Cry For the Baron

by John Creasey

  “I would still like to know which one it is.”

  “The Tear.”

  Lorna said: “Oh,” and sat up.

  “So you really are superstitious,” murmured Mannering. “The tear of blood! Jacob said something of the kind earlier this evening—what was his phrase? I remember I liked it. Oh, yes—‘It is worth more than the blood of man and the beauty of women’—but he didn’t add in a breathless voice that it is a famous jewel with a curse. So he probably believes it’s won its fame because of the avarice of man rather than by the fatal quality in a piece of rock someone dug out of the bigger lump of rock in some hills belonging to the Maharajah of Wherever-it-was, centuries ago.”

  The ringing sound continued.

  “When you’re as involved as that, you’re trying to hide something,” challenged Lorna.

  “I’m trying to kill an illusion—that if you possess the Tear you will probably die of a battered skull. And in any case, you needn’t worry. I shall have it in my hands only for a few hours. Feel better?”

  She frowned. “I suppose it is silly to feel jumpy.”

  Mannering said: “People who don’t own the Tear have been known to die by violence. Odd—he still doesn’t answer.”

  He dialled a third time, with the same result. Next he dialled O, and reported difficulty in getting Mayfair 01432. A pause, then: “The number is ringing, sir, but there’s no reply.”

  “Thank you.” Mannering replaced the receiver and stood up.

  Standing, he was over six feet tall, handsome, with dark, wavy hair, cut snort, and greying a little at the temples. A man whom many regarded, when they first saw him, as just handsome and dull. Others, who knew him well, still thought of him as a man-about-town, a dilettante, spoiled by too much money and a dash of blue blood. Few knew all the truth about him—either of his past or of what he did today.

  “It can’t be anything important,” said Lorna.

  “He’s probably fallen asleep. He stays in that place of his alone far too much, for an old man. Care for a drive?”

  “I don’t think I’ll come out tonight, darling, I want to be early in the morning, and it’s nearly midnight.”

  “I won’t be long,” said Mannering.

  Outside, he hurried towards his garage, five minutes’ walk away, and wished that he had put on a coat. He switched on the heater of his Bristol before driving out of the garage – and switched it off before he reached Belham Street, where Jacob Bernstein had his shop. It was a narrow thoroughfare in the West End of London, a quiet place, with a few shops which were patronised by the connoisseur and the discerning. Not far away was Hart Row, where Mannering owned a famous shop called Quinn’s.

  Mannering avoided the main roads, and the headlights shone on walking couples, tall, grey houses, across spacious squares where history lived, on solitary women, lurking hopefully; and on policemen, doing their nightly rounds. At last he turned the corner of Belham Street. Then, with a caution which had become almost a sixth sense, he drove past Bernstein’s shop and pulled up some fifty feet away.

  While passing, he saw the dim light at the first-floor room where Bernstein spent most of his time. The glow came from a corner, as if the curtain had been lifted and not fallen back into place. Mannering thought no more than that Bernstein had been taken ill – until he saw the light go out.

  The sudden dousing of the light filled him with disquiet. He stepped swiftly across the road and stood outside the tall, narrow door. This door led to the upstairs quarters; another led to the shop. He knew that the shop was a model of tidiness but that upstairs the rooms were neglected. He stepped to the window, placed one hand against the glass and peered in – the hand so placed to shade the light from a street lamp, some distance away. He saw the ghostly shapes of furniture; the dull glow of silver; the pale faces of clocks; he even fancied that he heard these ticking.

  There was no sign of trouble there.

  Then he heard footsteps from the stairs; not loud, not firm, but stealthy. He tried to laugh his fears away. Jacob’s right ankle had been broken and never really mended – a legacy of brutality and Dachau. His shuffling walk would sound stealthy. Mannering stood to one side and waited while the footsteps drew nearer. He thought he knew the moment when the man reached the foot of the stairs. Then the footsteps sounded again.

  Nearer; stealthy; nearer.

  Mannering heard fingers touch the bolts, and the sharp sound as they were drawn back; he heard the heavy key turn. The door opened – not slowly, as Bernstein would open it, because it was heavy; but swiftly.

  He saw a man with a Homburg hat pulled low over his forehead and a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth. Before he could dodge aside the man kicked him in the pit of the stomach. Pain surged through him, driving thought out of his mind, made him double up and stagger backwards. He fell. He did not hear the man run wildly towards the end of the street, and did not see the killer again.

  He lay on the pavement, doubled up, his knees almost touching his chin. He must do better. He staggered to a kneeling position, and the pain was like a gigantic spider with steel legs, clawing at his vitals. Sickness followed pain, but that gradually passed, and soon he could stand upright.

  The door was open. A light glowed on the landing, showing the stairs with their strip of threadbare carpet, the plain brown walls and the door which led to the shop. In the distance a car started up; that might be his assailant. He clenched his teeth as he went forward, and had to hold on to the door for support, listening for other sounds, but hearing only the distant hum of traffic, as much part of London as the air. There were no plodding footsteps of a watchful policeman—

  He left the door open and went to the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall for support, feeling better as each second passed yet not trusting himself to walk naturally. He clutched the banister post, and called: “Jacob!”

