An Affair For the Baron (17 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Terms…

Ballas sat in the golden chair, exactly as he had done before, but this time Cyrus Lake, Tiger O'Leary, and two other men were with him; escape would be quite impossible. Mannering did not stand away from the inlaid desk but placed his hands on it, leaning forward. It was only three hours since the plane had taken off from Fort Worth for La Racienda.

“Condition one: I want to see Ethel Alundo before I say a word about terms,” Mannering said.

It was impossible to judge what was passing through Ballas's mind, but almost at once he said to Cyrus Lake: “Send for her.”

“She—she may not be awake.”

“Bring her, whether she's awake or not.”

Cyrus said: “Sure.” He went out but another man stepped in, so that four still remained. Ballas looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed, his face set in an alabaster pallor. Slowly, his lids drooped. Mannering could only just discern the movement at his breast, none at all at his nostrils or lips. They must have sat in that silent stillness for seven or eight minutes before a buzz sounded at the door. Opening his eyes, Ballas touched a different spot from that of the knob Mannering had previously found. The door clicked open, and Cyrus Lake came in with Ethel.

She was awake; just.

Heavy-eyed and sluggish of movement, she showed no outward sign of injury. Her hair was dishevelled and her dress rumpled and creased, as if she had slept in it; there were some red ridges on her right forearm. She moistened her lips.

“I want a drink of water.”

“You can have a drink when you've spoken to Mr. Mannering,” Ballas said.

She looked at Mannering. Slow recognition dawned in her eyes, but no indication followed that he meant anything to her. Inert, uncaring, the impression she gave was that of a woman only half awake, or drugged.

“Hallo,” she said.

“Hallo, Ethel,” Mannering said gently. “How are you?”

“I—I'm thirsty.”

“Have they hurt you?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Ethel said. Her pupils were pinpoints.

“Your father sends his love.”

“Oh, does he?” She could not have been more uninterested, she looked at Ballas. “I'm thirsty. Please can I have some water?”

Ballas said to Mannering: “Are you satisfied?”

“I'd like her to hear what we say.”

“If it makes any difference,” Ballas said. “She was—obstreperous.” He used the word very carefully. “We had to keep her under sedation.” He motioned her away, and obediently she went to one side and sat down on a tapestry-covered carved stool. Cyrus Lake gave her some water from a vacuum jug close to Ballas's hand.

“You had to keep Ricardi quiet, too,” Mannering remarked when she was settled.

Ballas's lids drooped over his eyes again, and Mannering had the feeling that he was in physical pain. It was a long time before he said: “Yes. I'm afraid that was what upset Ethel. But it
is
possible to start something you can't stop.”

“When you can't stop what you've started, you're losing your grip.”

“Yes,” admitted Ballas slowly. “I guess you're right. A man can get old and tired. But I want to tell you something.
You
are as responsible as I for what happened to Ricardi.”

“Because I escaped from here?”

“Because you escaped.” Ballas repeated the words heavily. “Oh, I am not blaming you, but facts are facts.”

“Here's a fact,” Mannering said. “Let Ethel Alundo go, and I'll do a deal with you over the film.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Better than the one you offered.”

“I didn't talk of terms,” Ballas said flatly.

“You offered all you possessed,” Mannering said. “I will settle for less. I will settle for all there is in this room. Everything, under a deed of gift to anyone I name, for services rendered by me. Everything,” Mannering repeated, “except the chair you're sitting on, the table in front of you and any one other piece you would like to keep.”

“And for all this, you will give me the microfilm?” Ballas asked flatly.

Mannering did not know why he hesitated. To lie would have been so simple; and if ever there was a man to whom to lie would have been forgivable it was Ballas. Yet he did hesitate; and the pause dragged on and on until the moment came when he realised that he had lost his chance to lie.

Had there ever been one?

