Cry For the Baron

by John Creasey

  As he stepped out of the building nearby Big Ben chimed: one, two. He looked up into the lighted face of the huge clock and at the shadowy outline of the great pile of the Houses of Parliament.

  Two o’clock; and the milk roundsman would begin his journeys early. When? Five o’clock, or six? Was Belham Street early or late on his round? Best assume that it would be early, possibly between five and six o’clock. Mannering had to get that bottle before five, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The police would be going in and out of Bernstein’s shop all night; everyone who passed along the street would be scrutinised.

  He found his car parked outside; Bristow had had it brought round.

  He drove out of the Yard and went slowly along the Embankment, across the top of Parliament Square and then along the Embankment again, on the other side. This was the shortest way to Chelsea, and Lorna. But he wasn’t thinking about Lorna; only of the Tear, the murder of Bernstein, and the significance of Bristow’s warning.

  Another car followed.

  Chapter Five

  The Bottle

  Mannering thought: “All right, Bill—I’ll give you a run for your money!” and he turned right, away from the river.

  The thought went through him, like the touch of the Tear; more heady wine. Defying Bristow, skating over the law’s thin ice, hunting a killer and finding out the truth about the terrified girl. As he swung off Victoria Street he was smiling broadly, as if all were well in a wonderful world. He drove along the narrow streets to St. James’s Park, where there were no lights, and switched on his headlights.

  The twin orbs of the following car’s sidelamps shone in the driving mirror.

  He drove fast, leaving the Park by Admiralty Arch and turning left up Cockspur Street. He took corner after corner swiftly, always slowing down in time for the pursuing car to appear again. It was not far behind him when he turned into Belham Street.

  An ambulance stood outside the shop, and the two men in white carried a stretcher. Mannering slowed down in front of the ambulance, seeing Jacob Bernstein in his mind’s eye; alive – and dead. He drove past slowly. A constable came up, waving to him to stop. Behind the constable was a slight, fair-haired man wearing an old raincoat which sagged open, and with a trilby hat on the back of his head. The slight man had a pale, eager face, and a cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth.

  “Your licence, please,” said the constable formally.

  Mannering produced it.

  “Thank you, sir.” The constable stood back, to study it. The slight man lunged forward, a laconic grin on his full lips.

  “Well, well! If it isn’t the great sleuth on the trail already. How did you get to know about this, John?”

  “Doesn’t the Press ever sleep?”

  “Not this part of it, when there’s murder in London. Got anything for me?”

  “Sorry, Chitty,” Mannering said.

  “Any purpose for your return?” asked the constable in a stilted voice.

  Mannering said: “Yes, I’ve lost my lighter.” He opened the door and got out, but to his surprise Cluttering, of the Daily Record, turned and backed away. Gordon came out of the shop, and Cluttering hovered in the background.

  “Why don’t you go home?” growled Gordon.

  “I lost my lighter. Have you come across it?”

  “I’ve had something better to do than look for your lighter. It’s a wonder they let you go.”

  Chittering was still in the background.

  “Anything missing?” asked Mannering.

  “A hell of a lot has—” began Gordon, then checked his runaway tongue, turned on his heel and went back. A sergeant loomed from behind him.

  “We’ve been through that room with a comb, Mr. Mannering, and didn’t come across any lighter.”

  Mannering frowned. “I know I had it when—oh, yes! I lit a cigarette along here, didn’t I? It might have dropped in the shop doorway.” He hurried along the pavement, pushing past Chittering, who watched him with his head on one side. He turned into the doorway and looked at the milk bottle. There it stood, with the little tuft of cotton wool at the bottom. He actually touched the bottle, then drew his hand back sharply. With Gordon in his present mood he couldn’t be sure of getting away quickly. And the diamond would remain safe so for a while.

  “Found it?” Chittering had a cheerful voice.

  Mannering produced his lighter, as by sleight of hand. “My lucky night.”

  “Not Jacob Bernstein’s.”