  There was no answer; of course there would be no answer. He went upstairs, and by the time he reached the top he did not need to hold the banister rail.

  “Jacob!”

  The door of the front room stood wide open and he saw the corner of the littered desk, the shape of the angle-lamp beneath which Bernstein read, or worshipped his possessions. He also saw what might have been a dark shadow on the floor between the desk and the wall. He put on the other light and went forward. It was not shadow but a body.

  He felt as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over him as he stepped to the angle-lamp, stretched out his hand to switch it on – and drew his hand back sharply. The assailant had touched the lamp to put it out; he might have left prints. Mannering took out a handkerchief and through it pressed the switch carefully. The white light shone out on the desk and the closed black book. He moved it a little, so that it showed the old man’s glazed, half-open eyes and the slack mouth; and he did not think that Jacob was alive.

  There was little point in feeling for the pulse in the bony wrist.

  First telephone Scotland Yard; then look at Jacob. He crossed to the far side of the desk, lifted the telephone, still using his handkerchief, but heard nothing when he put it to his ear. Then he saw that the cable had been torn from the tiny black box fastened to the side of the desk.

  That explained why there had been no answer.

  It didn’t; the ringing sound had come, so this cable had been damaged since he had telephoned. He had probably been trying to get through while Jacob was being murdered, and in a fit of nervous rage the killer had silenced the telephone.

  There was a kiosk five minutes walk away, and it would take more than five minutes to rouse neighbours and use their telephone. He turned back, bent down and straightened the frail body. He laid Jacob on his stomach, knelt astride him and pressed his hands into his ribs, gently at first, then harder.

  After five minutes, he stopped, and tried the kiss of lif
e, but there wasn’t a spark of life.

  Mannering hurried to the landing, swung round to face the stairs then stopped abruptly. A girl stood half-way up. She wore a dark fur coat and had wavy, bright fair hair. Startled blue eyes peered into his, bright red lips were parted.

  Chapter Three

  Girl In Distress

  She was young; not beautiful, but vivid and attractive. The coat was slung over her shoulders like a cloak. She wore a black evening gown, the bodice glittering with sequins shimmering over her firm breasts from her agitated breathing. Her eyes, so blue and startled, were rounded. Her right hand moved and clutched the edges of the coat, drawing them together. Mannering asked: “Who are you?”

  She didn’t speak, but held on to the banister rail with her left hand. She didn’t move, and was obviously in great distress, and a false move would frighten her away. “Can I help you?” Mannering asked.

  She moistened her lips again. “I want to see Mr. Bernstein.”

  “I’m afraid he’s out.”

  “I must see him.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait.” Mannering backed a pace. “Come and wait upstairs.”

  She didn’t move. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of his.” Mannering took out his cigarette-case, opened it and held it out; she would have to climb at least six steps to reach them. “He shouldn’t be long.” The words nearly choked him.

  “I—I think I’ll come back,” she said, and turned. Mannering hurried after her, was just behind her when she reached the passage. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she slipped out of the coat, made for the front door, and turned right, clutching her skirt to run. She didn’t look round again. Mannering flung the coat aside and raced after her, caught her up twenty yards from the shop, took her arm and gripped tightly. She struggled to get away, turned, and struck at him with her free hand; her small handbag caught his cheek.

  They stood together in the darkened street, but the lamp-light was behind him, shining on to her face. He no longer thought of her as agitated but as terrified.

  “Let—me—go. Please—let—me—go.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “I’ve—told—you.” She gasped each word out, as if it were an effort, and struggled to free herself again. She hadn’t a chance. After a moment she realised it and went limp. “Please let me go. It isn’t important, I—I can see him in the morning.”

  He wanted to let her go, as he would want to let a rabbit go from a trap. But soon the police would come and they would need to know everything about the night’s events and certainly why this girl had come to see Jacob Bernstein and why she was so nervous. He ought to keep her here; yet something in him rebelled. Already he wanted to find the murderer himself; to pay a last tribute, and to do a final service for the man.

  A temptation, born out of his secret past, came and whispered to him, while the girl’s breathing quietened a little though the terror still lurked in her eyes.

  He asked suddenly: “Do you know what’s happened?”

  “Happened?”

  “Here. Tonight?”

  “Has—has anything happened?”

  “Give me this.” He released her and took the bag away. She realised what he was going to do too late, and snatched at it, but he backed away and opened the bag. She came at him, but he fended her off with one hand and looked into the bag. There were letters, a lipstick, compact and a purse.

  “Give that to me!”

  “What is your name?”

  “I won’t tell you.” She snatched at the bag again and he took her wrist, pulled her suddenly so that she was in front of him and facing the direction of Bernstein’s shop, then pushed her along and back into the doorway. He closed the door with his elbow – while outside, in the distance, heavy footsteps sounded, drawing nearer.

  “You’ve no right—” She could hardly get the words out, but didn’t try to take the bag away again.

  He took out the letters but didn’t look at them.

