Help From The Baron (13 page)

He gave a slow, almost a pleasant smile; gold-tipped teeth glinted.

“Why don’t you cut out the dramatics, Mannering? Let me get you a drink, and . . .”

“No, thanks,” said Mannering. He stepped round the man and rested lightly against the dressing-table. “A rat from all angles. I don’t know who or what gave you the idea that I have the Fioras. I haven’t. You were fooled. Whether you believe that or not, send Joy Lessing back, tonight.”

“This Lessing,” Scoby said, “he’s dangerous. He’s a killer when he’s tight. But never mind Lessing. I don’t know about this Joy, perhaps you’ll explain to me later. I wanted a talk with you.”

Mannering took out cigarettes.

“I’ve ten minutes,” he said.

“I want the Fioras,” Scoby told him, very slowly. “I know you have them, and I want them. I can get them the hard or the easy way. I’ve a market for them. I can afford to pay you. I can cut you in to the tune of ten thousand pounds. That’s money. There isn’t another thing I want, Mannering, just those diamonds - and you can call yourself lucky that I offer as much.”

“I do not know where the Fioras are.”

“Okay, okay, so you’ll stall,” said Scoby, and dropped the newspaper. His hand wasn’t so near his pocket now, apparently he felt sure that he wouldn’t be attacked. “I’m in no hurry. But when I’ve got those diamonds, everything will be fine, no one will get hurt. Not even you, or any girl friends. Not even Simon Lessing.”

Mannering said: “Why did you try to drown Francesca?”

“Say that again.”

“What did you do to Bernard Lisle?”

Scoby didn’t like this. It showed in the way his eyes narrowed, and the way his hands tightened. Next moment he was normal again, except for one thing. He smiled. To smile more easily, he took the cigar from his lips.

“And they told me you were good,” he sneered.

Mannering lit a cigarette. He leaned against the dressing-table with his ankles crossed, studying the man as a bacteriologist would study a smear on a slide. He wondered whether Scoby was known to Scotland Yard, and wondered what gave him his confidence.

“Ephraim,” Mannering said, “you’re taking a lot of chances with me. Didn’t anyone tell you that I work with the police? They’ll act on my advice more often than not. And this time I could advise . . .”

“Advise nothing,” Scoby said. He put the cigar back into his mouth. “I’m on to you, Mannering. You’ve got a good game, but it doesn’t always pay off. It won’t this time. You can’t put the police on to me, and if you could they couldn’t touch me. No, sir. I’ve got alibis. They’re good, and they can’t be broken. And if you try breaking them or breaking me, I tell the police how I know you have the Fioras. If I don’t get them, you won’t keep them. Now we ought to understand each other.”

He stood up. He was solid, if inclined to run to fat, and his waistcoat was rucked up from sitting, so that his white shirt showed between his waistcoat and trousers. He pulled the waistcoat down. He was so calm and deliberate that he fascinated Mannering.

Then he said with venomous swiftness: “Now get out! Get those diamonds and bring them back here. If you don’t want trouble, do just that. Don’t try talking me down. You got a wife, you’ve got friends, there’s this Joy, there’s Lisle’s kid. They can all get hurt, and you can get hurt, too. Bring it all, Mannering. You lord it over the little fences while they take the risks, but do you know what I can do? I can kick everything you’ve built your phoney reputation on from under you. And I will. Quinns and all the rest. So get out, and fetch me the Fioras. Don’t tell the police, don’t tell anyone. Get going.”

He stopped.

The room was very quiet.

Mannering stood up, slowly. He began to smile, as if genuinely amused. For the first time, Scoby seemed to be puzzled, a little unsure of himself. He moved back to the bed, as if expecting Mannering to strike him. Mannering didn’t, but the smile turned into a chuckle, as if he couldn’t keep it back, and the situation was too funny for words.

“How the gods must be laughing,” he said. He bent down and picked up the shiny black shoes from the side of Scoby’s chair. He looked at them.

Scoby said: “What . . .”

“Hand-made, too.” He moved with sudden speed, making Scoby jump, but all he did was to pull open the door of the wardrobe. In one of the lower sections, tight in their chromium trees, was another pair of shiny black shoes. Mannering picked them up.

“What the hell are you doing?” Scoby demanded, and his voice had an edge to it. Mannering had broken his confidence.

