Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  “Why, how funny,” she interrupted. “Mr. Mannering was saying that the other day, almost the same words.” She glanced down at the jewelled cross, and didn’t notice the change in her father’s expression. “In Paris, genius and garrets go together, the life of a sybarite there or anywhere else can only waste . . .” Glancing up, she saw his expression. “Daddy, what is it?”

  “Nothing, my dear.”

  “Don’t be absurd, there is.” Staring, she realised that he had looked like this once or twice before when she had mentioned the Mannerings; and she remembered, too, that when he’d been asked to go round and have a drink with them, he had found an excuse. “Daddy, why don’t you like the Mannerings?”

  “I don’t even know them.”

  “That’s what I mean!”

  “Forget it, Franky.”

  “I wish you’d tell me,” she said, “and I wish I’d realised before that you don’t like them.” She was genuinely upset. “If I’d only thought, I’d never have invited them.”

  Although he tried hard to hide it, hardness sprang into his eyes.

  “Invite them here?”

  “Yes, tonight. They’ve been so good, I wanted you to meet them.” The jewelled cross, the mockery in his eyes, the happiness of the morning, were all gone; she was acutely distressed. “Daddy, I can’t put them off now, can I?”

  “My sweet, it’s the last thing I’d want you to do.”

  “Why don’t you want to meet them? Twice before you’ve avoided them, and I hadn’t realised that.”

  He hesitated; then his face cleared and he leaned forward to the hot-plate, placed another rasher of bacon on her plate, brought that silent laughter to his eyes, and said: “I’ll tell you after I’ve met him.”

  “Promise?”

  “Francesca,” he said very suddenly, “I wish to God you hadn’t to grow up.”

  There wasn’t much time to think.

  Her father had gone out in the middle of the morning, promising to come back in good time for tea. The one maid, worked up about the party, became temperamental. The tit-bits, ordered from a West End firm, were late in coming. Hired glasses, hired dishes, even the drinks hadn’t arrived in the middle of the afternoon. One of the three hired waiters came with a dripping cold, and used a venomous tongue when she told him she just couldn’t let him stay. It was after five before she realised that her father wasn’t back.

  He’d soon arrive.

  He didn’t arrive at all.

  Minute by minute as the late afternoon had passed, she had waited and watched, but he hadn’t come. The party was to last from six until eight o’clock. Three of her closest friends, two girls of her own age and a boy slightly younger, had arrived first, realised she was worried, and taken a lot of the burden off her shoulders. The party had soon warmed up, and become more hilarious than she had expected.

  A second worry was added to her father’s non-appearance; that when the Mannerings and others of the generation senior to this arrived, they would feel that it was like a bear-garden. Everyone was comparatively sedate so far, but two were talking far too much, and a red-haired girl with an enormous bust was talking much too loudly.

  Then the Mannerings had arrived - John Mannering, tall, distinctive in a way which reminded her of her father, but as English as anyone could be. His good looks seemed to belong to an earlier age, needed a wide-brimmed cavalier’s hat or the clothes of a Regency buck to set them off. And Lorna, his wife, was remarkable; the kind of woman one might hope to be. It wasn’t only her looks, although she was quite handsome. Her expression? She could look haughty and be aloof. It was poise, perhaps, a manner which somehow made it obvious that she was nice to know. She had the figure of a young woman, moved lithely, and had as much dress sense as Dior.

  It was easy to envy her.

  Mannering was dashingly handsome, almost too spectacular; and this party wasn’t right for him; or for Mrs. Mannering, either.

  “It was crazy,” thought Francesca. “I should never have asked them.”

  They shook hands, were natural and amiable, and moved freely among the mob. They hadn’t been in the room five minutes before the ginger-haired girl burst into a screaming laugh.

  “. . . and my dear, you couldn’t tell whether she was painting a corpse from the inside or the out!”

  Francesca hated her.

