by John Creasey
“Not to say luck. Two of the small collections were sold from next door, Ho’s. They say they bought them from American dealers; they’ve the invoices, receipts, customs forms, everything to make it look legal. The third collection was up for auction at Sotheby’s, among the estate of a man who died last autumn. No one knows where he got it from, but he had a good reputation, and there’s no reason to doubt that he came by it honestly. He was a customer of Ho’s.”
“How much was each collection worth?”
“The largest about ten thousand pounds, the others around three thousand each. I know, I know; not much to set against a million or so.”
A waiter pushed along the trolley, on which stood a steaming steak and kidney pudding, and vegetables being kept hot over a spirit lamp. Bristow ate as if he were famished, and Mannering sank himself into the succulence of the meal. Thoughts drifted through his mind, inconclusively, and only now and again did he feel any cause at all for alarm, or for the fear that Li Chen had really invited him because of these problems.
“Any reason to think that Ho’s would touch stolen or smuggled goods and sell them in their shop?” demanded Bristow suddenly.
“None at all,” answered Mannering promptly. “Exactly what do you want me to do, Bill?”
Bristow appeared to reflect, although there was no doubt that he had come here knowing exactly what he wanted. Would he change his mind or his approach because of Mannering’s projected trip?
“I want you to find out if there is any unusual activity in this particular market,” said Bristow at last. “Inquire among your friends in the trade and make a comprehensive report, particularly if anyone is trying to dispose of an unusually big collection. What I hoped—” he broke off, as if resignedly. “Forget it.”
“What did you hope?”
“It’s not practical now.”
“You can still tell me what it is.”
“You won’t have time,” gloomed Bristow. “I hoped you could find out something which would enable me to convince the top brass that I haven’t been asleep. I—er …” Bristow broke off, and Mannering saw the unbelievable: the Yard man was almost blushing. “I told them that I’d consulted you earlier, but hadn’t heard from you.”
Mannering simply sat and grinned.
“That’s right, be smug,” growled Bristow. “The truth is I neglected the job. We’ve plenty of crime in London without spending much time on routine affairs from overseas.”
“Only this wasn’t routine,” said Mannering. “Like to add one more white lie to the other?”
“What?” asked Bristow, almost suspiciously.
“Tell your chaps that I’ve come to the conclusion that this can only be handled in Hong Kong, and that your highly respected consultant is going to see what he can find out there. That ought to mollify everyone.”
Bristow chuckled, as if for the first time he felt free from strain.
“Good idea,” he approved. “And it’s true, isn’t it?”
“What’s true?”
“That when you’re in Hong Kong you will see what you can find out for me. How long will you be there?”
“About two weeks.”
“Well then, you’ll have plenty of time. Lorna will be so busy shopping and having exotic dresses made that you’ll find time hanging on your hands.”
There was nothing Mannering could do but say “yes”, and there was no point in allowing Bristow to see his misgivings. But for the talk with Lorna, and the intrusion of those fears from the past, he would probably not have thought twice about it. He was quite sure that Lorna would be highly sensitive to any suggestion that he should work in Hong Kong, even if it really meant just “keeping his eyes open”.
When he left Bristow at a corner near Stanwell’s and Ho’s, Mannering walked slowly towards Piccadilly. He was very thoughtful as he went into Hatchard’s and browsed among the books. He was back at Quinns a little after three-thirty, and when he reached the narrow-fronted window he pulled up with a start.
Placed on black velvet was a beautiful and most elegant creationin duck-egg blue; a Ming dynasty vase. He had forgotten that it was in the vaults. Obviously Larraby, who had dressed the window after he had left for lunch, had been influenced by the talk of China and Hong Kong.
Studying the vase Mannering found himself smiling. Then he realised that instead of being in any way depressed by Bristow, he was, if anything, excited. Now he had much more than an exhibition and holiday to look forward to. The only disquieting factor was Lorna’s reaction.
“I suppose it was inevitable,” Lorna said resignedly. “I didn’t really believe that you would be able to take a long holiday without something interfering. You’ll be happier, really, won’t you?”
“Happier?” echoed Mannering, as if astonished.
Lorna laughed; and it was good to know that she was not really worried. She was still eager and excited, surrounded by brochures they had collected, and the books which Mannering had bought. “The main thing is to get you away from London for a few weeks.” More thoughtfully, she went on: “I wonder if your friend Raymond Li Chen knows anything about this. He couldn’t have stolen this missing stuff for display at his exhibition, could he?”
Stuff!” echoed Mannering. “You’re as bad as Bristow.”
The next five days passed with bewildering swiftness. There were people to see, plans to make, passports to check. There seemed no time to do anything properly, certainly no time to brood or even ponder over thefts from Communist China. At odd moments Mannering wondered whether Bristow had found anything out, but he made no attempt to find out.
Tuesday dawned clear and bright and very cold. The Orienta was to sail from King Albert Docks at twelve-thirty, and Lorna was up at six for a final flurry of packing, with the help of two daily maids. Mannering, intending not to go to the office, called to check with Larraby, who said: “Do you think you could possibly call in for a few minutes, sir?”
“Is it really necessary?”
