Cry For the Baron by John Creasey Page A

flat until the thieves had been and gone. Or he could tell Bristow what he had done, and leave a note to tell the thieves that for the Diamond of Tears they must apply to Scotland Yard.
    Or he could go on as he had started.
    The first method would remove all fears, real and imagined; and betray the memory of Jacob Bernstein. The second might well anger the thieves, make them suspect that he still had the jewel. Even if they believed him they might call off the hunt until Fay inherited everything, including the Tear, then strike again.
    That amazed him most; his absolute conviction that at all costs they would get the Tear. He might save himself, yet leave Fay a potential victim of a great horror.
    Only fear would allow him even to consider that.
    Questions crowded into his mind.
    Why had Julia kept five imitation Tears in her jewel-drawer? Why had she kept a note of Bernstein’s will? How had she obtained it? Would he be wise to see Bristow again, tell him everything, leave him to tackle the job? Would it really help Fay or anyone if he himself persisted? There must be a limit to pride, was there really anything stronger than pride tormenting him, urging him to carry on?
    Better see Bristow, now, while the mood was on him. He needed to conjure up only two pictures in his mind’s eye; Lorna, as she was, and the woman as she appeared in that photograph.
    He started at a tap on the door.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m just going, sir, is there anything else you want?” Fair hair, confined in a tiny hat above a freckled face, appeared at the door.
    â€œNo thanks. Have a good time.” It was Susan’s evening off-duty.
    â€œOh, I will. I’m going to a dance,” said Susan. The front door slammed. The only sounds came from outside, a hum of traffic, the mournful hoot of a tug on the river. He stood at the window, looking out over the lighted streets on both sides of the Thames, his resolve weakening even now. But for Lorna he would take a chance. While he had the Tear, and while the others had a chance to get it from him, he could draw their fire and perhaps lure them into a mistake they wouldn’t make with Bristow.
    He put on his hat and coat, slapped his gloves against his thigh, and went out, pulling the door behind him, shutting out the light.
    Two figures loomed out of the darkness; one in front, one behind him. He saw the first, drew back, felt his hat tipped over his eyes and a blow smash on the back of his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
    Â 
    There was too much light. It hurt his eyes, no matter how tightly he kept them closed, and the pain spread from his eyes to the back of his head, his head and shoulders seemed to be on fire. He heard a strange grunting, groaning sound, which stopped abruptly as he realised he was making it himself. The light was like fire, too – the fire of lightning, white and brilliant but there all the time; it didn’t fade.
    It hadn’t come suddenly, but slowly and with increasing effect, lite the remorseless pressure of a tightening vice. He heard the drumming of the blood in his ears. He could think of nothing else, gave no thought to where he was or how he had got there, or to what had happened before. There was no past; only the agonising present and a menacing future.
    Then other sounds came; a muttering, as of voices. They seemed far away. There was a shadow over his eyes, which gave him slight relief. It disappeared, and the light blazed mercilessly down on him. The voices drew nearer, as if someone were talking to him.
    A new pain streaked through his head; he knew that fingers were touching and probing. That stopped, and he realised that he was gasping with mingled pain and relief. He could not distinguish the words, but knew that the speaker was close to him. Someone touched his arm, pulled up his sleeve until it tightened about his forearm and the blood pumped vigorously through the veins, pain in another place. He felt