An Affair For the Baron by John Creasey

window and the lake were wide thoroughfares dotted with cars, a railway line, bridges—
    â€œIt’s magnificent,” Ethel said, huskily. “I always thought Chicago was an ugly city.”
    â€œOnly some of the things that happen in it,” Mannering remarked.
    That drew the light from her expression. She turned from the window, her eyes swerving away from the twin beds. She looked tired now, tired and very young.
    There was a tap at the door, and Mannering called, “Come in.” A porter appeared, with the case. When he had gone, Ethel stared at it without speaking, and Mannering took out a bunch of keys, unlocked, and threw back the lid.
    Ethel’s briefcase lay on the top. She could not look away from it.
    â€œEthel,” said Mannering.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhy was Enrico Ballas so desperate to get that briefcase? He is a jewel-thief, I’ve never heard he was involved in espionage.”
    She continued to look at it.
    â€œI’ve never heard that my father was, either. Nor in jewels.”
    â€œThe truth, please,” Mannering insisted.
    When she raised her eyes, her gaze was very direct.
    â€œI have no idea at all why Ballas wanted that briefcase.”
    â€œHe must have thought it very important.”
    â€œObviously!”
    â€œDid your father give you any hint at all about the cause of his alarm?”
    â€œNone.”
    Mannering locked the case and slipped the keys into his pocket. Sitting on the side of the nearer bed, he lifted the telephone. Ethel made no attempt to stop him or to protest, even when he said into the mouthpiece: “I would like Whitehall 4-31495, please.”
    He held on, during odd noises on the telephone. Ethel moved so that her back was to the window. For one so young, she had remarkable poise and self-control. She knew he was about to speak to her father, her mind should surely be seething with anxiety and uncertainty, mused Mannering, yet she said nothing.
    The bell went on ringing, the low-pitched note very different from the English burr-burr! burr-burr! Ethel’s fingers began to clench, while Mannering asked himself what he could do next if her father did not answer.
    He was on the point of hanging up when the ringing stopped, and a man said agitatedly: “Ethel! Ethel! Is that you?”
    â€œNo, Professor Alundo,” John Mannering said very carefully. “Ethel is with me, but before she speaks to—”
    â€œShe’s all right? She is? Oh, thank God, thank God!” The voice rose suddenly. “You’re not lying to me! This isn’t some dreadful trick. Please. Is my daughter—”
    â€œShe’s here, she’s well, and she’s not in any immediate danger,” Mannering said. “Supposing you tell me why you think she is.”
    There was a pause. Ethel drew nearer, her eyes beseeching Mannering to allow her to speak, but he held her back with his free hand.
    Then Professor Alundo said: “Has she got the notes? Has she got them? I must know—I must know whether she has them—”
    He broke off abruptly, and Mannering had a sudden fear, that someone had come into the room and made the old man stop. He was aware of Ethel, watching with increasing tension; and he heard heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Then Alundo spoke in a calmer voice: “Who are you? If you harm my daughter—”
    â€œYour daughter will be all right once you’ve told me what you’ve done to make an enemy of Enrico Ballas.”
    The other man did not speak.
    Ethel pressed closer and put out a hand to touch the telephone. Mannering did not let her take it, hardly knowing why he began to feel antagonism towards Alundo.
    Ethel whispered: “Please let me speak to him.”
    â€œBefore I tell you anything, I wish to speak to my daughter,” Alundo said brusquely, and something of Mannering’s hostility melted. “Kindly put her on the