An Affair For the Baron (14 page)

For several moments neither man spoke. Then Alundo looked levelly at Mannering. His eyes, at first expressionless, took on a new intensity.

“This means that it
wasn't
one of Ballas's men who stole the briefcase. I thought at first it might have been – especially after what happened on the train. But Ricardi told me—”

“Ricardi,” Mannering interrupted him. “How long have you known Ricardi?”

“From the first time I gave the Peace Lecture, in Dallas, eighteen months ago,” Alundo said. “He was one of the few who understood, who put his money, his influence, his intelligence, at my disposal. If there were a thousand more like him, what a nation of idealists this country would be!”

What would Alundo say if he knew that Ricardi had been admitted into Ballas's hideaway so freely?

“We can use idealists,” Mannering said dryly, and then asked abruptly: “What's this talk you're to give to San Antonio? And when is it?”

“It is a week tomorrow,” answered Alundo. “And it will be my Peace Prize Lecture.”

“How is it you can give a peace lecture at a World Fair?”

“It is a better place than most,” the old man said. “My Peace Prize Lecture was honoured, two years ago, although the world has forgotten. Last year's winner is sick, this year's winner died two months ago, so—I am to speak. And when I speak—Mannering! Listen to me. When I speak I want to tell the world that
I have destroyed that microfilm.
That is why I must have it. If you have any heart, if you have any conscience, if you have any love for mankind, find the film and give it to me.

“If you do not – the curse of all mankind be on your head.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Curse …

“The curse of all mankind be on your head.”

The words echoed and re-echoed in Mannering's mind as he watched Alundo. As they came out, the man had seemed afire, but the flame slowly died, the light faded from his eyes, his body sagged. He backed a pace and dropped on to the couch, almost in a state of collapse. Suddenly he looked very, very old. Mannering crossed to a small bar, poured out a brandy and brought it to him. The Professor's hand quivered as he drank. Finished, he said in a voice which was hardly audible: “What's the use? What
is
the use?” He shook his head, wearily. “No one ever listens. No one really cares. If I was to shout from the housetops that the world was coming to an end, no one would pause to listen. Unless I have something to
prove
what I say in the Peace Lecture, no one will listen. The audience will nod and doze and wake up to applaud, and then drop off again. The politicians talk only in asinine platitudes. Sometimes I think all
I
talk are platitudes.”

“Think again, now you've got all that off your chest,” Mannering said. “What do you want most? Your daughter's safety, or the microfilm.”

Alundo's eyes took on a little of their former fire.

“I have no choice,” he said. “The film is
all
important.” Then he added: “I haven't really a chance, have I?
You
don't know where—”

Mannering said: “How long have you been working for peace?”

“Most of my life,” answered Alundo, with a proud lift of his head.

“How often have you given up hope?”

Frowning, the old man answered: “Never.”

“Why give it up now?”

“I am an old man, Mannering.”

“With less time than a young one, and so more need of faith. What were you doing when I came in?”

“I was revising notes for my lecture.”

“Why don't you go on revising them?” Mannering said. “You've nearly eight days.”

Alundo blinked at him, frowned again, then clasped his hands together very firmly. He did not speak. After a long time, he nodded. A curious transformation came on his lined face, a kind of peacefulness. Finally, he smiled, and turned away. He was holding his notes, and putting on a pair of thick-lensed glasses, when suddenly he said, in alarm: “Mr. Mannering!”

“Yes?”

“The police are looking for you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But they're outside—outside this very door.”

“I daresay they are.”

“Then how did you get in?”

Mannering smiled. “Perhaps it's as well we don't know everything. Exactly what happened to Ethel?”

“She—she went off, early this morning.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“I understood—I understood she was going to look for you. Ricardi has gone to find her, but I have heard nothing from him.”

“Did he know there was danger from Ballas?”

“Yes, yes,” said Alundo. He fiddled with his glasses. “It was from Ricardi that I learned that the danger did come from Ballas. There were interruptions at my lecture in Chicago, and Ricardi traced the source – men paid by Ballas to discredit me. And it has gone on and on. At some of my lectures there have been hooligans who have interrupted, shouted me down. Some of the newspapers have been full of bitter attacks on me. Ballas owns some of these newspapers and can influence others. I tell you, he is evil incarnate.”

“Do you trust Ricardi?”

