An Affair For the Baron Read online

  “We’re not going to let you out of our sight.”

  “Do you ever want to get Mario Ballas and his copy of the film?” Mannering asked heavily, “or do you like him where he is?” When neither of the others answered, he said: “If Ballas knows there’s been a switch of Alundo’s film, I won’t have a chance to see him again. If he thinks I’ve still got it and will deal with him, he’ll make the deal. And when he’s made it, he’ll either cut my throat, or release me. If he releases me, I’ll report to you. In either case, get the Mexican police to raid him and find the film already in his possession.” He paused for a moment, then added: “Didn’t Sir Donald tell you the conditions?”

  “He told us,” Ken said.

  “There’s one thing you forget,” said Vandorn.

  “I didn’t kill Enrico Ballas, if that’s what you mean.”

  “We’re not worried about Enrico Ballas at this stage. We want you alive.”

  “I’m alive.”

  “At the moment; but we’d like you to stay that way. You’ll never get into the Ballas house and escape a second time.”

  Mannering said: “There’s always a risk.”

  “This is a thousand-to-one against risk.”

  “You don’t have to take it,” Mannering said. “I’m taking it.”

  Piet Vandorn said quietly: “Why should you, Mannering? Why stick your neck out?”

  “What’s in this for you?” Ken asked, cynicism redolent in his voice.

  Mannering leaned back in the car and closed his eyes, then said almost wearily: “You should first hear what Alundo has to say. And you should then hear what Ballas had to say. Each in his own way thinks the end of the world is coming. For myself, perhaps I think the same thing, but in a different form and a different kind of world. In my world, a man does his job because it’s his job. I’m a dealer in objets d’art and precious stones. And I’m a consultant – what you call a private eye. I’ve dealt for years with Lord Fentham, and when he told me that he’d been robbed of some family jewels and asked me to get them back, I came here to do just that. I think he was robbed by Enrico Ballas, and I think the jewels may be in Mario Ballas’s house. I want to find them. And at the same time I want to find out who killed Enrico, because until we know, I’ll be under suspicion.”

  Ken said, acidly: “So you want to save your neck.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to this guy, Mannering,” Vandorn said. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Fixing it” took a few minutes by radio.

  They drove back to the Palmer House Hotel, and Mannering stripped down to singlet and trunks, and stretched out on the bed. He lay on the verge of sleep, dreaming of all the things which had led him here, the past as well as the present. There wasn’t much to add to what he had said to the F.B.I. men.

  He was half asleep when the telephone bell at his side rang, and for a moment he did not know what it was. Then he sat up abruptly, and lifted the receiver.

  “Hallo.”

  “John.” It was Hennessy, speaking at his most deliberate. “I’ve news for you.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “You will probably be decorated by Washington and the Kremlin.”

  Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over, and then beat very fast.

  “Did you hear me?” Hennessy asked.

  “I—yes, I heard.”

  “A wonderful job, John.”

  “Er—it’s all right, so far.”

  “John.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t go back to Ballas.”

  “My dear chap—”

  “You’ve done more than enough.”

  “Not yet, Donald.”

  “You don’t have to be twice a hero.”

  “I have to know who killed Enrico and I have to know where Fentham’s diamonds are.”

  “I’m begging you not to go ahead, John.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing,” Mannering said. “Professor Alundo is preparing his big speech for the United Nadons. He’ll do a better job if he knows his daughter is safe. She’s at La Racienda. Do you think the Mexican police would find her if they went there?”

  “No,” said Hennessy, heavily. “I don’t. And in any case, they’d want a lot of evidence before they would raid Ballas. They might do it if you could prove he’d broken Mexican law – or if we told them about the microfilm. But that’s the one thing no one must know about. No one,” repeated Hennessy urgently, “not even for the girl’s sake. Once it was common knowledge that such a film existed—” He broke off.

  There was a moment’s silence – broken, at last, by Mannering.

  “You haven’t found out how Ricardi is, I suppose?”

