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

occasionally at the bottle of milk.
    Mannering finished: “Now you can give him a drink, but don’t let him go until I’ve checked on that milk.” He took the bottle and hurried into the kitchen, poured the milk into a basin until a sodden piece of cotton wool stuck in the neck of the bottle. He pulled it out, and caught his breath as he touched the hard surface of the jewel inside. He unwrapped it. Milk smeared and dulled the facets. He dried it on a tea towel, and the kitchen seemed to blaze with multi-coloured lights. He took a penknife from his pocket and scratched the surface of the Tear; it was just possible that this was a paste stone.
    The scratch didn’t show.
    This really was the Diamond of Tears; and its beauty set his heart hammering and his eyes glistening; and he seemed to hear Jacob’s cracked voice:
    Â 
    â€œWorth more than the beauty of
    woman and the blood of man.”
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    The beauty was there, in all its glory; and the rounded end glowed, as with blood. It was set in platinum and tiny diamonds, in the shape of petals.
    He slipped it into his pocket and went slowly back to the study. Cluttering finished a drink, put his head on one side, and said: “That must be some stone. Mind if I go now? I’m in with you all the way on this job, John.”
    Lorna said: “Let me see it.” Mannering put the Tear into her hand; she didn’t look down immediately but held it as if its fire hurt her. Slowly she opened her hand and glanced downwards; fiery streaks of light shone into her eyes. She caught her breath, stared at the jewel for a long time, then looked up and said: “It frightens me.”
    Mannering said: “It’s a diamond. There are hundreds of thousands of diamonds, and they don’t frighten anyone. They have nothing more than their intrinsic value. The stone hasn’t a blood-curse—it just brings out all the avarice in man, and some will commit murder in order to possess it. Don’t blame the diamond, blame the men.”
    â€œIt still frightens me. I don’t want you to keep it for long. And not here. Not here, John, please.”
    Â 
    At half-past ten next morning Mannering drove the Bristol through the crowded streets of the West End and, out of curiosity, turned into Belham Street. A crowd was surging about Jacob’s shop, outside which were four policemen to keep people away from the window. Another policeman had to clear the way for Mannering. He drove on to Hart Row and Quinn’s.
    Hart Row, off New Bond Street, was narrow and short, with old shops on either side except at the far end, where a desolate empty site, legacy from the air-raids, was utilised as a car park. Mannering parked the car near the exit and walked to Quinn’s. The narrow-fronted shop looked as if it belonged to a London three centuries past. The roof was red-tiled and covered with dark green lichen, the chimney stack was crooked, the grey walls mellowed with age. There was one window; and in that a single picture, a tiny miniature on a velvet background, worth a fortune.
    Inside was little Larraby and a middle-aged, courtly and portly man who had recently joined the staff.
    â€œâ€™Morning, Benson.”
    â€œGood morning, sir.”
    â€œCome into the office, Larraby, will you?” asked Mannering, and Larraby followed him into the small windowless office at the back of the narrow shop. Mannering switched on the light.
    Larraby looked tired and bright-eyed.
    â€œIs everything all right, sir?”
    â€œYes, I found it. Have the police been here?”
    â€œNo, thank goodness! You know how difficult the police can.
    â€œIf they question you, you didn’t go out last night, and I didn’t telephone you.”
    â€œThat’s understood, sir. Is there anything I can do?”
    â€œThere may be, later.”
    Larraby ran a hand over his greying hair. “I was horrified to hear what had happened to Mr. Bernstein.