Very slowly, Alundo said: “I do not trust anyone, not even my own daughter. It is a time of false ideologies. The poison of nationalism and the poison of Communism are equally virulent. Families are divided by them, husbands and wives are split asunder. Until there can be trust again, there can be no hope of peace.”

“You trusted Ethel to bring the package over.”

“In moments of crisis one is sometimes forced to take dangerous risks to escape those of a greater danger. I had intended to go back myself but I was too closely followed. Whenever I went to a public call-box, men came up to me and I—I was frightened. There was no time to write – no certainty that a letter would reach her. I was not even sure that my telephone call was untapped, and—certainly it was discovered that Ethel brought the film here—”

“Who knew?”

“If my line was tapped, anyone could have known.”

“If it wasn't?”

Alundo gulped, but did not hesitate.

“Ricardi.”

“Only Ricardi?”

“Yes,” Alundo assured him. “There could have been no one else. He has greatly admired Ethel for months. Even while she was in England he talked about her a great deal. He has several photographs of her. We—we do not always see eye-to-eye and she does not share my—my passionate views. But after all, she is my only child. We have not always got on very well, she is impetuous and imperious, so like her mother. And no doubt I am old and stubborn. Ethel has no patience with my attempts to put the world right, she thinks one should live for oneself alone.”

“I see,” said Mannering, and then asked casually: “How well do you know Lord Fentham?”

In surprise, Alundo answered: “Very well indeed, he is one of the financial sponsors of my tour – a great man, a very great man. What made you ask?”

“Did he know you were in trouble?”

“He did indeed.”

“Does he know of the microfilm?”

Alundo said wearily: “There is no point in prevaricating. Yes, he knows. He is one of the few true workers for peace.”

“There may be more than you realise,” Mannering said. “Couldn't you trust
him
?”

“I most certainly could,” said Alundo. “He is the only man I could trust. But these wicked men know of his friendship. To have asked him would have put him in deadly danger, whereas my daughter would not—should not—have been suspected. For her to visit me would seem quite normal.”

“I suppose you're right,” Mannering said, and went on abruptly: “I'm going now. You—”

The telephone bell rang across his words. Alundo seemed to shrink back as if fearful. Mannering turned, picked up the receiver slowly, put a finger against his lips for silence, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

No one would have recognised him.

As quickly as he had acquired an American accent, now he spoke in Alundo's voice – that rather high-pitched, slightly querulous tone.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“Pro—Professor,” a man said huskily. “Professor, they—”

“Who is that? Speak up, please.”

“Its—Ricky,” the other said, like a man in great pain. “They won't—they won't let her go without the—”

Mannering broke in, still querulous but very anxious now.

“Are you all right, Ricky? Where—”

“They—they—they beat me up,” Ricardi answered. “And they flew me right back to Ballas's private runway. I—I'm at one of the Lakeshore parks. In a call-box. Near the Planetarium.” He paused. “They pushed me out of a car. They won't let Ethel go, unless you—”

“Listen to me,” Mannering said. “Wait there. I will—”

“Don't come to me,” Ricardi said urgently. “Don't take risks, Professor. But – it's Ethel or the microfilm. Don't make any mistake.”

He rang off. Alundo, hardly crediting his own ears, sat staring at him. Mannering put the receiver down quickly.

“That was Ricardi. He didn't have any luck.”

“I knew that he had no chance, I warned him. Is he all right?”

“He's alive,” Mannering said heavily. “How many policemen are outside?”

“Two.”

“I want you to call them in,” Mannering said. “Tell them you heard something in the back room, and you want them to search it.”

He did not plead or argue, and he did not doubt that Alundo would obey.

Two minutes later he stood by the open door of a clothes closet, hearing the two men come in, then hearing Alundo's scared voice. He waited until voices and footsteps faded into the back room, went to the front door and peered out into the passage. No one was in sight. He went down two flights of stairs, then took the elevator to the second floor, got out and walked down the last flight of stairs. He glanced into the hall and saw the doorman talking to a thickset policeman who was stifling a yawn. He went out of the side door towards the car park, then along towards the main highway. Two taxis passed. He beckoned the third, and said: “Take me to the nearest car rental office, will you?”

Twenty minutes later he was driving a Chevrolet along Lakeshore Drive. Every now and again there was a turn off to a bathing station and wooded park, and at each he stopped, got out of the car, and called “Ricardi”. There was no answer. At the fourth, he thought he heard a muffled cry, and taking a pencil-thin torch from his pocket, he flashed it across the ground. Its beam fell at last on the huddled figure of a man. Mannering shone the torchlight over his face – and it showed crimson.

