Free Cry For the Baron by John Creasey Page A

maid, who hurried to open the front door for her.
    The door closed; and Mannering stayed.
    He went to Fay’s door and tapped. She didn’t answer. He tried the door; it wasn’t locked. He went in, and found her sitting at a dressing-table, her robe round her shoulders, her eyes rounded with dread.
    â€œFay, you’ll be much safer if you tell me all about it. Don’t pretend any longer. You were at Bernstein’s last night.”
    â€œI wasn’t there! You didn’t see me! I wasn’t in London, I was with friends!”
    Mannering moved forward swiftly, caught her shoulders and shook her.
    â€œDon’t lie, Fay. I made a bargain with you, and now you’ll keep your side of it.” He shook her again, slowly. “No cheap tricks, no lying, Julia isn’t here to help you now.”
    She laughed at him.
    It was a giggle at first, with a touch of hysteria, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Although he shook her she couldn’t stop laughing. She swayed to and fro, then began to shake her head. She said something that he couldn’t catch, because she was convulsed with laughter. He let her go, and heard: “She is. She is. She is!”
    Mannering snapped: “Be quiet!” But Fay went on laughing.
    A frightened Fay he could have managed: even had she been sullen, or shouted and threatened, he could have coped with her; but this laughter defeated him. He slapped her face hard enough to sober her if this were hysteria, but she went on laughing.
    Why was she laughing?
    He turned suddenly and went to the door; it was not locked. He half-expected to see someone else outside, perhaps a man; but no one was there. Puzzled, on edge, with Fay’s laughter still in his ears, he went back to the bedroom. She lay on the bed facing him looking tired and relaxed.
    Five minutes later she was asleep.
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    Mannering shook her, she didn’t stir. He raised her eyelids. The pupils had contracted to pin-points, so she had taken a morphine drug. It explained her laughter, and what she had meant by that “she is.” Julia had given her dope to make sure she couldn’t talk to him. And he’d chosen to stay for just that!
    Mannering glanced through the drawers in the dressing-table, wardrobe and tallboy. He found nothing of interest, but there was a large box with photographs of Fay inside. He selected three copies of the best likeness and put them in his pocket.
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    The maid was sitting in the kitchen, sewing. She looked up, tight-lipped, when Mannering entered. By her side was a tea-tray, with a red knitted cosy over a teapot. Mannering took a cup and saucer from the dresser and poured out a cup of tea, while she watched furtively, almost too scared to look at him.
    â€œThe visitor has a flat here, hasn’t she?” Mannering knew she had, or Julia couldn’t have arrived so quickly. The maid’s expression was an answer in itself.
    â€œWho is she?” Mannering asked.
    She didn’t answer, so he said sharply: “Tell me, or tell the police.”
    â€œYou can’t—”
    â€œI can tell the police, and will, if you don’t tell me the truth. What is the woman’s other name?”
    The maid gasped: “She—she’s Mrs. Fiori, from Flat 23.”
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    Toni Fiori owned a cheap little Soho café. Did his wife live in a luxury flat two doors away from Fay?
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Chapter Eight
Mrs. Fiori’s Jewels
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    There was no stopping the maid, now that she had started talking. She didn’t know anything, it wasn’t her fault, there was no reason why her past should be brought up against her, supposing she had served time? You couldn’t go straight once you’d been in jail, unless you were lucky. Miss Goulden was a very nice young lady. She’d worked for her for five weeks—Mrs. Fiori had introduced her, Mrs. Fiori was wonderful, she wasn’t going to get Mrs. Fiori into trouble …
    â€œWhat