Mannering had a sense of knowing this old man's mind; in some odd way he felt almost as if there were some strange affinity between them. He himself could divine when some people lied to him and Ballas probably had the same gift. At a lift of his finger, Ballas could set these men on to him, to do exactly what they had done to Ricardi – or worse.

“No,” he said. “It's too important to be in the hands of any one individual.”

“And you expect me to pay you for—
nothing
?”

“Not for nothing,” Mannering said. “For the absolute certainty that this weapon can never be used.”

“There can be no certainty.”

“If I convince you that there is, will you deal?”

“I cannot be convinced,” Ballas said wearily. “Had you never escaped from me, had you never dealt with the F.B.I., had you never attacked my men on the elevated railway – then you might have convinced me. Not now.”

“I can try,” Mannering said.

“Yes, you may try.”

Mannering put his hand to his breast pocket but before he actually touched it, two revolvers were trained on him. He looked at each, shrugging, glanced at Ethel, who seemed to take no notice but was playing with her glass, and took out his wallet. He extracted the locker key he had brought from the hotel and placed it on the desk in front of Ballas.

“That's a locker at the Conrad Hilton Hotel,” he said. “The nearest one to the shoe-shine parlour. In it there is a fake film – one which I once thought of trying to pass off to you as the real one.”

Ballas put out a hand and touched the key.

“Mario,” Cyrus Lake said, “he's everything O'Leary said. Don't let him fool you again.”

“Cyrus,” said Mannering, “I'm disappointed in you.”

“I'm not disappointed in you.” Cyrus moved so that he could see Mannering more closely, and the half-amused smile on the well-shaped lips, the gleam in the fine eyes. “You're the best we've come up against in all the thirty years I've worked with Mario Ballas. And if I can prevent it, no one is going to sell him down the river. You've gone nearer than any man we've ever met. Hasn't he, Mario?”

“Yes,” Ballas said. “Tell Mannering what you know, Cyrus.”

“I've had three reports,” Cyrus said. “You've spent time with the F.B.I. agents you met at the elevated. They drove you first to the Conrad Hilton, then to the Palmer House Hotel. The next morning you went back to the Conrad Hilton – Mannering, there isn't an hotel in Chicago where we haven't a man. If you thought you could throw us off the scent by dealing with Tiger and a phoney cowboy suit, you were wrong.”

“So I was wrong,” Mannering said. “And what else?”

“You talked to Captain Pollitzer of San Antonio Police Headquarters.”

“What about?”

“That I don't know.”

“Perhaps I will tell you,” Mannering said. “Is there more?”

“You've been to see Alundo, and Alundo has a guest from England. The doorman at Lake View keeps us informed.”

“Now
I'm
keeping you informed,” Mannering said. “The man from England is Lord Fentham, Chairman of the Peace Group Alundo belongs to. They don't trust America not to use this weapon – nor do they trust Russia. They don't believe that any one country should have it, nor any group of countries. Alundo is due to make his Peace Lecture at the HemisFair in San Antonio next week, and he wants to destroy both copies of the microfilm in front of his audience. He—”

Ballas's eyes were blazing, his hands were clenching and unclenching – that tell-tale sign of anger. Once or twice his lips moved, and at last he could contain himself no longer.

“You're
mad,
Mannering! I've told you the facts about Alundo.”

“He says exactly the same thing about you.”

“To hell with what he says! He's in the pay of the Communists, he'll do whatever they tell him to do.”

“I don't believe it,” Mannering stated flatly. He turned to Ethel, who was no longer drooping on the stool but sitting upright. The effects of the drug were quickly wearing away, Mannering noticed. “And what do
you
think?” he asked her.

She leaned forward. “I—I don't
know”
she said helplessly. “I've never
liked
his work for peace – I thought he was getting too involved. Then when he telephoned me and asked me to bring the package—” She broke off.

“Did you know what was in it?” Mannering asked quietly.

