Help From The Baron by John Creasey

no answer.
    He rang off, dialled two of Joy’s friends, and was told the same story; she had left the Slade, soon after lunch, saying that he had telephoned to say there was some family trouble.
    By the time Simon had finished, Susan came in from the kitchen with a tea-tray. She put it on a low table, and stood in front of him, arms akimbo. She had rolled up the sleeves of her thick yellow jumper, which fitted her figure so tightly that in places she looked likely to burst through.
    She put her head on one side, and had her legs slightly apart.
    “Now, give.”
    “I’m so worried I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.” Simon jumped up. “You know what happened last night, about Francesca . . .?”
    The telling of everything else took five minutes. Then Susan poured out tea. Between sips, Simon added little touches to the interview with Bristow, the fact that Bristow obviously trusted Mannering, the fact that the dealer who had owned the Fiora jewels had been questioned.
    “Mannering can’t have them!” he burst out.
    Susan said: “Can’t he?”
    “It stands to reason.”
    “I don’t know what you think,” said Susan, “but I think that lout this afternoon knew what he was talking about. He knows a thing or two. If Mannering . . .”
    “The very idea’s ludicrous.”
    “You aren’t very receptive to new ideas, are you?” asked Susan. “I don’t know this Mannering, except that he’s a handsome beast, and I’m not prejudiced one way or the other because of his reputation. All I’m worried about is Joy.” She shifted her position suddenly, and looked away from him. “And that’s a lie,” she added, with mock shrillness. “I’m more worried about you. Unrequited lover, that’s me. What with Francesca and Joy and me you do have a lot of woman trouble, don’t you? Perhaps I’ll be more help than hindrance, after all, I did save you from a charge of assault. What are you going to do? I would tell the police.”
    Simon said: “I suppose I could tell Bristow, but . . .”
    The telephone bell rang.
    At the first ting of the bell Simon was out of his chair. He grabbed his cup, to save it from falling, and rushed to the telephone. He didn’t even say: “That might be Joy,” but rushed, snatched up the receiver.
    “Hallo?”
    There was a moment’s pause; then his manner altered, he sagged for a moment, gritted his teeth, and then banged down the receiver. When he turned to face her, he was five feet ten of sagging dejection.
    “Was it - them?” Susan asked, in a husky voice.
    “They’ve - they’ve warned me not to go to the police if I want to see Joy again,” Simon said.

 
11:   MANNERING GETS HOME LATE
    At half-past five that afternoon Mannering sat in front of the page which illustrated the Fiora Collection, and also in front of his diary. The diary had an emphatic note: 7.30 Dinner at T. P.’s. T. P. stood for Toby Plender. Plender was a barrister of repute, ten years older than Mannering, a close family friend and a man to like. The party was to do with that very important wedding anniversary, the kind of occasion that made Mannering look at the few silver Streaks in his own hair.
    It had been a frustrating afternoon.
    He had been out for an hour, visiting Francesca Lisle in the nursing home near Westminster Hospital. She had been sleeping, and except that he was told that she was much better and likely to be out tomorrow, it had been a wasted journey.
    Lorna had telephoned, to say that she’d a list of some of the people who’d been at the cocktail party, but didn’t think it would help.
    No one else had called or telephoned. Silence from Chittering; Simon Lessing; Bristow; Prinny. In fact, everywhere was silent as a desert by night. He had telephoned Lessing’s home and office, without getting the young man. He had called the Record but Chittering hadn’t been there. Larraby had nothing to report from Aldgate or Whitechapel, except that Prinny had been taken to