Cry For the Baron (13 page)

“I know you do,” Mannering said quietly. She knew as well as he that if he surrendered the
Tear
he lost his chance of finding out the truth, but nothing would change her, except some new turn that would make nonsense of his calculations.

The telephone bell rang.

He answered it, looking at Lorna's back. “Yes?”

Bristow said: “Well, have you come to your senses this morning?”

“I'm about normal,” Mannering said, “Any news of the girl?”

“No.”

“Fiori?”

“No.”

“Have you been to see a Mrs. Julia Fiori, who lives next door to Fay?”

“In spite of your low opinion of us we don't spend most of our time sleeping,” Bristow said. “Yes, I've seen her. And I've had an interesting talk with a woman named Ethel—remember all she said to you?”

“Julia Fiori was mentioned, that's all. Julia Enrico Fiori, his wife.”

“Ex-wife. They were divorced two years ago.”

Because he was so surprised he didn't notice that Lorna moved from the window and came towards him.

“So there's no love lost between her and Enrico. That might be a help.” It might explain why Julia was protecting Fay, or trying to protect her, or pretending. “No, Bill, there isn't anything new this end.”

“There is,” said Lorna.

She took the telephone from him, catching him unawares. She was very close to Mannering. Her black eyebrows were drawn together.

“Mr. Bristow, my husband John does want to tell you something else. If he doesn't, I will.” She held the telephone towards Mannering, and their eyes still met. She whispered: “John, don't play with fire any longer. Tell him.”

Mannering said: “I've nothing to tell him. You please yourself.” He backed away, forced himself to look out of the window, felt his nerves tautening, was afraid of what she would say. Nothing like this had ever happened before. He had had too little warning to decide what best to do.

Would she tell the Yard man?

He heard Bristow's voice, faint, impatient and hopeful. Lorna put her lips closer to the mouthpiece, and Mannering heard her draw in her breath.

The front door bell rang.

Mannering swung away, went to the door and into the hall. Susan came hurrying out of the kitchen, drying her hands, saw him and beamed: “Will you go, sir?” He nodded, straining his ears to catch what Lorna said. The front door bell rang again, drowning her words. Susan looked back over her shoulder, as if his expression puzzled her.

He opened the front door and Larraby came in.

 

 

“I really am sorry that I've been so long, Mr. Mannering,” said Larraby. “I think I can tell you much of interest about Jacob Bernstein's customers, I do indeed.”

He smiled gravely.

Mannering could still hear Lorna speaking on the telephone. Larraby, realising that not all was well, drew back. “There's nothing wrong, I hope, sir? I haven't had an opportunity to see the newspapers this morning, although I was told that you had some misadventure last night.”

“Nothing to worry about. Go into the drawing-room, will you? I'll be with you in a minute.”

“Very good, sir.” Larraby hurried away, reminding Mannering of the important and fussy little manager of the Hula Club. Normally Mannering would have been on edge to hear what Larraby had to say; now nothing mattered except what Lorna had told Bristow. It went far beyond that, cut across the almost perfect understanding that there had always been between them. From the early days of the Baron Lorna had never failed him, had believed that he was right to take his own course, had trusted his judgment. Now, fear of Fiori and the history of the
Tear
so obsessed her that she was prepared to betray him. Betray? Was that the word? He knew that it was, knew that if Bristow could prove he had taken the
Tear
Bristow would be compelled to take action, there was nothing else the Yard man could do. Did Lorna feel desperate enough to take the chance? Had she meant it when she had said that she would rather see him in jail than in possession of the
Tear.

What a name:
The Diamond of Tears!

He heard the ting of the telephone being replaced, rooted in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one and went towards the study door. Lorna stood by the telephone, staring into space. Was this the moment to ask questions? He felt his nerves at a screaming edge, did not trust himself to behave rationally, for anger was storming inside him – the unheard of thing, anger against Lorna.

Yes; have it out, now.

He went in and closed the door. Still she didn't look at him. He drew nearer, and said in a low-pitched voice: “Was he glad to hear about it?”

She turned and looked at him, catching her breath.

“I'm a fool!” she said bitterly. “I should have told him, but I couldn't bring myself to it. But—I shall. If you haven't told him or Fiori today I shall make a statement.”

“Lorna—”

She said savagely: “I'm tired of it—tired of wondering whether you'll come back safe, tired of seeing you hurt, tired of having you risk your life for people whom you hardly know. You're not in this because of Jacob—oh, I suppose it's not because of Fay or any person, it's because you like it—you love it. I've tried to help you. Time and time again I've forced myself to wait, pretending that sooner or later you would get tired of it, but it's never ending. We have a few months' peace and then something like this happens. Even if you win through this there will be others. I can't stand it any more. It's useless to pretend, I just can't stand it!”

There was nothing Mannering could say.

