Cry For the Baron

by John Creasey

  The front door of the cottage was ajar. A burly man stood in front of it, and hurried forward as Bristow’s car drew near. Mannering felt an intense excitement, an anxiety which numbed him.

  Had they found her? Was she all right?

  Bristow opened the window and called: “Did you get her?”

  The man didn’t answer, probably didn’t hear. Bristow pulled up outside a small wooden gate and switched off the engine. The burly man opened the gate as Bristow asked again: “Did you get her? Is she all right?”

  The Woking man said: “Someone’s been pulling your leg.” He laughed, looked as if it delighted him that the great ones of Scotland Yard could nod. “Fay Goulden isn’t here and has never been here. And this is Fell Cottage.”

  Bristow looked round at Mannering, and said: “So you’re good!”

  He opened the car door and got out, while Mannering stared at the name of the gate of the cottage, there for all to see. It was an old place, with a red tiled roof and mullioned windows. It stood back from the road with its back towards the golf course. Smoke curled up from one of the two large chimneys. This was Fell Cottage, but Fay wasn’t here, had never been here.

  Bristow looked back into the car.

  “When you’ve recovered you might come and join us.” He walked with the Woking man towards the open front door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Order from Fiori

  The group of policemen seemed to be watching and laughing at Mannering as he got out of the car and walked in Bristow’s wake. Bristow, deep in conversation, didn’t look round. A plainclothes man came to the door and saluted. Bristow had to duck beneath the lintel as he went inside. Mannering lit a cigarette, glanced over his shoulder, and saw the dozen men staring. And ten more were coming – eighteen men, in all – on a wasted journey because a little man had lied to him!

  But he felt sure that man hadn’t lied.

  He had been too frightened, sure that his finger would snap if he held out. A simple fact dawned on Mannering: Fay hadn’t been mentioned by name – the two crooks had talked of “the girl,” not of Fay. That meant a girl who had been at Wrenn Street; one man had said “she’s gone.”

  There was no hall or passage at the cottage. He stepped over the threshold into a small, low-ceilinged room, charmingly and expensively furnished. The policemen looked huge as they stood in front of a wide open fireplace, questioning a girl who sat in an armchair, looking scared but no more than scared – not terrified and laden with fear, like Fay.

  She was a pretty little thing.

  Bristow said: “Now let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “I’ve told these men once,” she protested, and moistened her lips. “I’ve never seen the Goulden girl. Until I read the newspaper I’d never heard of her!”

  “Let’s have it all again,” Bristow said.

  “Well, I hardly know where to start.” She had a pleasant voice, good, clear blue eyes. She wore a plain grey top coat, stout brown shoes, and was neat and tidy. “I work for Mr. Yule.”

  “And he owns this place?”

  “Yes, he owns the cottage and a house in London—5 Wrenn Street. Sometimes I work here, sometimes at Wrenn Street. I had a message this morning, asking me to come here. So I came and opened up the cottage because no one has been here for a week.”

  “Who was at Wrenn Street when you left?”

  “Mellor and Brownie. Brownie does odd jobs in the garden, doesn’t work regularly. Mellor is Mr. Yule’s chauffeur. I can’t understand why you thought that Miss Goulden might be here.”

  Bristow glanced at Mannering.

  “Any idea?” he asked dryly.

  Mannering said: “My man was Brownie, and apparently Brownie lied.” But Brownie had told the simple truth – this was the girl he had talked of.

  “And you’d never heard of Miss Goulden until you saw her name in the newspapers,” Bristow said sceptically. “Didn’t you know that she was a friend of Mr. Yule’s?”

  “I only work for him,” said the girl. “Miss Goulden has never been here or at the house while I’ve been present. I’m quite sure.”

  She sounded transparently honest – but was she? She’d been sent here, and –

  There were various possibilities. That Mellor and Brownie had known there was danger, that Cluttering had got onto them, so they had been afraid that there would be a raid at the house. Therefore they had sent the girl away, where they could do what they liked without fear of being overheard. Chittering had walked into the trap – and Chittering was now lying on an operating table, where the surgeons might save his life.

  Bristow said: “Go into another room for a few minutes, will you?”

  The girl jumped up. “I don’t know what Mr. Yule will say.” She went out, tossing her head – but from the door she shot a swift look at Bristow and the Woking man. Mannering caught the look, the weariness of it, the doubt and anxiety. Bristow missed it, because Bristow was looking at him.

  “You want to take a holiday, John,” he said sadly.

  “Yes,” Mannering agreed ruefully. “I can see how it happened, but—”

  “The time to see what’s happening is while it’s going on, not after the damage is done,” said Bristow. “Well, I won’t rub it in. What’s the girl’s name?” he asked the Woking man.

  “Elizabeth Warren.”

  “Is she known?”

  “The constables who cover the golf course say she’s worked for Yule for a couple of years.” He shrugged. “The story is that she’s both housekeeper and mistress. She’s often here at night, alone with him. She’s friendly, plays a good round of golf, has a lot of spare time. There are two daily women who do the heavy work, and she gives them their orders. Yule’s not well known, but has a reputation of being a nice young chap. You know how it is—a love nest, and no one’s poked their nose in too far.”