  The Mannerings didn’t seem to notice. Francesca knew Lorna much better than John, but it was John who seemed to take the lead. His easy manner and ridiculous good looks fascinated both men and girls. He seemed to have comprehended the situation when she’d apologised for her father’s absence, and glanced round occasionally at Francesca.

  Suddenly and bewilderingly John Mannering became the lion of the evening. To students of the Slade, Lorna Mannering should have been, and gradually she drew their interest; but it was Mannering who seemed to sense the need, turned strident laughter into chuckling mirth, drew the timid out of nervous silence. The other couple in their late thirties arrived soon afterwards, and mixed smoothly; Francesca felt that she could breathe again.

  She could think, too, and her only coherent thoughts, apart from the progress of the party, were about her father.

  Could he be deliberately avoiding Mannering?

  She kept looking at Mannering. He was taller than most of the men present, his dark hair was flecked with grey, which perhaps lent him the touch of distinction. His eyes, hazel in colour, could laugh much the same way as her father’s.

  A younger man, whom she had invited partly because of his sister, who was also at the Slade, was by her side when she caught Mannering’s eye. Mannering looked away after a moment, but Francesca couldn’t. She wasn’t simply fascinated by Mannering; there was gnawing anxiety within her, and the unanswered question - whether her father had stayed away to avoid Mannering.

  The younger man, Simon Lessing, thrust a glass into her hand.

  “You haven’t had a sip for twenty minutes, you’ll be parched by the time it’s all over. Like some nuts?”

  “No, thank you, I - ”

  “Potato crisps? Caviar - -what blatant luxury! - cheese straw - or try one of these shrimp patties, they’re exactly the thing.”

  “No, I . . .”

  “Come on, Franky, be human!”

  Simon was grinning at her in a nice way. He was very like Joy, his sister, who was gay and full of vitality, and seemed to know everyone.

  “Joy” was the right name for her. Both brother and sister had clear greeny-grey eyes, a short nose, generous lips. The lips were too full for a man, but - nice. And Lessing’s short nose was peppered with freckles, his crisp brown hair waved a little.

  She looked at him, and felt herself relaxing. Her father and Mannering could affect her the same way.

  “Well, all right, a few chips.”

  “Or chipolatas on sticks?” He held out another dish, and she saw that he had refilled her glass; it was brimful. There was a ceaseless overtone of talk, the red-haired girl’s occasional shrill laugh, a group round Mannering, and another round Lorna, a haze of smoke, everything that there should be. “You could slip out of the room and cool off, no one would know you’d gone. Sure sign of a successful party when one forgets one ought to be thinking of one’s hostess.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Fact. Cheers. I wonder if anyone besides Mannering has told you how lovely you look.”

  She flushed; it was unexpectedly good to flush.

  “Idiot,” she said, “and he didn’t.”

  “Don’t you believe it, those eyes were telling you all the time. Great chap, John Mannering. Did you know about his alter ego?”

  “Eh?” She did; she didn’t want to talk about it. “Simon, look, there are two girls over in that corner looking a bit forlorn, will you be an angel and go and rescue them?”

  “No. Gifted family, the Mannerings, what with Lorna, who never puts paint to canvas for less than a hundred guineas, unless it’s out of love for her subject, and Man
nering, who runs the most exclusive antique shop in London - he actually has a couple of el Grecos there now - and who is the most knowledgeable private eye who ever winked at Scotland Yard. Fact. I could tell you some stories about Mannering . . .”

  “Simon, please go and talk to those girls.”

  “Conditionally,” Simon said. “That I may be the last to leave.”

  He had been the last to leave. After the Mannerings, after all the youngsters, even after red-haired Susan Pengelly of the balloon front, who was hardly able to stand upright when the evening was over, and wanted to stay all night. In fact, Simon sent Joy on with a boy-friend, and did not leave until nearly ten o’clock. They got on to painting, of course, he was a dabbler too. They went to the studio, and became so absorbed that several times and for minutes on end Francesca forgot her father.