  “He won’t die,” Hennessy said gruffly, “but he’s still unconscious. Poor fellow. John—”

  “You needn’t remind me,” Mannering said. “Ballas won’t be any respecter of persons. Is that fake microfilm ready?”

  Hennessy grunted.

  “Oh well, if you must commit suicide – yes it is. It’s on Italian film all right and is good enough to fool anyone except experts. It will be at your hotel inside the hour.”

  “Thanks. Am I free to move about as I like?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I won’t be followed by the police or the F.B.I.?”

  “I’ve been assured not. If you need a police contact in San Antonio, your man is Pollitzer – Captain Pollitzer. He’s on good terms with the Mexican police across the border.”

  “Thanks,” Mannering said. After a short silence, he went on: “If things should go wrong, tell Lorna I felt I couldn’t back out, will you?”

  “Yes,” Hennessy said heavily. “I’ll tell her. But I hope I’ll never—oh, the hell with it! Good luck, John!”

  “Thanks,” Mannering said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  As he put down the receiver he was already beginning to plan his tactics for his next visit to Mario Ballas. He was sure of one thing: the simpler and more direct, the better. He could never be more tortuous than Ballas; but he might fool him with simplicity.

  The wisest way to start was to sleep and so be at his very best tomorrow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Simplicity

  Mannering woke, slowly, pleasantly, with no fear on his mind, no weight of apprehension. He rang room service for coffee and toast and mused while he waited, the events of the previous day coming back slowly and vividly, touching his mind with fear, but never raising a doubt of the wisdom and necessity of what he had to do.

  By half-past eight on a clear, fresh morning, with a wind blowing off the lake, he walked briskly towards a taxi stand, took a cab to the Planetarium, where so much had started, and then strode along the lakeside, already feeling the warmth of the sun.

  By half-past nine, he was entering the Conrad Hilton Hotel.

  He collected his key, but saw no one whom he recognised, went up to his room, and cautiously approached the door.

  Was it only a day since he had brought Ethel here?

  He unlocked the door, opened it an inch – then flung it back. No one was here. He felt a little foolish, but far better be foolish than dead. He thought ruefully that he was getting too old to play this kind of game – Tiger O’Leary was ten or fifteen years younger; the odds would soon be too heavy.

  He closed and locked the door, and stood surveying the room. The danger now was from a booby trap. He went through the drawers, the bureau, the cupboards, very deliberately and carefully but found nothing to alarm him. Soon, the only piece left to search was the bed. He pulled back the bedspread, then the one blanket, then the sheet—and the sheet was only a few inches down when he saw something there.

  He stopped, and studied it. It looked like the top of a photograph, but a single sheet of paper could be so impregnated with high explosive that it could kill a dozen men.

  Would Ballas want him dead—yet?

  He edged the sheet down, and was soon satisfied that it was a photograph; the top of a woman’s
head showed first, then her forehead, then—

  It was Ethel.

  Still slowly, acutely aware of the booby trap danger, he picked the photograph up. It was an excellent one, and almost certainly taken yesterday; he recognised easily the way her hair was worn, a small cameo brooch at the shoulder. There was nothing written on the front, and Mannering turned it over.

  There were three short paragraphs, typewritten, and stuck on to the back, and each was numbered.

  Your young friend appears to be innocent. She can lay in a great many beds, and lose that innocence. Do you think she would like that?

  Or she can be mutilated, as Ricardi was mutilated. How much worse for an attractive woman.

  Or she can retain her virginity and her beauty and forget this nightmare, if you bring me the object I desire. It must be genuine, not a fake.

  Mannering shivered and closed his eyes. Outside the sun was bright and the morning fair, but this room seemed full of shadows. Resolutely he studied the photograph more closely, then pulled the telephone towards him and, still marvelling, dialled the San Antonio Police Headquarters. He was through as quickly as if it had been a local call. “Captain Pollitzer, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Who wants him?”

  “John Mannering.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Mannering.” Obviously the operator wasn’t surprised by the name.

