Cry For the Baron

by John Creasey

  Julia said: “All I want to do is to help Fay. If I think you can do that I’ll help you.”

  Could anyone speak with such apparent sincerity and be lying?

  Mannering said: “That’s fine, but still watch her, Lorna. The police are outside, they’ll come at a shout. Don’t let Yule leave for at least an hour.”

  “He’ll lie like a log for hours,” Julia said.

  Lorna followed Mannering to the door, they paused, their hands touched. She said, “I’m not sorry. I know I’m right, and the awful thing is, you are, too. Be careful.”

  He smiled, and went out.

  The C.I.D. man outside Fay’s flat nodded. Downstairs there was another, whom Mannering had seen earlier that day at Chelsea: the man detailed to follow Lorna. Mannering said: “She’s all right, and she isn’t coming out for an hour. If she does there’s something wrong.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Mannering hurried towards Park Lane, and soon found a taxi. “Wrenn Street, St. John’s Wood, please.” He sat back, still fingering the leather key case, trying not to let his thoughts race too far ahead. But the significance in that call couldn’t be exaggerated. ‘They’ve tumbled to it. That ruddy newshound.’ He might have meant Cluttering or the reporter whom Cluttering had sent to follow Yule.

  London was sprawling and too big, much too big, and there was too much traffic; it took an age to move along Park Lane, then the Edgware Road. But when the driver turned right into the side streets they went faster, reached the Marylebone Road, bowled along towards St. John’s Wood. Mannering didn’t know Wrenn Street but knew the district. He looked out at the big, tall houses, drab and grey, some of them surrounded by high brick walls. The driver knew just where he was going. He swung round a corner and said: “What number?”

  “Five.”

  “Other end.”

  Mannering looked out of the window, and saw nothing behind them. He changed his mind, and said: “Sorry, it’s fifteen.” The man grunted, and stopped by a big yellow brick wall. Mannering paid him off, waited in the gateway of Number 15 for several minutes; no one turned into the street. He walked past Number 5, which stood well back from the road. The garden was well kept, he caught a glimpse of a trim lawn behind an iron gate. No one was in sight. He went into the next door garden, stood on a handy wheelbarrow and looked over the wall. No one was in the back garden of Number 5, and there was no rear garden gate. He peered up at the windows. No curtains moved, no one appeared to be looking.

  He climbed the wall, jumped down on to a flower bed, and turned his ankle enough to hurt.

  Here was tidiness and colour. On a clothes line at the end of the garden some socks and stockings blew gently in the slight wind. He heard no sound in the house, went to the nearest window and peered into the kitchen; it was much more modern than he had expected. He walked quickly to the front of the house, peering in at every window, and saw no one.

  There was a wide porch and two round cement-faced pillars. The huge door was freshly painted green, the brass glittered. He tried two of the four Yale keys in the case before the lock turned. The door squeaked as it opened, but when he stepped into the spacious hall there was silence. He closed the door gently, risking another squeak, tiptoed to the foot of a carpeted staircase and listened intently.

  He heard voices.

  There were five rooms downstairs, including the kitchen. He looked in each one, locked the kitchen door to make sure no one could get in that way, bolted the front door and then went upstairs, keeping close to the wall to prevent the treads squeaking. The voices had stopped. There was a wide landing and a narrow passage; five doors altogether, and only one was ajar. Another flight of stairs, much narrower than this, led to the next floor. He couldn’t spend too much time covering his retreat. He crept to the door which was ajar and a man said: “He’s taking his time.”

  “He’ll be along.”

  “What are we going to do with that guy?”

  “He’ll keep.”

  “I’m not so sure. If we’ve croaked him—”

  “Forget it!”

  “You don’t seem to realise the danger. We’ve got the girl away, we don’t have to wait for the big boy, he can follow us.”

  “We wait.”

  Mannering could just see into the room between the door and the wall. He saw one man, sitting sideways to him – a stocky dark-haired, tough-looking man – and a pair of feet that didn’t belong to him. The feet, in highly polished brown shoes, belonged to someone on the floor, in a corner.

  Chittering?

