Cry For the Baron (10 page)

Was
he Fiori?

A sound broke the quiet of the house; a cry, not far away. It plucked at Mannering's nerves, made him sit up abruptly – and then it came again, longer, high-pitched, a cry of pain and fear.

“You will listen,” the fat man had said. “In a little while you will understand.”

A third scream, wild and uncontrolled, brought sweat to Mannering's forehead and a chill to his spine – and as he got out of bed more screams came and merged with one another in a continuous shriek of agony.

 

 

The door was locked; and the screams went on. They came from the next room, now high pitched and shuddering, now little more than moans; soon there was only the moaning, followed by a steady voice which might be the fat man's. Mannering could not hear the words but guessed that Bernstein's killer was being , questioned with the cold-blooded cruelty that the secret police reports had revealed in the affair of the
Diamond of Tears.

Then Mannering distinguished shrill words.

“No!”
A murmur of questions followed.
“It wasn't there.”
Another murmur. “
I
didn't take it!”
Silence, and then a cry of dread:
“No, don't do it again, don't do it again! I didn't take the stone!”

The man was suffering like this because Mannering had lied; even the fact that he had killed Bernstein could not justify that. Mannering could hear his sobbing, and tensed himself to withstand more screaming; none came. Slowly he relaxed – and gradually the obvious dawned in his mind so obvious that he hadn't given it a thought.

He must get away.

He turned swiftly to the window, pulled aside the curtains – and faced green-panelled steel shutters. The rounded heads of the rivets stood out all round, and there was no keyhole; they must be electrically controlled. He backed away slowly and turned to the door.

There was a lock on the door.

He thrust his hand into his pocket to get his knife, but it wasn't there. Everything else was; keys, silver and copper, the oddments he always carried; he went through his other pockets quickly, but the knife wasn't anywhere.

He sat heavily on the foot of the bed. Why couldn't he
think?

Slowly he bent down and put on his shoes, forcing himself not to fumble with the laces. He would get nowhere if he went on like this. He was too susceptible to the atmosphere, the mental torment. But he couldn't argue with physical facts and his hands were unsteady, his nerves aquiver. He stood up and went to the dressing-table, opened the drawers, found a nail file but nothing else remotely like a tool.

There were some reels of cotton; red, white, green – many colours. You could use cotton in more ways than one.

He heard a footstep, shut the drawer and spun round, his right hand in his pocket, holding his cigarette-case. That was the only thing he had for a weapon, except the chair on which the fat man had sat. He leaned forward and held the chair top, ready to raise it as a club – and all the time he argued with himself. You couldn't defeat the fat man by blunderbus methods, you had to match his cunning. First pain, then the drug had sapped what cunning he had, reduced him to elemental thought of brute force and –

The door opened.

Mannering swung the chair, but did not need to use it. A man was pushed into the room, a sobbing wreck of a man. The Homburg hat, still perched on his head, supplied an added touch of horror. His eyes were bloodshot, two burns showed livid on his cheeks, blood dripped from the top of one of his fingers as he thrust out his hand to save himself from falling.

The fat man said from the door: “Look after him, Mannering.”

Then the door closed.

 

You had to match cunning by cunning.

The tortured man lay on the bed, his eyes wide open as he stared towards the ceiling.

Mannering had found a salve in the dressing-table, applied it to the burns and to the little finger, the end of which had been crushed and the bone probably broken. He had bandaged that with his handkerchief, there was little else he could do, the man must see a doctor to have that finger put right. Doctor! Now the man lay sullen and resentful, smoking one of Mannering's cigarettes.

You took a deep breath and accepted facts as they were; this devilry was part of the fat man's technique and you couldn't stop it by ordinary means. You just accepted the position, then, and tried to deal with it. If you concentrated on what was likely to happen when the door opened again, you would only be in a state of funk and nerves. So you thought further ahead, looking at the mystery from the beginning. You planned what you would do when you were away from here, not whether you would ever get away – and you wondered how you could take advantage of this situation.

