Cry For the Baron Read Online Free PDF Page A

between his thumb and forefinger and slowly withdrew it. Then he slid it into his pocket. It was easy to pull out the wad of wool and slip that out of sight. He sat back, the closed book on his knees, nerves and muscles tense. The excitement of having the Tear in his pocket affected him like strong wine, going to his head, numbing his mind. If Gordon looked at him he’d give something away.
    He fought the excitement, got it under control.
    Gordon took a folded document from the safe and said: “I wonder who gets his money?” He opened the document, glanced through it, and spoke without turning round. “Any idea?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI thought you were such a close friend of his.”
    â€œHe didn’t consult me when making his will.”
    Gordon said: “Maybe he didn’t, but he made you—” He broke off abruptly. Gordon’s weakness was his tongue; he couldn’t keep quiet for long. “You’re sure you know nothing about this?”
    â€œNothing at all.”
    â€œI see” said Gordon heavily. “All right, Mannering, we’ll go and try that experiment you were talking about.”
    It was cold outside, and a keen wind blew from the corner round which Fay Goulden had disappeared. The uniformed man was young, small and pale-faced; his uniform fitted him loosely. He was outside, beating his arms across his chest.
    They went briskly along the street. Suddenly Mannering stopped and said: “Wait a minute, the door ought to be closed, then opened.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Mannering fiddled with the jewel inside his pocket, wrapping the cotton wool round it again.
    â€œThe constable was at the corner. He looked round, saw a door open and a girl come out. Then the girl disappeared, walking away from him. That’s right, isn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s it, sir,” said the constable.
    â€œAnd we have got to find out whether it’s possible for you to be sure that the door was Bernstein’s, or whether it could have been another door, nearby.”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œCould it?” barked Gordon. “I thought it was Bernstein’s door.”
    â€œDo you mean you thought it was his door when you saw it open, or you assumed it to be when you knew there’d been trouble?” asked Mannering mildly. “It would be natural enough to jump to that conclusion.”
    If the constable were prepared to swear the girl had left Bernstein’s, he was in for a rough night. Gordon was bad enough; if Superintendent Bristow arrived he would jump to the same conclusion – that Mannering knew about the girl. The result would probably mean a visit to Great Marlborough Street Police Station, and a search. They ought to search him, whether he were under suspicion or not; that was simple routine. But they could search him a dozen times now and he would have the laugh on them. He wanted to laugh as he took the jewel out of his pocket. “Wait here,” Gordon said. He strode towards the shop, his long legs slightly knock-kneed, and the constable muttered under his breath and evaded Mannering’s eye. The heady effect of the jewel remained while Mannering scanned the shop-fronts and the doorways.
    He saw the empty milk bottle on a window ledge in the doorway.
    He took out his cigarette-case, and flicked his lighter – the wind prevented the wick from catching alight. He went into the doorway.
    The constable followed, determined not to let him out of his sight. Mannering cupped his hands round the cigarette as he lit it; the pale yellow glow shone on the cotton wool. He had his back to the constable, and turned so that the man couldn’t see his right hand, slipped the jewel into the neck of the bottle and poked it down.
    Gordon came hurrying back.
    â€œNow we’ll see.” They reached the corner and turned to look at Bernstein’s doorway. It opened, and a dim light showed, a man came out, turned