  Mannering drew back from the door, opened another and entered a large bedroom. He took an ashtray from the side of the bed, a large brass candlestick from the mantelpiece, went back to the door and tossed the ash tray down the stairs. At the first sound a chair scraped and a man exclaimed: “What’s that?”

  “He’s come,” said the harsh-voiced man; and the chair creaked, a footfall sounded, the door opened, a head appeared. Mannering brought the candlestick down on the head, pitching the man forward, turned and drove his fist into the other’s face. Instantly, he struck the second man on the back of the head with the candlestick; the man grunted and lay still. The other had recovered, and was swinging round with his right hand at his pocket. Mannering jumped back into the room and slammed the door. A shot rang out, a bullet struck the wood. He rammed home the bolts as another shot came, aimed at the lock – Benoni’s trick.

  He stepped over the unconscious man’s body and saw Cluttering in the corner. Chittering’s fluffy hair was matted with congealed blood.

  Mannering searched the pockets of the man he had knocked out, felt an automatic pistol and drew it out. The shooting had stopped. He heard no sound outside, nothing to suggest that the man was creeping down the stairs. He looked round for a telephone; it was by the fireplace. This was a living-room, small, newly painted and papered. He dialled the police emergency number, 999, and was answered promptly. “Send to Five, Wrenn Street, St. John’s Wood—attempted murder, and there’s a man loose with a gun.” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle, and went to Chittering. He knelt down, felt for the pulse, looking tight-lipped into the cherubic face.

  His pulse beat faintly.

  Mannering touched his head gently, seeing that he had been bashed several times. The skull was probably cracked – minutes mattered, but the police would send an ambulance and a doctor. He heard a car coming along the road and stop, then heard a shout. He went to the small window, but it overlooked the back of the house. He flung it up, looked right, saw nothing of the road but heard another shout.

  A shot rang out in the street.

  Mannering turned away, went to the man he had knocked out, sat him up against the wall and began to slap his face – not hard, just enough to bring him round. He heard more shouting, but no further shooting. The man’s eyes flickered and Mannering said:

  “That’s it, wake up.” He slapped again, and the man cringed away. “Where’s the girl?” Dazed eyes blinked at him. Except that he didn’t like the slapping, the man was hardly conscious. Mannering slapped: “The girl—where is she?”

  “I—I—I dunno—”

  Mannering said: “I’ll break your fingers one by one if you don’t tell me.” He took the man’s little finger between his, bent it back. Another car pulled up outside, men ran along the path, a door banged back – so the police were already in the house. “Don’t move, or the bone will snap. Where’s the girl?”

  Terrified eyes peered into his; little ugly eyes in a small ugly face.

  “She’s at the cottage, at the cottage!”

  “Where’s the cottage?” Mannering pressed on the little finger, not caring in that moment whether it snapped or not. Men thudded up the stairs, flung open doors, reached this one and banged on it. A man called: “Open—open in the name of the law!” The l
aw could be so stupid. “Where’s the cottage?” Mannering demanded, and saw little balls of sweat break out on the other’s forehead and Up.

  “At Woking. Fell Cottage, Woking. I never—”

  “Who owns it?”

  “The Big Boy. Yule! You’re hurting!” The man gasped and cried out.

  The police challenge came again and a man said: “Tell them to watch the window, and bring an axe. We’ll have to smash this down.”

  “What part of Woking?”

  “Near the golf course. I—I didn’t bash him. Mellor did that, I didn’t bash him. I tried to stop him. I didn’t bash him.”

  Mannering said: “I hope they give you life.” He stood up, went to the door and hesitated, then heard another, familiar voice outside. He laughed shortly, pulled back a bolt, and heard a man say: “He’s opening it.”

  “Stand aside! Be careful, he may be armed.”

  Mannering pulled back the other bolt, unlocked the door and pulled it open. A policeman in uniform, a plain-clothes man and Inspector Gordon stood there, crouching, ready to pounce; one man had a truncheon in his hand. Mannering said: “Well, you get full marks for that, you didn’t lose much time. Did you catch Mellor?”

  “Mellor?” barked Gordon; he looked savage.

