Cry For the Baron (21 page)

Yule sat down again.

“Yes, he wants the
Tear
for the same reason that I do, Mannering. I don't know how much you've picked up about this business, but I believe that I own that Tear because it belonged to my grandfather. Or it should have done. The
Tear
itself doesn't mean a thing, it's just a key.”

“To what?”

Yule laughed again. “A treasure house of precious stones! Hundreds of them, some of the finest jewels that ever came out of the earth. They were smuggled out of Germany and Nazi Europe before and during the war. There's a platinum setting for that diamond.” So he knew that. “Unscrew the setting and you'll find a tiny hole. Dig out what's in the hole and you'll find the secret of the treasure house. Oh, you may as well know now! Bernstein got most of the stuff out of Europe. He worked with my grandfather; they were partners. My grandfather sold some-of the stuff for refugee work, but not all of it, there's plenty left. Fiori discovered that. There were several in the plot, the leaders being in Germany, one in the States, one in England. The one in England was Toni Fiori—fat Fiori's brother. He must have blabbed, that's the only way Enrico Fiori could have discovered it. Whoever finds the
Tear
finds a fabulous fortune! You could argue that it belongs to the real Fay Goulden. I could argue it belongs to me—I think it does, if there's a legal title to it. But the
Tear
and everything it leads to doesn't belong to any individual, it belongs to the refugees it was meant for in the first place. Get me?”

Mannering said: “I'm beginning to.”

A car turned the corner of the road. All three glanced towards the window, which was open a few inches at the top. Yule's wife said: “It's the police,” but neither of the men spoke. Yule shrugged his shoulders, as if it didn't matter who was coming.

“If you think I was going to cheat the real Fay, you're all wrong. I discovered who she was. It was a hell of a job tracing her, but I managed it. I didn't believe that Fiori's Fay was the right one. When I first met her I wanted to use her because I thought she could help, and then—we fell in love. You can't do anything about it when a thing like that happens. We just fell in love. It didn't take me long to discover that Fiori was keeping his claws on her. He got tired of waiting for the old boy to die. He knew Jacob was worth a fortune apart from the
Tear,
and planned to sit pretty with both fortunes in his lap. That's the trouble with Fiori. He worships money. He can't have too much. And he's dangerous, he'll get you before he's finished.”

A door banged, downstairs; footsteps sounded.

“Your friends,” Yule sneered. “Will they stay friendly for long?”

“Long enough,” Mannering said. “It's a pretty story. Are you prepared to tell the police?”

“Now that you've made Elizabeth talk, why not? I've done nothing they can get me for. I kept quiet because it paid me to, but it won't pay me now. I was looking for the
Tear
but I didn't kill Jacob. I've never committed a crime in my life, unless you call fighting Fiori a crime. Some people would call it suicide. Yes, I'll tell them now. I've even stopped caring who finds the
Tear.”

Footsteps sounded on the landing, there was a mutter of voices, and then a heavy thump on the door and a deep summons.

“Open in the name of the law.”

“How they love their formula,” Yule sneered.

Mannering slipped the gun into his pocket. Yule had another chance to spring at him and didn't take it. Mannering turned, unbolted the door and stood aside, expecting to see Bristow.

It wasn't Bristow; wasn't Gordon; wasn't a policeman. It was a man whom Mannering recognised vaguely without being able to place him – a man with a gun.

 

 

Mannering dropped his right hand to his pocket. The man with the gun swept forward. Three others behind him poured into the room. The first man gripped Mannering's arm, pulled his hand from his pocket and Mannering's gun dropped.

The girl screamed.

The man whom Mannering vaguely recognised growled: “Shut her mouth!” One of the others crossed the room. Yule jumped up, eyes glaring, fists clenched – but the man kicked him on the shins, sent him staggering back on to the bed, kicked him again and then said: “Keep quiet, sweetheart, or you'll kiss the world Goodbye.” The girl shrank against the wall – while Mannering's mind clicked, and recollection came swiftly. The man who had knocked his gun from his hand should be dressed in resplendent uniform; it was the commissionaire from Clay Court.

The man said: “We're in a hurry, and we're going places. Bring the others.” He pushed Mannering round and jabbed the gun into his back. “Don't try any tricks. I was told to rub you out if you were awkward.”

Mannering said: “That's one way of rubbing out your chances of getting the
Tear.”

Bristow ought to be here at any moment, ought to be here now, he was overdue, Lorna would have been watching the clock, so as to warn him the moment the half hour was up.

“No lip.” The off-duty commissionaire poked the gun in the small of his back and pushed him towards the landing. He glanced over his shoulder. Another man was pushing Yule, a third pulling the girl from the bed. This was like Fiori; bold, ruthless, aiming direct to get exactly what he wanted. It was a waste of time wondering how Fiori had traced this address. Would it be a waste of time saying that the police were on the way? He strained his ears to catch the sound of more cars approaching, and thought he heard an engine not far off. The man pushed him again. He gripped the banister rail to save himself from falling. On the next landing a door opened and a man waiting there said: “Shut the door—police.” There was a guard at each landing. The door closed tightly. Another door on the ground floor was opened and closed as quickly. Mannering reached the front passage with the gunman a couple of yards behind him – and a car turned into the road.