  When Simon had gone, she couldn’t forget for a minute. The maid and the hired staff had cleared the flat, but it still looked forlorn, untidy, empty. She felt empty, too. She couldn’t believe that her father would have let her down like this deliberately, and was beginning to feel frightened. Really frightened.

  When the telephone bell rang, she flew to it.

  “Hallo!”

  “Franky, listen,” said her father, and she went weak with relief. “I hate myself for what happened, but it was unavoidable. And I can’t explain now. I want you to do something for me. It is extremely important.”

  Relief fought with fresh fears which the tone of his voice brought on.

  “Are you there, Franky?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here, what . . .?”

  “Listen very carefully, Franky, please. Go into my bedroom, and pull up the carpet in the corner by the wardrobe. You needn’t pull it back far. You’ll see a loose floorboard. Prise that up, and take out the wash-leather bag you’ll find inside. Understand, Franky?”

  She felt like choking.

  “Yes. Yes, I understand. Then what shall I do?”

  “Bring the bag to me,” her father said. “I’m at Waterloo Station, I have to catch the late train to Southampton. I’ll be by the main bookstall - you know it well. Come as soon as you can, Franky.”

  “I - yes, I will.”

  “I’ll explain when you get here,” her father said, “goodbye for now, my darling.”

  He rang off.

  Francesca hesitated - and then began to act with frenzied haste. She was ready, with the wash-leather bag, when Cissie came in, guiltily: “Oh, Miss, there was this letter, it came during the party.” She had a typewritten envelope in her hand, marked “Special delivery”. “I expect it’s someone who couldn’t come . . .”

  “Yes,” Francesca said, huskily. She thrust the letter in her pocket. “Cissie, I want you to wait until I get back, sleep here the night if necessary.” She took agreement for granted, and hurried out.

  3: THE STATION AND THE RIVER

  Francesca sat in a corner of a taxi; still frightened. The wash-leather bag was in her handbag, clutched tightly in her hand. She had found it where her father had said she would, and hadn’t put it down while telephoning for the taxi, or when slipping into a three-quarter-length sealskin coat and hurrying downstairs.

  She had waited in a frenzy of impatience for the taxi.

  The telephone call, the mystery and the new fears, added to the ordeal of waiting for him and the shock of disappointment, had affected her nerves much more than she realised. She was actually clenching her teeth and trembling when the taxi drew up. Yet she had noticed the car which moved after her, seeing its twin lights in the driver’s mirror and feeling a sudden flare of hope that it was her father. She had jumped round, staring - and then remembered that she was going to meet him at Waterloo Station.

  The car was still behind her.

  They were passing the Houses of Parliament on one side, and an entrance to the Abbey on the other. The lighted streets were nearly empty, statues of dead famous men watched, the face of Big Ben was lighted, like the round, yellow face of a spirit on the night of Halloween. One could fancy a witch astride her broom clearing the pinnacle of the tower, screeching among the clouds over quiet London.

  The taxi rattled and sped over Westminster Bridge. Floodlit buildings on the north bank sent a pale glow into the sky. She saw lights on the water, of a moving craft; and did not dream that, soon, a man on that police launch would see her floating, and pull her alongside. She was quite sure now that the other car was following her, and she clutched the handbag very tightly.

  What was in the wash-leather bag?

  Somehow, she knew. Jewels. Mannering was a famous connoisseur of jewels, her father wouldn’t meet him. Jewels. She could remember an evening, not so long ago, when she’d read about a wealthy jewel merchant being robbed, and heard her father’s chuckle.

  “Why, what’s funny?” she had asked.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later. You’d be surprised if you knew how many ordinary-looking men, usually old men into the bargain, carry a fortune in their pockets. Most often it’s in a little wash-leather bag and a bit of cotton-wool.”

  “How do you know?”

  “General knowledge, Franky, is part of living.”

  They were half-way over the bridge. By leaning to one side, Francesca could see the lights of the following car. Several others were also behind her, but she recognised this one because of the shape of the parking lights. It was a big car, and was speeding. It drew nearer, and she was suddenly afraid, opened her lips but strangled a scream.

