Cry For the Baron Read Free Page B

was slung over her shoulders like a cloak. She wore a black evening gown, the bodice glittering with sequins shimmering over her firm breasts from her agitated breathing. Her eyes, so blue and startled, were rounded. Her right hand moved and clutched the edges of the coat, drawing them together. Mannering asked: “Who are you?”
    She didn’t speak, but held on to the banister rail with her left hand. She didn’t move, and was obviously in great distress, and a false move would frighten her away. “Can I help you?” Mannering asked.
    She moistened her lips again. “I want to see Mr. Bernstein.”
    â€œI’m afraid he’s out.”
    â€œI must see him.”
    â€œThen you’ll have to wait.” Mannering backed a pace. “Come and wait upstairs.”
    She didn’t move. “Who are you?”
    â€œA friend of his.” Mannering took out his cigarette-case, opened it and held it out; she would have to climb at least six steps to reach them. “He shouldn’t be long.” The words nearly choked him.
    â€œI—I think I’ll come back,” she said, and turned. Mannering hurried after her, was just behind her when she reached the passage. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she slipped out of the coat, made for the front door, and turned right, clutching her skirt to run. She didn’t look round again. Mannering flung the coat aside and raced after her, caught her up twenty yards from the shop, took her arm and gripped tightly. She struggled to get away, turned, and struck at him with her free hand; her small handbag caught his cheek.
    They stood together in the darkened street, but the lamp-light was behind him, shining on to her face. He no longer thought of her as agitated but as terrified.
    â€œLet—me—go. Please —let—me—go.”
    â€œWhy did you come?”
    â€œI’ve—told—you.” She gasped each word out, as if it were an effort, and struggled to free herself again. She hadn’t a chance. After a moment she realised it and went limp. “Please let me go. It isn’t important, I—I can see him in the morning.”
    He wanted to let her go, as he would want to let a rabbit go from a trap. But soon the police would come and they would need to know everything about the night’s events and certainly why this girl had come to see Jacob Bernstein and why she was so nervous. He ought to keep her here; yet something in him rebelled. Already he wanted to find the murderer himself; to pay a last tribute, and to do a final service for the man.
    A temptation, born out of his secret past, came and whispered to him, while the girl’s breathing quietened a little though the terror still lurked in her eyes.
    He asked suddenly: “Do you know what’s happened?”
    â€œHappened?”
    â€œHere. Tonight?”
    â€œHas—has anything happened?”
    â€œGive me this.” He released her and took the bag away. She realised what he was going to do too late, and snatched at it, but he backed away and opened the bag. She came at him, but he fended her off with one hand and looked into the bag. There were letters, a lipstick, compact and a purse.
    â€œGive that to me!”
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œI won’t tell you.” She snatched at the bag again and he took her wrist, pulled her suddenly so that she was in front of him and facing the direction of Bernstein’s shop, then pushed her along and back into the doorway. He closed the door with his elbow – while outside, in the distance, heavy footsteps sounded, drawing nearer.
    â€œYou’ve no right—” She could hardly get the words out, but didn’t try to take the bag away again.
    He took out the letters but didn’t look at them.
    â€œIf you want to get away, you will have to tell me your name and address. Otherwise you stay, and answer all the questions the police want