Cry For the Baron (16 page)

“Did you know that she was going to inherit his money?”

In this flat were extracts from Jacob's will; she did know, and if she lied now then all his suspicions of her would be revived, re-doubled. She hesitated, weighing her words, and he felt sure that she was going to lie.

Then she said: “Yes. Fiori discovered it. Don't ask me how. From that moment he was very interested in Fay and became her self-appointed guardian. I discovered why that was. Whatever else, he isn't a woman chaser and there was nothing in Fay that would interest him, he likes his women to be sophisticated. Like me!” She laughed, and there was bitterness in her voice. “Then he heard it rumoured that Bernstein had the
Diamond of Tears,
and I understood.”

“Understood what?”

“Why he was so interested in Fay. She would inherit the
Tear.
It was the one thing he wanted above all else. Something has happened recently to make him desperate. I don't know what. He's always wanted the
Tear.
He's dreamed about it, fought for it, killed and mutilated for it – and it's always evaded him. This time he thought that he was safe, until Bernstein spread the rumour that he was going to sell. When Jacob did that he virtually killed himself.”

“Why does Fiori want the
Tear?”

“I don't know. There were questions which you didn't ask Enrico. If you—”

The telephone bell broke across her words. She seemed glad, crossed to the telephone, and said: “Yes … Yes, he's here.”

But she didn't look at Mannering, only at Kenneth Yule, and went on slowly: “He's not free at the moment. Can he call you back? … Well, if it's that urgent.” She put the telephone on the table, looked at Yule and shrugged. “I don't know whether we can wake him.”

Yule's faint snoring was rhythmic and deep.

Mannering said softly: “All you care about is helping Fay. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the telephone,” said Mannering, and stretched out his hand. Julia hesitated, then let him have it. Lorna moved restlessly, took a cigarette from a small box, lit it and said: “What are you going to do?”

Mannering covered the mouthpiece with his hand, looked at her with his head on one side, smiled faintly at Julia, and said carefully: “How does this sound?”

Julia started.

Mannering went on: “I'm out of practice, but it ought to serve.”

It wasn't his voice; it was Kenneth Yule's. Julia backed away, as if before something uncanny.

“And speaking on the telephone will help to make it convincing,” Mannering said. He framed his words carefully, sounded boyish, eager and intent – just like Yule. He took his hand away from the telephone and said: “Yes, what is it?”

A man said: “They've tumbled to it. That ruddy newshound. You'd better come quick.”

Mannering said: “Where are you?”

“At the house, where the hell do you think I am?” and rang off.

 

 

Mannering asked: “Where does Yule live?” He went across to Yule, stared down at him, made sure that his eye-lids were quite still, he wasn't foxing but was in a really heavy sleep. Mannering lowered his voice, as if afraid of waking him. “In London?” Larraby had told him but Yule might have two addresses.

“He has a house in St. John's Wood,” Julia said.

“The address?”

“Five, Wrenn Street.”

“Thanks.” Mannering leaned forward, touched Yule's coat. “Do you know which pocket he keeps his keys in?”

“I—no,” said Julia. “No.”

Mannering said: “If he wakes I'm going to send him to sleep again. If he doesn't, keep him here until you hear from me.” He moved his hand towards Yule's right trouser pocket and slid it in slowly, groping. He touched some coins. Yule didn't stir. He felt every coin; there was nothing else in the pocket. As he withdrew his hand the two women watched him breathlessly. To get at the other trouser pocket he would have to shift Yule. He felt first in his coat and waistcoat; there were no keys. He put an arm beneath Yule's left leg, raised it, crossed it gently over the other, then went to the side of the chair; the pocket gaped a little. His fingers crept in; he touched something soft; leather. He drew it out. When he saw it his eyes lit up; this was a key case.

“What is it all about?” Julia's voice was hushed, as if she were as anxious as Mannering not to wake Yule.

“I don't know yet. How far do you trust Yule?”

“I've no reason to distrust him.”

“Just a good-time Charlie,” Mannering said. But Kenneth Yule had been interested in the
Tear
and Larraby was checking on him, so was Glittering. The telephone call had brought things to a head but introduced nothing really new – except possibly suspicions of Yule. “Lorna, I'm not sure what Julia will try to do when I've gone. Watch her.” He went across the room, picked up Julia's handbag and looked through it. “No gun, anyhow.”

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 law 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.”