by John Creasey
“Ze gentleman to see you,” said the waiter.
Toni Fiori said: “So,” and made an elephantine job of getting to his feet. He was fat; flabby; frowning when he saw Mannering’s condition. He wasn’t Fiori of the Hula Club.
Toni Fiori was not so tall as Mannering and had to look up at him. His frown had changed to an indulgent smile, as if he were telling himself that he must humour this visitor. The music came faintly, as from a long way off, reminding Mannering of the bedroom he had recently left. The room was warm – and a bottle of cognac stood on the table by Toni’s side.
“Good evening, sir, you are good to call.” Toni’s English was good but with a marked accent.
Mannering felt his head swim, and put out a hand to steady himself. Toni gave a little popping exclamation, gripped his arm, helped him to sit down in the big armchair. He turned to the table, and poured out a little cognac.
“A little drink, please. It is verra good.” He held the glass under Mannering’s nose. The bouquet was stimulating, and Mannering sipped, “I am Toni Fiori, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, signor.”
“Mannering. John Mannering.”
“And I can help—” began Toni, only to stop abruptly to send a startled glance over Mannering’s head to the waiter. Then he turned and picked up the newspaper, flattened it out, looked at the front page and then at Mannering. He breathed: “This Mannering?”
Mannering thought: “Chittering will do what he can for hay. I’m beat.” He stretched his legs. “That’s right. Is your brother the owner of the Hula Club?”
“That is so, signor. My brother Enrico, and it is a fine club, the best in London. Always we say: For the best dancing, Enrico: for the best food, Toni.” He bowed – and shot another startled, perhaps warning glance over his shoulder at the waiter. “You expect to find Enrico here, perhaps?”
“I did.”
“It is not often Enrico visits me. He is so rich, so important, I am poor. But there is a difference. I am happy. Is there a way I can help you, Mr Mannering? It will not be to find Enrico, we do not live the same lives or go to the same places. Certainly we do not. I can help—yes?”
“I’m hungry.”
“You are hungry,” echoed Toni, and threw up his hands. “It is a good place to come when you are hungry, signor. What would you like?”
“I leave it to you.”
Fiori backed away and spoke in an undertone to the waiter, who hurried off.
“Signer, if you are not too hungry perhaps you will wash,” said Toni.
Mannering allowed himself to be led into a bedroom, leading off which was a small bathroom; Mannering saw himself in the mirror – and laughed while Toni stood gravely behind him. Mannering washed his hands, the first washing turned the water almost black. How had he got so dirty? His hair was dishevelled, there were streaks of dust on his cheeks, and there was also a scratch; he didn’t remember getting his face scratched. He washed three times, towelled gingerly because his head was tender, and then gently combed his hair. Toni watched with bright eyes.
In the living-room a table was laid, cutlery and damask glistened, a bottle of Chianti in its little basket lay waiting; a dish of spaghetti arrived. As Mannering began to eat, he heard voices downstairs, voices raised excitedly.
“Everything happens at once,” he said.
“Always it is the same. You will please excuse me.” Toni went out, and as the door opened the voices became louder. One was that of a waiter, the other a deep, heavy voice, as English as London itself. Then Toni joined in – and suddenly Mannering remembered what he had told the taxi driver, and knew what was happening downstairs. He stood up as Toni came hurrying in, an indignant and flushed Toni.
“Signor, you send for the police?”
A constable loomed behind him.
“Yes,” said Mannering, “It was—” No, it wouldn’t do to say that it was a mistake. He smiled at the constable. “You’ve probably got a call out for me—Mr. Mannering.”
“Haven’t heard of one, sir.”
“Oh. I thought Superintendent Bristow wanted to know where I was.”
“I was at the call-box five minutes ago and heard nothing, sir. Are you Mr. Mannering?”
“John Mannering,” murmured Toni. “It is, then, the mistake. There is nothing the matter with the signor, and this is a respectable restaurant. So. You will forgive me, signor, while I take the constable downstairs?”
Mannering smiled at the policeman, who nodded and went off.
The meal was perfect.
The arrival of Bristow, on the heels of coffee and liqueurs, did nothing to spoil it.
Toni ushered the Superintendent in, said that he was honoured, insisted on opening another bottle of wine, and asked them if they would excuse him, he had work to do downstairs. Bristow sat in an armchair opposite Mannering, with a glass of wine at his side, a cigarette jutting from his lips.
“I’m told you’ve got a crack on the head.”
“I have, Bill.”
“You deserved it. Why the devil can’t you listen when I warn you?”
“I couldn’t help this one. I was shanghaied on my own doorstep, five minutes after asking you to look after Lorna.” Lorna! “Is your man—” Anxiety sharpened his voice.
“Lorna’s at Chelsea, and I’ve a man back and front. I’m not playing with this business.”
Mannering relaxed. “Thanks, Bill. Did you find your prisoners at the Hula Club?”
“Yes. What’s this about Green?”
“To tell you that I have to tell you everything.” Mannering stretched out his legs, lit a cigarette and began to talk, until there was little about that night’s events which Bristow didn’t know. Toni Fiori kept out of the way, Mannering spoke in a low voice so that there was no fear of being heard outside the door.
