An Affair For the Baron (12 page)

The chair itself?

It would have to be somewhere within easy reach of right or left hand. How had the man drunk his whisky? Right-handed? A right-handed man often had the bell pushes, telephone and gadgets on his left, so that he could write and talk freely at the same time.

The telephones
were
on the left.

Mannering began to run his fingers along the jewelled arms, remembering that the spot, when he found it – if he found it – would be within easy reach of the small, slightly built man who ruled his empire from this chair. And it would not be a spot which one could touch easily by accident: it would be under the seat, perhaps? – or at the side? Mannering ran his fingers along the golden underledges, and found several round protuberances; in a lesser chair these would be the small, undecorated heads of nails, or tacks; here, each was a study, smooth, polished, beautifully engraved. He stood up, tilted the chair to one side, and saw that there were five, all gold, all delicately chased. The most convenient to touch would be the middle one. But before he pressed it, he had to be ready to act.

If he were right, there would be a buzz of sound and the door would open. He wanted to be able to press and be at the door almost at one and the same moment. Looking down at the floor, Mannering saw that the chair was wired to the wall, and that there was little slack. So he couldn't move the chair nearer to the door. Turning to the desk, he managed to shift this a few inches so that now there was nothing between the door and himself, then stood as far away from the chair as he could, while still being able to press the middle stud. Arm stretched out, finger at the third protuberance, he pressed.

The buzzer sounded at the door.

Mannering flung himself across the room, one hand at the pocket where he had put the leather case containing the awl. As he reached the door, it began to open.

A man appeared, his face set in expectancy; it was the kind of expression one might assume for Ballas. It changed ludicrously at sight of Mannering, and the man's right hand darted towards his left shoulder; his gun.

Mannering kicked him in the pit of the stomach.

The man gasped, and staggered back. As he did so, Mannering thrust him to one side, and leapt to the landing.

On the right, halfway towards the door, stood Tiger O'Leary.

Mannering saw the glint in O'Leary's eyes, that unmistakable look of evil, saw it change on the instant to one of gloating, almost of satisfaction. He also saw the gun halfway from O'Leary's shoulder holster, and knew that he had no time to reach the man before he fired.

His fingers closed round the awl. Snatching it from his pocket, he flung it towards O'Leary.

He saw the man flinch, but he did not back away; it was unlikely that he realised what was coming.

The awl struck his cheek.

O'Leary winced at the sharp pain and lost a split second's advantage as Mannering closed with him in a desperate attempt to prevent him from shooting. One shot, however wide, would be enough to raise the alarm. Mannering gripped the other's gun wrist, and twisted – but even as he did so, O'Leary went limp and began to sag at the knees. Slowly he slithered to the floor, leaving the gun in Mannering's hand.

Mannering put it in his pocket, bent down, and dragged O'Leary's body into the big room. The man he had kicked, inert but not wholly unconscious, offered no immediate threat; nevertheless it would not be long before he was sufficiently recovered to shout for help. Mannering recovered the awl, re-dipped it into the phial, and pressed it firmly into his arm. Now, he was on his own.

The door was still open.

He went out on to the landing, walked swiftly to the head of the stairs, and looked down. The Reynolds and two Rubens seemed to look down with him.

Nothing stirred.

Cautiously he descended the stairs, the thick carpet muffling all sound. No one appeared. Walking quickly through the hallway, he came, once again, to the front door.

He turned the handle – and there in front of him was the courtyard.

He walked out, pulling the door to behind him. He remembered exactly the position of the three aircraft, as he hurried towards an open archway. He saw no one. The sun struck very hot on the back of his head. He reached an outer courtyard, where several dogs lay in the shade, and a very old man with a face as dark and lined as carved wood sat dozing. Ignoring him, Mannering went through a second archway.

The three aeroplanes stood unattended, not far from two concrete landing strips.

Mannering turned towards them. The first he came to was a Chipmunk, and he had flown the model often enough to be sure he could fly this one – if it were ready for flight. He stepped into the welcome shade of the aeroport, and pulled the chocks from the wheels.

As he did so, he heard the sound of an approaching aircraft.

