Help From The Baron (16 page)

Lorna took all the messages, and refused to wake Mannering; but he was up soon after nine.

Bristow didn’t sleep well that night. He did not get home until after half-past one, and his wife, who sometimes hardly realised that his life was amongst crime and criminals, for to her he was normal as the next man, knew that he was really worried. Unlike Mannering, he did not talk; when worried he kept the basic facts to himself. He did drop off, about five o’clock, and the telephone was ringing for him at seven. His wife could not keep the importunate Yard officials from him any later than eight o’clock.

By half-past nine, smudgy-eyed, smoking cigarettes one after the other, he was in his office. There were photographs of Bernard Lisle, mostly obtained from Lisle’s flat; and photographs of the dead man. These didn’t help at all. There was a list of the contents of the dead man’s pockets, and three of them - a knife with a monogram, BL, three visiting-cards with his name and address and a driving-licence in his name, might be taken as evidence of identification. The body measurements were about right; the build was about right; the colouring, too, and the colour of the hair - the little that wasn’t blood-stained.

Bristow would have taken the identity almost for granted, but for the damage to the head and face. That kind of sadistic damage was seldom done for its own sake. If the killer had wanted to make sure that he couldn’t be finally identified, or that the wrong body should be identified, that was the kind of bashing head and face were likely to receive.

There were body marks.

Slight mole on right hip. Butterfly wing mole on right shoulder, beneath the shoulder-blade - an unusual marking. Appendectomy scar. Slight operation scars behind right knee identified by a police-surgeon as the “tying” Operation sometimes used for varicose veins; there was a varicose tendency in both legs. Small brown mole on knuckle of left little finger. Small, red scar, possibly a burn, on left wrist, just above the wrist-bone.

The two last might possibly be remembered by acquaintances, but there was no certainty; and in themselves they would not constitute identification. Bristow faced the simple fact: as far as he knew, only Francesca Lisle could identify her father.

He wouldn’t wish any girl, good or bad, to have to do that.

He studied other reports. Mannering’s movements, as far as they could be traced, gave him time to have been to Lisle’s office. There was no proof. Joy Lessing was still missing. Simon Lessing had been in his flat all night, Susan Pengelly had left him fairly early, and gone straight to her flat. The reports were sketchy, he hadn’t enough time to tackle them all thoroughly.

He simply hadn’t another witness to identify Francesca Lisle’s father; if the corpse were Lisle’s. The report from the nursing home was good; she was almost herself again, except for some lingering shock symptoms. She had made it plain that she intended to go home. She must be watched, the danger to her was obviously great.

Bristow finished studying the report, and had a word on the telephone with his Assistant Commissioner. He was told to do what he thought best, which didn’t help at all, and went straight to the nursing home. This was in a side street off Great Smith Street, near the Abbey.

Outside the nursing home, squeezed between an Austin Seven of ancient vintage and an American car with sleek, shiny lines, was Mannering’s Rolls-Bentley. The sight of it annoyed Bristow. He felt sore because he felt sure that Mannering was playing a double game, the trouble with a man who had once been a thief was that he didn’t see things in the way of other men, but had a perverted vision. Bristow wasn’t sure, but still thought it likely that Mannering was holding the Fioras - possibly for their new owner, possibly as a bait to catch the original thieves and the murderers.

What was he saying to Francesca?

At that very moment Mannering wasn’t saying anything to Francesca. He was sitting and looking at her.

She was up and dressed in a navy-blue dress with many pleats in the skirt. She looked nice, except for her expression, which was - frightened? He thought that fear was there. He didn’t know whether it was a hangover from what had happened on the Festival Hall Terrace, or whether there was some other reason for it.

He hadn’t told her about the body in the office; at least that wasn’t his job.

He felt rested; competent to help.

She said: “Yes, of course I shall go home, Mr. Mannering. It’s very good of you to offer to have me at your flat, but I’m sure I shall be all right. If I do feel nervous at night, I - I’ll come round to you. But why should I feel nervous?” Suddenly she was defiant, and that was the thing which puzzled Mannering more than anything else. “My father is bound to be home very soon.”

“It’s just possible that he won’t,” said Mannering quietly.

