Cry For the Baron by John Creasey

the lift, it was an invitation to trouble, but he might not have a chance like this again. The mica crept between the lock and the door, gradually pushing it back; there came a sharp click, the sound he wanted to hear. The whirring of the lift sounded clearly. He left the door ajar and walked swiftly to a recess which was large enough to hide him.
    The lift stopped at a floor below.
    He went into the flat and closed the door. The lock wouldn’t catch properly, the disadvantage of this method of lock-picking, so he shot a bolt. The flat was planned on exactly the same lines as Fay’s. He looked into every room and found no one, but received a dozen vivid impressions. There was no futuristic nonsense about Mrs. Fiori. This was a well-furnished apartment, full of charm and good taste. The furniture was modern but distinctive, each room furnished in dark, shining walnut. In the main bedroom there were twin beds, but apparently only a woman was using it for the time being. There were no man’s brushes on the dressing-table, only women’s clothes in the wardrobe which stretched across one long wall. In this were two fur coats – a brown mink and a Persian lamb – several fur wraps, a dozen evening gowns, afternoon dresses by the dozen. Only a really wealthy woman could afford such clothes.
    One drawer in the dressing-table was locked. Mannering pushed in a skeleton key attached to the knife; a quick flick of the wrist and it was open. Inside were trinkets hardly worthy of the name jewels. He passed them over quickly; bangles, necklaces, ear-rings, all imitation gems, beautifully made but worth very little; it was hard to imagine Julia Fiori wearing paste jewellery. He came to a long, narrow jewel-box, which wasn’t locked, opened it and started back.
    Inside lay five diamonds set in platinum petals, each exactly alike, large and gleaming; and each might have been taken for the Diamond of Tears.
    Â 
    Not one was real; he had been a fool to think one might be.
    Yet each was beautifully made, and approximately the right measurements for the Tear. He took measurements of two with a pair of pocket callipers, jotted them down on his notebook and put the gems back. The discovery had slowed him down. He locked the drawer, went to the hall and listened, but heard no sound outside. Back in the bedroom, he searched every piece of furniture, but found nothing of any significance. He went into the drawing-room, where quiet blues and golds were restful, glanced through an unlocked bureau and all likely hiding-places. Nothing he found told him anything about Julia Fiori or her husband.
    Was there a safe?
    He didn’t find one, but on top of a cupboard in the kitchen was an old deed box; unlikely hiding-places were the safest, and this box was locked. He used the skeleton key again, but had much more difficulty opening this lock. At last it opened. Inside were important-looking legal documents, some tied round with red tape. They were mostly title deeds, in the name of Julia Fiori, who owned houses and flats in the West End of London. Then one address caught his eye – 47, Wine Street, London, W.1.
    Toni Fiori’s café was in Wine Street, and his house and shop was owned by Julia. The deed of transfer was dated five years ago. Mannering put this with the others, finding smaller documents beneath it – certificates of birth and marriage. Five years ago, about the time of the transfer, Julia Howlett had married one Enrico Fiori, who was described as a “British-born Italian.”
    At the time of her marriage Julia had been thirty-one, which put her in the middle thirties now. Other papers held no significance, but at the bottom of the box was a small loose-leaf notebook. He looked through it. Only a few pages had been used, and on the last of these he saw the name of Jacob Bernstein. He read swiftly, and discovered that these were extracts from the old man’s will.
    Â 
    There was nothing here