  After a moment a man spoke in a voice so deep the words were difficult to understand at first.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Mannering? I hope you’ve changed your mind!” He wasn’t surprised, either.

  “No,” Mannering said. “I still intend to go to Mexico. And I want to ask you one simple question.”

  “What is it?”

  “What help can I rely on from the San Antonio police?”

  “Against Mario Ballas?”

  “Yes.”

  “As much help as you need, if—”

  Ah, thought Mannering; the evasion was coming.

  “… if you can make out a prima facie case. He is very clever, Mr. Mannering. You won’t find it easy, and he will have a dozen men to lie for him, if necessary. Because he is in Mexico it is more difficult. He has a very different reputation there from here. But the San Antonio and the Mexican police will help if you can prove the need. Mr. Mannering—”

  “Yes?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if Ballas had your telephone tapped.”

  “Although I dialled direct.”

  “It’s still possible,” Pollitzer said. “If you want to talk to me about anything you plan to do, call me from a paybox.”

  “Captain Pollitzer.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you sure your telephone isn’t tapped?”

  Pollitzer gave a rumble of laughter.

  “Sure I’m sure,” he said. “Will you call me?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said. “Have you had any word from Chicago about Ricardi this morning?”

  “It’ll be a very long time before he’s up and about again. But he’ll live.”

  “He was really worked over.”

  “I’ll say he was worked over. Mannering—”

  “Yes?”

  “They can do worse.”

  “To me – or to Alundo’s daughter?”

  After a pause, Pollitzer said: “Everything I ever heard about you seems true, Mannering. I’ll be in my office when you call.” He rang off.

  Mannering went downstairs to the coffee shop, ordered and ate a fairly substantial meal, then walked to a row of call-boxes. Two were vacant. He dialled the police again, inserted the coins he was told to, and was put through to Pollitzer in an instant.

  “You found a reason for my breaking into Ballas’s house?” Pollitzer demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “It had better be good.”

  “You want me, remember?” Mannering said. “My photograph is in the Tribune and the Sun. I’m wanted for murder, and for robbery with violence. I’m a very bad man indeed. If you tell the Mexican police I’m at La Racienda, and Ballas is in danger—”

  Pollitzer interrupted almost softly: “Will you be at Ballas’s house?”

  “I will be there at six o’clock tonight,” Mannering said. “If I’m not out by seven o’clock, will you make plans for me?”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Pulling every string you can,” Mannering urged.

  “Mr. Mannering,” Pollitzer said, “someone has been feeding you stories about the American Police Departments. We want Ballas, and we want him as badly as you do. We’ll get him any way we can.”

  “Thanks,” Mannering said.

  “Will you call again?” Pollitzer said. “With more details, maybe?”

  “No,” Mannering answered. “These are all the details you need. Good luck.”

  “I need the luck!” Pollitzer growled.

  Mannering rang off, and walked away. No one followed him. He went to the car park where he had left the hired car, and drove to Lake View Apartments. Two men were outside, obviously watching. From Ballas? Or the police? He parked, strode into the lobby, went up alone in the elevator, and approached Ricardi’s apartment. He listened at the door, and imagined he could hear men’s voices. He selected one of two Yale keys from Ricardi’s key-ring, and slipped it silently into the lock. It turned, and the door opened. Mannering pushed the door a few inches, and heard Alundo saying: “… supreme importance, absolutely supreme importance, Frederick. If I could have produced both films at the crucial moment of my speech—what a sensation! What a sensation! It would have rung round the world. For the first time in history the secret of one of the great weapons would have been at the disposal of all nations.”

  “H’m. Yes. H’m.” In an instant’s sharp surprise, Mannering recognised the voice of Freddie Fentham. “Quite true, no doubt. But now both films have been stolen—” Fentham paused. “Little enough chance of getting one copy back, let alone two.”

  “I—don’t—know.” Alundo sounded dispirited, but not so dispirited as Mannering would have expected after his discovery that the second film was also missing. “I think Mannering may succeed in finding them. It is certainly a remarkably fortuitous happening that he should be here at this time.”

