Help From The Baron (22 page)

A car engine roared.

Mannering went to the door, pulled the chair away savagely, ignored Lessing’s shout of: “Careful!” and went into the hall. The front door was open, and the headlights of a car flashed past. There was no sign of Scoby. The cretinous man was on the floor, his head battered as Bernard Lisle’s had been.

Another car passed.

Scoby was on the run, and the police were after him. Scoby had a fifty-fifty chance of getting away, and if he escaped this time, he might try again.

A uniformed policeman and a man in plain clothes came running. A second car drew up, and the door opened and more men jumped out.

“I’m Mannering,” Mannering said, in a terse, hard voice. “We must get a message to the Yard at once. Radio it, please.” A man just in front of him was staring into his face. “I tell you I . . .”

“Okay, it’s Mannering,” the man said. “What’s that?”

“The radio,” Mannering said, “call the Yard.” He was making his way towards the street. Lessing was staggering after him. Police were watching, momentarily stilled by his manner, although there were footsteps at the back of the house, and men were coming in there.

A policeman picked up the radio-telephone in the front of the car.

“All right, what is it?”

“Watch Riverside Walk and Francesca Lisle’s flat,” Mannering said. The patrol man repeated the words almost before Mannering had got them out. “Watch Lisle’s flat, allow no one in. If Joy Lessing arrives, hold her. Don’t let her in, don’t let her go, hold her.”

“. . . don’t let her go, hold her,” the patrolman repeated into the mouthpiece. A voice came back through the speaker.

“Okay, message received, we’ll see to it.”

Lessing kept on his feet somehow, swaying. He grabbed Mannering’s arm and pulled him round.

“What’s got into you? What’s this about Joy?”

“Simon,” Mannering said in the same terse way, “you might be lucky with Francesca, you might even be lucky with Sue Pengelly, but you drew a bad number with your sister. Sorry. Coming?” He turned to the patrolman. “Can we get to Chelsea in a hurry?”

“Get in.”

“Thanks.” Mannering bent down, to get in. Lessing didn’t move. “If you’re coming, now’s the time,” Mannering said to Simon, then stopped and stared at the radio-telephone; a voice was coming from it, for it was still “live”.

“Patrol Car Fifty-two reporting, we’ve crashed, escaping car a Jaguar, colour grey, last seen heading for Marble Arch. Keep a sharp look-out, the driver is armed. Patrol Car Fifty-two . . .”

Lessing was getting into the patrol car. He didn’t speak. Nor did the patrolman who took the wheel or the other who slid in next to him.

They moved along the street at speed.

Front doors were open, windows were up, people were at their gates, clear in the garish brightness that had come to Forth Road. Tyres squealed. Once they were round the corner, the driver switched on his headlights.

Simon Lessing growled: “Tell me what you mean.”

“All right, Si,” Mannering said, very quietly. “One of the most puzzling questions was - why kidnap Joy? Was it to bring pressure to bear on me? They might try that incidentally, but it wasn’t likely to be the main reason. The only answer I could see at first was this: Joy knew something dangerous to Scoby, or was believed to. What dangerous knowledge could she have? Then there was another angle. Why had Scoby only kidnapped Joy, although he’d tried to murder Francesca? Why treat the two girls so differently? Thinking about both girls made one thing show up clearly. Joy disappeared immediately it was known that Francesca wasn’t dead. It wasn’t long before I asked myself whether Francesca knew something that could be dangerous to Joy? Or at least - did Joy have reason to think she did?

“Then it came out that Joy knew Scoby - they’d met in Paris. Could she have been spying on Lisle, through Francesca? I kept an open mind about that until I got here. Then I knew the answer.”

“What - what made you sure?” Lessing’s voice was hoarse.

“Joy’s disappearance tonight,” Mannering said. “I didn’t believe that Scoby would let Joy escape unless he wanted to. He rounded on his men, but they wouldn’t cut the cords and let her go - why should they? The cord wasn’t frayed or untied. It was there to make me think she’d been a prisoner, and escaped. Scoby had gone to a lot of trouble to lure me to the house. Why? To give evidence that Joy was held here?

