Cry For the Baron by John Creasey Read Free Book Online Page A

first and the police came tumbling after—we like a rub at the Yard every now and again. How about it?”
    Mannering said: “Oh, no. Not yet.”
    â€œSo there is a story?”
    â€œIt would make your mouth water.”
    Chittering put his hand into the pocket of his raincoat; where something bulged. Then he drew out a milk bottle, full of milk.
    Â 

Chapter Six
21, Clay Court
    Â 
    Chittering held the bottle up to the light.
    â€œIsn’t it lovely? Does it matter what glass I use, Mrs. Mannering? Nice stuff to drink, milk. Can’t understand what’s come over John. Going to talk, John?”
    Mannering said: “Yes.”
    â€œI thought you’d see my point of view.” Chittering’s grin became cherubic—until Mannering went to the telephone. When it changed to a frown. “Oi! What’s the idea?”
    â€œI’m going to talk.”
    â€œYou don’t have to telephone me.”
    â€œThey have people on night duty at Scotland Yard.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t tell Scotland Yard about tonight’s little escapade if I tried to make you. Joke over. Did you find Jacob’s body?”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m going to say to Bristow. I’m going to tell him that a certain reporter who was hanging around Belham Street tonight disappeared with a bottle of milk. Milk snatching in London has become as prevalent as bag-snatching. I can’t make you show me what’s in that bottle, but Bristow will. Or I might try Gordon, as he’s in a bad temper. And all the other national newspapers will have lurid headlines: “Record Reporter Held On—”
    â€œYour trick,” sighed Chittering. “Bring a jug, Mrs. Mannering, and we’ll see what came out or the cow.”
    â€œNot so fast,” said Mannering. He took the bottle and stood it on the mantelpiece, behind him. “Let’s see what’s happened so far. You were after a story about Jacob Bernstein, didn’t know that I’d been involved, followed me when I went to look for my lighter, found a bottle of milk—”
    Chittering said: “An empty bottle.”
    â€œThen where did the milk come from?”
    â€œThe Record canteen.”
    â€œYou found an empty bottle—”
    â€œLet’s have the facts. There was some cotton wool at the bottom of the bottle.”
    â€œDid you take the wool out of the bottle?”
    â€œI thought you’d like to do that.”
    â€œYou thought I’d put the cotton wool inside, too, but even reporters make mistakes. Supposing we told Bristow about this: would you be able to swear that I’d put anything in that bottle? Or wouldn’t you have to state that I bent down and picked up a lighter, and you afterwards examined the bottle?”
    Chittering sighed: “Let’s hear the rest.”
    â€œIt all depends on what is in the bottle. You think it’s a jewel which came from Jacob Bernstein’s. If it is such a jewel and you found it, you’ve a certain duty. What would your editor say if he discovered that you were running round with a piece of property stolen from the shop where a man had been murdered? What would the police say?” Mannering paused, but Chittering made no comment. “They would say you’d been a very bad boy, that you ought to have rushed with your discovery and your knowledge straight to the police. That is expected of all good London reporters. Wouldn’t it be much safer if you didn’t know? No one can stop you from guessing, and you don’t have to report guesses.”
    Chittering went to the desk and took a cigarette from a beaten brass box. He lit it slowly.
    â€œMrs. Mannering, your husband is first cousin to the Devil.”
    â€œBut isn’t he right?” asked Lorna sweetly.
    â€œNow if you really want a story—” began Mannering, and Chittering laughed; then listened to Mannering, glancing