by John Creasey
“Are you John Mannering?” this man asked. He almost said ‘Man’ring’, and his voice was hard but low-pitched.
“Yes,” Mannering said pleasantly. “Are you from Mario Ballas?”
The speaker looked startled; one of his companions smothered an exclamation.
“What do you know about Mario Ballas?”
“Not enough,” Mannering said.
“A goddamned sight too much,” growled O’Leary. “Cyrus, you can’t—”
“I’ll do the talking,” said the man named Cyrus, his glance unwavering.
A very slight feeling of relief touched Mannering. In those few critical seconds he had called on all his subconscious ingenuity for a tactical approach to turn the situation to advantage, and he believed he had found one; certainly the first reaction could be accounted good. It was a relief to find O’Leary rebuked; he seemed the most hostile. Mannering showed none of this relief, nor did he overdo the nonchalance. The remarkable thing was, that he still felt quite untroubled. He waited while Cyrus studied him, as if trying to make up his mind what to say next; and Mannering judged him to be a man not likely to be often in doubt.
“Did you put a knife into Enrico?” Cyrus asked at last.
“No,” Mannering said.
“I hope that’s the truth – for your own sake.”
“I don’t answer any question more than once,” said Mannering shortly. “How soon can I see Mario Ballas?”
“What makes you think you can see him?”
Slowly, very deliberately, Mannering said: “Do you really believe he would approve of this waste of time?”
O’Leary rammed an elbow into Mannering’s ribs, with intentional brutality, and Mannering wondered if he had goaded him too far. No one spoke, until Cyrus said: “I don’t waste time. Why do you want to see him?”
“I’ll tell him that,” Mannering said.
“Cyrus,” O’Leary said with harsh, menacing certainty, “why not make the guy talk?”
This time, Mannering did not ignore the interruption but turned towards O’Leary and looked at him. A quiver of apprehension returned. O’Leary’s bloodshot eyes were hot, glassy, lowering, and the ugly lips were brutally square.
Cyrus was human; O’Leary was nearer the savage. His jutting chin and big ears had an aggressive cut.
“I will talk only to Ballas,” Mannering said. “It wouldn’t take much to make me tell him I think you are a punk.” They held each other’s gaze for a full minute before O’Leary’s wavered. Cyrus broke in, almost as if to pacify O’Leary.
“You’ll do what you’re told,” he said harshly. “And the first thing is, you’ll walk with me.”
He half-turned, and Mannering joined him. The others followed, O’Leary very close behind. For the first time since he had got out of the car, Mannering was able to look about him. This was a secluded spot among trees, and no one else was within sight, although he could hear the distant hum of traffic and the faint shouts of children. He guessed that he was walking towards the main highway which led from the promontory on which the Planetarium was built. Two grey squirrels were leaping from branch to branch, the leaves rustling in a gentle wind.
The sinister little party of men broke through the trees to a clearing where two cars waited, the green Impala which Mannering had seen outside the apartment block, and a Ford station wagon. A man was standing by the side of each. Mannering walked easily, without glancing behind him, and O’Leary no longer touched him. Cyrus led the way to the Impala, and the man beside it opened the rear door. Mannering got in. O’Leary moved swiftly to the far side, to make sure he could not bound straight through the car and run for safety, but Mannering settled himself comfortably in one corner.
“Your friend doesn’t seem to believe that I want to see Ballas,” he remarked easily, as Cyrus got in beside him.
“Who said I believed you?” Cyrus demanded. “Don’t get this the wrong way round, Mr. Mannering. Mario Ballas sent for you.”
A smile hovered about Mannering’s lips. “Did he indeed?”
Leaning back in the car, he was aware of Cyrus’s curious gaze, of the fact that he had them all puzzled. Then O’Leary took the seat next to the driver, and the car started off. Mannering, intent on memorising the route they took, peered out of the window, wondering where Mario Ballas lived, whether they would go straight to him, what the man would be like. He was reminding himself that Enrico Ballas had been murdered, and it now seemed as if Ballas as well as the police suspected him, when he felt a sharp, pricking pain on his hand. He jerked it upwards, turning towards Cyrus, and had time for a swift, alarming glimpse of a sardonic smile.
