Cry For the Baron by John Creasey Page A

that he need take away, but much of vital interest. Mannering relocked the box and put it back on the top of the cupboard, then hurried to the front door. Anyone who knew the ways of cracksmen would know how the flat had been entered, but he had to face that. He opened the door cautiously, and immediately heard the lift. He saw the top of the lift appear, then Julia’s braided hair.
    He closed the door but didn’t bolt it, slipped quickly through to the kitchen, then stepped on to a fire escape which also served as a tradesmen’s entrance. He went down quickly, glancing at the windows of the other flats, from which he might be noticed. He tucked his chin on his chest and hunched his shoulders, reached the paved backyard and went quickly towards an open door. It led to a narrow passage, thence to a cobbled mews, which gave on to Park Lane.
    No one followed him.
    He took a taxi from the corner, went to Victoria, and took another taxi to his Chelsea flat.
    The folly and the value of that visit to Julia’s flat were equal. Julia would guess who had been there. She had warned him, and talked of sudden death; would she be given to idle threats? It wasn’t likely. But he had discovered in an hour more than the police could have found in a week. There was no room for regrets, but –
    The taxi turned the corner and he saw a small car parked outside his flat, facing him; on the windscreen was a single notice: “Press.”
    Lorna was out, but Chittering was in the study, which was filled with a blue haze of tobacco smoke. He wore the same old raincoat, battered trilby and bright shining brown shoes. His broad grin was friendly.
    â€œWelcome, hero!”
    â€œWhat have I been doing now?”
    â€œSomething you wouldn’t want Bristow to know,” said Chittering. “What did you expect from that little Morris?”
    â€œHow much did you get?”
    â€˜I’m not yet sure,” said Chittering, wrinkling his nose. “I hung about for an hour. Then a little chap came and drove it off, Italian or Spanish—I wouldn’t know which. You know the type. Dark hair, sallow face, wasp waist, spiv written all over him. He left the car at Green’s Garage, Charing Cross Road, and then walked to a café in Wine Street owned, I’m told, by a certain Toni Fiori. Know anything about Fiori?”
    â€œNo. Do you?”
    â€œI gathered from a newsboy at a nearby pitch that Toni Fiori thinks no end of himself, and doesn’t make his fortune from that café. Not that you can tell, there’s a fortune in food and the food is good—or so I’m told. I’ve asked my research department to find out what it can about Fiori. How much will you give me for the report?”
    â€œA tip. This job is dangerous.”
    â€œHow dangerous?”
    â€œI don’t know how far this goes but it isn’t as simple as it looks—not just murder of Bernstein for robbery.”
    â€œEvidence?”
    â€œYou’ll have to take my word. But you can give your research department another job.”
    â€œIt’s just waiting for jobs.”
    â€œThere is a nice young man named Kenneth. I don’t know what he looks like, whether he’s dark or fair, rich or poor, and I don’t know his surname. But I do know that he’s supposed to be in love.”
    â€œI said research, not romance department.”
    â€œHe’s in love with a young woman who will inherit Bernstein’s fortune; and there is a large fortune. That’s off the record, don’t go writing sensational articles about it.”
    â€œWhere does the sweet young thing live?”
    â€œAt Clay Court Mansions—Number 21. She was out with Kenneth last night, and I doubt if he’d take her to Lyons Corner House or the Trocadero.” Mannering took out one of the photographs of Fay. “There she is—will you get some copies made and then have a talk with your Society