  “The man with the gun.”

  “Yes, we did,” said the constable. “We got him all right, and he didn’t do any damage.”

  “Not a bad job, then, is it?” Mannering asked Gordon. “But it’s not quite over. Fay Goulden’s at a cottage near Woking Golf Course—Fell Cottage. And if friends of Mellor are looking after her we’d better not lose much time. Will you call the Woking police?”

  Gordon said: “We could hear what was happening in here. You were hurting that man, and—”

  “I would gladly break his neck.” Mannering heard a bell ringing out in the street, the clear familiar clang of an ambulance. He turned and pointed to Chittering. “He got hurt, too. Argue about it afterwards, but warn the local police at Woking, and then let’s get moving.” Gordon stood and glowered but was shaken by sight of Chittering’s battered head. The sergeant pushed forward and bent down on one knee beside Chittering. Mannering swung round, picked up the telephone, dialled and spoke savagely as the disk clattered round. “W—H—I—1—2—1—2. In case you don’t know it, that’s Scotland Yard.” [Gordon tried to take the telephone away. Mannering resisted, and the operator answered.

  “Scotland Yard, can I help you?”

  “Superintendent Bristow, please.”

  It wasn’t long before Bristow was speaking.

  Mannering said: “Bill, I’m with a half-cocked lunatic you call an inspector. Gordon. I’ve asked him to call the Woking police and warn them that Fay Goulden is at Fell Cottage, near the links. He doesn’t seem to know how to use the telephone. Speak to him, will you?”

  Gordon hissed: “I’ll make you pay for this.”

  Mannering pushed the receiver into his hand and backed away. The C.I.D. man stood up from Chittering and said: “It’s a bad job.” Why speak at all, if one couldn’t find anything better to say than that? Mannering heard the ambulance men coming up the stairs. He felt unsteady from reaction, the fact that chance had saved Chittering, if he were to be saved; in another hour it would have been too late. He saw Gordon’s pale, angry face as Gordon listened, and had little doubt what Bristow was saying. The ambulance men and a police surgeon came in.

  Gordon turned round.

  “He’s coming,” he growled. “You’re to stay here until he arrives.”

  Mannering said: “Thanks, I can do with a breather.” He sat down in an easy chair, the chair that Mellor had been using a quarter of an hour ago. Suddenly he remembered Kenneth Yule sprawled back in the chair at Julia’s flat, sleeping like a log. He spluttered; laughed. The surgeon glowered at him. Gordon swore beneath his breath, but no one took much notice until Mannering said: “There’s a man named Yule at 23 Clay Court. He owns this house. You might do something about him, too.”

  Bristow had a green Rover 2-litre. He had always had a green Rover, it always looked a little shabby, and it was always capable of surprising bursts of speed on account of its supercharged engine. Like Bristow, it was deceptive. It hummed along the Kingston by-pass an hour after Gordon had spoken to the Superintendent. Two other cars followed, but Gordon wasn’t in this convoy, he had gone to Yule. The other cars had five men in each, but only Mannering and Bristow were in this one. Bristow wasn’t in a talkative mood. He had concentrated on getting through the thick suburban traffic, and was now concentrating on speed. Houses and green fields flashed by. Mannering watched the speedometer creep up towards the seventy-five mark, and suddenly laughed again.

  Bristow said: “What’s funny?”

  “It’s all funny. Especially how quickly things can move. Thanks, Bill. If Gordon had his way he would be questioning me still, and probably deciding that it was time to telephone Woking.”

  “Sure the girl’s there?”

  There was no need to keep anything back, so he talked freely and easily – of the way Yule had come in, of what had followed, of the telephone call and all he had heard at 5 Wrenn Street. Bristow kept his eye on the road and the needle which was hovering between seventy and seventy-five. They were now near the end of the by-pass; in ten minutes they would be at Woking.

  “And that’s all?”

  “Isn’t it plenty? I thought Fiori had the girl. Julia Fiori was sure he hadn’t, and this has about clinched it.”

  “Yes. I’m glad about that girl.” Bristow swerved to pass a lorry and Mannering snorted. “What’s got into you? What’s funny?”

