Help From The Baron (3 page)

“Well, all right, a few chips.”

“Or chipolatas on sticks?” He held out another dish, and she saw that he had refilled her glass; it was brimful. There was a ceaseless overtone of talk, the red-haired girl’s occasional shrill laugh, a group round Mannering, and another round Lorna, a haze of smoke, everything that there should be. “You could slip out of the room and cool off, no one would know you’d gone. Sure sign of a successful party when one forgets one ought to be thinking of one’s hostess.”

“Nonsense.”

“Fact. Cheers. I wonder if anyone besides Mannering has told you how lovely you look.”

She flushed; it was unexpectedly good to flush.

“Idiot,” she said, “and he didn’t.”

“Don’t you believe it, those eyes were telling you all the time. Great chap, John Mannering. Did you know about his alter ego?”

“Eh?” She did; she didn’t want to talk about it. “Simon, look, there are two girls over in that corner looking a bit forlorn, will you be an angel and go and rescue them?”

“No. Gifted family, the Mannerings, what with Lorna, who never puts paint to canvas for less than a hundred guineas, unless it’s out of love for her subject, and Mannering, who runs the most exclusive antique shop in London - he actually has a couple of el Grecos there now - and who is the most knowledgeable private eye who ever winked at Scotland Yard. Fact. I could tell you some stories about Mannering . . .”

“Simon, please go and talk to those girls.”

“Conditionally,” Simon said. “That I may be the last to leave.”

He had been the last to leave. After the Mannerings, after all the youngsters, even after red-haired Susan Pengelly of the balloon front, who was hardly able to stand upright when the evening was over, and wanted to stay all night. In fact, Simon sent Joy on with a boy-friend, and did not leave until nearly ten o’clock. They got on to painting, of course, he was a dabbler too. They went to the studio, and became so absorbed that several times and for minutes on end Francesca forgot her father.

When Simon had gone, she couldn’t forget for a minute. The maid and the hired staff had cleared the flat, but it still looked forlorn, untidy, empty. She felt empty, too. She couldn’t believe that her father would have let her down like this deliberately, and was beginning to feel frightened. Really frightened.

When the telephone bell rang, she flew to it.

“Hallo!”

“Franky, listen,” said her father, and she went weak with relief. “I hate myself for what happened, but it was unavoidable. And I can’t explain now. I want you to do something for me. It is extremely important.”

Relief fought with fresh fears which the tone of his voice brought on.

“Are you there, Franky?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here, what . . .?”

“Listen very carefully, Franky, please. Go into my bedroom, and pull up the carpet in the corner by the wardrobe. You needn’t pull it back far. You’ll see a loose floorboard. Prise that up, and take out the wash-leather bag you’ll find inside. Understand, Franky?”

She felt like choking.

“Yes. Yes, I understand. Then what shall I do?”

“Bring the bag to me,” her father said. “I’m at Waterloo Station, I have to catch the late train to Southampton. I’ll be by the main bookstall - you know it well. Come as soon as you can, Franky.”

“I - yes, I will.”

“I’ll explain when you get here,” her father said, “goodbye for now, my darling.”

He rang off.

Francesca hesitated - and then began to act with frenzied haste. She was ready, with the wash-leather bag, when Cissie came in, guiltily: “Oh, Miss, there was this letter, it came during the party.” She had a typewritten envelope in her hand, marked “Special delivery”. “I expect it’s someone who couldn’t come . . .”

“Yes,” Francesca said, huskily. She thrust the letter in her pocket. “Cissie, I want you to wait until I get back, sleep here the night if necessary.” She took agreement for granted, and hurried out.

Francesca sat in a corner of a taxi; still frightened. The wash-leather bag was in her handbag, clutched tightly in her hand. She had found it where her father had said she would, and hadn’t put it down while telephoning for the taxi, or when slipping into a three-quarter-length sealskin coat and hurrying downstairs.

She had waited in a frenzy of impatience for the taxi.