“I think you would think so,” Larraby said guardedly. Lorna was so involved that she hardly seemed to hear Mannering, although she said: “You’ll be back in good time, won’t you?”
“By eleven at the latest.”
“They won’t keep the ship waiting for us, you know.”
Mannering went off in a hired car with a chauffeur, and reached the back of the shop at a quarter to ten. It was locked as always. He unlocked it and stepped inside the dark storeroom. The door leading to the shop itself was ajar, and as he pushed this open he saw Larraby standing with something in his hands, and with a grave expression on his face. For the first time Mannering realised that the summons had really been a harbinger of trouble.
“What is it, Josh?” he asked, and immediately saw what Larraby held.
It was a piece of the pale-blue Ming vase, a single piece, perhaps a quarter of the whole vase. Mannering was appalled.
It was not simply the value of the vase, for however this had come about, insurance would cover it. It was the sudden realisation that so beautiful a thing, unique as well as centuries old, should be broken. At moments like these he knew how much he cared for the intrinsic value of the precious things he dealt in.
Larraby looked so heartbroken that it seemed to Mannering that he must have dropped it himself.
“I feel terrible,” Larraby said. “Terrible.”
“I’m sure you do. But you haven’t had a serious accident all the years you’ve been with me, so …”
“This was no accident,” Larraby said. “This was smashed deliberately.”
Larraby relived the moments as he stood holding the piece of precious pottery.
He had taken the vase out of the window, the previous night, and put it in the strong-room, as he always did. Today was to be the last day for its display.
He had carried it cradled in his arms as if it were a living child, towards the window. He saw a man standing at the empty window, which was unusual, as he pulled aside the black
velvet. Two junior assistants stood near, and one of them would keep the vase in sight all day. There would be no moment when it was not under surveillance. There was a special safety device at the window, as well as a microphone outside in the street which picked up even whispered words. More than one thief had been forestalled by that precaution.
Larraby saw that the man at the window was an Oriental, and assumed without really thinking that he was Chinese. There still seemed no cause for alarm or anxiety. Larraby placed the vase in position, and stood back to admire it yet again. In the subdued light, the lustrous surface seemed to glow.
The shop door opened. One of the assistants moved forward.
“Good morning, sir. What—”
Larraby heard the gasp of alarm, swung round, saw the man fling something, some dark object, at the vase. Larraby thrust his arm up and deflected the missile, which caught the neck of the precious thing.
“The vase crashed against the window,” Larraby told Mannering unhappily. “The man ran out and escaped, I’m afraid. We were all so terribly shocked, but even when I had recovered I hesitated to send for the police.”
“Why?” Mannering asked. He realised for the first time that no police were here, that this crime had not yet been reported.
Larraby answered quietly: “If I sent for them they would want to see you, sir. Word would reach the Press, and you would be besieged on board ship. I know how much you and Mrs. Mannering have been looking forward to this voyage, and I hate to think of spoiling it in any way. But you had to know.” He moistened his lips. “What shall we do, Mr. Mannering? Report it as an accident? No one but the staff saw what happened, and they will be discreet, I’m sure.”
Mannering said quietly: “No, Josh. Tell the police this afternoon. Talk to Bristow and tell him why you left it so late.” His mind was working very quickly, a dozen thoughts flashed through it. “There’s little chance of tracing the man who did it. What kind of description did you get?”
“Except that he was oriental, I noticed very little,” Larraby answered. “He was small, and I think quite young. What baffles me is why anyone should commit such vandalism. The vase was so very, very beautiful.” There was a catch in his voice. “You agree that I was right to let you know, don’t you?”
“Absolutely right,” agreed Mannering. “Keep me informed of anything that happens as a result of this, by radio-telephone or radio-telegram if necessary. We won’t ease the situation by pretending that it didn’t happen.”
“It could hardly be a less auspicious start to your voyage, sir,” Larraby said, and he added miserably: “There is nothing I would have liked to avoid more.”
He stopped, looking so unhappy that Mannering forced his own depression away. He heard footsteps in the street, the sound caught by the microphone coming clearly into the shop. He looked towards the window as two men passed it and stopped at the door. Both were small, both were oriental, and even at this distance he felt sure that they were Chinese.
Chapter Four
The Two China Men
Mannering heard Larraby catch his breath at the sight of the two men. He saw Winchester, a youthful-looking assistant who had boxed for Cambridge, move towards the door as if aggressively. The two newcomers were immaculately dressed in brown suits and fawn-coloured overcoats, and each wore a wide-brimmed trilby which matched his suit. They moved together with such precision that they seemed to be operated by clockwork.
“Recognise either of them?” Mannering asked Larraby in a whisper.
“These are much older men,” Larraby answered.
They had stopped in front of Winchester, whose broad shoulders hid them from sight. Courteously, he asked: “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“We wish to see Mr. John Mannering, please.”
“I’m sorry but Mr. Mannering is not available today.” Winchester began the routine excuse, but stopped abruptly, for the Chinamen came on. He swayed to one side to baulk them, and as he did so the Chinaman on the left swerved in the other direction, and then swayed past him. It was a remarkable feat of balance and body swerve, and foxed Winchester completely.