“Collecting shoes,” said Mannering. “Your shoes. Thanks. May I borrow a case? I’ll send it back.” He picked up a small suitcase, dropped it on the bed, opened it, and turned the contents out on to the bed; there were only odds and ends. He put the shoes in and closed the case. “Thanks, Ephraim.”

“You damned fool, give me my shoes back! I haven’t any to wear.”

“Work some miracles,” Mannering said, “or do it your usual way - steal some, Ephraim.” He moved towards the passage door, backing away because he wasn’t quite sure how Scoby would react; he still thought it possible that Scoby carried a gun.

But the danger didn’t come from Scoby.

The door communicating with the next room opened and Charlie Ringall slid in. He carried the cosh. He had it raised as high as his shoulder, and crouched, as if he were going to jump. He wouldn’t be easy to handle in that first assault. The odds were two to one, and Ringall had old scores to settle.

Mannering, the small case in one hand, just flung it upwards at him. As the young brute dodged, Mannering went forward and snatched at the wrist holding the cosh. One twist and Ringall winced as if in agony. The cosh fell.

Scoby stood with his right hand at his coat pocket.

“I don’t know whether you carry a gun or not,” Mannering said, retrieving the suit-case, “and I’m not interested, Ephraim. I do know that the police found footprints on the Festival Hall Terrace last night. Yours, I think. These shoes will show. They’ll go to the police with your name tag on them unless Joy Lessing returns to her flat, tonight.” He was at the passage door, putting out a hand behind him, to turn the handle. “Then we’ll talk about other things. Joy first.”

He opened the door, with his back to it. The strain on his wrist was unexpectedly sharp. He backed into the passage suitcase in hand - but didn’t get far. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, the grip of powerful fingers, remorseless pressure which thrust him forward. He tried to turn, but a man kicked the back of his knees savagely. He crumpled up, unable to help himself. He felt himself pushed, fell into the little lobby, and then heard Charlie Ringall rasp: “Lemme get at ’im!”

He knew it was going to hurt like the devil. He covered up as best he could, but the cosh smashed on to the top of his head, then on the back, then on his jaw. He just had to take it.

He thought of a dead jewel-merchant; and Prinny with a battered head.

He thought of Toby Plender and the dinner and his speech.

He thought of Lorna.

Then all he could think about was the pain at his head and hands and shoulders beneath that savage rain of blows.

The battering ceased, and the relief was unbelievable. Mannering was conscious if dazed, breathing even if he caught his breath each time because pain stabbed through his chest. The respite continued. He heard voices, but did not understand the words. Then he did understand; two men were speaking in French.

“Go and see that he doesn’t do anything silly.”

“Are you sure you will be all right here?”

“Oh, yes, we won’t have more trouble.”

Mannering had been the victim of this kind of assault before; and after he had handed it out, there was a certain rough justice in being on the receiving end. The unfortunate thing was that Chas Ringall had received so much that day that he had hardly been responsible for his actions; he’d gone berserk.

Doors closed; odd draughts cooled Mannering’s hot forehead. Stockinged feet appeared before his eyes, and the end of a pair of trousered legs. A match scraped. Liquid went gug-gug-gug in a glass, and reminded him of Chas after being hit by his own cosh. How often, wondered Mannering, had he gone gug-gug-gug in the past five minutes.

French.

Au revoir, Ephraim Scoby had said on the telephone. The Marquis de Cironde et Bles, whose chateau had been a show-piece of the Chateau country of the Loire until it had been destroyed by fire a few years ago, had been the owner of the Fiora collection before the now murdered dealer had bought them. Odd that he could recall that and remember all the details so clearly, even remember having been escorted over the chateau some years before, and regaled with stories of the infidelity of kings.

The stockinged feet drew nearer. A foot moved and touched him on the shoulder, and pain shimmered through his head.

“Come on, get up,” said Scoby.

Mannering began to obey. He felt much worse than he had realised. Lying still had fooled him. The pains were still in his head, especially behind his eyes and at the nape of his neck, his shoulders and his left arm. His legs were all right, and he was able to use them as if they belonged to him. At last he sat up, with his back against the bed. To the best of his ability he sat still. It was the room that went round and round; stockinged feet, shiny shoes, the claw feet of wardrobe and chairs, water-pipes, a newspaper; all these were now in a deep chasm yawning beneath him now as far away as the stars.