  The car passed.

  One man, visible only as a pale blur, looked at her through the open window as it went by.

  She found her handbag open, her fingers playing with the wash-leather, feeling something hard inside it. In a moment that was almost of frenzy, she untied the string which gathered the neck together, and dug her fingers inside. First she touched cotton-wool, and pulled this out; next, she felt the hardness again.

  There were small, hard things wrapped in cotton-wool; dozens of them.

  She unwrapped one, as the taxi passed a street-lamp. Such fiery light leapt from the diamond in her fingers that it dazzled her. Then the light fell behind her and the taxi became dull again.

  She dropped the diamond.

  The taxi swung round, on the main road again, and in a moment they would be approaching the station; she hadn’t much time. She bent down, panicking, and then realised that if she wasn’t careful she would drop other diamonds. She pulled the two ends of the string, fastening the bag again, clutched it tightly in her right hand, and groped for the single stone.

  It was under her foot, painful through the thin sole.

  She picked it up. Several taxis were roaring up the slope, not far ahead there was a cluster of red lights, where cabs and cars were putting down their passengers. If she opened her bag again, she would have a job to close it, and she wanted to be ready to jump out of the cab.

  She slipped the diamond into the neck of her dress, thrust it deeper so that it was caught inside her brassiere, and then the taxi stopped and jolted her forward.

  She felt hot and flustered when she got out, but no one took any notice of her. No private cars stood nearby. She hurried across the hall towards the platforms. Hundreds of people were waiting about, as many hundreds were walking towards the different platforms - 1 to 12 were this side of the station. The bookstall was a little to her right, only the news section open, with several customers standing there.

  Francesca did not see her father.

  She looked round, in desperation; he was not in sight, but she realised that several men were looking at her.

  Simon Lessing would probably have told her that it was because of her looks; and certainly her flushed-cheeks and scared eyes added sparkle to her beauty. But she did not think of those things, only felt scared of attracting attention. She let her hands fall by her side, and held her bag tightly but tried to appear casual. She moved nearer the bookstall, standing near the busy, brightly lit news counter, and scann
ed the station.

  Her father was not here. Yet he had said that he was talking from Waterloo.

  Then, suddenly, frighteningly, he spoke from behind her; from the shuttered side of the bookstall.

  “Franky, don’t look round. I’m here.”

  She started, violently.

  “Speak very softly,” her father said. Now, as on the telephone, he spoke as if he had not a second to spare, as if every second were vital. “Did you get the bag?”

  She whispered chokily: “Yes.”

  “Don’t give it me now,” he said. “I’m being watched and followed. Go down the escalator to the Tube trains, then come back again, then go across to the Festival Hall. You know, where we met last week. I’ll join you there. If I haven’t arrived in - in twenty minutes, go home and wait until you hear from me again.”

  “Dad, what . . .?”

  “I’ll tell you everything the moment I can,” her father said. “Go now, Franky, please.”

  She looked about her again, playing a fantastic game of let’s pretend, pretending to look for him although knowing exactly where he was. Then she moved towards the far side of the station and the escalator leading to the Underground. Once, she glanced round. She didn’t see her father, but she did see a man, a bearded man, by the book-stall. Blindly, she went on, forgetting that she did not want to attract attention. Two men out of three turned to look at her. She was so young, and fear gave her cheeks a sparkling colour and put glowing lights into her eyes. She carried herself superbly, wore just the three-quarter-length coat over her white cocktail dress, with a tulle scarf at her throat. Her fair hair, at its best for the party, crowned true loveliness.

  She did exactly as her father had told her.

  Several times she looked round; but did not see him, and she saw no one who appeared to be following her. Throngs of people were coming up from the Tube, to catch late trains to the outer suburbs; most were couples, some of the young were holding hands. A middle-aged man with a bucolic face deliberately stepped into her path, raised his bowler hat and said: “Good-evening.” She slipped past him. She waited for a few minutes, until another train emptied, then mixed with the crowd coming off that, and went back on to the main-line station.