He nearly fell, saved himself, and swung round. Both callers were now approaching Mannering along the strip of wine-red carpet which ran the length of the shop, and both were staring fixedly at Mannering. It was impossible to be sure they were smiling, but their teeth were bared.
“Mr. Mannering—” Larraby began, in alarm.
With precision which matched that of the two Chinamen, two more of Quinns’ assistants moved in their path, and again both men were cut off from sight. Mannering watched, so fascinated that he almost forgot the tragedy of the Ming vase.
Surely the body-swerving visitor could not evade these two.
Mannering actually saw what happened, but simply could not tell how it was done. One of his young men said just as politely as Winchester: “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Mannering is not—” and then he stopped and moved swiftly to one side. The second assistant went in the other direction. There was a mix-up which was almost a mêlée, before the two Chinamen marched, unimpeded, towards Mannering. Two young men began to pick themselves up from the floor, slowly.
“Mr. Mannering!” breathed Larraby.
“Mr. Mannering,” said the Chinaman on the left, “please will you give me a little time?” He smiled and inclined his head as he spoke, and the tone of his voice suggested a kind of humility. The other man stared at Mannering without speaking, but with unmistakable pleading in his brown eyes.
“Would you like to come into my office?” said Mannering. “We can talk until the police arrive.”
He watched both men intently, and noticed the two things. The speaker was badly shaken by the word “police”, and the other, older man’s expression did not change: either he was deaf or he did not understand English.
“Police?” echoed the first man. “I do not understand.”
“You forced your way past my assistants, using considerable violence. That is called assault in this country.”
“Assault,” echoed the first man as if he did not really know the meaning of the word. “I must talk to you, Mr. Mannering, it is extremely urgent.”
“They both told you that I wasn’t available,” Mannering pointed out. “I’m going on a long voyage, and my ship is due to sail this morning. So if you will excuse me—”
He broke off, in turn. The speaker hardly seemed to move, but suddenly his right hand clutched Mannering’s wrist. Mannering sensed the power of the grip, feared what would happen if he tried to wrench himself free. Behind the two Chinamen, one of whom was staring at him with such mute appeal, all three of the humiliated assistants were drawing closer, but the visitors seemed oblivious of any possibility of danger.
“You must listen to me,” the speaker insisted. “Do you understand? Listen to me.”
Winchester was very close behind him, and mouthed the words: “Shall I deal with him?” The Chinaman must have been aware of this, but took no notice.
“If I were you I’d watch the doors, back and front,” advised Mannering. “These two might not be alone.” He made no attempt to free himself, but went on: “Telephone the police right away, Josh.”
Larraby moved towards a telephone on a table at the back of the shop. Mannering felt pressure tightening on his wrist, and wondered fleetingly whether these men were in fact Japanese.
The telephone went ting! as Larraby picked up the receiver.
Pressure grew into pain on Mannering’s wrist. There was no spoken threat, yet the threat was unmistakable: “send for the police at your peril”. The strangest part of all was the intensity of the silent man’s gaze, and of the appeal in his soft eyes.
“If you break my wrist nothing can save you from prison.” Mannering did not raise his voice, and there was no tremor in it, but in fact he felt afraid. The man could undoubtedly break his wrist, as he or someone like him had smashed the Ming vase. If he did, that would spoil every minute of the voyage, distress
Lorna, perhaps even handicap his movements for a long, long time.
Larraby was saying urgently into the telephone: “Superintendent Bristow, please.” He was looking at Mannering as if afraid that at any moment his bone would snap; he seemed to be gritting his teeth. The Chinaman, gripping Mannering’s wrist, exerted such pressure that pain streaked up Mannering’s arm to the elbow.
“Let me go,” Mannering ordered, still quite calmly.
“Mr. Bristow, hold on a moment, please, Mr. Mannering would like a word with you.”
The pause which followed seemed to last for a very long time. No one moved. The men at the doors looked as if they were carved out of stone. Larraby put the receiver down on a padded stool, and went on in a quivering voice: “For God’s sake let him go.”
The Chinaman released Mannering, and allowed his arm to drop to his side. It felt numbed and limp, as if all strength had been drained from it, but he turned and picked up the telephone with his uninjured right hand. He watched the two Chinamen as he said: “Sorry to keep you, Bill. I thought you ought to know that someone seems very determined to keep me here in England. They’ll fail, but they’re trying very hard.”
“Have you any idea who they are?” asked Bristow; he sounded as if he could hardly wait to find out.
“Only that they are Chinese,” said Mannering carefully. “I’ll let you have a full description as soon as I can. Meanwhile, if Josh Larraby needs any help, see that he gets it at once, won’t you?”
He rang off without waiting for Bristow to speak again, turned towards the office door, and said: “I’ll spare you five minutes, not one minute more.” As he stood aside for the Chinamen to enter, he went on to Larraby: “There’ll be an urgent errand after this, Josh.”
“I quite understand, sir. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Leave the door open. I’ll shout if I need help!”
When Mannering moved behind his desk and sat down, pins and needles were shooting up his left arm. He had to clench and unclench his hand to try and keep the pain at bay, but at least it grew no worse.