“Come on,” Scoby said. “Get up.” He stood in front of Mannering and put his hands on Mannering’s waist, a little high. “Up!”

Mannering felt as if all the blood in his body was rushing out through his head. He staggered. He felt himself drop into a chair, springs groaned and bounced. Existence was nothing but pain.

Something cold splashed into his face, and shocked him; came again, and was almost welcome. Then a telephone went ting, and Scoby spoke in English: something about some coffee. Then Scoby held a glass to his lips, and Mannering sipped some water.

He felt better; not well, but better. He began to feel in his pockets.

“What are you looking for?” Scoby asked. “Cigarettes?”

He thrust a case in front of Mannering. “Take one and get a grip on yourself, Mannering.”

Mannering took a cigarette, and remembered Bristow telling him about a stub of a Virginia One. His mind was working, some cause for congratulation. He accepted a light, and the flaring match was strong enough to hurt his eyes. He didn’t wince.

The smoke was good; soothing.

“Thanks.”

“You’ve got a lot more to thank me for than that,” said Scoby. “If I’d let him do what he wanted, you wouldn’t have a face, you’d just have an interesting experiment for a plastic surgeon. Now you know what you’re up against.”

Mannering didn’t speak.

“Listen to me,” said Scoby flatly. He sat on the side of his bed; Mannering was in the armchair. “When I say a thing I mean it. I want the Fioras. I know you’ve got them. I don’t want a lot of trouble, though. You can still get your sidekick of ten thousand pounds, if you cough up quickly. But don’t make me work for them, or you’ll be in a lot of soup you didn’t expect, and other people will get hurt. You know what I mean by hurt? A fragile little doll like Joy Lessing would really get hurt, wouldn’t she?”

Mannering managed to mutter: “Don’t you touch . . .”

Scoby grinned. “Soft-hearted, aren’t you? You do what you’re told and she’ll be all right, everyone will be all right. Don’t worry. Just don’t try bluffing me anymore. You daren’t tell Bristow anything, because of what I can tell him about you and the Fioras.” A faint note of uneasiness crept into the flat, unattractive voice. “And you couldn’t do me any harm, whatever you said to Bristow. You got beaten up, sure, but only because you started throwing your weight about. Who’s to say I didn’t find you in the room, snooping around?”

Mannering didn’t speak.

“What’s that crap about shoes?” asked Scoby. “Come on, what’s it about?”

Mannering gulped. “I wanted - to scare you.”

Scoby grinned with satisfaction. It was what he wanted to believe, and he believed it. Then there came a knock at the outer door. He went to open it, took a tray from the floor waiter, and came back.

He poured out coffee.

“I hope you know when you’re beaten,” he said, “because a lot of worse things can happen, Mannering.” He stirred in plenty of sugar, and brought a cup across. “Drink this. I’m not a bad guy, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’ve got things to do, see?”

Mannering sipped, and winced when the hot coffee stung a cut lip. He put a cigarette up to his lip, and when he looked at it there was a smear of fresh blood. He groped for a handkerchief.

“You can go into the bathroom and tidy up in a minute,” said Scoby, “but drink that coffee first.”

Mannering drank it; slowly. He felt much better. He wasn’t quite sure what was the best thing to do - bluff and bluster, or leave here with his tail between his legs. If he were too humbled, it would seem suspicious to Scoby later, even if it didn’t now. He took out his own cigarettes, lit one from the stub of Scoby’s, then squashed Scoby’s out in an ashtray.

“You’ll never get away with it,” he said.

Scoby’s manner changed on the instant. He raised a clenched fist, and glowered.

“You get to hell out of here and get those diamonds! I’ll send word where you’re to take them. Don’t try any tricks, don’t think you can fool me. I know, see?”

Mannering gulped. “O-Okay.”

Scoby grinned again. “Now go and clean up,” he said. “Just remember that there’ll be cleaning up to do on others if you don’t jump to it.”

Mannering said heavily: “All right, Scoby, but get this straight. If any harm comes to Joy Lessing, I tell the police about you and Ringall, and I don’t give a damn for the consequences.”

A moment’s disquiet touched Scoby’s eyes.

“I’ll give the orders,” he said. “Quit.” Mannering went out.

From a telephone booth in the foyer, he called Larraby at his lodgings and asked him to come and watch Scoby, and gave him all the information he could. Larraby promised to come at once.