“I don’t believe that anything has happened to him!” There was the defiance again; and perhaps she really meant: “I won’t believe.” She was pale except for spots of colour; she had been when he had come in.

Simon Lessing and Susan Pengelly had been to see her already this morning. Susan, Mannering knew, had brought an offer of hospitality; she could rig up an extra bed. At least there was no need to dissuade Francesca from that. Simon hadn’t said anything about Joy, as far as Mannering knew; but Francesca wasn’t telling him everything. Yesterday she had been too dazed to show any emotion, now . . .

The door opened.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mannering,” the sister said, “but Superintendent Bristow is here.”

Mannering stood up. “Well, why not?”

“He’d like a word with you privately.”

“Oh.” Mannering smiled at Francesca, and offered his hand. Hers was very cold. “Don’t forget, if there’s anything at all I can do, I will.”

“I’m sure you will,” she said mechanically.

He went out, carrying a mental picture of the girl. Some people would find her exceedingly lovely, but he didn’t think much about her looks. Her manner, her thoughts and her fears mattered. Was she thinking that he was involved? Had ardent, impetuous Simon told her of the canard? Or had Susan told her, with sweet malevolence, that she was sure that Mannering had those jewels, and was her father’s enemy.

He felt sure she had been told something to upset her.

Bristow was in the sister’s office; alone, smoking, rubbing his right eye. He stood by the window overlooking the street and, if he turned his head, he could see a stretch of the River Thames. It was sunlit that morning, for the day was mild and bright. Outside, people were walking with a spring in their step.

The sister closed the door on them.

“Hallo, Bill,” said Mannering. He looked bruised but much better; the full night’s sleep and Lorna’s ministrations had served him well. He could even think clearly. “Bad night?”

“I had a hell of a night,” Bristow growled. “What have you been saying to that girl?”

“Offering to put her up at the flat.”

“Very considerate, aren’t you? Anxious to be pally.”

“Helpful.”

“Why?”

“Bill,” said Mannering, keeping his hands in his pockets; they fidgeted almost of their own accord, as if they would like to tackle Bristow, “I know that the Yard’s stretched pretty thin. None of you has time to do all you want to, and you haven’t enough men to go round. But you won’t get anywhere if you don’t catch up on sleep.”

Bristow glowered: “We’d be better off if we didn’t have to waste so much time on . . .” He didn’t finish, gulped, stubbed out a cigarette and - without realising it, Mannering felt sure, took another from a packet of twenty Players. “Did you telephone us about that body at Lisle’s office?”

The news wasn’t in the newspaper.

Mannering looked shocked; he didn’t overdo it, because Bristow would be very alive to excess. He waited for a moment, and then said quietly: “Are you serious?”

“You know damned well I am!”

Mannering said slowly: “Was it Lisle?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been talking to the girl about?”

“Bill,” said Mannering heavily, “I didn’t know about it. If I had . . .” He paused, moved, lit a match and held it out. Bristow took the light with a grunt. “I don’t get it. A body - you didn’t say Lisle. Was it Lisle?”

Bristow said: “I don’t know. I think so.”

“Why can’t you be sure?”

“Someone meant it to be doubtful,” Bristow said. “It wasn’t a nice sight.” Mannering just said: “Oh.”

“Know anyone else who knew Lisle intimately?” Bristow demanded.

Mannering saw the implications of that, and didn’t like them.

“No,” he said slowly. “Only Francesca.”

“Hell of a job,” muttered Bristow, “but I suppose I’d better get it over. The doctor and the sister seem to think she can stand it. Had any more trouble?”

“No.”

“Seen Lessing?”

“No.”

“His sister’s still missing,” Bristow growled. “I’ve put a call out for her.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “And don’t forget what I told you, if you have those Fioras, you’re asking for trouble, and I’ll make sure that you get it.”

Mannering didn’t speak.

Bristow went out.

Bristow reached the street, with Francesca Lisle by his side. She was very pale indeed, now, and walked as if she weren’t quite sure where the next step would take her. Bristow’s car was at the kerb, not far from Mannering’s; Mannering got out of the Rolls-Bentley and came up.

“Going to get it over at once.” Bristow was gruff.

“Where?”

“Cannon Row.”