You knew what the fat man was planning.

Mannering hitched his chair nearer the bed and the bloodshot eyes turned towards him.

“Feeling any better?”

“I feel like hell.”

“You've a nice employer.”

“I'd like to smash his face in.”

“Worked for him for long?”

“Too long.”

“Why don't you get out of it?”

“Have you ever tried to get out of a padded cell? That's what this is—a padded cell. You
can't
get away from him.”

“Is he Fiori?”

“Supposing he is?” A glint shone in the man's eyes, as if he realised that he was talking too freely. “You'll get yours. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have had this.”

“What makes you so sure I took the
Tear?”

“
I
didn't.”

“Someone else could have taken it. Bernstein might have found a specially safe hiding-place for it. The police might be foxing, and have it at the Yard. I told Fiori the truth. I didn't expect him to work on you like this, and there was nothing I could have done about it if I'd known. Why does he want the
Tear?”

“He's crazy about that diamond. It isn't the first time he's tried to get it. He'll do anything for it but he doesn't make us take risks for anything else, he's smart most of the time. The
Tear
makes a fool out of him.”

Mannering said: “If I were in your shoes I wouldn't get a laugh out of anyone.”

The man snapped: “Shut your trap!” He stared at the wall, his uninjured hand clenching, as if with sudden pain. The cigarette was nearly finished and burning close to his lips.

“Why did you kill Bernstein?”

“I had to kill him.”

“There's just one thing that might save you from a life sentence,” said Mannering. “Well, two things. Fiori might kill you first. The other—” He broke off. “Another cigarette?”

The man pushed out his lips. Mannering took the stub away, lit him another and stuck it into his mouth; he didn't grunt thanks. Mannering sat back and looked at the wall then the door, wondering how long he would be left here, whether it was possible that Fiori could listen to their conversation. There were no holes in the wall, nothing to indicate a speaking tube or a microphone. Even if one were hidden somewhere it wouldn't help much to find it. He closed his eyes, and blotted out ugly thoughts, until the man on the bed said harshly:

“What's the other way?”

“Other way to what?”

“Don't stall! You reckon the busies will get me, that I haven't a chance of dodging them except—”

“Oh, that. Queen's evidence. Ever heard of it? You did a foul job with Bernstein, but maybe you were acting under pressure from someone else – from Fiori. That wouldn't save you, but if you tell the police all you know about Fiori, it would go a long way towards helping you.”

“I'm not a squeaker.”

“I didn't think you were so fond of Fiori.”

“He'd never let the police get me.”

“He's not so clever as all that. You could have gone to see Bristow at the Yard this morning, instead of picking up that stuff at Fay Goulden's flat and taking it to Benoni.”

He said “Benoni” carelessly; the glitter in the other's eyes, the tensing of the man's body, rewarded him. They looked at each other, intent, hostile, before the man on the bed growled: “What do you know about Benoni?”

“That he was paid a hundred pounds for the job, that he's got a girl in trouble, and the girl lives at Woking, or somewhere in Surrey. Also, that he's a frightened little rat who would squeal if the police got him. He would give you away, wouldn't he? Maybe he has by now. What did you do with the stuff you took from Bernstein?”

“To hell with you!”

The man turned his head again, but Mannering did not think he would keep quiet for long.

He was sitting here talking calmly to a man who had committed murder; a man who would hang and for whom he felt no pity at all – but one who might save him. How much time was there?

The man said abruptly: “I took it to Fay's flat.”

“Why not to the café?”

“I took it to the flat and left it. Then I was told to pick it up and give it to Benoni. That's how Fiori covered his own tracks. I didn't want him to use me this morning, but you can't argue with Fiori.”

There were two things wrong with that reasoning. Fiori hadn't covered his own tracks by having the jewels delivered to the café. And he invited trouble by sending the killer as a messenger.

“Why didn't you hide?”

“He wanted to see if the cops had me covered.”

“Had they?”

“Not on your life.”