“Not until after that man attacked us in Ricky's apartment,” said Ethel. “Oh, it was all such a
muddle.
I hadn't seen Ricky since he came to England to ask Daddy to speak at the HemisFair – when he burst into your room at the Conrad Hilton and said Daddy had sent him to collect the package, he signalled to me to pretend I didn't know him—oh why did he and Daddy have to make such a
mystery
out of everything! I didn't know
who
to believe,
who
to trust. Ricky told me a little bit about it on the way round to his apartment, but not all – then, as soon as we got there, that man attacked us – he'd already knocked Daddy out – and stole the briefcase. You must have arrived just afterwards. Daddy told me the rest – what the microfilm really was – after you'd gone—”

“And then I persuaded her to come and talk to me about it – I wanted to convince her that I would make better use of the film than her father would,” Ballas interpolated. “The film wasn't in the briefcase, and I thought she – or her father – had tricked me. I know now that it was you.
What did you do with that film, Mannering? Where is it now
?” Ballas's voice was low, and by that lowness created a greater sense of urgency, of menace.

Mannering ignored him, turning back to Ethel.

“So you came to see Ballas, thinking that he had the film and hoping that you might be able to get it back from him. And so that your father would not be too disappointed if you failed you told him that you were going to see me.” Ethel nodded.

“And then you found that Ballas didn't have it after all – and that he intended to keep you prisoner, hoping to get the film in exchange for your safety. And Ricardi guessed what had happened and tried to rescue you.”

“Mannering,” Ballas interpolated, “Ricardi used to work for me – that's how he knew how anxious I was to get Alundo's copy of the film. But he changed sides and started to help Alundo. Instead of giving
me
information, he kept it back and lied to me. Don't blame Ethel for what happened to Ricardi – it didn't happen because he came to rescue her.”

Almost wearily, Mannering said: “No, I won't blame Ethel for that or anything. Not even for telling the police I was on the Broadway Limited when Enrico was killed. You did do that, didn't you Ethel?”

“I told Mario,” she answered.

“And I told the police,” Ballas finished. He sounded very tired. “I knew a lot about you, Mannering, and I didn't want the added risk of tangling with you. I had plenty to do already. Oh, I knew
you
hadn't murdered Enrico – but it suited me, for a time at least, to pretend that I thought you had.”

“Do you know who
did
murder your nephew?”

Slowly, steadily, Mario Ballas looked at each man in the room. Did his gaze linger a little longer on Tiger O'Leary, Mannering wondered. Then he leaned back.

“Mannering, I've finished talking. Either you give me the film or tell me how to get it, or I shall have to make you talk. I don't want to,” he went on bleakly. “But if I must, believe me I won't fail.”

Mannering said very quietly: “Well have to find that out. But before we do, there are one or two things you ought to know. When I came here I had a miniature tape recorder in my pocket. It was taken away. Where is it?”

“I've got it,” Cyrus Lake put in.

“Play it, will you?” Mannering said. “If you can't operate it, I will.”

“I can operate it.”

“Cyrus,” Ballas said, “he's the kind of madman who would blow himself up so as to blow us up.”

“I've checked it for explosive, Mario.”

“It could be a booby trap which goes off while it's being played.”

“I ran a spare tape through it,” Cyrus said.

“Play it,” ordered Ballas.

Cyrus plugged the little machine into a point near the desk, and Mannering sat back. The three men there to watch him stood impassively: they were morons, this scene, or probably any other, meant nothing to them. O'Leary coughed occasionally, the sound a short bark of protest. Ballas kept his eyes closed, but his tension showed in his expression, in the way he clenched his hands on the desk.

First came Mannering's voice, then Alundo's; next Alundo's in anger, then Alundo telling Mannering exactly what he would do at the HemisFair, calling Ballas evil incarnate, speaking with a controlled passion which seemed to be more effective as it came out of the box – detached from the anger and the wildness in Alundo's eyes. For the first time the faint smile was wiped from Cyrus Lake's face, and something of the tension touched him, too.

