Cry For the Baron (5 page)

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

 

 

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.”

Chittering went to the desk and took a cigarette from a beaten brass box. He lit it slowly.

“Mrs. Mannering, your husband is first cousin to the Devil.”

“But isn't he right?” asked Lorna sweetly.

“Now if you really want a story—” began Mannering, and Chittering laughed; then listened to Mannering, glancing occasionally at the bottle of milk.

Mannering finished: “Now you can give him a drink, but don't let him go until I've checked on that milk.” He took the bottle and hurried into the kitchen, poured the milk into a basin until a sodden piece of cotton wool stuck in the neck of the bottle. He pulled it out, and caught his breath as he touched the hard surface of the jewel inside. He unwrapped it. Milk smeared and dulled the facets. He dried it on a tea towel, and the kitchen seemed to blaze with multi-coloured lights. He took a penknife from his pocket and scratched the surface of the
Tear;
it was just possible that this was a paste stone.

The scratch didn't show.

This really was the
Diamond of Tears;
and its beauty set his heart hammering and his eyes glistening; and he seemed to hear Jacob's cracked voice:

 

“Worth more than the beauty of

woman and the blood of man.”

 

The beauty was there, in all its glory; and the rounded end glowed, as with blood. It was set in platinum and tiny diamonds, in the shape of petals.

He slipped it into his pocket and went slowly back to the study. Cluttering finished a drink, put his head on one side, and said: “That must be some stone. Mind if I go now? I'm in with you all the way on this job, John.”

Lorna said: “Let me see it.” Mannering put the
Tear
into her hand; she didn't look down immediately but held it as if its fire hurt her. Slowly she opened her hand and glanced downwards; fiery streaks of light shone into her eyes. She caught her breath, stared at the jewel for a long time, then looked up and said: “It frightens me.”

Mannering said: “It's a diamond. There are hundreds of thousands of diamonds, and they don't frighten anyone. They have nothing more than their intrinsic value. The stone hasn't a blood-curse—it just brings out all the avarice in man, and some will commit murder in order to possess it. Don't blame the diamond, blame the men.”

“It still frightens me. I don't want you to keep it for long. And not here. Not here, John, please.”

 

At half-past ten next morning Mannering drove the Bristol through the crowded streets of the West End and, out of curiosity, turned into Belham Street. A crowd was surging about Jacob's shop, outside which were four policemen to keep people away from the window. Another policeman had to clear the way for Mannering. He drove on to Hart Row and Quinn's.

Hart Row, off New Bond Street, was narrow and short, with old shops on either side except at the far end, where a desolate empty site, legacy from the air-raids, was utilised as a car park. Mannering parked the car near the exit and walked to Quinn's. The narrow-fronted shop looked as if it belonged to a London three centuries past. The roof was red-tiled and covered with dark green lichen, the chimney stack was crooked, the grey walls mellowed with age. There was one window; and in that a single picture, a tiny miniature on a velvet background, worth a fortune.

Inside was little Larraby and a middle-aged, courtly and portly man who had recently joined the staff.

“'Morning, Benson.”

“Good
morning, sir.”

“Come into the office, Larraby, will you?” asked Mannering, and Larraby followed him into the small windowless office at the back of the narrow shop. Mannering switched on the light.

Larraby looked tired and bright-eyed.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, I found it. Have the police been here?”

“No, thank goodness! You know how difficult the police can.

“If they question you, you didn't go out last night, and I didn't telephone you.”

“That's understood, sir. Is there anything I can do?”

“There may be, later.”

Larraby ran a hand over his greying hair. “I was horrified to hear what had happened to Mr. Bernstein. Were you there, sir?”

“Yes. I found him.”

“And you're going to—”

“I don't know what I'm going to do yet, and you're not to guess.”

“I know
nothing,
Mr. Mannering. But if there is anything I can do to help avenge Mr. Bernstein's murder, you have only to tell me.
Anything.”
Larraby bowed gravely and turned to go.

“Just a moment.” Mannering took a small packet from his pocket, wrapped in brown paper, stamped and heavily sealed. “Post this for me, will you? And see where it's going first.”

Larraby took the packet and read aloud:
“James Milton, c/o Poste Restante, Strand, London.
I shall remember. Ought I to register it, sir?”

“No, just slip it into a post box.”

Larraby went out, and Mannering watched him until he disappeared, then touched his forehead; it was damp with sweat. In the past he had often sent gems
poste restante,
believing that safer than in a safe deposit or a bank vault. Now he was on edge; was it another mistake to let the
Tear
go again?

He waited until Larraby returned.

