Cry For the Baron Read Free

continued.
    â€œWhen you’re as involved as that, you’re trying to hide something,” challenged Lorna.
    â€œI’m trying to kill an illusion—that if you possess the Tear you will probably die of a battered skull. And in any case, you needn’t worry. I shall have it in my hands only for a few hours. Feel better?”
    She frowned. “I suppose it is silly to feel jumpy.”
    Mannering said: “People who don’t own the Tear have been known to die by violence. Odd—he still doesn’t answer.”
    He dialled a third time, with the same result. Next he dialled O, and reported difficulty in getting Mayfair 01432. A pause, then: “The number is ringing, sir, but there’s no reply.”
    â€œThank you.” Mannering replaced the receiver and stood up.
    Standing, he was over six feet tall, handsome, with dark, wavy hair, cut snort, and greying a little at the temples. A man whom many regarded, when they first saw him, as just handsome and dull. Others, who knew him well, still thought of him as a man-about-town, a dilettante, spoiled by too much money and a dash of blue blood. Few knew all the truth about him—either of his past or of what he did today.
    â€œIt can’t be anything important,” said Lorna.
    â€œHe’s probably fallen asleep. He stays in that place of his alone far too much, for an old man. Care for a drive?”
    â€œI don’t think I’ll come out tonight, darling, I want to be early in the morning, and it’s nearly midnight.”
    â€œI won’t be long,” said Mannering.
    Outside, he hurried towards his garage, five minutes’ walk away, and wished that he had put on a coat. He switched on the heater of his Bristol before driving out of the garage – and switched it off before he reached Belham Street, where Jacob Bernstein had his shop. It was a narrow thoroughfare in the West End of London, a quiet place, with a few shops which were patronised by the connoisseur and the discerning. Not far away was Hart Row, where Mannering owned a famous shop called Quinn’s.
    Mannering avoided the main roads, and the headlights shone on walking couples, tall, grey houses, across spacious squares where history lived, on solitary women, lurking hopefully; and on policemen, doing their nightly rounds. At last he turned the corner of Belham Street. Then, with a caution which had become almost a sixth sense, he drove past Bernstein’s shop and pulled up some fifty feet away.
    While passing, he saw the dim light at the first-floor room where Bernstein spent most of his time. The glow came from a corner, as if the curtain had been lifted and not fallen back into place. Mannering thought no more than that Bernstein had been taken ill – until he saw the light go out.
    The sudden dousing of the light filled him with disquiet. He stepped swiftly across the road and stood outside the tall, narrow door. This door led to the upstairs quarters; another led to the shop. He knew that the shop was a model of tidiness but that upstairs the rooms were neglected. He stepped to the window, placed one hand against the glass and peered in – the hand so placed to shade the light from a street lamp, some distance away. He saw the ghostly shapes of furniture; the dull glow of silver; the pale faces of clocks; he even fancied that he heard these ticking.
    There was no sign of trouble there.
    Then he heard footsteps from the stairs; not loud, not firm, but stealthy. He tried to laugh his fears away. Jacob’s right ankle had been broken and never really mended – a legacy of brutality and Dachau. His shuffling walk would sound stealthy. Mannering stood to one side and waited while the footsteps drew nearer. He thought he knew the moment when the man reached the foot of the stairs. Then the footsteps sounded again.
    Nearer; stealthy; nearer.
    Mannering heard fingers touch the bolts, and the sharp sound as they were drawn