At last, Alundo's voice and Mannering's faded.

Chapter Twenty

The Speech

Mannering leaned forward and switched the recorder off, then sat back and waited. Cyrus began to walk about, dabbing at the back of his neck with a very white handkerchief. Ballas sat hunched in his chair. Ethel was standing very erect, still holding her glass; she had listened, fascinated, as her father's voice had come into the room.

“And you believe, if he gets it back, he will destroy the microfilm?” Ballas asked slowly.

“Yes,” said Mannering, “I do believe it. I don't think you are right about Alundo. I think he's an idealist who believes he can save the peace of the world in this way. And I think he should have a chance to try.”

Ballas shrugged.

“And I don't believe he will endanger that peace,” Mannering added. “After all, you do know that
that
wasn't a sell-out to the Russians – or to anyone else.”

Ballas was brooding.

“Mario,” Cyrus said. “Mannering could still be lying to you.”

“He's not lying,” said Ballas, with quiet certainty. “He's keeping plenty back, but he's not lying. Tell me what happens if I refuse the deal, Mannering.”

“You will be raided.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“The Mexican police will never come here for me.”

“They'll come for me,” Mannering said simply.

Ballas said softly: “So.”

“They'll come for me,” Mannering repeated, “and they will come into this room. I have told them how to. I've told them if needs be they can blow a hole through the roof. It would be sacrilege, but—what do you think of Pollitzer?” he added almost casually.

Nothing could keep the smile away from Cyrus Lake's lips for long.

Ballas said without feeling: “He is a dedicated man.”

“Dedicated to putting you in prison.”

“There is nothing he would like more.”

“
Pollitzer
might do it,” Cyrus Lake breathed.

“Pollitzer will send Mexican police here if I am not out with Ethel at the stroke of seven o'clock,” Mannering said. “I made a deal with him, too. If Ethel and I get out, he won't contact the Mexican police. And you can enjoy your treasures for as long as—”

“I live,” Ballas interrupted, dryly. “To whom would you want me to leave them, Mannering?”

Mannering said quietly: “The one thing Alundo has always wanted is a World Peace Foundation with some teeth in it. These”—he spread his arms—“must be worth twenty or twenty-five million dollars. Endow a Peace Foundation. If
you
haven't lied to
me,
” Mannering went on softly, “that is basically what
you
want.”

“
I
believe in America,” Ballas said thinly.

“America needs peace as much as anyone,” Mannering replied. He smiled at Cyrus Lake. “You could give your name to the foundation – yours, and Alundo's. Your memory would really be revered then, instead of—”

“I don't need telling how I shall be regarded after my death,” Ballas interrupted. “Can you guarantee that Alundo will behave as you think he will?”

“No.”

“Mario,” Cyrus said, “look at this straight. You don't stand to gain a thing. Not a damned thing. You give all, you take nothing. Mannering's putting over a big confidence trick—my God, Yellow Kid Wiel never thought up one as big as this. Give me everything you've got, he says, and I won't give you anything in return.” Cyrus dabbed at his neck.

Mannering said: “You have about ten minutes to make up your mind. If I walk out of this house and radio San Antonio within ten minutes, you can live in peace for the rest of your life, enjoy living, and even get a lot of fun out of the fact that you're a kind of partner to Alundo—”

Ballas laughed, a strange, not entirely unamused, thread of sound.

Mannering thought with growing excitement: It's come off. He's going to do it. My God, he's going to do it! A surge of relief, of humble triumph, touched him.

He was rejoicing, his heart lighter than he had known it for a long, long time, when there came a sharp buzz of sound. It went through him like an electric shock. O'Leary leaned forward and flicked down a switch.

“What is it?
What
!” He turned to the others excitedly. “The police are at the front door! What do we do – keep them out or let them in?”

Mannering thought with awful disappointment: They're early, they're too early.