“Once I felt sure that Joy was involved - I panicked.” Mannering shrugged. “If Joy was kept out of the way because Francesca knew - or might know - the truth about Joy, then Francesca’s in acute danger. The Yard knows, she’s being guarded, but the one person who would certainly be allowed to get at her is Joy . . .”

Simon drew in a hissing breath.

The car turned a corner, and threw Simon against Mannering. He felt the youth’s hot breath on his cheek, and guessed what Simon was feeling.

Simon grunted: “Go on. I can take it.”

“No one would stop Joy from going to see Francesca,” Mannering said. “Francesca’s in a mood to take her own life, even a little encouragement would send her right over the line; or a poisoned tablet or two. She’s ready made for suicide. And . . . ”

Simon muttered: “I don’t believe it! Joy wouldn’t . . ..”

“Simon,” said Mannering, “I honestly believe that Joy believes that Francesca knows that she, Joy, was working with Scoby and others over the Fioras. I think that Joy believes that her only chance of keeping clear of the law is a dead Francesca. I think Joy is the reason for the first attempt to kill Francesca. I think they captured and tortured you to find out if Francesca had told you anything which could incriminate Joy. Sorry.”

The car raced on, now on the Embankment and treating it as if it were Donnington Park.

Francesca sat in the quiet of her bedroom, the dressing-table and the bedside light on, so that the charming room was very bright; the brightness showed the pallor of her face, and the unnatural brightness of her eyes. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, one moment relaxed, the next gripping tightly.

Close at hand was a razor; the thick, sword-like blade was out of the holder. She turned her hands slowly, and looked at her pale wrists. And she listened. The policewoman and Cissie were in the kitchen, with the door open. This door was closed, but they’d taken the key away. They kept making excuses to come in. They would be in again in a moment, and she would lose the razor; yet in some strange, helpless way, she wasn’t able to make herself hide it.

They wouldn’t look under the bed, if she put it there.

The razor had been meant for her father’s birthday, in a few days’ time. A secret to hug to herself and a surprise which would have delighted him.

She found strange fascination in its brightness.

The front-door bell rang.

Convulsively, Francesca moved, snatched up the blade, and thrust it under the bed, pushing the razor and the case after it.

Both Cissie and the policewoman came out of the kitchen. One was at the bedroom door in a second, opening it and peeping in. The other went to the front door. Francesca believed that it was Cissie who looked in.

Then she recognised a voice which made her jump to her feet.

“Where’s Miss Lisle?” Joy Lessing cried, as if she were distracted. “Where is she? I must see her.”

“Why, that’s Miss Lessing!” Cissie had been at the bedroom door, but she moved quickly away from it. “So you’re all right! You’re not . . .Oh!”

“Where is she?” Joy’s shrill voice was nearer.

“She’s in - she’s in the bedroom, Miss Joy! But don’t go upsetting her any more, she . . .”

“It’s all right, Joy,” said Francesca, opening the door wide. “I’m all right. I’m so glad you’re back.”

The policewoman and Cissie seemed to fade into the background. Joy, with her back to the closed front door, and Francesca, outlined against the bright lights of her own room, stood and looked at each other.

Joy’s eyes were searching, but she looked dreadful. She had on no make-up, her hair was dishevelled, a scratch over her right eye was bleeding, and there was a smear of blood on her chin.

Joy’s searching gaze lost something of its brightness. They both moved, as if compelled by a force they didn’t understand, and held each other tightly. Joy was sobbing, Francesca crying silently. Cissie couldn’t stand it any longer; she turned away with a catch in her breath. The policewoman was tougher, but her eyes had a very bright sheen.

“Cissie,” she said, “go and make some tea.”

Cissie sniffed, and went off.

The quiet words seemed to affect the two friends. They drew back from each other, and turned towards the bedroom. Francesca went in first. Joy closed the door, pushing it so that it slammed. The policewoman didn’t open it, believing there was nothing to fear with someone else with the girl. She went into the kitchen, where Cissie was blowing her nose.

“This might be the very thing she needs,” the policewoman said. “Better leave them for ten minutes or so, before we interrupt.” She took a packet of cigarettes from the dresser, lit one, and then said: “I’d better report that Joy Lessing’s back. She looks as if she’s had a rough time, doesn’t she?”