“And I'm not going to stand it,” Lorna went on tautly. “Day in, day out, worry, anxiety, fear. You'll go off soon and I shan't know whether you'll ever come back. You make light of it, pretend that it doesn't matter, behave like a fool, and have the nerve to say that I'm driving
you crazy.
Driving
you!”

“Lorna—”

She swung round, rushed past him, out of the room and into the bedroom. The door slammed.

 

Larraby was waiting with his budget of news. Bristow probably suspected what Lorna had meant to say, would try to break her down. Somewhere, in mortal danger, was Fay Goulden. Behind them there was the dead Jacob, and the four other people who had been tortured and cruelly murdered because of the
Diamond of Tears.
And there was Lorna, overwrought but justified in everything she said.

He went to the drawing-room and paused outside. The door was ajar, Larraby stood by the piano. What
had
he discovered? Mannering suddenly wanted to know that more than anything else. Lorna was right; there was nothing he could do about it; the hunt was part of his life.

Was a choice to be forced on to him?

He went in and Larraby turned round, eagerly.

“I hope you're fairly well, Mr. Mannering. I've just looked at the
Record
and heard what happened last night. Things have moved very fast, very fast indeed. No doubt our friend Bristow is annoyed because you have stolen a march on him, but I don't think that Bristow has ever really acknowledged his debt to you, sir.”

Mannering said mechanically: “Debt?”

“I mean that seriously.” Larraby's clear blue eyes were earnest now. “Each man has his own particular and peculiar gift, and you—have you ever marvelled at the number of times you have been able to help the police?” The words were spoken softly. “I remember only too well the time when I was in grave danger of being imprisoned for a crime which I did not commit. I am quite sure that but for you I should be in prison now. The evidence was strong, and there was little I could do in my own defence. There are many others who owe you a great debt, and Bristow is certainly not least of them. I—but I am rambling, sir! Forgive me.” Larraby smiled and came forward, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I have the list of wealthy customers, and some of them are extremely interesting—
extremely.”

Mannering looked at Larraby, not at the list. Had the little man heard what he and Lorna had said? Was this his way of trying to help.

Mannering took the list. “I began to wonder whether you had got yourself into trouble.”

“No, it was all quite straightforward, just a matter of patience,” said Larraby. “I could do little at Bernstein's shop because of the police, but I spent the evening, and indeed part of the night, talking to his assistants. I think they are all quite reliable, loyal to Jacob and upset and distressed by what has happened. I didn't finish with the last until nearly three o'clock this morning, and I felt sure that you wouldn't wish to be disturbed at such an hour. Then I'm afraid I overslept.”

Mannering ran his eye down the list, frowning when he saw: “Toni Fiori.” What had Toni bought from old Jacob? The next name had a black cross against it – and the name was Harry Green, with an address in Hatton Gardens.

“Why mark Harry Green?”

“To draw your attention to him. He is a man of good reputation but I have reason to believe that he is not all that he seems. I have been told that he buys ‘hot' stones, and is not above smuggling jewels out of the country. And moreover, he has bought a great deal from old Jacob in recent weeks and sent most of it to America. According to all the assistants, Green has been to the shop more often than any other individual during recent months. I nope I was right to mark his name.”

“You were. He killed Jacob.”

Larraby gasped: “
What?
You've caught him?”

Mannering said drily: “Don't confuse luck with genius.” He looked further down the list, saw familiar names of dealers and collectors who often bought from Quinn's. The extent of Jacob Bernstein's business was quite remarkable—known and unknown people famous and notorious. Near the end of the list another name caught his eye. He glanced up sharply:

“What do you know about Kenneth Yule? I've never heard of him.”

“And I hadn't until I talked to old Jacob's assistants,” said Larraby. “He is a very presentable young man, who appears to be very rich. There is something a little mysterious about his association with the trade. Whether he buys as a collector or for someone else, it is impossible to be sure. The opinion is that he loves jewels for their own sake. He was not among the most frequent visitors to the shop but has made several large purchases. I particularly noted him because he made inquiries about the
Diamond of Tears.
I thought you would be interested in anyone eager to obtain the diamond. Is it still at the post office, sir?”

Mannering said “Yes,” and Larraby almost purred with satisfaction. Mannering looked through the list again, saw no other name of interest and slipped it into his pocket.

Green's visits to old Jacob weren't news: Toni Fiori's and Kenneth Yule's could have an important bearing.

The front door closed.

He heard it faintly at first, and it had no significance – until suddenly he thought of Lorna, swung round and hurried out. He went into the bedroom; Lorna wasn't there. He hurried to the front door, and heard her in the passage leading to the stairs. He didn't call out, but ran after her. He saw a taxi drawing away from the kerb. When he reached the street the taxi was near the corner. He stood there, tight-lipped, heavy at heart.

He went slowly upstairs. Larraby was sitting on a sofa reading the
Record.
He jumped up.

“What would you like me to do next, sir?”

“This Kenneth Yule—do you know what he's like?”