  “I hope they’ve kept their eyes open, we want to know who visits Yule here,” said Bristow. “Get the girl’s statement ready and have her sign it, won’t you? I’ll check in London.” It wasn’t surprising that Bristow thought it likely that the girl had told the whole truth, and was thinking of a routine check.

  No evidence that Yule was implicated in any form of crime was found at the cottage or at Wrenn Street.

  On the way back Bristow said: “We can hold Yule if either Mellor and Brownie implicate him, but not if they don’t. I believe that you took a call intended for Yule, but it wouldn’t stand up in court and you know it wouldn’t. Better let him go, and keep tabs on him, rather than put him on a charge. Taken on its face value your statement isn’t much good.”

  Mannering, in a subdued mood, had to agree.

  Bristow dropped him at Oxford Street and Mannering took a taxi to St. George’s Hospital, spent twenty futile minutes trying to get a precise report on Chittering, and left with the assurance that the operation had been successful but the patient’s condition was dangerous; his wife had already been summoned.

  Outside the hospital Mannering bought a Daily Record. Chittering’s last job had been well and truly done. A mysterious foreigner was believed to have visited Jacob Bernstein shortly before his death; there was reason to believe that the Tear had been smuggled out of the country, and much more. Mannering stood reading it and felt someone bump into him. He started round; a little man stood at his side, squinting at the paper.

  “Wonder who thought that one up,” he said. “Shouldn’t think it would convince anyone with any sense, would you? These newspapers. And the police—bah!” He looked up at Mannering with a twisted grin, then suddenly stepped into the road in front of a stream of traffic. He reached the opposite pavement while Mannering stood stranded on the kerb – actually waved and grinned before he jumped into a taxi and was driven off.

  Just like Fiori –

  A quic
k jab of a needle; a sharp jolt to his mind; a cryptic letter – each with its evidence that Mannering was watched and followed wherever he went. Had he been followed to Woking and back, or picked up in London by accident? How could he have been picked up in London? One way was obvious; if Fiori knew about Chittering he would expect Mannering to visit the hospital and send a man to watch. How many men worked for him? Where was he? Where was Fay?

  Mannering walked along crowded Piccadilly keeping a sharp look-out, seeing no sign that he was followed. He took another taxi and went to Quinn’s. On jobs like this he almost forgot that he owned Quinn’s and had work to do. His manager, portly, courtly, dressed in morning clothes and with a grey cravat, reported that all was well. He went into detail about some inquiries for Dutch miniatures and an exquisite Genoese silver table which stood in the discreet gloom of the back of the shop, then asked whether Larraby was likely to be off shop-duty for any length of time.

  “Probably, yes. Can you manage?”

  “Oh, quite well, Mr. Mannering, but I shall have to hire a porter for several odd jobs.”

  “Make sure it’s a man you know,” said Mannering. He went to the small office at the back of the shop, saw a pile of correspondence awaiting attention, glanced through it impatiently, made notes, and was nearly through when the telephone bell rang.

  “This is Quinn’s.”

  “And I believe that is Mr. Mannering,” said Fiori.

  Mannering pressed a bell-push which rang a bell gently in the shop, pulled a notepad forward, started to scribble, and said: “Yes, this is Mannering, and I want to talk to you.” He wrote: “Try to trace this call, it’s Fiori, say you’re police,” and pushed the note across to the manager who had come in response to the bell. He read it without raising an eyebrow and went off.

  Fiori said: “I am not vengeful, Mannering, and you know what I want. Take it to my brother’s restaurant, and leave it tucked behind the cushion of your chair between eight and nine o’clock tonight.”

  He rang off.

  Mannering inserted his key into the lock of the front door of his flat and the door opened. Lorna looked up and said: “Why didn’t you call me?” but there was no reproof in her voice. She didn’t smile, but her heavy frown was gone. Mannering slammed the door behind him, took her in his arms, kissed her fiercely and passionately.

  “I’m forgiven!”

  “You’re not forgiven but I suppose you aren’t to blame for what’s born in you. Why I had to marry a man who always keeps me on a knife edge I don’t know, but I did it and I’ve got to put up with it. Do you think you’ll get Fiori with the Tear?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “When a lot of little things are cleared up.” Mannering led the way into the study. “Do Fiori and Kenneth Yule work together or are they rivals for the Tear? If they’re rivals, do they want it for the same reason? What did Cluttering discover that put him on the murder list?”

  “Glittering! Is he hurt?”

  “Didn’t you know?” He told her, and needed no telling how dreadfully upset she was.

  He told her everything else, omitting only the jab from the needle and the other reminder of Fiori outside the hospital. She had won this new battle with herself, for she said: “Will you go to the café?”

  “Probably, but not with the diamond. I don’t think I should be allowed to get as far as the café. Enrico may not have any love for brother Toni, but he would hardly embroil Toni and take the chance that I’ll tell Bristow and have the café raided. I wouldn’t even say that I think Fiori hopes I’ll go, it’s just part of the unnerving process. What happened at Julia’s flat?”

