Read Online Help From The Baron by John Creasey - Free Book Online

Mannering. “And am I the one to judge? There’s a fringe world, Simon. A lot of these people live half in and half out of it, and - oh, never mind.”
    “The peculiar thing from my point of view is that Bristow knows and seems to approve.” Lessing had to make his point.
    “I wouldn’t say approve. Sometimes he condones! Where can I get you on the telephone?”
    “Whitehall 91497,” Lessing said. “That’s my office - I’m an architect, just set up on my own. Joy and I have a little flat in Knightsbridge.” He wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “Mannering.”
    “Hm-hm?”
    “I want to help.”
    “I don’t know that you can,” said Mannering bluntly. “There’s nothing to stop you from telephoning Scotland Yard, finding out where Francesca is, and arranging to visit her. Why don’t you do that and telephone me later in the day?”
    After a pause, Lessing said: “Yes, I will, thanks.” He didn’t try to persuade Mannering to accept his “help”. He didn’t turn to go, either; there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes. Then words came explosively: “You are a private eye, aren’t you? I mean, you do really accept commissions, you don’t just help the police as a consultant.”
    “We have been on opposite sides of the fence,” murmured Mannering.
    “That’s what I mean. But are you committed to Bristow in this case?”
    Mannering kept a straight face. “I’m committed to find out and to tell him if I get any news of the other jewels.”
    “No further?”
    “And I’m expected to pass on any relevant information which might reasonably be expected to help him to find a criminal or criminals.”
    “Expected?”
    “Sooner or later.”
    “Look here,” said Lessing fiercely, “I want to help Francesca, but I don’t even know how to begin. Will you help her? Bristow obviously wants to prove that her father’s mixed up with crooks, and I’d like to try to prove that he isn’t. You’d be working on the same job from a different motive, and I - er - I’d pay any fee, within reason.” He coloured, hotly. “I don’t want to cheat the law, but . . .”
    “Let’s leave all this until we see what happens next,” Mannering suggested. “I’m with you part of the way.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Helping Francesca.”
    “That’s all I want.”
    “We may not always see eye-to-eye about what is going to help her,” Mannering said dryly. “Call me later, Simon, will you?”
    “Yes, all right,” Lessing said, and turned to the door. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of a portrait on the wall opposite the desk; the portrait of a man who was the spit image of Mannering, but dressed in the fashion of a Regency buck, powdered hair and periwig, scarlet stock, ruffles and red satin coat. Lessing glanced at Mannering, then back at the picture. “Good lord,” he said, “that’s uncanny!”
    “Most natural likeness in the world,” Mannering told him. “My wife painted the face from life, and the clothes from a costume piece. She changes the clothes about once a year, the face is paint inlaid in paint.”
    Lessing went off, chuckling; momentarily lighter-hearted.
    Mannering saw Larraby talking to a short man with very broad shoulders and a completely bald head. He went back into the office, put the calipers, tweezers, scales and watch-glass away, and picked up the little piece of cotton-wool. Then he studied the book. There were seventeen large jewels in the Fiora Collection, and twenty-two small ones. The small ones could never be identified if they were taken from their setting, but unless the larger stones - all diamonds - were cut down, they could be identified against the book’s description of the work of the Dutch genius, van Heldt.
    Mannering picked up the telephone.
    In a few seconds Lorna answered.
    “Hallo, my sweet,” said Mannering, and made words more than casual endearment. “Bill Bristow’s been here, and Francesca’s in trouble.”
    “Oh, John,