A man shouted: “Jim! Someone coming.”

“They'll pass by.”

“It's the busies!” The cry was shrill. “They're coming here, get a move on!”

Mannering said: “What's the hurry, they—”

A heavy blow on the back of his head knocked him forward. He felt someone grab his arm and hustle him ahead. But it had been a mistake to hit him, for he was a dead weight. The blow on his tender head caused him agony, he hardly knew what he was doing, couldn't think. Vague noises filled his head – the roar of the blood in his ears, voices, sharper sounds – shots. He felt himself fall, hit his forehead on the pavement and rolled over twice. Someone tripped over him and went sprawling. He heard two more sharp reports, a scream – no mistake about that, it was a scream. Then someone trod on him; his back seemed to break in two. He tried to cover his head with his arms but he was lying awkwardly and couldn't do it. Another foot stamped on him, the wind was driven out of his body, he was swallowed up by pain. There was a new sound – not the roar of the blood in his ears but the roaring of a car engine. The voices were all raised, men were shouting wildly. He didn't hear another scream –

He lay between consciousness and stupor, back and head aching, but free from new pains. He didn't know how long he had lain there when someone touched him and a man said: “Who is it?”

“It looks like—It is! Mannering!”

“Tell the super.”

“You bet.”

Someone eased Mannering up, helped him to sit against the wall and kept saying: “Take it easy, you're all right.” But his back was breaking and they didn't seem to realise it. Sitting up was fresh agony. The pain dulled. He heard footsteps, saw a vague figure approach, and recognised Bristow.

Bristow knelt beside him.

“Was he shot?”

The other policeman said: “I can't see any sign of a wound.”

“John, did they get you?”

Mannering licked his lips. “I'm all right. Back's a bit—troublesome. Elephants about.” He didn't feel like being funny, and his back was excruciatingly painful when they helped him to his feet. “How's—Yule?”

“Not badly hurt. The girl's all right.”

“Get the others?”

“Some of them. Don't worry, we'll get them before the night's out.”

Bristow was always sure of himself, but Mannering stopped thinking about it, was led into the house and then into a downstairs room where an excited woman was fluttering about, saying that it was outrageous –
thieves.
Mannering lay on a sofa, half dazed, until a police surgeon came. He was undressed, poked and prodded, winced when the cold fingers pressed into the small of his back.

“Could just be a bruise, might be serious,” the surgeon said. “We'll get him to the hospital.”

 

Would the police find Fiori's other men? Would they find Fiori? That was the only thought in Mannering's mind as he was driven along in the ambulance; it seemed a long drive.

 

He remembered the stinging prick of a hypodermic needle, and little else, until he came round. It was daylight – and he was at home, in his own bedroom. Recollection of the raid and ail that had followed it flooded his mind; next relief – for there was nothing much the matter if he had been brought home already. He heard movements about the flat, felt too dazed to call out, dozed off for a while. When he came round again he felt much clearer in the head and hardly conscious of pain. He moved gingerly; his back hurt, but it wasn't agonising. He lay looking at the door. The hands of the bedside clock pointed to half-past twelve, so he'd been unconscious for ten hours or so. Quite long enough.

Footsteps drew near and the door opened.

He grinned: “'Morning, my sweet!”

Lorna flew across the room, took his hands, seemed to want to pour her life into his. Her eyes glowed, her cheeks were radiant. He wanted her to stay like that for a long time, but at last she drew back, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and said huskily: “How do you feel?”

“For an invalid, all right. How am I?”

“You've a badly bruised back, but nothing serious. What happened?”

“Hasn't Bristow been here this morning?”

“He's called up twice and wants to see you as soon as you're awake.”

“Isn't that now?”

“He can wait for an hour,” Lorna said.

“I won't argue about that.” Mannering sat up cautiously, then put the question he was longing to ask: “Did he get Fiori?”

“No.”

“His men?”

“Some of them.”

“Tell him that one of them is the commissionaire at Clay Court, the day duty—”

“He caught that one. And it was he who made the lift crash,” Lorna said. “Bristow hasn't told me much, but I've been to see Ella Carruthers—”

“Alias
Fay, married name Yule—yes?”

“She's told me what she told you, or what Yule told you,” said Lorna. She wasn't very coherent, seemed as if she were recovering from a great strain. I think everything's over, except—”

“They haven't got Fiori. Quite a job.”

Lorna pleaded: “John, give it up now. You know the secret of the
Tear.
The rest is up to Bristow.”

“But can Bristow bait Fiori with it?” asked Mannering.

 

He wasn't so badly bruised that he couldn't move about, although he took every step gingerly. The pain was like acute lumbago. When Bristow arrived Mannering was sitting back in an easy chair, eating a cold lunch that Susan had prepared without any foolish preoccupation with an invalid's diet. Only a hint of tiredness showed in Bristow's eyes. At first glance he seemed brisk and alert and he had a fresh gardenia in his buttonhole. Mannering needed that glance to tell him that Bristow was not in an aggressive or sour mood.