  “If you want to get away, you will have to tell me your name and address. Otherwise you stay, and answer all the questions the police want to ask.” His voice was harder, and his words shocked her.

  “Has there been—a burglary?”

  “Yes. And the police will soon be here. Who are you? Where do you live?”

  “If I tell you will you let me go?”

  She was young and strong enough to have killed Jacob; almost anyone would have been. She might have been here before, left something behind and come back.

  She stretched out a trembling hand, the red nails glistening as she touched his arm.

  “Will you?”

  “Yes. But I shall want to see you again.”

  “I’ll see you, I’ll meet you anywhere you like, but—please let me go now. I’m—Fay Goulden. You can find me at 21, Clay Court, in Shepherd Street, near Park Lane.”

  He glanced at the letters. One was addressed to her at the Majestic Hotel, the others at 21, Clay Court, and each said “Miss Fay Goulden.”

  Outside, the plodding footsteps of the beat policeman sounded much nearer. Mannering turned the key in the lock and the girl exclaimed: “You promised—”

  “Be quiet!”

  The handle of the door rattled and the door shook as the policeman tried it. The girl pressed her hand against her mouth. The rattling stopped and the constable passed by. Mannering said: “Don’t raise your voice.” He opened her bag again, took out the purse and looked inside; there were some pound notes, folded tightly, some loose silver, and a Yale key.

  “You can have these later.”

  “Please—”

  “If you want that policeman back, shout.”

  She said: “I know nothing about it, nothing.”

  “About what?” Mannering asked.

  “You said there’d been a burglary.”

  “Have you been here before tonight?”

  “No, I wanted to see Mr. Bernstein. It—it doesn’t matter now, I must go. Don’t keep me here any longer.”

  “Why? Don’t you want me to keep these letters?”

  “Oh, I don’t care! Just let me go.”

  He gave her back the bag and its contents.

  She turned to the door and stretched out her hand towards the key, but he took her arm.

  “I’ll do that.” He opened the door, using his handkerchief. She muttered thanks, and when he pulled the door wide, slipped out and hurried along the street.

  Detective-Inspector Gordon was ginger-haired and freckled, with a big red mouth and a Roman nose. He was a tall, spindly man to whom police work was a mission. He looked at Mannering sourly and said: “So you’re here, are you?” Mannering didn’t answer. Gordon, at the top of the stairs, looked into the now brightly lighted room where Bernstein lay dead, and where two of his men were taking photographs. He pushed past Mannering, who followed him.

  Gordon’s pale grey eyes looked searchingly round the room – everywhere, it seemed, except at Bernstein. Then he turned his head and glared at Mannering. “Did you move him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why will you always stick your nose in? It oughtn’t to have been moved. Let’s have an answer—why?”

  “I thought I might bring him round.”

  “You thought! You’ll think yourself into jail one of these days. Did you kill him?”

  Mannering said: “Isn’t it obvious? There’s one dead jewel-merchant, and I’m another with a reputation that’s dynamite. Of course I killed him.” He couldn’t hold his temper in check.

  Gordon growled: “You’re too smart.”

  “That’s an improvement on not being smart enough.”

  “You can wait outside.”

  Mannering went to a chair, beside which was a pile of books, a
nd sat down. Gordon tightened his lips, looked as if he were going to order him out, then turned to his men. There were four in the room. Two were measuring the distance between Bernstein’s body and the wall and the desk, using an ordinary household tape measure. The photographers were folding their camera. They stood it against the wall and began to search. Mannering toyed with the books at his side, letting the leaves flutter through his fingers. The routine was boring; the police took it as a matter of course. Men kept breathing on shiny surfaces to see if prints showed up, smothering places where they did with black graphite which they applied with a small camel-hair brush, then leaving it and searching for other prints. Gordon himself sat at the desk and opened drawer after drawer.

  When he pulled the top right-hand drawer open Mannering said: “He usually kept a gun in there.”

  “If I want information I’ll ask for it.”

  “What’s got under your skin, Gordon?”

  “You always get under my skin. You amateurs who think you’re smart are a pain in the neck. And you’re the biggest pain. How long after you found the body did you send for us?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “That was nineteen too long.”

  “If I’d thought I could bring Bernstein round it would have been a couple of hours.” Mannering let the pages flutter, then shifted the book and picked up another. He knew Bernstein had secret hiding-places in some of those.

  “Know what the killer was after?”

  “If you want me to guess, I will.”

  “All right, guess.”

  “Jacob had the Diamond of Tears—known as the Tear. Even you may have heard of it. I telephoned him about it tonight and promised to call him later. He didn’t answer the second call and I came round to see if he was all right.”

  “Why shouldn’t he have been?”

  “Because he didn’t answer an expected telephone call.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The murderer had opened the door for me.”

  Gordon stopped taking oddments out of the desk and piling them up in front of him, leaned back in his chair, stuck a thumb in the armhole of his waist-coat, and said: “Listen, Mannering, you were found on enclosed premises with the body of a murdered man. You had a chance to slip out and hide anything you lifted. We can hold you for that.”