The telephone call, the mystery and the new fears, added to the ordeal of waiting for him and the shock of disappointment, had affected her nerves much more than she realised. She was actually clenching her teeth and trembling when the taxi drew up. Yet she had noticed the car which moved after her, seeing its twin lights in the driver’s mirror and feeling a sudden flare of hope that it was her father. She had jumped round, staring - and then remembered that she was going to meet him at Waterloo Station.

The car was still behind her.

They were passing the Houses of Parliament on one side, and an entrance to the Abbey on the other. The lighted streets were nearly empty, statues of dead famous men watched, the face of Big Ben was lighted, like the round, yellow face of a spirit on the night of Halloween. One could fancy a witch astride her broom clearing the pinnacle of the tower, screeching among the clouds over quiet London.

The taxi rattled and sped over Westminster Bridge. Floodlit buildings on the north bank sent a pale glow into the sky. She saw lights on the water, of a moving craft; and did not dream that, soon, a man on that police launch would see her floating, and pull her alongside. She was quite sure now that the other car was following her, and she clutched the handbag very tightly.

What was in the wash-leather bag?

Somehow, she knew. Jewels. Mannering was a famous connoisseur of jewels, her father wouldn’t meet him. Jewels. She could remember an evening, not so long ago, when she’d read about a wealthy jewel merchant being robbed, and heard her father’s chuckle.

“Why, what’s funny?” she had asked.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later. You’d be surprised if you knew how many ordinary-looking men, usually old men into the bargain, carry a fortune in their pockets. Most often it’s in a little wash-leather bag and a bit of cotton-wool.”

“How do you know?”

“General knowledge, Franky, is part of living.”

They were half-way over the bridge. By leaning to one side, Francesca could see the lights of the following car. Several others were also behind her, but she recognised this one because of the shape of the parking lights. It was a big car, and was speeding. It drew nearer, and she was suddenly afraid, opened her lips but strangled a scream.

The car passed.

One man, visible only as a pale blur, looked at her through the open window as it went by.

She found her handbag open, her fingers playing with the wash-leather, feeling something hard inside it. In a moment that was almost of frenzy, she untied the string which gathered the neck together, and dug her fingers inside. First she touched cotton-wool, and pulled this out; next, she felt the hardness again.

There were small, hard things wrapped in cotton-wool; dozens of them.

She unwrapped one, as the taxi passed a street-lamp. Such fiery light leapt from the diamond in her fingers that it dazzled her. Then the light fell behind her and the taxi became dull again.

She dropped the diamond.

The taxi swung round, on the main road again, and in a moment they would be approaching the station; she hadn’t much time. She bent down, panicking, and then realised that if she wasn’t careful she would drop other diamonds. She pulled the two ends of the string, fastening the bag again, clutched it tightly in her right hand, and groped for the single stone.

It was under her foot, painful through the thin sole.

She picked it up. Several taxis were roaring up the slope, not far ahead there was a cluster of red lights, where cabs and cars were putting down their passengers. If she opened her bag again, she would have a job to close it, and she wanted to be ready to jump out of the cab.

She slipped the diamond into the neck of her dress, thrust it deeper so that it was caught inside her brassiere, and then the taxi stopped and jolted her forward.

She felt hot and flustered when she got out, but no one took any notice of her. No private cars stood nearby. She hurried across the hall towards the platforms. Hundreds of people were waiting about, as many hundreds were walking towards the different platforms - 1 to 12 were this side of the station. The bookstall was a little to her right, only the news section open, with several customers standing there.

Francesca did not see her father.

She looked round, in desperation; he was not in sight, but she realised that several men were looking at her.

Simon Lessing would probably have told her that it was because of her looks; and certainly her flushed-cheeks and scared eyes added sparkle to her beauty. But she did not think of those things, only felt scared of attracting attention. She let her hands fall by her side, and held her bag tightly but tried to appear casual. She moved nearer the bookstall, standing near the busy, brightly lit news counter, and scanned the station.

Her father was not here. Yet he had said that he was talking from Waterloo.

Then, suddenly, frighteningly, he spoke from behind her; from the shuttered side of the bookstall.

“Franky, don’t look round. I’m here.”

She started, violently.

“Speak very softly,” her father said. Now, as on the telephone, he spoke as if he had not a second to spare, as if every second were vital. “Did you get the bag?”