Swinging himself quickly into the cockpit, he pulled the starter ring, praying the engine would start at once; and it did. He took two precious minutes to make sure there was plenty of fuel and to refresh his mind about the controls. Then, looking into the sky, he saw a twin-engined aircraft coming in. He began to taxi. Behind him, two men wearing sombreros but dressed in mechanics' overalls, emerged from the outbuildings. One of them began to run after Mannering; and to shout and gesticulate.

Mannering actually laughed.

As his machine gathered speed, slowly, gloriously rising from the ground as if he had been used to handling her all his life, he felt a wild surge of exhilaration. He had achieved the impossible – he
had
escaped.

Soon, he was at eight hundred feet, and circling. He needed to head north for the United States, and he wondered how far it was away. Seeing a pair of fieldglasses hanging from the instrument panel, he focused them on the arriving aircraft, which had just landed. A man jumped out of it, staring up at Mannering.

It was Alundo's friend – ‘Texas Tommy' Ricardi.

Chapter Fourteen

HemisFair

Everywhere Mannering looked, there was the barren, scrub-speckled rock on which nothing seemed to move. The sun was almost directly behind him as he headed due north. He had no idea of the distance to the border, but a chart stuck to the door showed that a place marked with a cross, on the Mexican side, was about fifty miles from a small river town; that would be the Rio Grande. Mannering was troubled only by one thing: that he might be followed, might even be shot down. He was not followed.

He flew over the narrow river which did not look wide enough to be the Rio Grande, but it was. Glancing at the chart, he saw a second cross, at a place called Del Rio, and a third, much larger; this was San Antonio.

“At least the HemisFair people know of me,” he said aloud. “It's only a hundred or so miles away.”

Now that the excitement and tension were over, he felt curiously limp, his mind drained of all emotion; but he remembered very clearly all that Ballas had said about Professor Alundo.

A laconic voice sounded over the radio.

“You want to come in? … You sure can … Strip seventeen … You see it? … Okay, glad to have you with us. If we need you again we'll call you Flight 0075.”

Mannering found himself smiling, because the voice sounded so casual. He kept the radio on, in case of any change of instructions, and looked about him. The city sprawled in all directions, the land surrounding it varying from green to yellow; this was very different from the barren rocky land he had left. He saw the criss-cross of streets and the moving traffic, then turned to come in for landing and saw what appeared to be a huge map like the one marked HEMISFAIR NINETY-TWO ACRES on the wall of Ricardi's room.

What was Ricardi doing at Ballas's house?

Mannering pushed that thought out of his mind and studied the Exhibition Grounds. The buildings were sharply defined, clean and new. A great tower overlorded them all, close by a huge arena. Dotted about everywhere, he could see men working at tremendous speed: they were only six days off the official opening by the President of the United States.

Was it simply coincidence that Alundo was to speak here?

What would happen if that formula on the microfilm were known – and used, say, in the great auditorium where he was to give his lecture?

Deeply troubled, Mannering thrust this thought away.

It was time for landing.

A small van drove towards and kept pace with him as he brought the plane to a standstill. When he got out, a mechanic was there to meet him with a casual “Howdy?” He pointed towards the offices. A huge sign saying HEMISFAIR OFFICIALS was on one side. As Mannering went towards this, he was intercepted by a pleasant looking girl.

“Did you tell Flight Control you were from Mexico, sir?”

“Yes. But I've nothing to declare.”

“If you will just attend to the formalities, sir …” There was a cursory examination and a welcome: “Glad to have you in San Antonio, Mr. Mannering,” and then the girl escorted him to the HemisFair offices. Everything was pleasant, orderly, under control.

“We have so many visitors by air we have a special section for them here at the airport, sir … Mr. Who? … Mr. Mannering?
Mannering?
You mean from London, England … We have an exhibit from you!” The clerk's eyes lit up with interest, quite suddenly Mannering was treated as a celebrity. “If there is anything we can do, sir … Yes, sir, Mr. Steven Marshall is in Austin right now but he'll be glad to see you when he gets back … Yes, sir, your exhibits arrived safely … Yes, sir, there are flights from here to Chicago non-stop … Yes, sir, you surely can use a room with a telephone …”

First, Mannering washed, had a light meal at a coffee shop, then went to a small room set aside for visitors who had come on HemisFair business. He was new enough to the practice of dialling long distance numbers to be startled when the Palmer House Hotel in Chicago came on the line almost as soon as he finished dialling.