Then he began to lose consciousness.
When Mannering woke, he was alone.
He was lying full length on a narrow bed. The room was small, with a high window of thick, frosted glass. As consciousness came back, he looked about him. The furniture was old, and of carved oak – it had an un-English, more a Spanish look. In a corner was a decorated hand-basin, and some of the biggest brass taps, intricately shaped, he had ever seen. There was one door; it was opposite the window, and looked almost impregnable.
In five minutes or so, he felt quite clear-headed; whatever form of knockout drops they used had no after effects. Everything Ballas used would be good. And could be deadly. It was easy now to understand how the man could strike such terror into his fellow human beings. Getting off the bed, he went towards the hand-basin. Clean, snowy-white towels hung on the brass rail. He washed his hands and face, dried them and turned to the door much fresher and able to think swiftly. He tried the big, ornate brass handle, but the door was locked.
Near the hand-basin was a chair, and he pulled it towards the wall beneath the window; it was so heavy, he had to exert considerable strength. He climbed up on to the chair, not expecting to see anything through the frosted glass, but had a welcome surprise; two or three smooth patches showed a clear blue sky. He shifted his position and then saw land; he was so astounded that he nearly slipped off the chain
Rocky, almost barren ground stretched to the horizon, which was broken by a range of mountains. He stared for what must have been several minutes, but nothing moved; nothing. The sun was vivid, burning the earth to a hard, grey surface.
They had flown him here, of course. But where was ‘here’?
The question was hardly in his mind before he remembered the taxi driver telling him that Mario Ballas had a house in Chicago and another in Mexico.
This certainly wasn’t Chicago – and the old oak furniture was almost certainly Mexican.
Slowly, he climbed down from the chair. He felt almost stupefied, for he must be a thousand, perhaps two thousand, miles from Chicago, and consequently, very much more helpless.
Trying not to think about this, he ran through his pockets and found everything in place, even the knife with the special blades. Men who worked for Ballas would know what that was for; so they had deliberately allowed him to keep the tools with which he might be able to force this lock.
Why? And—should he work on it?
He felt tired and badly shaken, depressed by the relentlessness of the land beyond. He went back to the bed, trying to relax, trying to keep his mind blank. As always when this happened, he pictured his wife’s face. Lorna’s. He had not seen her for over two weeks, for she had gone to Scotland to paint the portrait of the twin sons of a Scottish laird; and while she had known of his proposed visit to the HemisFair in San Antonio, she knew nothing of his second purpose in coming to America. She had known of the theft of the Fentham jewels, had known that Lord Fentham had been sufficiently troubled over their loss to enlist Mannering’s help, but was as yet unaware that it was the pursuit of these jewels that had led Mannering to New York.
Mannering could picture Freddie’s face as well as Lorna’s; a face of dignity and kindliness, a lover as well as a collector of objets d’art and precious stones, a man reputedly of illimitable wealth. Why should the loss of these particular p
ieces – both of which were doubtless insured – appear to trouble him so much? That question had been worrying Mannering since he had heard Fentham’s story. Now, he could almost imagine the sound of his voice.
“John, you’re the only man in the world who knows, but this loss is a very severe blow”—who could doubt how much he meant that?—“and you’re the only man in the world who might be able to get them back for me.”
Mannering had not wanted to be involved. Business at Quinns in London, New York, Paris and Boston was good, and kept him busy; these days he did less and less investigation into crimes, but for an old friend – and in view of his interest in the HemisFair in San Antonio …
Thought of that pulled him up with a start. Was Texas like the land beyond the window? West Texas, particularly – and the land near San Antonio? Texas and Mexico had a common border for hundreds of miles.
He forced his mind back to the missing diamonds.