She whispered chokily: “Yes.”

“Don’t give it me now,” he said. “I’m being watched and followed. Go down the escalator to the Tube trains, then come back again, then go across to the Festival Hall. You know, where we met last week. I’ll join you there. If I haven’t arrived in - in twenty minutes, go home and wait until you hear from me again.”

“Dad, what . . .?”

“I’ll tell you everything the moment I can,” her father said. “Go now, Franky, please.”

She looked about her again, playing a fantastic game of let’s pretend, pretending to look for him although knowing exactly where he was. Then she moved towards the far side of the station and the escalator leading to the Underground. Once, she glanced round. She didn’t see her father, but she did see a man, a bearded man, by the book-stall. Blindly, she went on, forgetting that she did not want to attract attention. Two men out of three turned to look at her. She was so young, and fear gave her cheeks a sparkling colour and put glowing lights into her eyes. She carried herself superbly, wore just the three-quarter-length coat over her white cocktail dress, with a tulle scarf at her throat. Her fair hair, at its best for the party, crowned true loveliness.

She did exactly as her father had told her.

Several times she looked round; but did not see him, and she saw no one who appeared to be following her. Throngs of people were coming up from the Tube, to catch late trains to the outer suburbs; most were couples, some of the young were holding hands. A middle-aged man with a bucolic face deliberately stepped into her path, raised his bowler hat and said: “Good-evening.” She slipped past him. She waited for a few minutes, until another train emptied, then mixed with the crowd coming off that, and went back on to the main-line station.

One swift look round told her nothing.

She hurried towards the steps leading down into the main entrance and the main road. Soon, she was crossing towards the Festival Hall. It was almost in darkness, but street-lights were on, and people were streaming from Hungerford Bridge - the footbridge - some running as if they feared that they would miss their train.

Only a few walked in Francesca’s direction.

None of these was behind her.

She reached the entrance to the hall. Lights were on in the offices, people were working there, cleaners were sweeping, two men in bowler-hats and carrying furled umbrellas were deep in earnest conversation. She knew the exact spot where her father would meet her; beyond the shimmering entrance, nearer the terrace overlooking the river.

There it was dark; but across the river, the squat tower of the Shell Mex House and the square mass of the Savoy were still floodlit, lightening the dark sky over the city. All the time people thronged down the steps from Hungerford Bridge; twice a train rumbled over the railway section.

It was at the height of the rumbling that a man appeared close to Francesca, as if from nowhere.

“Miss Lisle?”

She spun round, hands raised, heart pounding. “Oh!”

“I’m so sorry to frighten you.” He was well-spoken and he looked smart, dressed in a dark overcoat; a smiling man of thirty or so, wearing a trilby hat pulled forward over his face. “I think you’re expecting your father.”

“Yes, I am, but . . .”

“He’s over here,” the man said, and put a hand on her right arm.

She clutched her handbag more tightly in her right hand. The pressure of the man’s fingers scared her, and she snatched her arm away.

“Where . . .?”

“If you want to see him alive again,” the man said, without a change of tone, “you’ll be wise to come with me. He’ll be all right if you do, and you’ll be all right too.”

At first she hardly realised what he was saying. Then she sensed, she knew that he meant it. The threat shocked her into submission. She let him take her arm and draw her towards the terrace. She wanted to scream and pull herself free, but there was that awful fear of what would happen if she did. The fears she had felt all day, the fears which had grown so dark and frightening during the party, came to a head.

Dozens of people were in sight, some certainly saw her. But what did they really see? A pretty girl and a young man, arm-in-arm now, moving out of the lighted footpath towards the darkness of the terrace.

Suddenly Francesca was out of the range of the bridge lights; of all lights except those across the river.

All she knew was fear.

Then, swiftly, a gloved hand went over her mouth, pressed hard and thrust her backwards. She tried to bite the hand, but her teeth slid over shiny leather. She kicked out, without knowing whether she struck her assailant or not. She felt suffocated. Her ears were filled with roaring and her head felt light; there was a dreadful tightness at her breast, she just couldn’t breathe.