An Affair For the Baron (13 page)

“Why, sure. Irv!” Steven Marshall called. “Will you find out when Flight 307 is leaving – last time I heard it was half-an-hour late. Get Mr. Mannering a seat on it.” Marshall turned back to Mannering. “But I hope you'll come back for the opening, sir!”

Mannering chuckled.

“I'm beginning to understand what they mean about Texans! By the way, have you an agent in Chicago, named Ricardi?”

“We sure have,” answered Marshall. “Did you meet him?”

“Briefly. He—”

“He has a big cattle outfit in Texas and stockyards in Chicago,” Marshall went on, “and he's as enthusiastic about HemisFair as I am. He was to talk to Professor Alundo and finalise the plans for the Professor's lecture.” As he spoke, Steven Marshall gave the impression that he was asking questions. This one seemed to be: “Do you know the Professor?”

Mannering said: “I was told Alundo was coming to lecture here. Do you mind telling me why?”

“Sure I'll tell you why. He's a world figure, Mr. Mannering. He fights for what he believes. He gets shouted down too often, so we're giving him a platform in Texas where he won't be shouted down.” The new unspoken question was: “Do you object?”

“Can't think of better reasons,” Mannering remarked. “Do you know the Professor?”

“No, sir. Ricky went over to England and made all the arrangements last year. He came back with the contract signed – and a very soft spot for the Professor's daughter.” Marshall chuckled. “If the Professor doesn't bring her, Ricky will never forgive him.”

Mannering finished his dinner, and sat back in his first class seat in a Boeing 727, glancing through brochures on HemisFair, amused by and grateful for Steven Marshall's ready help. He had satisfied himself that Marshall knew of no undercurrents, but was sure he had set the man thinking – particularly when he had asked about Mario Ballas.

“Sure, I know him,” Marshall had said. “He has a fine old Mexican house, called La Racienda, fifty or sixty miles into Mexico. In Mexico, he's a good citizen, and who are we to hold what he did in Chicago against him?” When Mannering hadn't answered, the Texan had continued: “I wouldn't condone any crime, Mr. Mannering, but in Mexico, Ballas is looked on as a saint. He's done a great deal to help the poor there, he gives a lot of employment. And”—Marshall gave an infectious grin—“he is exhibiting some rare Mayan art and some early Spanish arms and regalia at HemisFair. Do you object to sharing part of the Jewel House with him?”

Mannering had laughed.

“No more than I would object to selling him anything he wanted.”

“We understand each other,” Marshall said with satisfaction. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Mannering, “I would like some Western-style clothes, and a pocket tape recorder.”

“There's a store right close by the airport,” Steven Marshall had said, as if Mannering's were an everyday request. “And I can supply the bugging outfit. Let's go.”

That had been three hours ago. The aircraft was now flying over St. Louis and before long the lights of Chicago would be in sight. In less than two hours, Mannering would be in the city.

He was clear in his mind about what he should do.

Chapter Fifteen

Break-In

Mannering stood by the corner of Michigan Avenue near the Conrad Hilton, watching the floodlit Planetarium and the museum, seeing the bright headlights of the cars coming towards him from Lakeshore Drive, the brilliant red of those which disappeared over the road across the railway. The hum of traffic, the occasional clatter of footsteps and murmur of voices, were his only company. He walked briskly towards State Street and stood in a doorway, making sure he hadn't been followed. The elongated lamps in their harsh cement posts spread a glow brightened by flashing multicoloured neon. Here, hundreds walked and buses whined and taxis and cars passed harshly. He saw a taxi with its hire sign alight, and hailed it.

“Do you know where Lake View Apartments are?” he asked. No one would have dreamed from his voice that he was English.

“Yeh.”

“Take me there.”

The entrance to the apartment building was brightly lit but the street lamps were dim. The taxi stopped. No one appeared to be watching. Mannering stepped out and handed the driver a dollar bill.

No one paid him any attention.

He had booked into the Palmer House Hotel as soon as he had reached Chicago, and had changed into the Western-style clothes he had bought in San Antonio – a wide-brimmed hat, narrow, fancy jeans, and a cowboy shirt of trimmed leather. Unless they examined his face very closely, no one would have suspected this to be the immaculately-dressed Englishman known as the Baron.

Now, adopting a rolling-cowboy gait, Mannering strolled to the front entrance of Lake View Apartments. Two men stood just inside the door; he judged them to be either Ballas's men or police, he could not be sure which, but so far as he was concerned it made little difference. He went straight to the elevator, closely watched by the two men, and pressed the penthouse button: PH. The doors opened. As he was taken smoothly upwards, his mind, brilliant, painstaking, plodding, reviewed for the hundredth time Alundo's desperation to retrieve the microfilm, Ballas's ultimatum, Ethel's disappearance and Ricardi's flight to La Racienda.

The elevator stopped.