“All right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now forget all about it until I jog your memory,” said Mannering. “Here's another job for you, and you'll have to be away from the shop most of the day. I want you to find out everything you can about Jacob Bernstein's customers. He had several assistants—you know them, don't you?”

“Very well, sir, we often have a drink together.”

“I want a list of all customers who might have been in the market for big stuff—really big stuff. The police probably won't be able to get much out of the assistants, you ought to have better luck. Don't take any notice of what you read in the newspapers or anything the police say. “Just dig deep, and find those customers.”

Larraby's eyes glowed.

“I'll find them
all,”
he promised, and went out, his squared shoulders declaring him a man with a mission.

 

Mannering looked up at the massive concrete pile and did not greatly like it. Stark modernity seemed loud and ugly among the graceful buildings of Shepherd Street. Behind him was Park Lane; beyond that, Hyde Park, green and friendly beneath a watery autumn sun; and here, in the heart of London, Clay Court seemed to sneer at the age of the streets and the tradition in which they were steeped. A commissionaire, resplendent in royal blue and silver braid, stepped forward.

“Good morning, sir.”

“'Morning. Flat 21?”

“Third floor, sir, I will take you up.” The commissionaire led his generalissimo's way to the lift. It shot up and then stopped. “The second door on the right, sir.”

“Thanks.”

Mannering pressed the bell outside Flat 21, and the lift whined as it went down. No one answered the bell. Mannering pressed again, and stepped to a window which overlooked the backs of houses and, in the distance, the plane trees in Park Lane.

Still no one answered the bell.

He pressed for a third time, and rapped on the door – and then he heard a faint click. He stood back. The lift was silent, and no door opened. He studied the deep cream paint of the one in front of him, concentrating on the letter-box. It was set on a level with his shoulders. He turned to the window again – and the faint sound was repeated. He looked out of the corner of his eye, and saw the flap of the letter-box lifting.

He lit a cigarette.

The flap clicked again, louder this time. He had heard no other sound, no hint of anyone approaching the front door. He lit a cigarette and said audibly: “Someone must be in.” But although he rang twice again there was no answer, no further indication that he had been heard.

He said: “Oh well, I'll come back this afternoon.”

He pressed the lift button and the lift came up, without the commissionaire. When he reached the hall the man was in earnest consultation with a fat woman wearing a mink coat and carrying a Pekinese. Outside the sun shone into his eyes and made him blink. He strolled to his car, sat at the wheel, and surveyed the street. No one watched him; Bristow had called his bloodhounds off. He let in the clutch and drove slowly towards the nearest corner, and parked there so that he could see the entrance to Clay Court.

The woman and the Pekinese came out.

Two cars passed swiftly along.

A man came out, sped by the commissionaire's loud “Good day to you, sir.” The man was of medium height, broad and powerful. He looked up and down quickly, almost nervously, then walked quickly towards Park Lane.

Mannering turned the car and drove slowly after him, catching him up when he stood at the kerb, waiting for the traffic to pass. He made a sudden dash towards the other side of the road. A huge red double-decker bus loomed up, driving him back. Mannering slid the nose of the car into the traffic as he turned the corner. He caught a glimpse of the man's face. It was red, chunky, with a bristling brown moustache. He was a man in the middle thirties, Mannering judged – and he also looked like a man with a mission. Mannering went straight across Park Lane and into the Park, pulled up at the side of the road and watched. The man from Clay Court reached the Park, crossed the road, and walked briskly towards Rotten Row.

Mannering waited until he had gone a hundred yards, then drove slowly after him. Near Rotten Row the man stepped off the path, over the little fence and on to the green parkland. He stopped near an oak tree which spread protecting branches over his head.

Mannering drove past him, went out at Hyde Park Gates, had luck with the traffic lights and re-entered the Park. Now he was on the same side as the man, who still waited, looking right and left; obviously he had a load on his mind. Mannering pulled up some way behind him and adjusted the driving mirror so that he could see him clearly. Two or three women on horseback moved towards the dirt surface of Rotten Row, as well-groomed as their horses. A few straggling sightseers watched them. The man beneath the oak tree lit another cigarette and now glared rather than looked about him. He paid no attention to Mannering.

A policeman stood on the other side of the road, doubtless preparing to tell Mannering that this was no place for parking. Before he could get across a small car pulled up a few yards behind Mannering. The red-faced man hurried forward. When the policeman arrived he had two victims; he close Mannering first.

Mannering beamed at him.

“I know I shouldn't, but I've got a touch of cramp in my right leg. Better to stop where it's forbidden than crash into something, isn't it?”