He caught his breath as he felt the other's limbs firmly but carefully, passing his hand gently over the back of his head. As he laid him carefully back on to the ground, he heard a chink – and looking down, saw Ricardi's key-ring, which had fallen from his pocket. Mannering picked it up, hesitated, then slipped it into his own pocket. Then he went to the booth, dialled the operator, and said in his American voice: “There's a man lying near this telephone – Lakeside 8-1001. He's taken a hell of a beating, he needs an ambulance real bad.”

“I'll connect you with the police, sir, if—”

“You tell the cops, I don't want any part of it.” Mannering replaced the receiver, got back into the Chevrolet, and waited. At last he heard the siren of an ambulance or a police car, and soon lights turned towards the call-box. He stayed long enough to see the vehicle stop and men get out, then he drove off.

He had a few minutes to think.

Now he had to face the fact that Ethel was a captive of Ballas, in Mexico, and that Ballas was still prepared to have a man viciously beaten up. He had two stories to reconcile, and was quite convinced that the secret of the microfilm in the locker at the Conrad Hilton was—deadly.

Deadly?

The word actually made him laugh.

Could it all be true? Or was it conceivable that both Alundo and Ballas had been fooled?

The only way to begin to find out was to get the packet. But supposing he ran the gauntlet of the police and Ballas's men at the hotel, what good would it do him? He could study the film, he could even project it, but how could he be sure that it was genuine?

He smiled wryly as he turned into another of the parks, where the light of a telephone booth glowed. He pulled up, then walked back to the booth, jingling coins in his pocket. He opened the telephone directory, and ran his forefinger down the H's to Hennessy, found Hennessy, D.R.R., K.C.V.O., and dialled a Murray Hill number. The ringing sound went on for a long time.

A man answered at last.

“This is Sir Donald Hennessy's residence.”

“Tell him Mr. Toby Plender would like a word with him,” Mannering said.

“Is it business, sir? Or personal? Sir Donald is at a meeting, and—”

“Highly personal, highly business and extremely urgent,” Mannering said.

He waited, heart thumping, wondering whether the message would reach Hennessy. Soon there were clicks on the line and a deep, resonant voice sounded with obvious pleasure.

“Why, Toby! I'd no idea you were in Chicago!”

“He's not,” said Mannering. “I am.”

There was a brief pause, before Hennessy said: “Who is that—” He broke off. “John!”

“Hallo, Donald,” Mannering said. “Surprised?”

“
Surprised?
That's putting it mildly. My God, man, all the police in Chicago are looking for you!”

“That's my problem,” Mannering said lightly. “They won't believe the story of my innocence until it's too late. Donald—”

“Why the deuce don't you give yourself up?” demanded Hennessy.

“The evidence against me is too strong.”

“But in heaven's name—”

“Let me get a word in edgeways,” Mannering pleaded. “I want a simple piece of information which you may be able to give me.”

“If I can I will,” promised Hennessy. “But I still think—oh, what is it?”

“Has there been a major leak of a supremely important new weapon?” asked Mannering, quietly.

“Wh—” Hennessy began, then broke off. He kept silent for a long time, while Mannering grew restless. Then in a calmer and more reasonable voice than he had yet used, he went on: “Yes. A discovery was made by two research physicists working for a commercial company. Both men were murdered – but one left a letter saying that two microfilms had been made of the discovery and the experiments leading up to it – both microfilms are now missing.” He paused. “John, what do
you
know about all this?”

“I might have one of the microfilms,” Mannering said

“
What
!”

“Unintentionally,” Mannering explained hastily.

“
Is it safe
?”

“For the time being, yes. Donald, listen, I need free passage into the Conrad Hilton Hotel and protection by the police from some men working for Mario Ballas—”

“My God,” breathed Hennessy. “Do you want to get yourself killed three ways?”

“And I want someone to take this microfilm and give me a replacement that looks exactly like it – and I want it by tomorrow morning.”

“How in heaven's name do you expect me to fix a thing like that?”

“You can do it,” Mannering said. “One condition.”

“
You're
in no position to make conditions!”

“I want freedom of movement in and out of Chicago for at least a week.”

After another pause, Hennessy said: “If it's the real thing, John, you'd deserve that, even if you'd killed a dozen Ballas's. Where are you?”