Ballas said: “So they
are
outside.” He pressed a button, and the door release clicked and buzzed, as he said to Mannering: “You had to lie. You had to say they were coming at—”

Before he finished, before Mannering could begin to think, O'Leary swung round, revolver in hand, rage in his eyes, malevolence on his bruised face. He levelled the gun at Mannering, and said: “You aren't going to live to see them.”

And he fired.

Mannering flung himself to one side.

He was aware of the awful danger, of looking into the face of death. He felt the sickening impact of the bullet in his left arm, level with his heart. He went staggering sideways, off his balance, fear greater than pain. He heard the sound of more shooting, but felt no further impact. He came up against a stool and went sprawling, the room going round and round, the only sound now the blur of voices. Then a girl's face hovered above his and he felt hands touching him gently.

“Are you all right? Please,
please,
are you all right?”

Someone said: “He's dead.”

“No,” said Mannering, “I'm not dead.”

The girl said: “It's his arm. I think it's only his arm.”

“I—am—not—dead.”

Another face appeared, familiar, but no longer smiling. Cyrus Lake's.

“O'Leary is dead,” he said. “You're okay.” He turned round. “He's okay, Mario. It's just his arm.”

The arm was aching only a little, the main sensation was of numbness. Now, questions crowded into Mannering's mind, one of them of overwhelming importance.

“What about the police?”

Ethel was saying: “Scissors, we want some scissors, to cut the sleeve off. Oh, and water and towels.”

“No cops,” Cyrus said.

“But O'Leary—”

“O'Leary lied,” Cyrus said. “He wanted an excuse to get even with you for beating him up. Even more important, he wanted to convince Mario that it really
was
you, and not he, who had killed Enrico – and thought it would be easier to do this if you weren't around to defend yourself. Mario soon discovered that it was O'Leary who had done the killing – but like he said, it suited his books to pretend he thought you'd done it. As soon as O'Leary realised that Mario
didn't
believe it was you who murdered his nephew, he was afraid suspicion might fall on him and knew he had to act quickly.”

“But how—”

“One of the guards got on the house phone to ask if he and another couple of guards should relieve that trio.” Cyrus nodded towards the three men who had been brought in to watch Mannering and who were still standing there, impassive as ever. “O'Leary took the call and then told us the man had rung through to warn us that the police had arrived. There are no cops here yet – not outside the front door, anyway. There are plenty out in the mesa, pretending to hide. Do you think you can go and talk to them before they come?”

“Yes,” Mannering said.

Ethel was cutting away the sleeve of his jacket.

“That is if Mario—” Mannering began.

Cyrus said: “Mario, he wants to hear you say it.”

Mario Ballas came slowly across the room. He was smiling, tight-lipped. He carried a sealed packet, a big yellow envelope, in his hand. He sat on a stool which one of the others pushed into position, and looked down at Mannering.

“I will do what you want,” he said, and held out the packet. “Here is my copy of the microfilm, concealed in the Fentham jewels.” He put it into Mannering's free hand, and for a moment each of them held it; then Ballas let go. “You had better be right,” he added, almost bitterly. “You had better be right.”

“Why don't you come to the HemisFair, and hear for yourself?” asked Mannering.

Arm strapped to his side, Mannering stepped out of the house and walked across the courtyard. As he did so, Captain Pollitzer and a Mexican police officer walked from the corner, solid, unafraid. Mannering raised the envelope, and Pollitzer raised his left hand. Ethel came down the steps hesitantly. Mannering waited for her.

“Some things we keep to ourselves,” he murmured.

“Am I glad to see you two,” Pollitzer said loudly, advancing. “What's happened to your arm?”

“Ballas had to repress a revolt,” Mannering answered. “But it's all right, it's all over. Could I go into details later? This damned arm—”

His arm did not prevent him from talking as a police pilot flew them back to San Antonio.