Word had reached the manager of his Mayfair shop that Enrico Ballas was in London, and had been seen near Fentham’s home. This kind of information seldom reached the police, but often reached Mannering. But for this, he wouldn’t be here; but for Fentham, he wouldn’t be here …
He could picture Lorna’s wry smile, the hint of laughter in her grey eyes which touched her face with beauty. “But for you, you wouldn’t be there!” If he had never been the Baron …
He half-laughed at himself, much as Lorna would have done, and sat up again. Now he felt almost normal, his eyes and head free from pain. He went to the door, deciding to force it; obviously this was what he was expected to do. Before taking out his knife, he tried the handle again.
The door opened.
Could it have jammed before?
He felt sure that it had not, that this was part of the tactics being used against him. He opened the door slowly and stepped into a dark passage, on to a floor of uneven oak, leading to a hall which was furnished in the same way as the bedroom. Stained glass at the doors and the adjoining windows, added more than a touch of gloom. Several unlighted oil paintings hung on the walls – one, at a cursory glance, could have been an El Greco, and in one corner Mannering noted a huge, carved cupboard, rich with the bloom of centuries of polish. The big, square carpet looked Persian, but might be Indian; it was impossible to tell in so dim a light. A wide, stone staircase led up to a half-landing, and above this was a gallery. Everywhere, Mannering had an impression of dull lustre, of richness.
The front door was on his right, facing the foot of the stairs. He saw no chains in position and no bolts were shot home. He tried the handle, and it turned without difficulty.
Could he have been left alone in an empty house?
He rejected the thought as it came to him. Tactics, he told himself, tactics. This was deliberate; they were virtually inviting him to run away. They would not let him get far, but obviously they were trying to prove something. What?
He thought he knew; they wanted him to prove that he really meant to see Mario Ballas, even to the point of rejecting a chance of escape.
He glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight, nothing moved, there was no sound. Any dark corner, any doorway, might conceal a man – half-a-dozen men. He had the sense of being watched; of unseen but seeing eyes. He turned his back again and opened the door; he was almost afraid of being shot, but nothing happened. The door gave a sharp creak as it opened wide.
The flagged porch or patio stretched far to the right and the left. The house in which he was standing was one of four long, low buildings in Spanish style, which surrounded a paved courtyard, in the middle of which was a wrought-iron fountain. From cracks or gaps in the paving a variety of cacti grew, one a prickly pear, one like a yucca, one which looked almost like a sheep. Some of the cacti had branches or leaves, like broadswords. The sun beat fierce and vivid on to the courtyard.
No one appeared.
Mannering drew back into the shade, deliberating. He could not be sure but he was probably in an isolated spot, virtually in the middle of nowhere. He ventured into the courtyard, and found an old ladder, the rungs secured to the supports by leather thongs. He rested this against the nearest roof, and climbed up it. At the top, he had an uninterrupted view in all directions – but except for a huddle of tiny huts, he could see nothing but the barren, rocky land, across which an unsurfaced road ran out of sight. Nothing, that was, but three small aircraft beneath a raffia roof supported by corner posts. He stared at them for a moment, then climbed down the ladder and walked back to the door through which he had just come. Seeing a big brass bell-push, he placed his finger on it. Somewhere a long way off he could hear the reverberation of sound. He rang for much longer than was necessary before he took his finger away.
At last some small noise caught his attention.
The man named Cyrus appeared from one of the rooms leading off the hall from which Mannering had previously emerged. The sunlight showed him alert and smiling.
“Good afternoon,” said Mannering. “Does Mr. Mario Ballas live here?”
Cyrus’s smile stayed, unaltered in expression.
“Come in,” he said, and stood aside. As Mannering stepped over the threshold, a light came on above his head; more lights followed, and as the door closed behind him, hall, staircase and landing were all transformed. Cunningly placed spotlights shone on the paintings, revealing their beauty; Mannering could recognise a Rembrandt, a Gainsborough, a Titian. What he had thought to be a cupboard proved to be the reredos from some old church – a crucifixion scene, showing hundreds, perhaps a thousand, exquisitely carved figures, each one he looked at perfect in execution.
