Read Help From The Baron Online

Authors: John Creasey

Tags: #Help from The Baron

Help From The Baron (8 page)

BOOK: Help From The Baron
8.93Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Fleet Street was crammed. The crowds thinned at Ludgate Hill, massed again on the step of St. Paul’s, where a military band was playing something from Grieg, and where office workers thronged the steps and the space between the pillars, eating sandwiches, listening, smoking. At the Bank traffic and people seemed to be going in three directions at once. Looking down on the narrow confines of the City streets, it was like peering down upon a myriad of Lilliputians.

And someone, a person who had been and almost certainly still was a cypher in London’s nine millions, had pushed Francesca Lisle into the river, believing that she would drown.

It would take a hard, ruthless man to kill such beauty.

They were nearing Aldgate. Mannering could see the old pump at the end of this road, still ready to quench the thirst of parched Londoners as it had been for generations. A few hundred yards along, and the character of London would change. Here in the city there lived, by day, the black-coated barrier between West End and East. Mannering’s odd friends lived mostly in the East End. They would probably be glad to see him, although one or two, perhaps with stolen jewels on the premises, would wonder if he were actually on the look-out for those jewels, and would wish him to hell.

These would be the more outwardly overjoyed at meeting him.

Somewhere there lay hidden a clue to the attack on Francesca; to her father’s disappearance; and to the murder of a man who had been murdered for the Fiora jewels. The old, dead man had been a friend of Mannering, and he had suffered savagely.

So there were two good reasons for wanting to find a clue; justice and vengeance for an old man, and help for a young girl.

It had been four years or more since the murder, and there had been no clues to the killers until now. It might take another three years to find the next clue; or it might be found this very day.

Mannering climbed down the stairs as a clippie called: “Allgit.” He beamed at her, and she rounded her eyes and said: “Ta-ta, sir.” He swung on to the pavement, one of the East End crowd, dressed no better and not so well as some of the others, ears quickly tuning themselves to the cries of hawkers, barrow-boys and newsboys. He walked briskly. Across the road, the wholesale butchers were beginning to close their warehouses, but great, raw-looking carcases or mammoth sides of beef hung, dripping. Here kosher and Gentile butcher lived next door to each other, here the masses swarmed, here lay the main hope of finding more about the Fiora jewels.

Mannering made three calls and drew three blanks.

He entered the fourth shop, in a side street near Whitechapel Library, and knew that he had stepped into a place of fear. He was greeted by a frightened man, a little, middle-aged chap, almost a dwarf, with a face which could have qualified him for a clown at any circus. This was a hump-backed, black-eyed dealer in jewels, who had the look of a confirmed rogue.

In a way, he was.

In a way, he was as clean as a policeman’s whistle. He gave a square deal, he was a reliable friend to many; even the police liked him, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t yet caught him with stolen jewels.

When he recognised Mannering, he actually shivered.

 

8:   A HALF-TALE OF A FRIGHTENED MAN

“Hallo, Prinny,” greeted Mannering, and smiled as if in the gloom of the overcrowded shop he hadn’t noticed that the proprietor was so frightened. But he was asking himself why, and could not stop his own heart from beating faster. Could this be the luck he needed; to find a clue at the fourth instead of the fortieth visit? “Nice to see you again. And you look as if you’re prospering.”

He offered his hand.

The man named Prinny took it, gripped nervously with icy fingers, and let it go.

The shop was a junk-heap. On one side, tray after tray of cheap broken jewellery, old watches, clocks, china, hideous brass pieces, knives and forks, all over-laden with dirt and dust. On the other was the “furniture”. In the middle was a narrow path, covered with a strip of narrow linoleum with its original red-and-brown surface worn off, and at the end of the shop a little counter with a hatch leading to it. Behind the counter was a door to the downstairs room and the stairs to two rooms above.

“Hallo,” said Mannering, as if surprised. “Aren’t you feeling too good?”

“Good?” echoed Prinny, in a plummy voice. “First I see the Devil himself, and then who do I see? I see the father of the Devil.” His voice was a thin wail. “Do me a favour, Mr. Mannering, go away from here, put a notice on the door you won’t ever come back. Will you do that jus’ to please me?”

Mannering said sympathetically: “You must have had a shock. Which particular Devil came to see you?”

“Mr. Mannering,” gabbled Prinny, more plummily than ever, “I don’t want to lie to you, I don’t want to be bad friends with you. I jus’ don’t want to see you now. Tomorrow or next week or last week, that would be fine, but not now, please. You make me talk, and I don’t want to talk. So be a pal, go away, please.”