Within an hour he was in hospital, by morning he was ready to go out again, rested, bandaged, more contented than he had been for a long time. Ethel was on her way to Chicago; Fentham and Professor Alundo had been told of the recovery of both copies of the microfilm. Mannering, not sure whether to go back to England or whether to sun himself in Texas, heard a forthright voice – Steven Marshall's – just outside his door.

The door opened.

“Good morning, John,” Marshall said briskly. “I want you to know I'm proud to know you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” disseminated Mannering.

“It's not nonsense,” Marshall declared. “My wife and I hope you'll stay with us from now through the opening day and Professor Alundo's lecture. That lecture is a sell-out already.” He stood squarely in front of Mannering. “And Patsy and I hope you will call your wife in London and ask her to come and visit us, also. You surely will be welcome.”

“You'll love them,” Mannering said to Loma. “And they really mean it when they say they'll be happy to see you.”

“We most certainly will,” said Patsy Marshall, who was sitting opposite him in the house in San Antonio – a house modelled almost on La Racienda. She was small, dark, alert, eager.

Lorna's voice sounded faint, but clear, at the other end of the line.

“If you're sure,” she said, “I'd love to come over.” Mannering nodded.

“Why, that's wonderful!” Patsy exclaimed.

Mannering, Lorna, the Marshalls, and the thousands who had laboured to get the HemisFair ready on time, paid homage at last to the great opening day of parades and speeches of welcome, beneath the unfurled flags of all fifty States and nearly as many nations.

They sat in the enormous Convention Centre with Mario Ballas and Cyrus Lake.

There was not a seat to spare in the vast auditorium, but everywhere there was a hum of conversation. It slackened, stopped, then turned into a roar of applause as Steven Marshall walked briskly on to the stage.

He introduced Professor Alundo in thirty-three seconds flat, and led the applause when Alundo appeared. The Professor stood, small, grey, and lonely, on the great stage; but as he began to speak, a confidence, a sincerity, even a grave nobility, radiated from him. The microphones carried his voice clearly, each word articulated with great care as he dealt with the problems of finding world peace, of calming anxious, frightened peoples.

Then, he held up the two microfilms.

He told the breathless audience what they were; and in front of their eyes, he burned them. And while the flames leapt up from a silver plate, his words drifted, sure and unforgettable, to the hearts of the anxious watchers.

“… and the time will come when swords must be turned into ploughshares and when the lion shall lie down with the lamb …”

Suddenly, those in front of him were cheering. The white and the black and the yellow, men of great nations and men of small, all rose to their feet, and cheered and cheered and cheered again.

Mannering saw the tears in Ethel's eyes.

He saw a strange peace in Mario Ballas's face as the old man looked away from the excited throng, smiled very faintly at Mannering, and held out his hand. On one side of him was Fentham, on the other Cyrus Lake; both noticed this gesture and were glad.

Three days later, the Mannerings arrived at London Airport, and as they passed through Customs, newspapermen and television men descended on them …

“John,” Lorna said afterwards, “I've never been so proud of you.”

“I've never felt so good,” Mannering said.

Her glance lightly touched his arm.

“Not really bad,” answered Mannering, smiling at her. “Everything considered, we got off very lightly.” He was thinking of how close to death he had been and how badly Ricardi had been hurt, yet how well they had all come out of the situation.

Ricardi was recovering; Ethel was at the hospital each day, he was told.

In Chicago, Ballas's attorneys were drawing up the Deed of Foundation.

In Los Angeles Professor Alundo was addressing audiences which gave him a tumultuous welcome, while the television companies were clamouring for interviews.

Fentham, his jewels recovered, was returning to England by sea.

The Mexican police were investigating the death of Tiger O'Leary and the newspapers were crying:

CHICAGO GANGSTER SLAIN

Mannering felt tired; pleasantly and cheerfully tired. It was good to be home, good to have his wife by his side, good to see in the English papers a mood of great optimism in world affairs. There would be setbacks, of course, and new problems; but he had a feeling that nothing would seem quite so bad again.