Bristow said: “Hmmm. One of these days you will really get yourself into a mess that you can’t get out of. But I suppose it was unavoidable tonight.” What he really meant was: “You’ve got results which we couldn’t have got in a week, and I’m not going to complain about it.”
“Enrico Fiori’s queer notion that I have the Tear really began it,” said Mannering. “Have you any idea why he wants it?”
“No. We’ve always known that he sailed close to the wind at times. Do you know what scared him away?”
“Have you discovered anything about Fay Goulden?”
Bristow said slowly: “She’s the daughter of a Professor of Medicine, who was at Bonn University for twenty years before the war. She was brought up in Germany. Her father disappeared under the Hitler regime. Bernstein looked after her for a few months and then sent her to England. I don’t know any more than that and can’t be sure that it’s all there is to know. It might explain why Bernstein made her his heiress, but—” Bristow shrugged. “Do you know where she is?”
Mannering sat up sharply.
“Isn’t she at her flat?”
“No. She left at half-past seven, according to her maid. She was to have been at the Hula Club at nine o’clock, but no one saw her there. Enrico Fiori left at half-past nine, alone and in a hurry. He was tipped off about something, but we can’t find out what. If you’ve the slightest inkling as to where we might find that girl, you’ve got to tell me. Fiori may think that she has the Tear; you know what happens to people he suspects of having that. Was she the girl at Bernstein’s shop that night?”
Chapter Thirteen
No Trace of Fay
“I’ve no idea where she might be,” said Mannering. The picture of a dead woman hovered in his mind’s eye, and he seemed to hear Harry Green screaming. “Find her, Bill.”
“We’ll find her—sooner or later.” The qualification sounded ominous. “And don’t evade my questions. Was she at Bernstein’s shop when you found
him?”
Mannering said; “No.” That was true. “Does it matter?”
“She could have killed Bernstein.”
“Work on Green carefully and he’ll confess.”
“And she might have taken the Tear,” Bristow said. He stood up abruptly. “I’ve taken plenty of chances with you, holding back information is bad; deliberately lying to us is going too far. Did you see the girl at Bernstein’s?”
Mannering said: “Nothing I’ve done has hampered you.”
“So you saw her.” Bristow looked aggressive and angry – but it was simulated anger. “How long have you known her?”
“Twenty-four hours or less.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Gospel truth, Bill.”
“You’ve been lying from the start. You knew more about Fiori, Fay Goulden and the Tear before you went to the shop. It wasn’t chance that took you there. Why did you go? Who else is interested in the Tear? Who are you acting for?” Questions flashed out as Bristow stood towering over Mannering, forcing the issue because he believed that Mannering’s power of resistance was at a low ebb. “I’ll pull you in for questioning if you don’t answer. Forget the ‘all friends together’ business. Remember that this is a murder investigation, and we’ve been after Fiori for years—since the first Tear crime was reported. This isn’t a simple business. It’s big. We can’t have you withholding information. I’m serious—do you want to spend a night at the Yard?”
“I knew nothing about the Tear that I couldn’t read in any. newspaper and I’ve a customer who wants it for his collection. A reputable customer—Lord Amman. I’ve told you all I can and all that matters. Stop wasting your time with me and find Fay.”
It may have been chance; it may have been because Bristow’s voice was raised and could be heard outside. Whatever the reason, Toni Fiori chose that moment to come in, apologising, hoping that the superintendent and Mr. Mannering had nearly finished; he had work to do here.
“I want to go home to bed,” Mannering said. “Have you time to drive me home, Bill?”
Bristow growled: “I’m going back to the Yard. I shall come and see you again later.”
Mannering sat in the back of the taxi, which had waited for him outside, and the real danger to Fay was menacingly close. Mannering felt cold, not just because of the chilly night or the fact that he was tired, his head still ached and he was near the limit of his physical resources.
Would it help to go to Fay’s flat?
Or would it be best to try to see Julia Fiori? Had she gone with Fiori? Questions – dozens of questions which he couldn’t answer, and underlying all of them the simple fact that he had helped to put Fay Goulden in danger. But, he wouldn’t go to Clay Court; the police would be there. And the police would question Julia.
A car stood outside his flat. Lights blazed from the front window, and he thought he saw Lorna looking out. He didn’t want to talk to anyone except Lorna, and not much to her. He paid the cabby. By the time he reached the front door it opened; Lorna appeared.
“All safe,” said Mannering. “No great harm done.”
Lorna looked at him intently, and startled him by saying:
“Chittering says—”
“He’s here, is he?”
“Yes.” Lorna drew him inside, closed the door, and stood looking at him in the dim light which came from the landing above. He put his arm about her, and they stood very close together; he could feel the beating of her heart. She was frightened. She would be until this affair was over, whatever she said and whatever she did.
Chittering called from upstairs: “Break it up!”
“We’d better go,” said Lorna. “You do look dreadful.”
“I’m all right. How much do you know?”
“All that I know,” said Chittering cheerfully. “Read it in the Record in the morning.” He stood at the door of the flat, still in evening dress, like a smiling cherub. “So romance is not dead. Been baiting Bristow?”
