Help From The Baron (7 page)

“Oh,” said Bristow. “Did he?” He rubbed the side of his nose, then stubbed out his cigarette. His right eye was watering from the smoke. “Well, obviously we’re on to something hot. John, were you just social acquaintances of the Lisles, or had you smelt the Fiora trail?”

“As I sit here, I simply thought Francesca a nice girl,” Mannering declared. “Lorna thought her a promising painter, and we went to the party because she obviously wanted Lorna to be a lion among the Slade students.”

“H’m,” said Bristow. “Well, all right - what are you going to do about it?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I wish I could say, not a damned thing,” said Bristow, with a twisted smile, “but I’d better ask you to see if you can pick up any trace of the rest of the collection. It looks as if they’re likely to go the rounds. Better for you to do it than me; if official inquiries are started at once, whoever they are will keep their heads down. Mind if I take the diamond?”

“Welcome,” said Mannering, and picked it up in the callipers, put it on a piece of cotton-wool, and handed it to Bristow. “Have you found anything else, Bill?”

They’d started off with some formality; it was now obvious that they were familiars.

“Not much. The girl was pushed in off the Festival Hall Terrace steps. We found a cigarette, plain tip, probably a Virginia One - I’m having paper and tobacco checked. And we found some cotton-wool and got a footprint, size eight shoe, pointed toe, even walker. That’s about all.” He stood up, slipping the diamond into his pocket. “I’ll be grateful for anything you pick up, but be careful - if the original thieves are on this job it could be nasty.” He didn’t pause, didn’t change his expression, but glanced at Lessing. “Any idea where the girl’s father is, Mr. Lessing?”

“No. No, I’ve never even met him.”

“Miss Lisle might have said something about him that would give you some idea.”

“I think she did mention that he had an office in the City. You could try there.”

“Oh, yes, but he hasn’t turned up there yet,” Bristow said. “Take a piece of advice from me, Mr. Lessing, will you? - hold nothing back. You won’t help anyone by hiding facts. Good morning. Be seeing you, John.” He turned the handle of the door. “No, don’t get up.”

He went out.

Lessing said sharply: “We didn’t ask where she is!” He jumped up.

“We’ll find out, don’t chase Bristow now,” Mannering advised.

Lessing hesitated, then sat down again.

Mannering picked up a piece of cotton-wool, and began to mould it in his fingers. Lessing waited until he couldn’t wait any longer.

“What’s behind this, Mannering? What do you know about those jewels?”

“They were stolen from a London jewel-merchant, three or four years ago,” Mannering said quietly. “The merchant was murdered - tortured first, to make him give away the secret of his strong-room, then brutally murdered.”

Lessing didn’t speak, but lost a little colour as the significance of that dawned on him.

Simon Lessing could not have behaved better had he set out to make a good impression above everything else. Obviously he saw some of the implications of the news, and didn’t like them; but he let them settle in his mind before speaking. All this time, Mannering watched, assessing him with reasonable accuracy. Lessing came from a good family, from Public School but not a university, probably had a little money of his own, and had a mind which might become very good with a few years of experience. That clean-cut look would prejudice most people in his favour; especially Francesca Lisle. He was proving that he could hold his aggressive temperament in check.

“Well, I don’t like the look of that much,” Lessing said.

“Which aspect of it?” asked Mannering.

“Francesca’s father having stolen jewels. But he said . . .” Lessing broke off.

“The cross belonged to Francesca’s mother?”

“Yes.” Lessing at last began to fill his pipe. “Francesca - er - positively adored him. You know what I mean.

What a damned awful thing to say to a girl if it wasn’t true! And if she finds out that it was stolen . . .”

“If I know Francesca, she’ll flatly refuse to believe it,” Mannering said; “we won’t lose any sleep about that. She’ll have exactly one worry - finding her father. The police will help with that, anyhow, but it may not be so easy, and they may find just his body.”

Lessing rammed the tobacco home.

“Yes, I’d thought of that. What an ugly situation! And Francesca won’t be in any state to be told about it.” He jumped up. “We ought to have asked Bristow how she was, what she knows, what they intend to do with her. She can’t go to the flat alone with that addle-pated maid. And who’s going to break this news to her?” Once he let himself go about Francesca, Lessing seemed very young indeed.