“What is Fay worried about?” Mannering asked.

“You'd be worried if you had to work for Fiori.”

“Does she know him?”

“Sure she knows him.”

“Do you know her boy friend, Kenneth?”

“That dude!” The man laughed. “He couldn't see trouble if you stuck it on the end of his nose. He doesn't know she's mixed up in anything, doesn't know she can hardly move out of doors without being frightened. I'd like to wring his neck!”

“Who is he?”

“She goes around with him. I can't tell you anything else. And I don't have to tell you anything. It won't do you any good anyway. When Fiori gets a man he doesn't let him go. You've got in his way, see? He'll rub you out when he's finished with you. And you'd better tell him where to find the
Tear;
if you don't your own wife wouldn't recognise you afterwards.”

Mannering was getting on, but not fast enough, nothing like fast enough; Fiori wouldn't leave him here for ever. More haste, less speed.

“Fiori has a lot coming to him that he doesn't expect,” he said. “Do you know his wife?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't.” The man was steadier, talking had done him good. Mannering went over everything that had been said, keeping his thoughts off the moment when that door would open again.

“Why did he send you to Bernstein?”

“I knew the shyster.”

“So you're in the trade?”

“I've been in the trade all my life.” The man caught his breath. “I started off on the level and then got mixed up with a mob, and here I am.”

“Wasn't Bernstein on the level?”

The man turned and looked at him, hatred in his eyes. He looked as if he were trying to burn Mannering up; yet his hatred wasn't for Mannering.

He rasped: “No Jew is on the level.”

“I thought Bernstein was.”

“So did a lot of people.”

“Did he fence for you?”

The man said reluctantly: “No, he didn't buy any hot stuff. I've got a good connection in the trade, I'm well represented in New York. Bernstein was too fly to buy hot stuff, but no Jew's on the level. I wouldn't trust one as far as I could see him. I hate the whole ruddy race.”

You couldn't argue with a man who thought and felt like that; against prejudice and hatred which had been instilled into him over the years; against a man who was a natural Jew-baiter, who could see no good in any one of them and who had no evidence that Bernstein had been crooked, just assumed that he was. This hadn't anything much to do with the main job, but it had an important bearing. Fiori had wanted Bernstein dead, and sent along a man who would be glad to kill him just because of Bernstein's race. You didn't argue with this man for whom you had no pity – only loathing.

Mannering said: “Do you know where we are?”

“Supposing I do?”

“I'd like to get out.”

The man said harshly: “So you'd like to get out! You invited yourself in, now you'll stay. Fiori will never let you get away.”

“Where are we?”

“We're not at the café, if that's what you think. We're at the other joint.”

“West End?”

“Yes, it's in the West End. Right now people are dancing over our heads, having a hell of a good time, and making money for Fiori. If he wasn't crazy over the
Tear
he'd be sitting pretty. He's in nearly all the rackets, but not many people know about it, because he's clever. He's so clever he'll get himself slugged one of these days.”

Mannering asked: “How's your face?”

“It's still burning like hell.”

The burns were inflamed and the angry red area seemed to be spreading. Mannering got up and applied a little more of the salve.

“Is there a way out of this room?” he asked.

“There's the door.”

“Have you got a knife?”

“If
I had a hundred knives you wouldn't be able to get out of that door; Fiori knows what he's doing. He keeps all of his friends here. And next door he gives them the works. That's where he worked on me. I've heard of the cell, I hadn't seen it before tonight, and—” The man broke off and closed his eyes. “I've heard screaming coming from it. They all came here—all four of them. The woman was the worst. I shall never forget—”

He broke off again.

Mannering said: “No one who's ever been in that cell has lived for long, have they?”

There was no answer.

“If I can get out, you can get out.”

“You haven't a chance, Mannering, you can save your breath.”

You just had to face facts. They might shriek against reason; it might be impossible to believe that there was such a man as Fiori, that he had committed his crimes in the cell next to this room. But the secret reports and the photograph bore it all out.