“… we
may
have a room, sir, we have the Mid-West Cotton Packers Convention here and are fully booked, but … If you will wait a moment, sir.”

Mannering waited two minutes before they promised him a room on the third floor.

He rang off, and called Registration at the Conrad Hilton.

“Why, surely, Mr. Mannering, there are some messages for you … Would you care to have me read them … I certainly will, sir … Miss Ethel Alundo tried to reach you twice, and will call later … Mr. Ricardi called last night, no message … Mrs. Mannering of Green Street, London, England, called, will you telephone as soon as you can, it doesn't matter what time …” The girl's tone changed. “They're later than we are, sir, because of the time zones … And will you call Mr. Mario Ballas, sir, at La Racienda, Mexicali 7-3142.”

“What time did that call come in?” Mannering asked sharply.

“It's marked two-fifty-five, only a few minutes ago. That's all the messages, sir.”

“Thank you very much,” Mannering said. He rang off, glancing at his watch and confirming that it was nearly three o'clock; that meant it would be eight o'clock in England. He put in a call for Lorna, then leaned back in his chair, wondering first what his wife, and then what Ballas wanted. What
could
the old man want? Not to plead, but possibly to reason – more likely to threaten. How could he threaten now? Mannering leaned across and put in a call to Ricardi's flat. It rang for a long time, but there was no answer – so Professor Alundo wasn't in, either, mused Mannering. He could picture Ricardi at Ballas's Mexico home. Was he a regular visitor? Were they in league with each other?

But it was too easy, too often fatal, to jump to conclusions.

Why had
Ethel
called him?

He lifted the receiver, dialled O, then asked for Mexicali 7-3142. He had a curious sense of apprehension as he waited for the ringing sound. He did not have to wait long before a man answered; and at the sound of the voice, Mannering realised that during the whole of his stay at La Racienda, he had not once heard, or seen, a woman.

The man said: “Who is that?”

“John Mannering,” said Mannering.

There was a strange inflection in the other's voice.

“Mannering? It's a good thing you called!”

“Mr. Ballas called me,” Mannering said coldly.

“Just hold on,” the speaker said; there was no doubt of his rising excitement.

Suddenly there was a scuffling sound at the other end of the wire, and a dull thud; Mannering thought he heard a sharp cry of pain. Then a woman's voice rang clearly over the line. “Don't hit him, please don't hit him. Don't—”

There was a shout, a slap, and more confused sounds, as Mannering's fingers tightened on the receiver. At last he had heard a woman's voice at the Mexican house; and he knew that Ethel Alundo was there, apparently in great trouble.

Was he supposed to hold on? Would anyone else speak? These and a dozen other questions flashed through Mannering's mind as he waited. There were no sounds in the room, none from outside, and those at the other end of the line faded into silence, although he did not hear the telephone being replaced.

Then, very softly, Mario Ballas's voice spoke.

“You are a fool, Mr. Mannering.”

“Who am I to argue?” Mannering answered. “If Ethel Alundo isn't here in two hours' time, I shall send for the police and report exactly what has happened.”

“And if you send for the police, they will be told that Ethel Alundo, a guest in my house, was caught red-handed trying to break into my gallery. The police won't help her, Mr. Mannering, or help you.”

That was probably true.

“Mr. Mannering,” Ballas went on, “I intend to get that microfilm. Bring it to me, and the girl will not be hurt. I want it by this time tomorrow. Fly to any airport in Texas and telephone me. I will send for you. If you do as I tell you, neither you nor Alundo's daughter have anything to fear. If you don't, the girl—”

He deliberately left the sentence hanging in the air, like a threat.

Mannering said thinly: “Don't hurt her.”

“That is entirely up to you.”

“Don't hurt her, or you will never get the film.”

“Mannering,” Ballas said evenly, “I am too mature a man to be influenced by sentimentality. This young woman means nothing to me. A hundred like her are maimed or killed on the roads every day, a hundred like her are being introduced to drugs, a hundred like her will be raped before the day is out. She is a pawn in this grave affair, unimportant and insignificant. She may be important to her father or her lover – even to you: but she is not important to me.”

“Lover?” Mannering echoed.

“Lover,” repeated Ballas. “His name is Ricardi. Remember, I want the film by tomorrow night.” He rang off.