“One thing at a time,” counselled Mannering. “Bristow’s a human being, and he won’t scare the wits out of her.”

“He may think she knows how her father got the jewels. He may try . . .”

“Of course he’ll question her,” Mannering interrupted, “but he won’t third-degree her, he won’t go against medical instructions or do anything which might give her grounds for complaint afterwards. There’s nothing we can do about it anyhow, and nothing we ought to try to do - except find out where Francesca is and how she is. That’ll come a bit later on. Has she any friends?”

“Only at the Slade. Joy - that’s my sister - knows her pretty well. The Slade, home and her father are her only interests. I wonder if . . .”

“We’ll find out where she is and get Joy to go and see her,” Mannering said, and that was balm to a troubled young man. “I must get busy too.”

“You mean, looking for the rest of the collection?”

“Or listening for rumours about it.”

“Why did Bristow come to you?”

Mannering chuckled. He had very white teeth which looked bright because his face was so tanned.

“I have some queer friends,” he said. “Jewellers and antique dealers who sometimes get hold of stuff that I can handle. Usually they offer me only goods they get by honest means, but occasionally they try to pass off something hot. A sale through Quinns puts the price up, you see. Bristow and I work smoothly together.”

“You mean, you actually deal with - crooks?”

“The odd thing about them is that they’re human beings all and crooked only part of the time,” said Mannering. “And am I the one to judge? There’s a fringe world, Simon. A lot of these people live half in and half out of it, and - oh, never mind.”

“The peculiar thing from my point of view is that Bristow knows and seems to approve.” Lessing had to make his point.

“I wouldn’t say approve. Sometimes he condones! Where can I get you on the telephone?”

“Whitehall 91497,” Lessing said. “That’s my office - I’m an architect, just set up on my own. Joy and I have a little flat in Knightsbridge.” He wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “Mannering.”

“Hm-hm?”

“I want to help.”

“I don’t know that you can,” said Mannering bluntly. “There’s nothing to stop you from telephoning Scotland Yard, finding out where Francesca is, and arranging to visit her. Why don’t you do that and telephone me later in the day?”

After a pause, Lessing said: “Yes, I will, thanks.” He didn’t try to persuade Mannering to accept his “help”. He didn’t turn to go, either; there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes. Then words came explosively: “You are a private eye, aren’t you? I mean, you do really accept commissions, you don’t just help the police as a consultant.”

“We have been on opposite sides of the fence,” murmured Mannering.

“That’s what I mean. But are you committed to Bristow in this case?”

Mannering kept a straight face. “I’m committed to find out and to tell him if I get any news of the other jewels.”

“No further?”

“And I’m expected to pass on any relevant information which might reasonably be expected to help him to find a criminal or criminals.”

“Expected?”

“Sooner or later.”

“Look here,” said Lessing fiercely, “I want to help Francesca, but I don’t even know how to begin. Will you help her? Bristow obviously wants to prove that her father’s mixed up with crooks, and I’d like to try to prove that he isn’t. You’d be working on the same job from a different motive, and I - er - I’d pay any fee, within reason.” He coloured, hotly. “I don’t want to cheat the law, but . . .”

“Let’s leave all this until we see what happens next,” Mannering suggested. “I’m with you part of the way.”

“How do you mean?”

“Helping Francesca.”

“That’s all I want.”

“We may not always see eye-to-eye about what is going to help her,” Mannering said dryly. “Call me later, Simon, will you?”

“Yes, all right,” Lessing said, and turned to the door. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of a portrait on the wall opposite the desk; the portrait of a man who was the spit image of Mannering, but dressed in the fashion of a Regency buck, powdered hair and periwig, scarlet stock, ruffles and red satin coat. Lessing glanced at Mannering, then back at the picture. “Good lord,” he said, “that’s uncanny!”

“Most natural likeness in the world,” Mannering told him. “My wife painted the face from life, and the clothes from a costume piece. She changes the clothes about once a year, the face is paint inlaid in paint.”

Lessing went off, chuckling; momentarily lighter-hearted.