“I’ll ask Lorna to go over,” Mannering said.

“Yes, be a good idea.” That was evidence of a thaw.

Francesca didn’t seem, to hear any of this. She stood listlessly by Bristow’s side. Listlessly? Mannering was impressed, as he had been earlier by her obvious fear, but was quite sure that it wasn’t fear for herself. Someone or something had frightened her, and Bristow’s news had frightened her still more. What had Bristow said? There wasn’t much choice for the Yard man or anyone else; he must have told her there was a dead man with a mutilated head and face, and that she was to try to recognise the body.

“This is the car, Miss Lisle,” Bristow said, and then swung round on Mannering, who prepared for another outburst. He could not have been wider off the mark. “Come along with us, will you? Be a help to Miss Lisle. We can have a message sent to Lorna from the car radio.”

The request was an olive branch in itself, as well as a sign of the resurgence of the human being in Bristow.

“Thanks,” said Mannering.

He handed the girl into the car, and climbed in after her. Bristow took the wheel. No one else came. Bristow slid the car into the stream of traffic, and then said in an unfamiliar, gruff voice: “It’ll help us both, Miss Lisle, if you’ll try to remember any - any distinguishing marks on . . .” He didn’t finish, but swerved sharply past a cyclist who seemed to be quite oblivious of his carelessness. “I mean, birthmarks. Or say a mole, or . . .”

The girl didn’t answer.

Mannering said very quietly: “I’ve a small mole just behind my right ear.” He touched his ear. “And a scar on my right forearm, another - a nasty one - on my left shoulder. That’s the kind of thing we mean.”

Francesca stared straight out of the window, the tears glistening in her eyes. Bristow cleared his throat, ready to talk again, and Mannering said “All right, Bill.”

Bristow didn’t speak.

Francesca said huskily: “He had - he has a birthmark on his right shoulder, a kind of moth. It looks like a small brown moth, or butterfly. And . . .”

She couldn’t go on for some minutes. They were drawing nearer Scotland Yard and the nearby police-station with its morgue and its terror.

Suddenly, she burst out: “He burned his wrist a little while ago, and he had an operation for - for varico . . .”

She broke off, trembling violently. She seemed oblivious of the fact that she was gripping Mannering’s hand.

“He can’t be dead,” she choked. “He can’t be, it must be someone else.”

The morgue was big and gloomy, and struck cold; it had to be kept cold. The windows were all of thick, frosted glass. Over the stone slabs, where bodies lay until the police had finished with them, were electric lights which, when switched on, were very bright. There was no room for sentiment or squeamishness here. Some of the men and women whom Sergeant Worraby fished out of the Thames lay until some sniffing or tearful wife - or son or daughter, father or mother - came to look on a lifeless face and to nod, in real or pretended grief. It was the nearest morgue to Scotland Yard, too, a stone’s throw away. The morgue-keeper had been known to boast, if not to gloat, that all the best corpses came here.

Bristow opened the door.

Francesca stepped through, with Mannering close behind her. She put a hand on Mannering’s arm, her first gesture of defensiveness. The light was on over a shrouded figure. An attendant stood at the head of the corpse, hands by his sides, demeanour almost one of boredom, There was only the one corpse in the cold room.

A policewoman stood with Francesca.

Bristow said: “As I said in the car, Miss Lisle, I want you to look at the scars. Tell me if you recognise them. You know how important it is, don’t you?”

She whispered: “Yes.”

“It won’t take a minute.”

Mannering felt the tightness of the girl’s fingers. Obviously every step she took was an ordeal. He thought of the journey from the nursing home, and Bristow’s gruff questions, his almost despairing attempt to be matter-of-fact. Bristow hadn’t said a word about it, but managed to exchange glances with Mannering, telling Mannering the significance of the scars and marks.

“I’m so frightened,” Francesca said, and her words came like little pellets of ice. She clung to Mannering’s arm. “It couldn’t be . . .”

Mannering put his other arm round her. Bristow took a corner of the sheet. The girl was trembling violently. It had to be done, and it was damnable; torture and torment together.

The dead man’s head was bandaged.

The girl’s teeth chattered, and she shook violently. Mannering held her much as he had held Lorna the night before, but to give strength, not to seek it.