to Lorna. The gift was characteristic of the old man; a pair of emerald ear-rings, which Lorna had seen and tried on when she had been to the shop two years ago.

  “That was a nice thought,” he said.

  “He was a nice old boy,” said Bristow. “But John—you’re not going to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Try to find out who killed him. That’s our job.”

  Mannering said: “We’ll see,” and then turned over the page, reading the final clause. Like the others, it was short and concise: “… the residue of my estate, in its entirety, is bequeathed without condition to Fay Marianna Goulden, daughter of Joshua and Maude Goulden …”

  His fingers tightened on the Will, he continued to stare at it, but didn’t read. The terrified eyes of Fay Goulden seemed to loom out of the black type. He didn’t trust himself to speak, until he handed the document back.

  “It shouldn’t be much trouble, Bill.”

  “There’ll be plenty of trouble before this is over. Do you know this woman, Goulden?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  Mannering said: “I’ve never been called a liar so often in so few minutes in my life. What’s on your mind, Bill?”

  “The same thing that’s on Gordon’s mind. I’m not satisfied about your reasons for coming. If we let you go without looking through your pockets we’d be asking for trouble from the pundits. Care to come along to Great Marlborough Street? Or would you prefer the Yard?”

  At the Yard Bristow smiled and said: “Sorry it was necessary, but you know how these things are. You aren’t going to play the fool and start investigating, are you? This isn’t a job for a lone wolf, even though he’s a good lone wolf.” Bristow, sitting in his office, lit a cigarette from the stub of one burned right down, and then remembered to offer Mannering the paper packet. “Smoke?”

  They were alone. The office was small, with two desks, Bristow’s at the end away from the door. Like everything about Bristow, neatness was the rule. Two or three files lay in front of the Superintendent, near two telephones and some reference books. Behind him were photographs of Scotland Yard football teams; Bristow, in his younger days, had been a useful player.

  The room was already heavy with smoke.

  Gordon had left, after the formal search of Mannering’s clothes, and after Mannering’s statement had been taken. Now, Mannering took a cigarette and accepted a light. The two men sat back, watching each other warily.

  They were old friends; and old adversaries.

  Bristow had known Mannering for many years, had been the first man at Scotland Yard to believe that Mannering was the Baron. But the Baron’s day was over; now, the sensations which his escapades had caused were memories. Then, the Baron had been a jewel-thief, driven into conflict with the law and the community by an experience which had hammered the cold iron of bitterness deep into him. But the bitterness had gone with the years, during which he had turned from cracksman to collector, dealer and lone wolf investigator – as Bristow knew.

  Bristow did not hold the past against him.

  But none save Lorna and Mannering himself knew that two things struggled in him for mastery; love of precious stones which amounted to a passion; and love of adventure – o
f the chase. He had hunted down many a killer; as Mannering had won a reputation in the Press as great as the Baron’s in the old days. Because of his past and his present business he knew and often mixed with expert cracksmen and shrewd fences. No man in England knew more about precious stones and the mania which obsessed some collectors; none knew more of the tortuous ways in which gems passed from one man to another.

  “So no lone wolf?” murmured Mannering.

  “That’s it.”

  “Bill, it’s early to talk about that yet. You don’t know whether anything was stolen. If it was, if the Tear’s gone, the job’s going to take some handling. ‘Worth more than the love of a woman or the blood of a man.’ I’m quoting Jacob. Let’s see what you’ve got to look for before we decide what I shall do.”

  “I’ve warned you,” Bristow said. “And I’ll warn you about something else. One of these days, when you’re playing the fool, you’ll get your past pinned on to you. I never knew such a man for playing with fire. Don’t play with this one.”

  Mannering said meekly: “No, Bill. Any reason why I shouldn’t go home now?”

  “No reason at all. You’ll be wanted at the inquest, of course—you won’t leave London, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Right!” Bristow stood up. “Thanks for calling us at once. Don’t keep us in the dark about anything—about Fay Goulden, for instance.”

  The words came easily, seemed to hold no hidden significance; but Mannering felt his heart thump, and stared into the detective’s mild eyes.

  “Why her?”

  “It shook you when you saw her name as chief beneficiary,” said Bristow. “Funny thing, as you don’t know the lady!” He laughed, and opened the door – and Mannering walked quickly through the wide stone passages of the Yard, with the laugh and the gleam in the mild eyes clear in his mind.