Cry For the Baron Read Online Free

to ask.” His voice was harder, and his words shocked her.
    â€œHas there been—a burglary?”
    â€œYes. And the police will soon be here. Who are you? Where do you live?”
    â€œIf I tell you will you let me go?”
    She was young and strong enough to have killed Jacob; almost anyone would have been. She might have been here before, left something behind and come back.
    She stretched out a trembling hand, the red nails glistening as she touched his arm.
    â€œWill you?”
    â€œYes. But I shall want to see you again.”
    â€œI’ll see you, I’ll meet you anywhere you like, but—please let me go now. I’m—Fay Goulden. You can find me at 21, Clay Court, in Shepherd Street, near Park Lane.”
    He glanced at the letters. One was addressed to her at the Majestic Hotel, the others at 21, Clay Court, and each said “Miss Fay Goulden.”
    Outside, the plodding footsteps of the beat policeman sounded much nearer. Mannering turned the key in the lock and the girl exclaimed: “You promised—”
    â€œBe quiet!”
    The handle of the door rattled and the door shook as the policeman tried it. The girl pressed her hand against her mouth. The rattling stopped and the constable passed by. Mannering said: “Don’t raise your voice.” He opened her bag again, took out the purse and looked inside; there were some pound notes, folded tightly, some loose silver, and a Yale key.
    â€œYou can have these later.”
    â€œPlease—”
    â€œIf you want that policeman back, shout.”
    She said: “I know nothing about it, nothing.”
    â€œAbout what?” Mannering asked.
    â€œYou said there’d been a burglary.”
    â€œHave you been here before tonight?”
    â€œNo, I wanted to see Mr. Bernstein. It—it doesn’t matter now, I must go. Don’t keep me here any longer.”
    â€œWhy? Don’t you want me to keep these letters?”
    â€œOh, I don’t care! Just let me go.”
    He gave her back the bag and its contents.
    She turned to the door and stretched out her hand towards the key, but he took her arm.
    â€œI’ll do that.” He opened the door, using his handkerchief. She muttered thanks, and when he pulled the door wide, slipped out and hurried along the street.
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    Detective-Inspector Gordon was ginger-haired and freckled, with a big red mouth and a Roman nose. He was a tall, spindly man to whom police work was a mission. He looked at Mannering sourly and said: “So you’re here, are you?” Mannering didn’t answer. Gordon, at the top of the stairs, looked into the now brightly lighted room where Bernstein lay dead, and where two of his men were taking photographs. He pushed past Mannering, who followed him.
    Gordon’s pale grey eyes looked searchingly round the room – everywhere, it seemed, except at Bernstein. Then he turned his head and glared at Mannering. “Did you move him?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy will you always stick your nose in? It oughtn’t to have been moved. Let’s have an answer—why?”
    â€œI thought I might bring him round.”
    â€œYou thought ! You’ll think yourself into jail one of these days. Did you kill him?”
    Mannering said: “Isn’t it obvious? There’s one dead jewel-merchant, and I’m another with a reputation that’s dynamite. Of course I killed him.” He couldn’t hold his temper in check.
    Gordon growled: “You’re too smart.”
    â€œThat’s an improvement on not being smart enough.”
    â€œYou can wait outside.”
    Mannering went to a chair, beside which was a pile of books, and sat down. Gordon tightened his lips, looked as if he were going to order him out, then turned to his men. There were four in the room. Two were measuring the distance between Bernstein’s body and the wall and the desk, using an ordinary household tape