  The words were like a douche of cold water. “No.”

  “On the hunt?” asked Chittering. “It would give me a nice headline. Gordon is like a bear with a sore head, I can’t get anything out of him. I’ll miss the final edition if I don’t send something in soon.”

  “Mr. Mannering had no statement to make.”

  Chittering grinned. “Thanks! I’ll be seeing you.” He hurried off towards the telephone kiosk.

  On the journey to Chelsea Mannering was followed again, but he drove more slowly. The car behind him passed the end of the street.

  He left his car outside the flat.

  There was a light in the front room, shining through a gap in the curtains. Lorna was still up. He went quietly upstairs, hearing no sound as he approached the front door. Perhaps she’d gone to bed and left a light on. He let himself in stealthily, tiptoed across the hall and looked into the study.

  Lorna, asleep, sat in her winged armchair.

  Mannering went across, looked down at her, smiled faintly, and kissed her forehead. She started and blinked dazedly.

  “John! You scared me.”

  “I have my rights.”

  “What happened? Has the Tear been stolen?”

  Mannering said: “Yes.” He backed away, taking out cigarettes, suddenly bleak.

  Lorna’s eyes clouded with growing alarm.

  “What is it?”

  Mannering said: “About as bad as it can be.”

  “Jacob’s not—” Her voice broke.

  “He is.”

  “Oh, how awful!” She stood up, now very wide-awake. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Do the police know? Have they caught anyone?”

  “Last first; no. The Tear’s gone, with a lot of other stuff, as far as I learn from Gordon, who is in a sour and hostile mood. I’ve seen Bristow. Cluttering of the Record was hovering around, and will probably put me in headlines.”

  “Have you done anything yourself yet?”

  “Want me to?”

  Lorna said: “I ought to say no.” She turned away, went to the cabinet in the corner and poured drinks. She looked pale and shocked. “Poor Jacob! There wasn’t a better man living.”

  “There are mysteries.” Mannering sat on the arm of a chair and told her much of what had happened; omitting only what he had done about the Tear, and about the Will. When he finished she stretched out her hand and he gave her a cigarette and lit it.

  “What have you done that you’ve forgotten to tell me?” asked Lorna. “Playing the fool over that girl was crazy enough, but it’s not all. I can tell that from the look in your eyes.”

  “Can you think of anyone we could ring up and send out on a little mission? Such as collecting a milk bottle off a window ledge at 17, Belham Street. It isn’t that I need the milk bottle, but there’s some cotton wool in it.”

  Understanding dawned and her eyes blazed. She raised her hands and moved towards him. “The—Tear?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I hate that stone! Why on earth didn’t you let the police find it?”

  “Did I tell you that Jacob left you a pair of earrings?”

  Lorna said: “Oh!” And suddenly she cried: “Not those emeralds?”

  “Yes. I forgot to tell you anot
her thing, too. He named me as an executor. No one has a greater right to that Tear than the executors, have they? Provided it’s kept in a safe place and can be produced when everything’s ready for probate, no one need lose any sleep. How well do you know the milkman?”

  Lorna said huskily: “And he remembered that!” Slowly: “I could go for that bottle.”

  “Oh, no, my darling that won’t do.”

  “Who else is there?”

  Mannering went to the telephone and lifted the receiver, his finger resting on the dial.

  “Larraby, I think. He probably won’t be recognised, and if he is—well we’ve got to take a chance. That bottle must be off the window-ledge before the milkman arrives in the morning.”

  Larraby worked for Mannering at Quinn’s. He was not only an assistant and odd-job man in the shop, but the night-watchman, who liked sleeping on the premises. He slept with a telephone and the bell of a burglar alarm system in his small room. No glimmer of light came in at the window, although in the far distance stars twinkled above the roof-tops. He slept like a child, on his back, with his arms above his head, and when the telephone began to ring he started but did not immediately wake. Sleeping, he looked youthful, in spite of his grey hair and his lined face.

  The bell kept ringing.