“She looked awful,” Cissie muttered, and then flashed irritably: “I wish you wouldn’t puff that smoke all over my face.”

“Sorry. Keep your hair on.” The policewoman, now looking completely relaxed, went into the hall. The telephone was in the living-room, in sight. She heard a reassuring murmur of voices from the bedroom.

She went to the telephone.

“Oh, it’s been dreadful,” Francesca said. “Did you - did you know about - Daddy?” It was the first time she had mentioned her father. Something in Joy’s coming had helped her, she was able to speak without breaking into tears.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Joy said, “I just couldn’t believe it, darling. Knowing how you loved him . . .”

Francesca caught her breath.

“I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been,” Joy said. “Especially after his letter to you. It must have . . .”

Francesca exclaimed: “What letter? Joy, what do you mean?”

“Don’t you know?” breathed Joy. Her pretty features were oddly set, her eyes hard and clear. It was as if she were looking for something which she expected to find.

Gradually relief crept into her eyes; into her manner.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, “I hate to tell you.” She paused again, and moistened her lips. She saw the horror Francesca’s eyes, as if the truth were dawning on Francesca. “You - you loved him so much, I know, but . . .”

“Joy, what is it? Tell me!” Francesca stood absolutely motionless. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

“But - but it’s so cruel,” Joy whispered, and there was a catch in her breath. “I was - I was taken prisoner, the men were brutes. Beasts!” She paused, as if she could not force herself to go on, the memory was too horrible. How was Francesca to know that she was improvising with desperate speed, seeking something plausible, seeking the thing which would drive her to the final point of desperation; to death by her own hand. “They - they told me what it was all about. Your father - Franky, darling, I hate saying it, but he was one of them. He worked with them, then stole these jewels from them. They were fighting each other. He - he knew they knew the jewels were here, that’s why he sent for them. He didn’t mind risking even your life, Franky, but you can forgive him, he was so desperate, so . . .” She broke off, choking.

Francesca looked as if she could not move.

“I hate myself for telling you, but you’ve got to know,” Joy went on, with fierce intensity. “He was there when the men attacked you and took the jewels from them, and he took them back. But he couldn’t get away. They went after him. He wrote a letter to you, before they killed him. Didn’t you get it?”

The question came abruptly, almost fiercely, but Francesca did not notice that.

“No. No - Oh!” Her eyes grew large. “There was a letter. I had it with me when I went out to - to see Daddy. I just put it in my pocket.”

Joy said swiftly: “Which coat?”

“I - I haven’t got it now. It was in the river, and . . .”

“Oh, there,” said Joy, and turned away, to hide the fierce light of her relief. Then she went on: “He told his - his friends that he’d written to explain everything, to ask you to forgive him. He thought he would be able to escape, but knew he dared not come back. That’s everything. Oh, Franky darling! If only I could help in some way, anyway.”

Francesca stood with her eyes almost closed, as if she hadn’t heard. But she had. She opened her eyes slowly and said: “You can help me, Joy.”

“Oh, darling, just tell me how!”

“Go - go and talk to Cissie and the other woman, the policewoman,” Francesca said. “Tell them I must rest, I can’t bear to talk to anyone for a while. Will you - will you keep them away?”

“Well, yes, of course,” said Joy. “But how will that help?”

“Joy, please, don’t argue!”

“Well, all right,” Joy said, and felt completely triumphant. She hesitated, turned away, and then went out. She looked back once, then closed the door. She could hear radio music from the kitchen; the maid and the policewoman were in there. She stood by the door.

She heard the bedroom window open.

She waited.

Francesca opened the window slowly and deliberately. Outside, there was a small balcony. The obsession to kill herself, was so great that she didn’t think of anyone who might be waiting outside. In fact, a Yard man was there.

He didn’t look up.

Francesca went nearer to the edge of the balcony. This was the third floor, and it was a long drop. The river was dark, and there were no stars, the only light came from the street-lamps and the room behind her.

Suddenly, noise broke the quiet. Tyres screamed. Cars swung into sight, one from either corner. Francesca knew they were converging on here. She did not know why, she only realised that unless she jumped soon, they would stop her from going to join her father.

She stepped up on to the balcony. The man in the street was looking at the approaching cars. Francesca raised her arms, ready to dive on the the stone below.