“He is a tall, powerful young man, aged—well, about thirty, rather less than more according to my informants. He is good looking, fair-haired, and—”

“That's good enough. Where does he live?”

“Here is a second list, with the names
and
addresses,” Larraby said, and took out a sheet of paper. “I will gladly find out more about him if I can.”

“Find out whether he knows Toni and Enrico Fiori, how long he has known Fay Goulden, whether he buys for himself or for a third party. Draw what money you need from the shop, and report to me twice a day.”

“Very well,” murmured Larraby.

Mannering said: “You've read the
Record;
you know what kind of job this is. Be careful.”

“I will indeed, sir.”

“Has Mrs. Mannering asked you where you sent that package? Does she know it's at the Strand Post Office?”

“Why, no, sir.”

“Good. Don't tell her.”

“I certainly will not, sir. Is there anything else?”

Mannering said: “No, not now. Thanks, Josh, you're doing a good job—a very good job.”

 

Outside the house one of Bristow's men stood and smiled across at Mannering. Further along the street a small car was parked, with no one at the wheel. A postman rat-tatted at a nearby door, and Mannering watched him after he had delivered his mail and came plodding nearer. The C.I.D. man came across the road and said: “Lovely morning.”

“Yes. Wasn't the idea to watch Mrs. Mannering, not me?”

“Both, sir!”

“And are they both being done?”

“Yes—we had strict instructions not to let Mrs. Mannering out of our sight. We'd a patrol car at the end of the road, it's following her taxi. I don't think you need worry about her.”

“Thanks. Anyone hanging about?”

“Not that I've noticed.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering again, and went towards the postman.

“I've something for you, Mr. Mannering, several in fact.” He ran through his bundle, produced three unsealed and one sealed letter and handed them to Mannering. “I'll take them up if you'd rather.”

“No, don't trouble,” said Mannering, and smiled and walked towards the Embankment end of the street. He was more likely to get a taxi from the other end, and didn't intend to use his car. He knew that he turned in this direction because he and Lorna often walked here at the end of the day and watched the gentle, rippling river. He crossed the wide road and stood at the parapet looking at some barges, a few oddments of flotsam bobbing up and down in the tide and, across the river, a crane working slowly, swinging round with a load of boxes for a small wharf. Bargees stood on their barges, dockers bent strong backs to their task, and the faint noises came floating across the river.

He put the three unsealed envelopes away and studied the fourth. The postmark was London, W.C.1, and it was typewritten. He slit it open with his forefinger, took out a single fold of paper – and saw at a glance that there was neither address nor signature; and there were very few words. A man strolled past, taking no apparent interest in him.

He read:
“Your good fortune will not last. It is easy for you to give me what I want. You can make it easy for others, too. Fay is a charming girl, I do not wish to hurt her.”

Fiori might have been talking to him; looking at him with those heavy-lidded brown eyes, putting no feeling into his voice, and thus making a deeper impression. Mannering read the words again, then folded the paper and put it back into his pocket. The man who had passed him was leaning against the parapet, not many yards away. Mannering walked on – and was followed. Was this another C.I.D. officer? Or did the man work for Fiori? Mannering quickened his pace, then crossed the road; the man followed, never far behind. Mannering looked in vain for a taxi; none came along. He walked very quickly, feeling the warmth of the sun on the back of his head, turned down a side street, and was still followed. He reached the main road where there were buses, saw one approaching an official stop, raced for it and jumped on board.

The man behind made no attempt to follow, but stood grinning at him. There was something in the grin which made Mannering think of Fiori; yet Fiori hadn't smiled.

Mannering got off the bus at Victoria, walked along Victoria Street, where there were more people, most of them in a hurry. Traffic was noisy and smelly, and there were plenty of taxis here, but he wanted to find out whether he had really shaken the man off or whether he was still being followed. He turned off the main road towards Caxton Hall and crossed the churchyard. He was followed only by two girls and a fair-haired boy who whistled shrilly.

He took a taxi to Piccadilly, and strolled along Shaftesbury Avenue. He saw no one whom he recognised. He was free enough now; safe enough. The word “safe” crossed his mind, he couldn't reject it; and he understood more clearly what Lorna felt. He stood at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change – as he started off he felt a sharp prick in his left arm. He turned, saw a man move back and double across the road. Mannering swung round to follow. He cannoned into a big woman who said:
“Really!”
There was no pain in his arm, but an imagined sense of numbness. Imagined? He reached the opposite pavement but lost the man, who didn't look round but dived into a subway leading to the underground; it would be a waste of time searching for him. He rubbed his arm gently; the numbness wasn't imaginary. He raced along the narrow pavement into the Regent Palace Hotel and made for the cloakroom, stripping off his coat as he went. White-clad attendants stared at him. He fumbled with his cufflink; the link fell to the floor. He rolled up his sleeve and looked at his arm.