An Affair For the Baron by John Creasey Page B

Mannering startled the man by saying out of the corner of his mouth: “Meet me round the next corner in five minutes.”
    The taxi-man waited a moment, then started off.
    Exactly five minutes later he pulled alongside Mannering and opened the rear door without a word.
    â€œSeen a ghost?” demanded Mannering.
    â€œWould never have recognised you,” said the driver. His voice was subdued, it was obvious that something had disturbed him. “You want to talk here?”
    â€œI’d rather go somewhere quieter.”
    â€œWe’ll go to Grant’s Park,” the taxi-man decided, obviously as anxious as Mannering to get away. “Near the Planetarium. Okay?”
    â€œThat will do very well.”
    â€œMister,” said the taxi driver, starting off, “you owe me five hundred bucks.”
    â€œWhat cost you the extra four-fifty?” Mannering asked.
    Without turning his head as he moved into the flow of traffic, the other answered: “An English gent like you would call it bloody scary.”
    â€œScary,” echoed Mannering, his tension rising. “What scared you?”
    â€œDo you know who the big guy was?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œTiger O’Leary,” said the taxi driver, and this time he turned his head, as if to judge Mannering’s reaction. He gave the impression that he expected the name to have a sensational effect, but Mannering kept straight-faced, and asked: “Should I know Tiger O’Leary?”
    â€œHe’s the chief trouble-shooter for Mario Ballas.”
    â€œAnd should I know Mario Ballas?”
    â€œYou mean you’ve never heard of him ?” The taxi-man whistled. “You really mean that?”
    â€œYou forget I’m an English gent,” Mannering said mildly.
    â€œBut he’s the biggest big-shot criminal in the world!”
    â€œOr Chicago?”
    â€œIn the world, mister. He’s the Mafia, plus plenty. He’s the biggest.” The man’s voice was hoarse, and it was clear that he meant every word he said. His shoulders hunched over the wheel and in a strange way he looked older; even coping with the traffic seemed more difficult for him. A sleek red Thunderbird sped by, very close. They were on a road which threaded through parkland, sparsely wooded; one side were the tall buildings and, beyond them, the downtown skyline; on the other were the highways, the open grassland and the lake. Traffic hummed.
    Suddenly, the driver went on: “I tell you he’s the worst.”
    â€œWhy are you so sure?”
    â€œThat’s the trouble, I don’t know where to begin, mister. If you don’t know—you read the newspapers?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou see the headlines about the murder on the Broadway Limited.”
    â€œJust the headlines,” Mannering said.
    â€œThe stiff was Ballas’s nephew, and that will make Mario mad. Real mad.” The taxi driver drew in a sharp breath. “When he’s mad, he’ll be worse than ever. Mister—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDid you cross Ballas up?”
    â€œYes,” said Mannering calmly. “But I didn’t know who he was.”
    â€œYou know now. And you crossed him up. Make that a thousand bucks, mister.”
    â€œNo man can be as bad as that,” protested Mannering, but he began to feel cold.
    â€œSome guys can be. Ballas is. ”
    They were slowing down near a huge car park outside the dome of the Planetarium. The taxi driver pulled into an open space. Some children were playing noisily a few yards away, a young couple sat very close together in an old blue car, not far off. In the distance a few people walked, over the lake the sun shone with glittering brilliance, and here and there a white sail showed. The scene was peaceful, almost idyllic. The taxi driver stopped the engine with great deliberation, and turned round. Mannering, puzzled by his expression,