Mannering replaced the receiver very slowly, staring at the wall. He could picture Ballas, Ethel, Ricardi and Alundo, yet none of them seemed sharp in his mind's eye – except Ballas. The cold-blooded way the old man talked made one thing crystal clear: the issues were too great for him even to consider the human factors.

Now, he had Ethel prisoner.

Was
Ricardi her lover? Mannering had believed her when she had said she had never been to New York before, but she could have been lying; she and her father might both be deeply involved. What had Ballas called Alundo? “Now there is your evil man, Mr. Mannering,
there
is your evil incarnate.”

Was it possible—?

Mannering forced himself not to dwell on it, but dialled Chicago Whitehall 4-31495 again. He hardly expected an answer, but the ringing sound stopped almost at once and Alundo said brusquely: “Hallo? Who is that?”

“This is Mannering—” Mannering began.

“Mannering!” cried Alundo. “I have been trying to get you all day, where—oh, it doesn't matter, the only thing that matters is Ethel. She's been kidnapped!” His voice rose. “D'you hear me? Ethel has been kidnapped! You've got to find her. Understand? You've got to find her. Don't lose a minute, Mannering.”

Mannering said quietly: “Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Police? Don't be a maniac, of course I haven't! This isn't a matter for the police, far too much is at stake. Find her, Mannering.”

An operator's voice broke in: “Excuse me, Mr. Mannering, but your call to London is through.”

“I'll take it,” Mannering said. “Alundo, wait in the apartment until I contact you again. Get off the line now.” Alundo began to say something, but was cut off, and almost immediately Mannering heard Lorna's voice.

“John! Are you there—
John
!”

“Hallo, darling,” Mannering said. “It's good to hear you.”

“Good,” breathed Lorna. “Darling, what have you been up to? Bristow's been to see me. He's had a request from the Chicago Police Department for a full dossier on you in connection with the murder of a man named Enrico Ballas. He thinks they're going to arrest you – he really thinks so. John, what
is
happening?
Do
you know anything about the murder of this man?”

“Enough to be charged with it,” Mannering said dryly. “No need for you to worry, though, I—”

“No need to worry! I'm off my head with anxiety. Bristow said that this man Ballas is the son or nephew or something of one of the most dangerous men in America.”

“And so he was,” Mannering said. “But there's still no need for you to worry.” He racked his brains for something to tell her that might keep her from fretting. An idea came almost on the instant; he pounced on it with alacrity. “There's one thing you can do to help.”

“Anything!” Hope rose in Lorna's voice of settled despondency.

“Dr. Arthur Alundo has a daughter, Ethel—”

“What has Alundo to do with this?”

“You'd be surprised! Find out where Ethel lives, what she does for a living, whether she's engaged or has a boy-friend, particularly an American boy-friend. Get Josh to help.” Josh Larraby was the manager of his Mayfair shop; it had been he who had told Mannering of the rumour that Enrico Ballas had stolen Fentham's jewels.

“Yes. Yes, I will. But—”

“Find out everything you possibly can about the girl,” Mannering went on, “and telephone me at the Palmer House—”

“
Where
?”

“The Palmer – P-A-L-M-E-R – House Hotel, Chicago. If I'm not there, try the Conrad Hilton. But darling, how are
you
?”

“Not terribly keen on being a widow! They still have the death penalty over there.”

“It depends on what State Ballas was murdered in, but don't worry about the death penalty, just find out all you can about Ethel Alundo.”

“I will. Oh, there's another thing! Bristow said that Donald Hennessy is in Chicago – he thought you'd like to know.”

“That might be very useful,” Mannering said appreciatively.

Hennessy was a Home Office official who often worked with Scotland Yard, and was an old friend of Mannering.

“John,” Lorna said. “
Please
be careful.”

“I'll be careful,” Mannering promised, and as he rang off he added mentally: I doubt if there's ever been more need to be.

He turned as he heard a deep voice calling his own name.

“John Mannering? Are you sure?” There was a tap at the door and as Mannering stood up, it opened. There was something both robust and reassuring about the appearance of the tall, powerful-looking man in the dark suit who came in, right hand outstretched.

“Mr. Mannering, I surely am glad to see you! I'm Steven Marshall. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. If there is anything at all I can do for you—” he broke off, expectantly.

Mannering said: “You're very good. If you could get someone to reserve me a flight to Chicago as soon as possible, I—”