An Affair For the Baron (16 page)

“You needn't remind me,” Mannering said. “Ballas won't be any respecter of persons. Is that fake microfilm ready?”

Hennessy grunted.

“Oh well, if you
must
commit suicide – yes it is. It's on Italian film all right and is good enough to fool anyone except experts. It will be at your hotel inside the hour.”

“Thanks. Am I free to move about as I like?”

“Yes.”

“And I won't be followed by the police or the F.B.I.?”

“I've been assured not. If you need a police contact in San Antonio, your man is Pollitzer – Captain Pollitzer. He's on good terms with the Mexican police across the border.”

“Thanks,” Mannering said. After a short silence, he went on: “If things
should
go wrong, tell Lorna I felt I couldn't back out, will you?”

“Yes,” Hennessy said heavily. “I'll tell her. But I hope I'll never—oh, the hell with it! Good luck, John!”

“Thanks,” Mannering said. “I'll be seeing you.”

As he put down the receiver he was already beginning to plan his tactics for his next visit to Mario Ballas. He was sure of one thing: the simpler and more direct, the better. He could never be more tortuous than Ballas; but he might fool him with simplicity.

The wisest way to start was to sleep and so be at his very best tomorrow.

Chapter Eighteen

Simplicity

Mannering woke, slowly, pleasantly, with no fear on his mind, no weight of apprehension. He rang room service for coffee and toast and mused while he waited, the events of the previous day coming back slowly and vividly, touching his mind with fear, but never raising a doubt of the wisdom and necessity of what he had to do.

By half-past eight on a clear, fresh morning, with a wind blowing off the lake, he walked briskly towards a taxi stand, took a cab to the Planetarium, where so much had started, and then strode along the lakeside, already feeling the warmth of the sun.

By half-past nine, he was entering the Conrad Hilton Hotel.

He collected his key, but saw no one whom he recognised, went up to his room, and cautiously approached the door.

Was it only a day since he had brought Ethel here?

He unlocked the door, opened it an inch – then flung it back. No one was here. He felt a little foolish, but far better be foolish than dead. He thought ruefully that he was getting too old to play this kind of game – Tiger O'Leary was ten or fifteen years younger; the odds would soon be too heavy.

He closed and locked the door, and stood surveying the room. The danger now was from a booby trap. He went through the drawers, the bureau, the cupboards, very deliberately and carefully but found nothing to alarm him. Soon, the only piece left to search was the bed. He pulled back the bedspread, then the one blanket, then the sheet—and the sheet was only a few inches down when he saw something there.

He stopped, and studied it. It
looked
like the top of a photograph, but a single sheet of paper could be so impregnated with high explosive that it could kill a dozen men.

Would Ballas want him dead—yet?

He edged the sheet down, and was soon satisfied that it was a photograph; the top of a woman's head showed first, then her forehead, then—

It was Ethel.

Still slowly, acutely aware of the booby trap danger, he picked the photograph up. It was an excellent one, and almost certainly taken yesterday; he recognised easily the way her hair was worn, a small cameo brooch at the shoulder. There was nothing written on the front, and Mannering turned it over.

There were three short paragraphs, typewritten, and stuck on to the back, and each was numbered.

Your young friend appears to be innocent. She can lay in a great many beds, and lose that innocence. Do you think she would like that?

Or she can be mutilated, as Ricardi was mutilated. How much worse for an attractive woman.

Or she can retain her virginity and her beauty and forget this nightmare, if you bring me the object I desire. It
must
be genuine, not a fake.

Mannering shivered and closed his eyes. Outside the sun was bright and the morning fair, but this room seemed full of shadows. Resolutely he studied the photograph more closely, then pulled the telephone towards him and, still marvelling, dialled the San Antonio Police Headquarters. He was through as quickly as if it had been a local call. “Captain Pollitzer, please.”

“Yes, sir. Who wants him?”

“John Mannering.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Mannering.” Obviously the operator wasn't surprised by the name.

After a moment a man spoke in a voice so deep the words were difficult to understand at first.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Mannering? I hope you've changed your mind!” He wasn't surprised, either.