  He woke, at last, stretched out his hand and switched on the light. Then he sat up and groped beneath his pillow for a gun; finally he said: “Fool!” and stopped groping. “That’s the telephone … Hallo … Good morning, sir!”

  He listened …

  “Yes, I will go at once,” he said. “Shall I bring it to you at Chelsea, or bring it back here? … Very good, sir, I will keep it under my pillow … You did say 17, Belham Street, didn’t you?”

  Hart Row, and Quinn’s, was exactly seven minutes walk from Belham Street. Larraby, yawning in the early morning air, stepped out briskly. He took nine minutes to reach the street, because Mannering had told him to approach from the corner nearest Number 17, so that he would not have to pass Bernstein’s shop. It was anyone’s guess what was in the milk bottle. If you worked for Mannering you had to know when to ask questions and when to be discreet.

  Number 17 – good!

  He counted the doorways as he walked quickly along. Thirteen – fifteen – ah, 17 was painted clearly on a hanging sign which jutted out from the top of the doorway. He glanced along the street and saw that two constables stood, with their backs towards him, by several parked cars. He chuckled softly. He would get away without being noticed, and –

  Milkbottle?

  There was no bottle here.

  Lorna was in bed. Mannering had a hand on the light switch, ready to put it out, when the telephone bell rang. The night was full of ringing sounds and lights. There was an extension on the bedside table. Lorna mumbled: “Shall I go?” as Mannering lifted the receiver.

  “This is John Mannering …”

  “Yes, Larraby.”

  He sat heavily on the side of the bed, and Lorna pushed back the clothes and sat up, affected by his tension. Larraby was still explaining. He had looked in all the doorways up to Number 29, but there was no milk bottle with a piece of cotton wool in it; none had been broken, or he would have seen the glass. There was no doubt, both cotton wool and bottle had been removed. The policemen hadn’t seen him at close quarters, he was quite sure of that … Was there anything he could do?

  Mannering said: “No. You get back to bed.”

  Mannering replaced the receiver and looked bleakly into Lorna’s eyes. The room was silent; nothing stirred anywhere. He had made an utter fool of himself, had thrown away a jewel which was almost beyond price. He must have been watched; perhaps from a house opposite—no, that wasn’t the explanation, no one had seen him put the jewel in that bottle. Yet it hadn’t been taken away by chance.

  Lorna said: “They didn’t believe your story of the lighter and went to look in the doorway.”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “Darling.” She took his hand. “Perhaps it’s a good thing. I don’t want you to have that diamond.”

  He pulled himself free and picked up his cigarette case from the bedside table. “Clever and bright, wasn’t it? Get the Tear out of the shop, then put it anywhere. The police are blind fools, never mind the police. Astute John Mannering! That Tear might have led us to the killer, and I—”

  “John, stop going on like this.”

  “I like it. It does me good to know how bad I am. Teaches me not to sit on top of the world.”

  Another bell rang, the front door. It jarred through the quiet, making Lorna catch her breath, and he knew that the thought which sprang to his mind had its echo in hers. The police had found the Tear, and wanted to know why he had put it there.

  The bell rang again.

  “Oh, well,” said Mannering. “It could be Larraby. He probably thinks that he can be helpful.” He forced a smile. “Be in a nice deep sleep, no need for you to be worried by Bristow or his boys.”

  Mannering slipped into his robe and tied the sash as he crossed the hall, then switched on the light to make sure that he had a clear view of the caller. He opened the door. Cluttering stood there.

  The reporter came in, smiling. “Not in bed yet? Or were you? Apologies, Mr. Mannering!” He saw Lorna at the bedroom door, also in her dressing-robe. “Has he been telling you a fairy story? Any hope of a drink John? I always get thirsty listening to Gordon telling me where to get off.” He had to look upwards to meet Mannering’s eyes. “What about a real story, too? This reporter won’t be put off by the brush-off. You’re going to make a statement for the Record—persuade him, Mrs. Mannering. You know our motto: the inside story of every crime in London, by ace reporter Chit Chittering. I’ve my reputation to think of. Speechless, John?”