Mannering saw Larraby talking to a short man with very broad shoulders and a completely bald head. He went back into the office, put the calipers, tweezers, scales and watch-glass away, and picked up the little piece of cotton-wool. Then he studied the book. There were seventeen large jewels in the Fiora Collection, and twenty-two small ones. The small ones could never be identified if they were taken from their setting, but unless the larger stones - all diamonds - were cut down, they could be identified against the book’s description of the work of the Dutch genius, van Heldt.

Mannering picked up the telephone.

In a few seconds Lorna answered.

“Hallo, my sweet,” said Mannering, and made words more than casual endearment. “Bill Bristow’s been here, and Francesca’s in trouble.”

“Oh, John, no!”

“Yes. Someone pushed her in the river. She’s all right except for shock - Bristow’s having her looked after.”

“But why . . .?”

“That cross her father gave her was stolen,” Mannering went on. “A stolen diamond was found on her, too. I’m to probe, which means that I’m in temporary favour at the Yard. Simon Lessing is all emotionally anxious, if he can be believed.”

“Any reason to doubt him?” Lorna was quick.

“Every artist loves a nice boy! No. But Lisle didn’t come to the party. That might possibly have been to avoid me, or it might have been to avoid one of the other guests. Or for totally different reasons. Busy today?”

“I can see I’m going to be.”

Mannering chuckled. “Blessed be those who foresee the future. Go round to Francesca’s flat, will you? Tell the maid how sorry you are, is there any way you can help, and with low cunning compile a list of the names of the people at the party. And pump the maid, looking for anything odd or unusual about Bernard Lisle, or odd and sinister or even mildly mysterious callers. You know.”

“I’m not a bit sure that I want to play detective,” Lorna said. “I suppose you’re going to visit your unsavoury friends?”

“Say that to Simon Lessing, and he’ll agree with you warmly!”

“If you really think it will help the girl I’ll see what I can do,” promised Lorna, with obvious reluctance. “Don’t go and do anything silly, we’re going to the Plenders tonight.”

“These parties . . .”

“It’s their anniversary, and we have to change for dinner. Don’t be back a minute after six,” Lorna warned.

Mannering went upstairs to a room on the third and top floor, where he kept some clothes. Larraby, the manager, often slept in a small room opposite this. Mannering whistled softly to himself, took off his perfectly cut suit of honey brown, dressed in another, of grey, which fitted where it touched. It had the look of a City man’s week-end suit, the knees were baggy, the pockets sagged, the cuffs were beginning to fray. This change alone made a startling difference to his appearance. He could change it a great deal more, but this wasn’t an occasion for showing his prowess, only for looking less conspicuous than he would if he wore his usual clothes in the East End. He transferred cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money and all other oddments to the old suit, and went downstairs. Larraby and the bald-headed, broad-shouldered man were still deep in conversation. The stranger was not English.

Trevor, a tall young man in black coat, striped trousers, dark, flat hair and pronounced widow’s peak, hastened to open the door for Mannering. “When will you be back, sir?”

“I don’t know, Trevor. Hold the fort.”

“Don’t worry about that, sir.”

“Don’t worry about that,” mused Mannering, and marvelled at the spirit of that young man, who did not look at all like a hero. Six months before, when Mannering had become involved in a case which had started off much less ominously than this one, an assistant at the shop had been murdered. Here was another case with danger obviously in the offing, and Trevor would “hold the fort”! In spite of all the railing at modern young men, there were a lot of Trevors.

And Lessings.

Mannering walked towards the parking lot, passed the Rolls-Bentley, for he no longer looked qualified to sit at the wheel of such opulence, and eventually came to Piccadilly and waited at a bus stop. It was now midday. Piccadilly was crowded, both here and at the Circus a little farther along; ten minutes in that maelstrom and a saint could become a misanthrope. Two small, brassy-haired girls wearing shoes with absurdly high heels eyed Mannering with open admiration, and a tall, classy woman carrying a French poodle pretended that she wasn’t. He went to the top deck of a Number 96, found a front seat free, sat down and lit a cigarette. London unfolded in front of him. Scurrying people risking death beneath the wheels of bustling taxis, monstrous buses, perky little private cars. Here and there the black-and-white daubs of zebra crossing held up the impatient, and people walked across these disdainfully; only at such places did they seem to be in no hurry.