Mannering stood quite still, glancing about him.
“You needn’t waste your professional acumen looking too closely,” Cyrus said dryly. “All that you see has been bought on the open market. This way.”
Mannering went ahead of him, up the stone staircase leading to the half-landing. The Persian runner here was of soft, warm colours; there were two Rubens and a Reynolds on the walls. Glancing up at the ceiling, Mannering saw a crucifixion mural worthy of any cathedral; it looked more modern than classical – possibly Mexican, he thought.
They reached the landing. Two men were stationed there, incongruous in their modern clothes. One of the men was standing, heavy and truculent, against a dark, solid-looking door. It was Tiger O’Leary. He moved aside with obvious reluctance as Cyrus brought Mannering towards him.
That taxi driver had certainly known what he was talking about.
“All right, Tiger,” Cyrus said.
“I tell you you’re crazy,” O’Leary growled.
“Then Mario’s crazy.”
“If you ask me, you’re all crazy.”
Cyrus shrugged, and tapped at the door.
Mannering felt as if he were standing in a film set under the glare of cinema cameras, so unreal did the whole scene appear to him. Only O’Leary’s heavy breathing and undisguised hostility gave the touch of real and pressing danger. They waited for a few moments, and then he heard a movement at the door. He sensed rather than saw a peephole open, heard it slide to. Another sound followed. Immediately, Cyrus turned the handle and pushed the door open. He went in first, and stood aside.
Mannering entered the room.
It was remarkable, not only for its size but for the fact that it was less a room in a private house than a church turned into a museum.
For the second time since he had recovered consciousness, Mannering stood astounded.
He had entered from the middle of one of the long sides. How long, he wondered? At least fifty feet both right and left. The walls looked like those of an ancient Spanish mission, uneven, plastered, patched. In innumerable niches, and on as many small shelves and brackets, were objets d’art from all four corners of the world.
Between these were paintings of so great a beauty that now the collection outside seemed almost trivial. At intervals were small windows, deeply recessed, showing the thickness of the walls �
� four feet at least. Above, were heavy beams, dovetailed in such a way that each appeared to form part of a cross; some were thrown into relief by spotlights illuminating carvings as beautiful as those on the reredos.
These things, by themselves, would have made this the most remarkable room which Mannering had ever seen – but the remarkability was heightened by the bizarre occasion of his seeing it, shanghaied and drugged as he had been, and guarded now by such a brute as Tiger O’Leary.
His first astonishment over, Mannering noticed with delight that every inch of space was crammed with objets d’art, antiques, paintings and sculptures; and that against the walls were show-cases, in which scintillated countless gems.
There was order of a kind in the arrangement; and gradually Mannering became aware of this. The centuries were gathered together – Byzantine, Egyptian and Babylonian, Grecian and Roman – through to the Middle Ages, the Rennaissance, and even to modern art, which was represented by a fantastic abstract; a Picasso, unless Mannering was mistaken, but one of which he had never heard.
At one end of the room was a desk, delicately inlaid with enamel; and behind the desk, a chair that was like a throne, composed entirely of bejewelled gold. From a narrow, brass-studded door a man entered. He did not glance towards Mannering or Cyrus, but went towards the chair, moving with the slow deliberate movements of the very old or infirm. He was small, and slightly built, dressed in a beautifully cut suit of black velvet, with short Spanish-type jacket and tight-fitting trousers. His shoes were traditionally those of a bygone Spain. His eyes were hooded, his features a little too smooth and regular. Noting this, and the brilliance of his eyes and lips, it occurred to Mannering in a macabre flash of prevision that he was like a corpse, made up for the last respects of relatives and friends.
As he sat down, he watched Mannering impassively; then beckoned. Cyrus dropped behind, as if to make sure Mannering was now very much on his own.
Mannering stopped a few feet in front of the desk.