“No,” Mannering said. “I still intend to go to Mexico. And I want to ask you one simple question.”

“What is it?”

“What help can I rely on from the San Antonio police?”

“Against Mario Ballas?”

“Yes.”

“As much help as you need, if—”

Ah, thought Mannering; the evasion was coming.

“… if you can make out a
prima facie
case. He is very clever, Mr. Mannering. You won't find it easy, and he will have a dozen men to lie for him, if necessary. Because he is in Mexico it is more difficult. He has a very different reputation there from here. But the San Antonio
and
the Mexican police will help if you can prove the need. Mr. Mannering—”

“Yes?”

“It wouldn't surprise me if Ballas had your telephone tapped.”

“Although I dialled direct.”

“It's still possible,” Pollitzer said. “If you want to talk to me about anything you plan to do, call me from a paybox.”

“Captain Pollitzer.”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure
your
telephone isn't tapped?”

Pollitzer gave a rumble of laughter.

“Sure I'm sure,” he said. “Will you call me?”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “Have you had any word from Chicago about Ricardi this morning?”

“It'll be a very long time before he's up and about again. But he'll live.”

“He was really worked over.”

“I'll say he was worked over. Mannering—”

“Yes?”

“They can do worse.”

“To me – or to Alundo's daughter?”

After a pause, Pollitzer said: “Everything I ever heard about you seems true, Mannering. I'll be in my office when you call.” He rang off.

Mannering went downstairs to the coffee shop, ordered and ate a fairly substantial meal, then walked to a row of call-boxes. Two were vacant. He dialled the police again, inserted the coins he was told to, and was put through to Pollitzer in an instant.

“You found a reason for my breaking into Ballas's house?” Pollitzer demanded.

“Yes.”

“It had better be good.”

“You want me, remember?” Mannering said. “My photograph is in the
Tribune
and the
Sun.
I'm wanted for murder, and for robbery with violence. I'm a very bad man indeed. If you tell the Mexican police
I'm
at La Racienda, and
Ballas
is in danger—”

Pollitzer interrupted almost softly:
“Will
you be at Ballas's house?”

“I will be there at six o'clock tonight,” Mannering said. “If I'm not out by seven o'clock, will you make plans for me?”

“I certainly will.”

“Pulling every string you can,” Mannering urged.

“Mr. Mannering,” Pollitzer said, “someone has been feeding you stories about the American Police Departments. We want Ballas, and we want him as badly as you do. We'll get him any way we can.”

“Thanks,” Mannering said.

“Will you call again?” Pollitzer said. “With more details, maybe?”

“No,” Mannering answered. “These are all the details you need. Good luck.”

“
I
need the luck!” Pollitzer growled.

Mannering rang off, and walked away. No one followed him. He went to the car park where he had left the hired car, and drove to Lake View Apartments. Two men were outside, obviously watching. From Ballas? Or the police? He parked, strode into the lobby, went up alone in the elevator, and approached Ricardi's apartment. He listened at the door, and imagined he could hear men's voices. He selected one of two Yale keys from Ricardi's key-ring, and slipped it silently into the lock. It turned, and the door opened. Mannering pushed the door a few inches, and heard Alundo saying: “… supreme importance, absolutely
supreme
importance, Frederick. If I could have produced both films at the crucial moment of my speech—
what
a sensation!
What
a sensation! It would have rung round the world. For the first time in history the secret of one of the great weapons would have been at the disposal of
all
nations.”

“H'm. Yes. H'm.” In an instant's sharp surprise, Mannering recognised the voice of Freddie Fentham. “Quite true, no doubt. But now
both
films have been stolen—” Fentham paused. “Little enough chance of getting
one
copy back, let alone two.”

“I—don't—know.” Alundo sounded dispirited, but not so dispirited as Mannering would have expected after his discovery that the second film was also missing. “I think Mannering
may
succeed in finding them. It is certainly a remarkably fortuitous happening that he should be here at this time.”

Mannering said dryly: “Not exactly fortuitous, Freddie, is it?”