  Mannering said dryly: “Not exactly fortuitous, Freddie, is it?”

  Alundo spun round. Fentham’s mouth dropped open for a moment in complete surprise, but he recovered quickly. He looked tired, but apart from this, as healthy and fit as usual. He wore a suit of grey Harris tweed, as perfect for the Yorkshire moors as it was out of place in a Chicago spring.

  “Hallo, John. Forgive me not getting up. I’ve had a very tiring day. The aircraft was two hours late at Kennedy. How are you?”

  “Fine, by the grace of God, and in spite of you, the Professor, and Mario Ballas.”

  Alundo said excitedly: “My dear Mannering! How on earth did you get in? This is the second time you’ve appeared out of the air!”

  “Walks through blank walls,” Fentham said, smiling faintly. “Eh, John? I knew you would be all right. Man of ninety-nine lives.”

  “I insist on knowing what this is about.” Alundo was not far from anger.

  “I went to see Ricardi last night, and borrowed his keys,” Mannering answered easily. “And Fentham virtually compelled me to come to America, but apparently he gave me a false reason.”

  “Oh, not false, John,” Fentham protested. “Additional. To cut a long story short, Alundo had two copies of the microfilm; he kept one, and gave me the other. We thought it would be safer that way. Alundo hid his copy in his lecture notes – I hid mine in the setting of the necklace and bracelet. I telephoned him to say what I’d done, but the line must have been tapped, because a few days later both necklace and bracelet were stolen. I’ve come over here to tell him what’s happened, and now he tells me his copy has been stolen as well.”

  Mannering ignored his last sentence. “Good Lord! So it was you who had the second copy. And that’s why only the necklac
e and bracelet were taken and the rest of the collection was left.”

  “Precisely.”

  Mannering looked at Freddie bleakly. “And you asked me to find those two pieces without telling me what was hidden inside them; you pitched me into one of the most murderous situations imaginable, without a word of warning!”

  “My dear chap, if I’d told you the whole story you might have washed your hands of it from the word go,” said Fentham, almost testily. “And I happen to have greater faith in you on this kind of job than in the F.B.I. and M.I.6 and C.I.A. put together. How are things at the moment, John?”

  “Are you any nearer finding the films?” Alundo demanded.

  “A little,” Mannering said, almost grudgingly. “I’ll have news for you by tonight. Have you heard from Ethel?”

  “Not a word.” Alundo passed a tired hand across his eyes. “Poor child. She—”

  “What’s this about Ethel?” asked Fentham sharply.

  Mannering told him what had happened, and Fentham stood up and began to pace the room.

  “This is very worrying, very worrying indeed. What has Ballas demanded?” Before Mannering could answer, Fentham went on: “Ethel in exchange for the film, I suppose. Pity. Great pity you ever brought Ethel over, Arthur, it made you much more vulnerable.”

  “She was the only one apart from you whom I could even half-trust,” Alundo said sadly. “Mannering, as I told you yesterday, these stakes are far too high to worry about the fate of individuals. Far too high. Freddie, surely you agree. Can’t you persuade Mannering—”

  Mannering unrolled the photograph, held it out so that they could see who it was, then turned it over. Both men read it closely.

  “John,” Fentham said gruffly, when he had finished reading. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but an arrangement would be unthinkable.”

  Mannering allowed his words to pass without comment.

  “What’s your part in all this?” he asked.

  “A very simple one,” answered Fentham. “I’m interested in the Action for Peace Committee, and one of the judges of the Peace Lecture Award, as you know, and not exactly a poor man. Most of the Peace Movements have been run on a shoestring, but I’ve thought for years that one might buy peace the same way that one buys secrets about war. Then when Arthur heard of this new discovery, he thought it might be possible to do something quite dramatic. Such as announce it to the world and then publicly destroy it. If you can get it back, you will serve the whole of mankind. You really will. Sorry if that sounds sententious: it happens to be true. And that, relatively speaking, is far more important than saving Ethel, no matter what might happen to her.”