Mannering got out, and waited near the elevator shaft for three or four minutes. No one else came up; there was no noise. He walked towards the end of the passage which led to the penthouse. As always, there was a service door to the roof marked with a glowing EXIT in red. He opened this, and stepped on to the narrow ledge between the penthouse walls and the side of the building. The ledge was protected by a waist-high wall which he had seen from the street. He judged the position of Ricardi's flat on the floor below, by comparing it with the street.

He was immediately above the sitting-room window.

He looked over the ledge, very intently. Heights did not worry him but he did not want to take a single unnecessary risk. The ground was a long way down, and it was a sheer drop. He studied the masonry where it jutted, but there was very little to offer in the way of foothold. At this height, eighteen storeys up, all trucks, cars and people below looked minute to the point of distortion.

He could almost hear Alundo's voice again, as he had heard it the second time he had called him.

“There are men outside the apartment, Mannering.” And a moment later: “There are men at the emergency exit door.”

Men.

Policemen or Ballas's men made no difference for the moment, Mannering decided. Either were likely to stop him from seeing Alundo, and he wanted urgently to talk to the Professor without anyone knowing.

He hitched up his shirt, and unwound from his waist a rope of thin, strong nylon. There were knots in it, and at one end a loop. He placed the loop over a rail, and tightened it, then made a loop at the other end, and slipped it round his waist. Two cars passed, followed by a police car, which drew up outside the building; one of the men inside got out and entered the lobby. He was there for four or five minutes before he climbed back into the car.

Police, thought Mannering, probably waiting for the suspect for the murder of Enrico Ballas. How long ago that seemed! And how far away La Racienda and San Antonio! Distance, of time and space, leant to them the unreality of a dream – but there was nothing dreamlike about Ballas or about Steven Marshall.

The police car moved off and the noise of its engine faded.

Mannering climbed over the parapet.

Gripping the rope above one of the knots, he gradually eased himself downwards, bracing himself by pushing his feet against the wall. If anyone looked up, he might be seen; but there was a fair chance he would be hidden by the corner-stones and window-ledges.

There was a light in Ricardi's sitting-room.

Mannering went down very slowly, until he was opposite the room. The venetian blinds were half-drawn, but he could see through the slats. All doubts dissolved when he saw Alundo poring over a desk. Mannering lowered himself still farther, and made sure no one else was in the room. At last his feet touched the window ledge.

He could knock and warn Alundo, who would surely let him in, but he preferred complete surprise. Firsthand knowledge of the old man's reactions to an emergency would be useful to him. So, gripping the edge of the window frame, he waited. Soon, Alundo got up, without glancing at the window, and went out. Mannering took his tools from his pocket, and worked on the window. At this height they were usually simple. This was a sliding affair with a straightforward catch, which was unlocked. All he had to do was force it to one side. Prising gently with a screwdriver, he made room for the tips of his fingers, then pushed one half behind the other. It made a sharp squeak; that was all.

Mannering wriggled out of the rope, and climbed inside.

Nothing suggested that Alundo had been alarmed, and Mannering walked about, easing his cramped legs and flexing his arms. When he heard the man coming back, he switched on the microphone hanging round his neck, and moved swiftly behind the door.

Alundo came into the room slowly. His face was pale, his grey hair ruffled. As if making a conscious effort, he sat down and picked up the papers he had been studying. Mannering moved forward. The sheets were typewritten, but too far away for him to make sense of them. He crept nearer, until he was able to read over Alundo's shoulder.

Notes for San Antonio Speech.

At the head was the word MISTAKES. The paragraphs beyond this were in smaller typeface. Halfway down was the word ADDITIONS, and near the bottom of the page EMPHASISE. There seemed little doubt that these really were lecture notes, and that Alundo wanted to make the HemisFair lecture foolproof, but – how did this square with a man who was supposed to be almost frantic about his daughter; a man about to trade a deadly secret with a foreign power?

Alundo turned a page.

“More mistakes?” Mannering inquired.

Alundo started so violently that several papers fell to the floor. He did nothing to save them, simply twisted round in his seat, stunned by surprise.

Mannering bent to pick them up. “First mistake – to lie to me,” he observed, handing them back to Alundo. “Why didn't you tell me your daughter knew Ricardi in England?”

Alundo seemed too shocked to utter a word.

“Second mistake – to pretend you're a man of peace when in fact you don't care whether Communism wins by peaceful means
or
by war.”

Alundo's lips began to work.

“Mannering! Is it—is it
you?”
His incredulous glance roved over the fancy jeans.

“
Are
you a Red – or are you just playing one side against the other?” demanded Mannering, ignoring his question. “If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a man who will sell out his country, for—”

Strength flowed back into Alundo, and he leapt up, incredulity forgotten, fists flying like a furious little boy who could think of nothing else but striking out. And although Mannering fended him off easily enough, he came on again and again, his blows falling inaccurately and without skill.

