An Affair For the Baron by John Creasey Page A

recalled his own reputation, and suddenly made up his mind what to do.
    â€œIs it a deal, Mannering?” Ricardi demanded.
    â€œTen thousand dollars,” Mannering said, “with another ten if I find the film.”
    â€œThere’s no ‘if about it!” cried Alundo. “That film must be found.”
    â€œMr. Mannering,” Ricardi said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. “You’re a gentleman.” He had a cool, firm hand.
    â€œWhen are you going to start? Do you know the thief? Where—” began Alundo.
    â€œDaddy,” interrupted Ethel, exasperatedly, “sometimes I think you will never grow up.”
    â€œI know where I might find the man who took the briefcase,” Mannering said. “I’ll be back in an hour, and I’ll want to know all you can tell me – where you got the microfilm, why it’s worth so much to a Texan millionaire, when the attempts to steal it began, and”—he moved across to the battered briefcase whose lock he had forced, opened it, picked up one of the bundles of abusive letters and held it out—“when these letters started to come, and whether the telephoned threats on your life were because you preach peace at any price or because you had the microfilm.”
    He put the bundle of letters in Alundo’s hands, and went through the door, closing it carefully behind him.
    Outside, he paused and listened, but none of the others spoke, and none seemed to move. He walked slowly along the passage, paused again, but was not followed. Stepping into Ricardi’s bedroom, he opened the sliding door of a wardrobe; it was filled with clothes, including two jackets rich in colour and extravagance. He slipped into one and then found a linen cap, in wine red. Putting this on carefully, he hurried to the sitting-room, opened the main apartment door cautiously, and peered outside. No one was in sight. Nevertheless, he felt on edge as he waited for the elevator, which whined softly on its way up. The door slid open, and he stepped inside. He felt increasing uneasiness, as if his warning antennae were picking up danger signals; it might be because of what had happened here, it might be because of what Bristow had said.
    No one was in the main lobby.
    Still cautiously, Mannering reached the street doors – and started with alarm when he saw the doorman in deep conversation with one of the detectives who had been at the railway station. The doorman was talking with great earnestness. Mannering looked round and saw a telephone under a hood on the wall. He stepped to this, put in a ten cent piece, and began to dial Whitehall 4-31495. As the ringing echoed in his ear, footsteps sounded in the lobby.
    â€œSure, he was a big guy,” the doorman was saying. “Said she was his daughter.” The voices faded as the men reached the elevator.
    Why didn’t someone answer?
    Almost on that instant, Ethel answered: “Hallo?”
    â€œEthel,” Mannering said, “the police are on their way up. I think they want to talk to you and to me. You mustn’t know anything about the murder on the train – just say you don’t know a thing about it.”
    He rang off without waiting for her reply, went to the side entrance, wondering how many police would be there, saw none, walked towards the front, and recognised a plain-clothes man standing by the side of a car which was not marked POLICE. Just beyond this, in the roadway, was a taxi and at the wheel the driver who had followed the briefcase thief. He saw Mannering, but gave no sign of recognition; and Mannering felt a surge of relief. Ricardi’s jacket and cap were standing him in good stead.
    He walked boldly past the man in plain-clothes, who glanced at him incuriously, then turned out of the driveway and towards the taxi. The driver seemed to be more interested in his clothes than his face. The driving window was down, and as he passed,