“Who was it, Prinny?”

Prinny wrung his hands.

“Now the limpet has competition, and always it happens on the wrong day! All right, all right, ask me what you want to ask me, and if I want to answer I will answer, and if I don’t . . .”

“Fioras, Prinny?”

“Oh, what have I done to deserve this?” groaned Prinny. “What gets into you, Mr. Mannering? Is it second sight? If you would do me a favour, jus’ go away. Have I ever harmed you?”

“So you’ve been offered some of the Fioras?” Mannering murmured.

Prinny looked appealingly into his face. Prinny’s black eyes were shiny, as with tears of pleading. His skin had a yellowy pallor. He was Punchinello without knowing that he could make the world laugh by just being himself. A frightened Punchinello.

“I’ve just been asking myself, Mr. Mannering, what to do for the best. That’s what I’ve been doing. And I know the answer now, I’ll talk to you about it, but heaven help me if anyone finds out. But I know a man I can trust, don’t I?” He kept wringing his hands, and the hard skin made a slithering sound. “As God’s my judge I’m not wicked, you know that. I never buy a single article knowing it to have blood on it. If I tell a man where he might find a buyer, well, is that so wrong, Mr. Mannering? If I didn’t tell him someone would, wouldn’t they?” He looked as if he were about to burst into tears. “But he’s a clever devil, he—”

Prinny stopped.

He was looking past Mannering towards the door, and something that he saw outside made him stiffen, and cut across his words. Mannering didn’t look round. Prinny licked his lips.

Then he seemed to wince.

“Mr. Mannering,” he begged, “be a friend, go away, let someone know I didn’t tell you a thing, not a thing. Be that kind of a pal, Mr. Mannering.”

“All right, Prinny,” Mannering said, very mildly, “but don’t get yourself into trouble. Bristow is on this job. There was attempted murder last night, more blood on the Fioras. Don’t be scared into helping people who might get you hanged.”

“Jus’ go away,” Prinny implored, “that’s all I ask.”

There was nothing to be gained by staying now. Obviously Prinny had been visited by someone who terrified him, and was in dread lest he should be thought to be making a deal with the owner of Quinns.

So he was probably being watched.

Mannering turned away. To the little dealer, he must have looked enormous. The ill-fitting suit was big across the shoulders, too. He opened the door and went out, nodding to Prinny, who had retired to the doorway behind the counter. Then Mannering turned right, towards Whitechapel Road.

Looking into a newspaper shop next door was a youngish man. Mannering had one swift look at him. He had a sallow, clean-shaven face with a dark dusting of stubble nothing could banish completely, smooth features, a well-cut suit and a new Trilby hat of navy blue. This man didn’t look at Mannering. He stared at the magazines and paperback books in the window, and could undoubtedly see Mannering’s reflection. Mannering did not give him a second glance, but walked past, taking long strides, making his gait look a little unsteady.

He stopped at the corner. Traffic rumbled by. A cyclist cut in too close to the kerb, and made him dodge back. That gave him an excuse to look round; the well-dressed man had disappeared.

Mannering crossed the road, which was cobbled, very hard on the feet and slippery too. Opposite, there was a public-house, near it a cafe. Big enamel dishes were in the window with sausages, tomatoes, eggs, onions, hamburgers and rice pudding, all cooking - everything but the rice was sizzling in fat. Mannering went in. The smell of frying, hot and choky, struck at him overpoweringly. Farther along, forty or fifty men and a few girls were sitting close together on long benches, hot food in front of them. Nearer the door was a long service counter, opposite it some stools and a shelf. A few people sat here, eating. Mannering ordered sausages and tomatoes, helped himself to a knife and fork, which were spotlessly clean, although bendable without much effort. He squeezed into a place opposite the counter, from where he could see Prinny’s shop. It was ten minutes before the good-looking man came out of Prinny’s, and by that time Mannering had finished eating.

The man came his way.

Mannering kept where he was. A girl with fluffy hair was between him and the window, so he wasn’t likely to be noticed if Prinny’s visitor crossed the road here. A small car, a black Austin saloon, slid towards the man, who got in. Mannering could not see the driver. He moved swiftly outside and stared after the car.

“K42AB,” he said aloud; and repeated the number, then scribbled it on a small pad which he slipped from his breast pocket.