Hoarse with rage, his voice rose and fell with sobbing persistence: “Call
me
a traitor!—all I want is
peace
—you imbecile, I don't want money—my God, only a man
soaked
in money would dare to think—” He kept on and on, the words echoing and re-echoing, sometimes audible, sometimes incoherent. Finally spent, his strength ebbing, he drew back, as pallid now as Mario Ballas. Words, however, still poured from him in a voice so muffled that Mannering feared the microphone might miss them.

“You
must
be a fool. I've spent all my life, seeking
peace.
Do you know what peace is? I'll tell you. It's freedom from fear and freedom from want. It's the freedom to say what you like and do what you like without being afraid someone will blow you to pieces or kill you with radiation.
My God!
Have you ever been to Japan? Have you seen what radiation can do? Do you know what would happen to the world if there was a nuclear explosion?”

When he paused, his breathing sounded as if he were gasping for breath, but he would not stop for long.

“Me, a traitor? I've devoted my whole life to England. I've tried to make English people become the hope of the world, but now—look at us.
Look at us.
At the mercy of two great powers, neither of them capable of winning peace. If America could win it, I'd do everything,
everything,
to help. And I'd help Russia, as God's in His heaven I would do everything to help Russia,
if
I thought she wanted world peace.
If.
Oh, she'll
say
she does. Like America, she'll
say
she wants peace. But they both mean the same thing. They mean they want peace if
their
country is top dog. Do you know what happens when there's a top dog? Some other dog waits and waits until there's a chance to spring and pull the top dog down.

“It means war, war, hideous bloody war! But if
I
can help it”—he almost choked—“there won't be any war. I think I can stop it. Given half-a-dozen men of goodwill, I
know
I can. Because what I've discovered is a weapon too fearful for anyone to use. I've got it, Mannering. I've got—”

He broke off, choking again. For a moment Mannering thought he was going to stop breathing. Slowly, gaspingly, he went on: “Or I did have it, until it was stolen from me. If you know where it is, find it and give it to me. Do you understand? Find and give me the microfilm.
It holds a secret which can destroy all the people in the world.
”

Sweat ran down his forehead. There was a beading of it on his upper lip and about his neck. His lips were aquiver, his whole body ashake, and slowly, as if wearily, he wiped his face.

Gently, Mannering asked: “And if you had it, what would you do with it?”

“That—that is
my
business.”

“You will never get that microfilm unless you tell me,” Mannering said.

“It's my business! It—”

“What would you do with it?” Mannering insisted. “What have you been planning? Is it so important that you've even forgotten that your daughter is in danger?”

Alundo seemed to pull up in his tracks, and a look of horror spread over his face. His lips moved after a few seconds, forming a word which he did not utter, but soon Mannering could just hear him whispering “
Ethel. Ethel. Ethel.
” His eyes glistened with tears, and he raised his hands towards Mannering as if in supplication.

“Where—where is she, Mannering? Have you—have you found her?”

“Mario Ballas says that he has her,” Mannering said flatly. “He wants to exchange her for the microfilm.”

Alundo stared at him blankly. “Ballas? That gangster? Oh my poor, poor Ethel.” He turned away, pressing a hand to his forehead, as if fighting a stupendous battle within himself. Then, suddenly, he swung back to face Mannering.

“It isn't—it isn't possible,” he cried hoarsely. “Even if you
do
find the film, you mustn't do it, Mannering. Do you understand? You—must—not—do—this—thing.”

“Professor,” Mannering said, “she is your daughter.”

“She is—my only child.”

“Ballas is a man quite capable of killing her.”

“Oh yes. Yes, I know. He may well kill her.”

“Professor—”

“Why don't you listen to me?” Alundo cried. There was a new strength in his voice, and a ring of true authority, too. “You must not make the exchange. Should you find the film, you must not let that man have it.”

“And your own daughter—”

“Oh, you fool, you ten thousand times a fool! What shall it profit a man if he should save his own flesh and blood and spill the blood of millions? If Ethel has to be sacrificed, or you, or I – then it must be so, but that film must not fall into Mario Ballas's hands.
Do you hear me
?” The old man's voice rang out now, as if he were a prophet declaiming the dangers of hell. “Whatever the cost, whatever the sacrifice, he must not get it.”

So Alundo didn't know that Ballas already
had
a copy of the film, thought Mannering. And neither Ballas nor Alundo knew that he, Mannering, had Alundo's copy. Into the strange silence which followed, he asked: “Why not, Alundo?”

“If you knew the man, you would not have to ask. He is evil incarnate. I tell you he is—” Alundo raised his clenched hands, his eyes afire, his voice quivering with passion. “
He is the most evil man in the world.
”

As he spoke, another voice rang in Mannering's inner ear, a voice as strained with emotion, as thick with barely controlled rage, as that of Alundo. It was almost as if Alundo's words were a direct echo of those uttered by Ballas.

Mannering frowned; then shrugged the thought away.

“He is a gangster, yes. And he will not, I imagine, be over-kind to Ethel.”

Once again Alundo's face showed signs of inner turmoil. And once again, or so it seemed to Mannering, watching him closely, he fought and won (or lost, wondered Mannering) some secret conflict within himself.