Cry For the Baron by John Creasey

is making himself a busy bee. I haven’t seen the police for some time, I think they’ve given me a clean bill.”
    â€œHow late will you be?”
    â€œNot a minute later than I can help,” said Mannering. “I—here’s Chittering now. I’ll be seeing you.”
    He rang off, dropped into a chair, and called himself a fool. Because a woman had threatened him with unknown horrors he shouldn’t feel like this, but he did. Or was it because of what he already knew about the Tear? He touched the envelope in his pocket as Susan came in briskly. “Shall I clear, sir?” He nodded. He lit a cigarette and went across the room to the cocktail cabinet, poured a stiff whisky, sipped and drank.
    â€œI’m crazy!” he told himself.
    But he went back to the telephone and dialled Whitehall 1212, and was impatient until Bristow came on the line.
    â€œHallo, John. Going to confess?”
    â€œYes. The Tear has got under my skin.”
    â€œWell, where is it?”
    â€œI’ll send you a postcard. Bill, someone who wants the Tear badly thinks that I know where it is. I can’t give you names, but I’ve had a nasty jolt.”
    Bristow said slowly: “Yes, you sound as if you had. What is it?”
    â€œThreats. Against Lorna.”
    â€œPerhaps that will teach you not to make a fool of yourself. What kind of threats?”
    â€œCan you put a good man on to watch her? She’s at the Richmond Gallery in Bute Street, and in committee for the next hour or so. After that she’ll come straight here. I have to be out. I’d prefer not to have this on my mind.”
    â€œI’ve never known you impressed by threats before,” said Bristow. “Well, I was going to have your flat watched, anyhow. John, don’t get your fingers dirty. I tried to warn you earlier, but you wouldn’t take me seriously. You’ve taken the other people seriously, which is something. This is a foul job.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œCome round here one day and I’ll show you the unexpurgated reports of what happened to the earlier owners of the Diamond of Tears. ’Bye.”
    Â 
    Mannering read the reports of how three men and a woman had died; and as he read he seemed to be withdrawn from this friendly room and friendly city, to be exposed to bleakness and horror which sent a chill along his spine and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. They were written in straightforward language, with no effort to make the flesh creep – and the effect was greater than if he had been reading some vivid narrative of imagined murder.
    Each man had died the same way.
    Not one had been recognisable afterwards; each had been identified after long investigation by the police. The medical reports, brief and revealing, told what had happened to them before death; and the quiet room seemed filled with dark shadows.
    He turned to the story of the woman’s death – and started back, dropping the papers, sheering away from them as if the horror had come into the room. For fastened to the last story was a photograph of what had once been a woman; mutilated, despoiled. He steeled himself to pick up the papers again, to turn the photograph over and to read of what had been done to a wealthy woman of renowned beauty and intelligence – and then, he made himself study the photograph.
    Darkness fell slowly, yet it was a long time before he stretched out a hand and switched on the light – and as he touched the switch the telephone bell rang. He let it ring and jar through his head, then took off the receiver and said harshly: “Who is that?”
    â€œI’m glad you’ve read them,” said Julia Fiori. “Now will you believe me when I tell you you must give up the Tear?”
    Â 

Chapter Ten
The Fat Man
    Â 
    He could fetch the Tear from the post office, leave it in some obvious place, go out and keep both Susan and Lorna away from the