He looked towards Prinny’s. No one was near that shop or the newsagent’s, except a man on the other side of the road, lounging as a bookie’s runner might lounge. Mannering didn’t get a good look at him, he was too far away, but he carried away a mind picture; including gingery hair.

He moved quickly towards a telephone kiosk, but a man was talking earnestly into the mouthpiece, and holding a copy of the Evening News Racing Special up against the box. He might be an age putting on his money; instead, he finished almost at once, and left.

The kiosk smelt of vinegar and fish and chips.

Mannering dialled Quinns; Trevor answered in his best Bond Street manner, Larraby came on the line sounding like an angel.

“Josh,” said Mannering briskly, “get hold of a runner who knows his way about the East End, and have him keep tags on Prinny. He’s scared and he’s being watched, and I’d like to know who by.”

“I think I know just the man for the job,” Larraby said promptly.

“I don’t mean Josh Larraby,” remarked Mannering dryly. “Anything turned up?”

“I - ah - have had to change the window,” Larraby told him smugly. “Senhor Costelho is leaving London by air tonight, and wanted to take the jade with him. I thought of putting . . .”

“Congratulations! Fix that runner first and the window afterwards,” said Mannering. “Leave it empty if you must. ‘Bye, Josh.”

He rang off.

No one showed any special interest in him. A policeman, strutting past, obviously remembered his face, but couldn’t place him; the man kept looking back. Mannering saluted him with the haste and humility a policeman might have expected from an old lag, and crossed the road to the bus stop. At any other time he might have felt a snug sense of satisfaction, for there were hopes of progress. He felt no satisfaction at all. He didn’t like it when the Prinnys of the world were so frightened. He wanted to know why Prinny was scared, and was pondering ways of finding out.

Any thought of telling the police that he’d found a line had died at the sight of Prinny’s fear. If he told Bristow, Bristow would have to visit Prinny, and Prinny was already frightened enough. Leave him a little longer, and he would talk. The police would be seen, too. Mannering wished the bus would come. He wondered how Francesca was. He wondered what Simon Lessing was doing, and whether Lessing’s interest in the girl was simply romantic. He hoped it was. A bus came up, and two cars passed on the other side of the road, going fast. One was a pale-green Wolseley, and at sight of it Mannering backed away from the bus.

“Make up yer mind,” the conductor growled.

“I’ll take the next,” Mannering said, and dazzled the man with a smile. He didn’t feel like dazzling anyone. He watched the green car swing round the corner into the street where Prinny had his shop, and recognised Bristow at the wheel.

He walked past the end of the street.

Yes, there was Bristow’s car, outside the shop; and the shabby youth was walking away. Mannering watched him. He crossed to the telephone kiosk at once, and it was empty for him. Mannering reached the pavement by the kiosk as the youth dialled. He was answered almost at once, spoke urgently, and kept looking down the street; so he was probably reporting that the police had called on Prinny.

He mouthed the last word. “Okay.” Then he pushed the door open and stepped out.

Mannering moved at the same time, they cannoned into each other, and Mannering trod on the youth’s toe hard enough to hurt, then fell heavily against him. Pain stifled anger. The youth snatched his foot from the ground, and kept his mouth wide open in a strangled cry of anguish. People stopped to watch. A girl got off her bike. Mannering was full of apologies - for what he’d done, for being in a hurry.

They parted.

This time, Mannering walked very quickly away from the scene, and found a taxi outside Aldgate Tube Station.

“New Bond Street, Oxford Street end,” he said, and got in and sat back, breathing more quickly than usual.

The taxi moved off.

First Mannering lit a cigarette, then he took out a yellow pigskin wallet, nearly new, which had been in the youth’s pocket a few minutes earlier. The three unpleasant photographs didn’t surprise him. Twenty-one pound notes, kept together by a rubber band, didn’t really surprise him either; it simply told him that the youth was being paid well to do what he was told. He was gratified by the sight of three letters, all addressed in immature hands to Charlie (one was spelt Chas) Ringall, at the same address in Whitechapel.

BOOK: Help From The Baron
8.93Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

McCloud's Woman by Patricia Rice
The Kiss by Lazu, Sotia
The Gift of Asher Lev by Chaim Potok
O Jerusalem by Laurie R. King
Harsh Oases by Paul Di Filippo
Strange Things Done by Elle Wild
Gideon's Bargain by Warren, Christine
Bums on Seats by Tom Davies