“He’s been baiting me.”
“You can’t have your own way all the time.” Chittering’s smile lingered as they went inside, but there was no smile in his eyes. “Have you heard about Fay?”
“Yes.”
“Bad business. Her Kenneth is distraught.”
“Where is he?”
“Looking for her in all the familiar places. He wouldn’t wait for a police escort, but one of the brighter young men of the Record is going the rounds with him, and I’ll have a report before long. Did you go to Toni’s café?”
“There are two Fioris.”
“I wondered when you’d catch up with that,” said Chittering. “Toni the Restaurateur seems a nice little man, but I wouldn’t take him at face value if I were you. Has Bristow any idea where the Tear is?”
“He can only guess. Chitty, will you run the story of Fay’s disappearance very hard. Get a good photograph, splash it on the front page, and ask for your readers’ help. If you can, persuade the news agencies to feature the story. We’ve got to find that girl.”
“Leave it to me, John.” Chittering said seriously. “I’ll see you.”
When he had gone, Lorna said grimly: “You’re going to stay in tonight, if I have to tie you to the bed.”
Mannering grinned. “Just hold me down,” he said, and yawned – and now his head was throbbing and seemed likely to split. He couldn’t even worry much about Fay, not as much as he knew he should.
He woke at eight o’clock next morning.
Lorna’s bed was empty and he could hear voices, probably coming from the kitchen. The only other sounds came from outside the flat. A pain at the back of his head told him that he wasn’t going to have a good day. He sat up, and the throbbing, grew worse. He pressed the bell at the side of the bed, and the ringing had hardly stopped before Lorna came in.
“Good morning, darling,” said Mannering. “Sleep well?”
“If you mean, did anyone call, no.” Lorna came and sat at the side of the bed and took his hands. “You look as if you spent the night on the tiles. How’s your head?”
“Only cracked.”
“We ought to have had a doctor last night.”
“It isn’t a big crack.”
“You might get concussion—anything. Let me see.” He moved his head gingerly forward; she stood up and parted his hair, searing his scalp with pain. “It’s a big bump! Does anyone in this establishment know how to make tea?”
“Susan’s bringing it in. And you’re to have breakfast in bed.” She was sharp-voiced, as if holding herself in check only with a great effort. Then she went on tensely, “Chitty told me about that secret police report, and what happened to the women. I’ve always hated the Tear; I hate it even more now. Have you told the police that you have it?”
“No,” said Mannering and jested, “I forgot.” Then his manner changed and he reached out for the telephone. “There’s something else I forgot—in fact I didn’t even think about it. If ever I tell you I’m good, explain in words of three letters how bad I am.” He began to dial. A detached voice answered his call, while Susan came in with a tea-tray. “Is Mr. Chittering in the Reporters’ Room?” asked Mannering.
Soon Chittering said: “Who’s that?”
“It’s nice to know you never go to bed,” said Mannering.
“I’ve slept like a top, and have just looked in. Have you seen the blatt this morning? We’ve had thirty-seven people on the line already, telling us that they’ve seen Fay, from Land’s End to John O’ Groats. Anything new?”
“Yes. Can you get the Daily Record to play ball?”
Chittering laughed. “There isn’t an editor in London who won’t. What’s the new idea?”
“Will you run this: Has the Diamond of Tears been smuggled out of the country? Produce a mys
terious Frenchman, Brazilian, Portuguese, anything you like, who was after the Tear, and known to have been negotiating with Bernstein for it. Suggest that it may not have been at the shop after all, that Bernstein may have been lying when he said that he’d still got it. See the idea?”
Chittering paused, then said: “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
He rang off, and Lorna handed Mannering a cup of tea and said: “At least you can still think. What do you hope to do?”
“Persuade Fiori that Fay hasn’t got the Tear. Anything that might stall him for twenty-four hours would be a help. Darling, look up Mrs. Fiori, of 23 Clay Court, in the telephone book and find out if she’s in, will you?”
“Who is this woman?” asked Lorna. If he didn’t know her too well he would have thought her almost jealous. “Did she come here yesterday?”
“Yes.” Mannering pulled her forward, but she still yielded only to humour him. “She’s enough to make you turn green with jealousy.”
Lorna pulled herself free, and dialled while Mannering sipped tea. He could hear the ringing sound faintly, but was much more worried by Lorna’s frown. Her manner was beginning to disturb him. Then the ringing stopped.
“Is Mrs. Fiori there?” asked Lorna. She paused, then handed Mannering the telephone.
Mannering said: “Good morning, Julia,” and Lorna bit her lip, and continued to stare at him, tense and on edge. It was a long time before Julia Fiori said: “Who is that?”
“And you can’t even remember my voice,” said Mannering, reproachfully. “How’s Enrico?”
“I think he must be losing his touch, as you’re still here,” said Julia.
“I want a word with you about Fay,” Mannering said. “Don’t let anything happen to her. That’s extremely important. If she gets hurt then strange and violent things are going to happen. People like you will get messed up in the process. Look after Fay.”