“Well, John! It's a good job I wasn't five minutes later at the love nest. Next time, don't keep me waiting.”

“Sorry, Bill,” murmured Mannering.

Bristow laughed. “Yes, you're sorry! I can see it in the look in your eyes. Lorna tells me that you're not so bad as you ought to be. Pity.”

“Thanks. What's the bedside manner in aid of?”

“I'm just trying to be friendly because I think you've had a rough time. I'm satisfied with the way things have gone, too. We lost only one of Fiori's men. We're pretty sure that Fiori's on his own now, and it won't be long before we get him. You haven't lost your memory, have you?”

“Nor you your optimism.”

“I don't see how he can get away. We're watching airports and ships, we've tabs on all private airfields, all aircraft leaving the country are being watched and we get news from abroad about them. Not that Fiori is likely to go without having another stab to get the
Tear.
Yule told us something when he told us about that, didn't he?”

“You believe him?”

Bristow said: “Yes. Brownie has cracked. He and Mellor did work for Fiori, and were watching Yule. After the trouble with Chittering they were going to frame Yule. Fiori wanted him out of the way so that he could concentrate on the girl, Julia's daughter. Not much doubt about what happened—it's pretty well as Yule said. A clever move on Fiori's part. It might have worked if he'd been patient and waited for the
Tear.
He stepped up the pressure because he knew that Yule was after it and that Yule knew old Jacob had it.”

Mannering said: “Is Chittering coming through?”

“Yes. He's talked, too. He discovered what was in the
Tear,
dug it out of papers at Wrenn Street. We also dug it out, we've known about the setting and what's inside it since then. In fact we know something more.” Bristow leaned back in his chair and gave an almost cherubic smile. “There aren't many who know this John; it'll shake you. There were six parts of this message or plan about the
cache.
A piece in each of five paste stones, and the final piece in the real diamond. Funny thing, but you had four of the paste gems in your pocket. Why not laugh? We found the fifth at Toni Fiori's. We've heard about your trip there. We also know that one of Enrico Fiori's men was a waiter at his brother's place. The waiter found a paste gem where you'd been sitting, recognised it for a fake, and left it there. So now we have all five and all we want is the
Tear.”
Bristow chuckled. “Fiori seems to have made one of his major mistakes by not examining the fakes after realising they were paste. We've the other pieces of the message safely lodged at the Yard. Even if Fiori were to get the
Tear
now he wouldn't have all he was after.”

Mannering said: “For the first time I feel almost sorry for Enrico. He didn't know that the fakes are part of the secret! These people who had the paste gems were all in the secret, weren't they?”

“Trustees for Yule's grandfather, yes. That's why they held out so long before telling Fiori where the stone was, why they pretended to believe that they had the real McCoy. Now it's all sorted itself out, and Fiori just can't win. We're keeping Yule and his wife in custody—for their own protection. I'm making quite sure nothing can happen to Lorna, Larraby or Elizabeth—there's no knowing what Fiori might try. He's still sure that you have the
Tear”

“Is he?”

Bristow said with elaborate unconcern: “Yes. He telephoned Lorna to say so. He takes a lot of convincing, doesn't he? I almost wish you had it!”

Mannering said: “Getting frisky in your old age, aren't you? Wouldn't possession be a crime!”

“Oh, I don't know. You're a trustee of the estate. Even if you had it you couldn't get at the
cache
because we have the rest of the message at the Yard. I can't see you trying to sell that
Tear.
Yes, it's a pity you haven't got it,” Bristow mused. “If you had you'd be able to lure Fiori to have his last shot, wouldn't you? You know, I've been wondering what I'd do if I really thought you had it. I've decided that I'd let you go your own sweet way—look after everyone else who might come to any harm, but let you stick your neck out.” The bantering tone faded from Bristow's voice. “It would be worth risking a lot to catch Fiori. We can make sure he doesn't profit by anything, but we want more than that—we would like to see him hanged. Yes, it's a pity you haven't got the
Tear.”

“I'll try to find it as soon as I'm able to get about,” said Mannering sardonically.

 

It was three days before he could move without hurt to his back. During those three days he saw a great deal of Elizabeth Warren, who stayed at the flat. He was glad, because in trying to help the girl Lorna dwelt less on the danger from Fiori. He hadn't told her what he was going to do; she needed no telling.

On the fourth day he left the flat and drove to the Strand Post Office to get the
Tear.
None of Bristow's men followed him; he saw no sign of Fiori's men, but he didn't think that was because Fiori was now on his own.

He put the little package in his inside coat pocket and it lodged there and seemed to burn him.

Fiori wanted him to hand over the stone and there was only one place he knew where he might contact Fiori.

He telephoned Bristow from the post office.

“Listen, Bill, and don't argue. Have you two good men, not well known, who could visit a certain restaurant and look as if they're talking business?”

“Yes. Toni Fiori's?”

“Yes. Today. Say one o'clock.”