  “The things people say.” Mannering took out a cigarette and gave it to Bristow, lit it for him, and went on slowly: “It’s almost time to start thinking. Yule and Fiori were rival bidders for the Tear, that’s pretty evident. I don’t think they’re working together—I’ll have a big surprise if we find they are. The Tear is responsible for a lot. Fay was going to inherit it, so Fiori made himself her guardian, and Yule got engaged to her. And she was scared all the time.”

  “So Fiori made himself her guardian?”

  “That’s the story. She was a hostess at the Hula club, but she didn’t use the name of Fay Goulden. She was Ella Carruthers. She started there at the tail-end of the war years, when she wasn’t long out of school, if my information’s correct. Did you know she also called herself Carruthers?”

  Mannering said: “Bull’s eye, Bill.”

  “Yes, we get some. We’ve been digging into old Goulden’s past, too. You know he was at Bonn University. We know that he managed to pass himself off as a German for the first few years of the Nazi terror and helped a lot of refugees out of the country. Then he had to fly himself, but didn’t make it. He was caught, interned and died at Dachau. Jacob Bernstein was at Dachau—remember?’’

  Mannering said: “If Goulden helped refugees out of Nazi Germany this is beginning to make sense. I mean the legacy. I can imagine old Jacob would think that well worth repayment. There was nothing wrong with Jacob.”

  “It’s a matter of opinion and depends on how you look at it. Jacob was clever and I wouldn’t class him with Harry Green and other crooked dealers, but he smuggled a lot of stones into and out of the country. I’m not worried about that just now, I’m thinking more about Jacob and the Tear. Do you know how he got hold of it?”

  “No.”

  Bristow said: “I wish I did. I can tell you this, if you haven’t already discovered it, and I don’t think you have. These four people who owned the Tear and were murdered didn’t have the real McCoy.”

  Mannering exclaimed: “What? If this is a joke—”

  “It’s fact. They each had a paste diamond that looked like the Tear. I wouldn’t like to take my oath on it yet, but it’s pretty certain that Fiori knew they were
supposed to have the Tear, and thought they had. Fiori went after them, dealt with them, and got a paste diamond each time. It didn’t please the gentleman. The real Tear was under cover. Whether Jacob had it, or whether he came across it when he reached England, I don’t know. He was expert at smuggling jewels out of Germany during the persecution days before the war—odd that a man does a thing one way and is a hero, does it another and becomes a criminal. But I don’t make the law, I just see that it’s carried out. One obvious question crops up now, and I’d like to know the answer. Did Jacob have the real Diamond of Tears, or was it another paste stone?”

  Mannering said: “It was—” and stopped abruptly.

  Bristow looked quickly away from him, Mannering ran his hand across his forehead, and began to sweat. The trick was clear, but he had nearly seen it too late. Bristow had talked freely, lulled him into a sense of security, then dropped out the casual question – and he’d nearly answered, nearly admitted that he had seen the Tear.

  “It was what?” asked Bristow.

  “It was pretty crazy that four different people should think they had the Tear, and actually had a dab of paste,” said Mannering. But the fact that he had stalled Bristow wasn’t so important as another fact – that there were five paste diamonds, all like the Tear in Julia Fiori’s jewel drawer.

  Bristow didn’t force his question; he didn’t even show any sign of disappointment.

  “A lot of people are fooled by paste; you ought to know that. It’s still a question—was Jacob’s Tear real or a fake? If real, where did he get it, where has it been all these years? I don’t get it, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  They passed under the railway bridge and were at the edge of Woking Common when a police patrol car, parked just ahead of them, stuck out its indicator and moved off. As they slowed down a policeman put his head out of the window and shouted something. They couldn’t hear the words, but guessed what he meant – they were to follow the patrol car. It swung left, then turned across the open commonland. Here and there were small cottages, but no one was near them. Mannering saw the golf course in the distance and, at one side of it, several cars and little knots of men near some pine trees and a cottage. He forgot the paste diamonds and all that Bristow had told him. He watched the cottage closely, looking among the crowd of men for Fay.