  “Gordon came and took Kenneth Yule away. I don’t think Yule realised what was happening, he was still asleep when Gordon arrived.”

  “Clever Julia,” murmured Mannering.

  “Where does she come into that?”

  Mannering laughed. “That drink was drugged. Remember how Julia once put Fay to sleep, to prevent her from talking to me? Yule put up a pretty act, Julia went one better. What did you make of her?”

  “I like her.”

  “Attractive, almost gay, quite a personality. But how much of her talk about Fiori’s corruption was bluff? Does she hate him as much as she says she does? Is she really concerned for Fay? Bristow told me that the earlier victims in the Tear hunt owned paste gems – and they were stolen. Julia has a nice little collection of paste Tears. That reminds me!” He went to his desk, took out an illustrated catalogue, ran through the pages and stopped at a black and white illustration of the Diamond of Tears. Beneath this was printed the weight and measurements of the gem. He checked these with the measurements he had taken from the paste replicas; they were identical. “These fakes were not only made for the Tear, my sweet, they were almost certainly made by someone who had the Tear as a working model. I’d like to know more about the first four of Fiori’s victims – how they came to have the Tear or to think they had, why they thought it worth suffering hell before they would tell him where to find their copy of the pretty thing. Care to do some research for me?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “The Record office will help as much as anywhere,” Mannering said. “While you’re there you might try to find out what happened to the reporter who watched Kenneth Yule last night.”

  “Are you sure Yule was putting on an act? I’ve never seen a man who made me feel more sorry for him.”

  “Young man in love? It wouldn’t surprise me if he is in love with Fay, but he’s also deep in the hunt for the Tear. Don’t trust your feelings. Feelings ask us to trust Julia, but we can’t; or trust Yule, and we daren’t. I hope the police hold him, but they won’t unless they get a squeal out of Mellor and Brownie. Of course, you don’t know Mellor and Brownie …”

  At half-past six that evening Bristow telephoned. Neither of the men caught at 5, Wrenn Street had implicated Yule, neither had talked at all – except that Brownie had accused Mellor of attacking Chittering, and said he had tried to stop him.

  “So you’re letting Yule go,” Mannering said heavily.

  “We’ll watch him.”

  “Before the night’s out you’ll have lost him.”

  “Still think you can do better?”

  “No, Bill,” said Mannering humbly.

  “I had a message from your shop about Fiori’s telephone call. You can never trace anything on the automatic system, but at least you had the sense to tell me that Fiori had called. What did he say?”

  “He still clings to the odd notion that I can find the Tear. He also threatened what he’ll do if I don’t hand it over.”

  Bristow said: “He’ll probably carry out his threat. What are you going to do tonight?”

  “Have a good dinner and ruminate on the sins of the world,” said Mannering.

  “So you’re going to the café,” Lorna said, when he rang off.

  “Yes. But I’ve other things to do first. Will you try the Record for that dope about the early Fiori victims, and come straight back here? The police will watch you. Make sure you don’t get mixed up in crowds and can always be seen by the Yard man. Better tell Susan that I’ll be at Toni Fiori’s until ten o’clock; anyone who calls can find me there. After that—”

  “Home.”

  “Woking,” said Mannering.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Visitor at Woking

  Julia’s maid answered his ring. Julia came out of the drawing-room to greet him, superb in a black evening gown with a rare orchid at her breast, shoulders and arms like alabaster. “You ought to have a key,” she said. “What will you drink?”

  “Gin and something, please. I’m sorry you’re going out.”

  “I’m not, so we can have a delightful evening together. Or is your wife coming?” As Julia went to the coc
ktail cabinet, Mannering watched the smooth grace of her movements and tried to picture Enrico Fiori by her side.

  “How well do you know Toni’s restaurant?”

  “I haven’t been there for months.”

  “Come tonight?”

  Julia brought him a pink gin. “You like asking for trouble, don’t you?”

  “Thrive on it. Will you come?”

  “Yes.” She sipped, eyed him smilingly, but wariness lurked in her lovely eyes. “What’s the reason?”

  “I want you to bring something with you.”

  “What?”

  “One of the imitation Tears.”

  Julia turned away, took a book from beneath a table, opened it revealing photographs; it was a thin album covered in wine-red leather. She nipped over the pages, came to a photograph which occupied a whole page, studied it but didn’t speak. Mannering joined her and saw Enrico Fiori. The photograph was so lifelike that it might have been taken yesterday. The lowered lids, the solemnity of expression, the heavy jowl – everything was there. Sinister?

  Julia closed the book.

  “Enrico, I’m beginning to think you’ve met your match,” she said slowly. “So you discovered the paste Tears yesterday? Why did you leave them?”

  “Everything is useful at the proper time and place. Tonight I want a fake because Enrico asked me to go to Toni’s and leave the Tear there. He’s so used to finding imitations that I shouldn’t like to disappoint him. Why five, by the way? Only four have been stolen, as far as I can trace.”

  “He bought one, years ago.”