  “What’s this? Blackmail?”

  “My dear chap! You must have been in a dead sleep.” Chittering strolled across to the study, for he was no stranger to the flat, and pushed open the door. “Mind if I switch on the light?”

  “Where is the jewel?” asked Mannering.

  Lorna said: “Do you think—”

  “I don’t think, I know. Come across, Chittering, or you’ll be crossed off the visiting list.” He tried to sound flippant, and succeeded in sounding pompous. He had no doubt that Chittering had gone to Number 17.

  “Too bad,” said Chittering. “I can’t imagine what the great John Mannering is after. Mind you, I might guess. I’m no good at guessing, though, and the Record only deals in facts. You should see the tears our readers cry, sometimes!” He looked quite boyish. “I’ll try to guess, if you’ll give me the story of your visit to the shop, John. Were you first on the scene? Mr. Mannering got there first and the police came tumbling after—we like a rub at the Yard every now and again. How about it?”

  Mannering said: “Oh, no. Not yet.”

  “So there is a story?”

  “It would make your mouth water.”

  Chittering put his hand into the pocket of his raincoat; where something bulged. Then he drew out a milk bottle, full of milk.

  Chapter Six

  21, Clay Court

  Chittering held the bottle up to the light.

  “Isn’t it lovely? Does it matter what glass I use, Mrs. Mannering? Nice stuff to drink, milk. Can’t understand what’s come over John. Going to talk, John?”

  Mannering said: “Yes.”

  “I thought you’d see my point of view.” Chittering’s grin became cherubic—until Mannering went to the telephone. When it changed to a frown. “Oi! What’s the idea?”

  “I’m going to talk.”

  “You don’t have to telephone me.”

  “They have people on night duty at Scotland Yard.”

  “You wouldn’t tell Scotland Yard about tonight’s little escapade if I tried to
make you. Joke over. Did you find Jacob’s body?”

  “That’s not what I’m going to say to Bristow. I’m going to tell him that a certain reporter who was hanging around Belham Street tonight disappeared with a bottle of milk. Milk snatching in London has become as prevalent as bag-snatching. I can’t make you show me what’s in that bottle, but Bristow will. Or I might try Gordon, as he’s in a bad temper. And all the other national newspapers will have lurid headlines: “Record Reporter Held On—”

  “Your trick,” sighed Chittering. “Bring a jug, Mrs. Mannering, and we’ll see what came out or the cow.”

  “Not so fast,” said Mannering. He took the bottle and stood it on the mantelpiece, behind him. “Let’s see what’s happened so far. You were after a story about Jacob Bernstein, didn’t know that I’d been involved, followed me when I went to look for my lighter, found a bottle of milk—”

  Chittering said: “An empty bottle.”

  “Then where did the milk come from?”

  “The Record canteen.”

  “You found an empty bottle—”

  “Let’s have the facts. There was some cotton wool at the bottom of the bottle.”

  “Did you take the wool out of the bottle?”

  “I thought you’d like to do that.”

  “You thought I’d put the cotton wool inside, too, but even reporters make mistakes. Supposing we told Bristow about this: would you be able to swear that I’d put anything in that bottle? Or wouldn’t you have to state that I bent down and picked up a lighter, and you afterwards examined the bottle?”

  Chittering sighed: “Let’s hear the rest.”

  “It all depends on what is in the bottle. You think it’s a jewel which came from Jacob Bernstein’s. If it is such a jewel and you found it, you’ve a certain duty. What would your editor say if he discovered that you were running round with a piece of property stolen from the shop where a man had been murdered? What would the police say?” Mannering paused, but Chittering made no comment. “They would say you’d been a very bad boy, that you ought to have rushed with your discovery and your knowledge straight to the police. That is expected of all good London reporters. Wouldn’t it be much safer if you didn’t know? No one can stop you from guessing, and you don’t have to report guesses.”