Cry For the Baron by John Creasey Read Free Book Online

his tension. Larraby was still explaining. He had looked in all the doorways up to Number 29, but there was no milk bottle with a piece of cotton wool in it; none had been broken, or he would have seen the glass. There was no doubt, both cotton wool and bottle had been removed. The policemen hadn’t seen him at close quarters, he was quite sure of that … Was there anything he could do?
    Mannering said: “No. You get back to bed.”
    Mannering replaced the receiver and looked bleakly into Lorna’s eyes. The room was silent; nothing stirred anywhere. He had made an utter fool of himself, had thrown away a jewel which was almost beyond price. He must have been watched; perhaps from a house opposite—no, that wasn’t the explanation, no one had seen him put the jewel in that bottle. Yet it hadn’t been taken away by chance.
    Lorna said: “They didn’t believe your story of the lighter and went to look in the doorway.”
    â€œYes, probably.”
    â€œDarling.” She took his hand. “Perhaps it’s a good thing. I don’t want you to have that diamond.”
    He pulled himself free and picked up his cigarette case from the bedside table. “Clever and bright, wasn’t it? Get the Tear out of the shop, then put it anywhere. The police are blind fools, never mind the police. Astute John Mannering! That Tear might have led us to the killer, and I—”
    â€œJohn, stop going on like this.”
    â€œI like it. It does me good to know how bad I am. Teaches me not to sit on top of the world.”
    Another bell rang, the front door. It jarred through the quiet, making Lorna catch her breath, and he knew that the thought which sprang to his mind had its echo in hers. The police had found the Tear, and wanted to know why he had put it there.
    The bell rang again.
    â€œOh, well,” said Mannering. “It could be Larraby. He probably thinks that he can be helpful.” He forced a smile. “Be in a nice deep sleep, no need for you to be worried by Bristow or his boys.”
    Mannering slipped into his robe and tied the sash as he crossed the hall, then switched on the light to make sure that he had a clear view of the caller. He opened the door. Cluttering stood there.
    Â 
    The reporter came in, smiling. “Not in bed yet? Or were you? Apologies, Mr. Mannering!” He saw Lorna at the bedroom door, also in her dressing-robe. “Has he been telling you a fairy story? Any hope of a drink John? I always get thirsty listening to Gordon telling me where to get off.” He had to look upwards to meet Mannering’s eyes. “What about a real story, too? This reporter won’t be put off by the brush-off. You’re going to make a statement for the Record —persuade him, Mrs. Mannering. You know our motto: the inside story of every crime in London, by ace reporter Chit Chittering. I’ve my reputation to think of. Speechless, John?”
    â€œWhat’s this? Blackmail?”
    â€œMy dear chap! You must have been in a dead sleep.” Chittering strolled across to the study, for he was no stranger to the flat, and pushed open the door. “Mind if I switch on the light?”
    â€œWhere is the jewel?” asked Mannering.
    Lorna said: “Do you think—”
    â€œI don’t think, I know. Come across, Chittering, or you’ll be crossed off the visiting list.” He tried to sound flippant, and succeeded in sounding pompous. He had no doubt that Chittering had gone to Number 17.
    â€œToo bad,” said Chittering. “I can’t imagine what the great John Mannering is after. Mind you, I might guess. I’m no good at guessing, though, and the Record only deals in facts. You should see the tears our readers cry, sometimes!” He looked quite boyish. “I’ll try to guess, if you’ll give me the story of your visit to the shop, John. Were you first on the scene? Mr. Mannering got there