Alundo spun round. Fentham's mouth dropped open for a moment in complete surprise, but he recovered quickly. He looked tired, but apart from this, as healthy and fit as usual. He wore a suit of grey Harris tweed, as perfect for the Yorkshire moors as it was out of place in a Chicago spring.

“Hallo, John. Forgive me not getting up. I've had a very tiring day. The aircraft was two hours late at Kennedy. How are you?”

“Fine, by the grace of God, and in spite of you, the Professor, and Mario Ballas.”

Alundo said excitedly: “My dear Mannering! How on earth did you get in? This is the second time you've appeared out of the air!”

“Walks through blank walls,” Fentham said, smiling faintly. “Eh, John? I knew you would be all right. Man of ninety-nine lives.”

“I
insist
on knowing what this is about.” Alundo was not far from anger.

“I went to see Ricardi last night, and borrowed his keys,” Mannering answered easily. “And Fentham virtually compelled me to come to America, but apparently he gave me a false reason.”

“Oh, not false, John,” Fentham protested. “Additional. To cut a long story short, Alundo had two copies of the microfilm; he kept one, and gave me the other. We thought it would be safer that way. Alundo hid his copy in his lecture notes – I hid mine in the setting of the necklace and bracelet. I telephoned him to say what I'd done, but the line must have been tapped, because a few days later both necklace and bracelet were stolen. I've come over here to tell him what's happened, and now he tells me his copy has been stolen as well.”

Mannering ignored his last sentence. “Good Lord! So it was
you
who had the second copy. And
that's
why only the necklace and bracelet were taken and the rest of the collection was left.”

“Precisely.”

Mannering looked at Freddie bleakly. “And you asked me to find those two pieces without telling me what was hidden inside them; you pitched me into one of the most murderous situations imaginable, without a word of warning!”

“My dear chap, if I'd told you the whole story you might have washed your hands of it from the word go,” said Fentham, almost testily. “And I happen to have greater faith in you on this kind of job than in the F.B.I. and M.I.6 and C.I.A. put together. How
are
things at the moment, John?”

“Are you any nearer finding the films?” Alundo demanded.

“A little,” Mannering said, almost grudgingly. “I'll have news for you by tonight. Have you heard from Ethel?”

“Not a word.” Alundo passed a tired hand across his eyes. “Poor child. She—”

“What's this about Ethel?” asked Fentham sharply.

Mannering told him what had happened, and Fentham stood up and began to pace the room.

“This is very worrying, very worrying indeed. What has Ballas demanded?” Before Mannering could answer, Fentham went on: “Ethel in exchange for the film, I suppose. Pity.
Great
pity you ever brought Ethel over, Arthur, it made you much more vulnerable.”

“She was the
only
one apart from you whom I could even half-trust,” Alundo said sadly. “Mannering, as I told you yesterday, these stakes are far too high to worry about the fate of individuals. Far too high. Freddie, surely you agree. Can't you persuade Mannering—”

Mannering unrolled the photograph, held it out so that they could see who it was, then turned it over. Both men read it closely.

“John,” Fentham said gruffly, when he had finished reading. “I don't like it any more than you do, but an arrangement would be unthinkable.”

Mannering allowed his words to pass without comment.

“What's your part in all this?” he asked.

“A very simple one,” answered Fentham. “I'm interested in the Action for Peace Committee, and one of the judges of the Peace Lecture Award, as you know, and not exactly a poor man. Most of the Peace Movements have been run on a shoestring, but I've thought for years that one might
buy
peace the same way that one buys secrets about war. Then when Arthur heard of this new discovery, he thought it might be possible to do something quite dramatic. Such as announce it to the world and then publicly destroy it. If you can get it back, you will serve the whole of mankind. You really will. Sorry if that sounds sententious: it happens to be true. And that, relatively speaking, is far more important than saving Ethel, no matter what might happen to her.”

Mannering saw the aircraft which Ballas had promised to send for him at Fort Worth airport. He recognised Cyrus Lake, and went towards him. It was difficult to understand Cyrus's expression when he said: “The Boss was the only one who thought you would come back.”

“Did you need telling he was a judge of men?” demanded Mannering.