by John Creasey
The Chinaman who had not yet uttered a word was smiling, as if delighted; it now seemed obvious that he was very old, older perhaps by twenty years than the man who had so nearly broken Mannering’s arm. The younger man’s teeth were hidden now and his lips were taut; he looked as if he was struggling to restrain himself.
“Half a minute’s gone already,” Mannering said coldly. “What do you want?”
“We want your help.”
“You’ve a peculiar way of showing it. What kind of help?”
“Your professional help,” the Chinaman went on. “We wish you, please, to examine and value for us a great hoard of precious stones and beautiful carvings, many jewels and pieces of ivory, jade and precious metals, all magnificent in every way. Nothing so magnificent has ever before been together in one place, but they are here, in London. We wish you to value them for us,” he repeated, “because we have been told that you are a great expert, and also an honest man. It is very urgent, very, very urgent. Please. Will you?”
All the time he had been talking, his voice had been changing, until now it was pitched very high, as if he wanted to command yet knew that his only hope was to plead. His companion did not once look away from Mannering; it was almost possible to believe that tears caused the sheen in his eyes.
“Please, please, please,” he seemed to be pleading.
Mannering asked: “Where is this remarkable collection?” He only just managed to keep a sneer out of his voice.
“It is here, in London.”
“I might just have time to look …”
“You must spend much, much time with them,” the younger Chinaman declared imperiously. “It will take days, perhaps several weeks. And you are the only man who can be relied on.”
“Please, please” pleaded the luminous old eyes.
“Exactly where do you keep them?” Mannering asked, as if he were wavering.
“You will come?”
“How far away is it?”
“Not very far,” the Chinaman said. “They are stored in a very safe place indeed. Mr. Mannering”—he seemed to find it harder to keep his temper, and the words were painfully shrill”—you may sell this collection for us. It will mean a big fortune for you. Nothing else is important.”
“Where is it?” Mannering kept on trying.
“Not far from here. Come with us and we will show you. Please, Mr. Mannering. Even if you cannot spend much time, come and see. Come and feast your eyes on the glories of China’s past, on jewels which belonged to the emperors and the war-lords, jewels which until these days did not once leave our native land. When you see them for yourself, nothing will make you go away and leave them.”
He spoke as if he believed that all to be true. Mannering knew well that he might be speaking even more truly than he realised. In a strange, almost unnatural way, Mannering felt the stirring of excitement. The lure of stones and rare and precious things was strong, almost irresistible. Talk of jewels could affect him deeply, even before he set eyes on them. Rare jewels which he actually saw and handled had an effect on him almost like a drug. This man seemed to know that talking about such things might weaken his resolve. The older man played a silent part, too. His eyes seemed to have a mesmeric effect.
Oh, it was nonsense! But there they were, fixed unwaveringly on him, willing him to say “yes”. Already more than five minutes had passed, so they had achieved a partial victory.
They had done more; they had half convinced him that the stolen hoard Bristow had talked about was here in London. He owed it to Bristow, to the police, to try and find out if that were true. One glance would be all he needed; yet one glance might be enough to make him want to stay and gloat over the jewels, examining each one with a connoisseur’s devotion.
It was like a drug; and it was ludicrous. “Mr. Mannering.” Larraby’s voice pierced the quiet. “It is getting very late.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You’re due to leave for the docks in less than an hour, and it will take half an hour to get home.”
“Yes, yes,” Mannering said almost impatiently.
He could go and make sure whether this collection was in London, and if it were he could tell Bristow. At a pinch Lorna could go ahead to the ship and he could join her on board; there was no need to consider flying to Hong Kong.
There was another sound, farther away; the opening of the shop door. Almost at once Larraby exclaimed: “Mr. Bristow!”
“Bristow!” echoed Mannering.
“Who is that?” the Chinaman demanded sharply. “The police?” He half turned, staring through the partly open doorway.
An assistant said: “Good—good morning, Superintendent.”
“Good morning.” That was unmistakably Bristow. “Where is Mannering? Is he still here?”
It was useless to ask himself what had brought Bristow here so quickly, and it did not really matter. Sanity seemed to drop upon Mannering like a cloak. He saw the younger of the two men move, but before he could go far he gripped him above his right elbow, and held him fast in a lock he could not break. The man who had not uttered a word shuffled back, mouth agape, almond-shaped eyes rounded as if in horror, and as if he could not even begin to understand what had happened. All this time Bristow came marching along the middle of the shop, footsteps muffled but not silenced by the thick pile of the carpet.
“Mr. Mannering,” said the man in Mannering’s grasp. “If you keep me here you will regret it all your life.”
As he spoke, Bristow appeared; and in that moment Mannering had a strange feeling, almost a conviction, that what he said was not so much a threat as a simple statement of fact.
Larraby said something which Mannering did not catch.
“Hallo,” Bristow said. “What’s this, John?”
There was still time to release the Chinaman and pretend that there was nothing amiss; Bristow might not believe him, but could not do much about it. One call to the other assistants, one moment of relaxation, and the man could be on his way.
Why was the temptation so great that it was almost irresistible?
“Mr. Mannering, the time” urged Larraby.
Bristow now maintained a puzzled silence, as if he also was aware of a tension he did not wish to break.
Suddenly Mannering let his captive go, and said in a dry, hoarse voice:
“This man wants me to take a look at the greatest collection of jewels and objets d’art ever to leave China. He didn’t say they were honestly come by, you’ll have to make sure of that. I’ve a ship to catch.”
Bristow said: “Well, well!”
The man whom Mannering had held turned on him, his face distorted in an expression which seemed to mingle hatred with fury, and fury with malevolence. Mannering could not make himself look anywhere but into those burning eyes.
The man spat into his face, swung round, and leapt forward, as if believing he could pass all the men in the shop and get away. That was the moment when the other Chinaman uttered his first sound, a hoarse, almost guttural cry.
As he did so, he collapsed against Mannering; and at the same time the other man sent Bristow and Larraby flying, and disappeared from the office into the shop.
Chapter Five
Sight To See
Mannering thrust the old man away from him, and pushed past a staggering Bristow into the shop. Then he stood still, staring at an incredible sight. The width of carpet leading to the front door seemed to be littered with young men in dark clothes, sprawling, gasping, at least one of them groaning. How that miniature Chinaman had caused such havoc it was impossible to guess. Now he was within two yards of the door, which was closed. Two women in the street were looking at model hats, and had their backs to Quinns; no one else was in sight out there. If the Chinaman reached the street he would probably escape.
There was one adversary to be reckoned with: young Winchester.
He was in front of the elusive little Chinaman, with his back to the door. Half crouching, he gave
the impression that he knew that the other would fool him. He was weaving from side to side. Mannering took in all of that in a split second, then saw the Chinaman feint, and Winchester go in the wrong direction. Mannering almost groaned.
Then Winchester swayed to the other side; he had fooled the Chinaman! At the same moment, Winchester flung himself forward, and crashed into his adversary. Both fell, the Chinaman backwards, Winchester on top of him like a ton weight. Mannering heard Bristow catch his breath, and on that instant understood why. The Chinaman was falling slantwise, and his hat fell off when he was only inches from the corner of an Elizabethan court cupboard on which a dozen pieces of Georgian silver shone and glimmered.
There was a sickening crunch of sound. The Chinaman’s body did a funny little shivering twist before it crashed to the carpet, and flopped inert. Winchester turned his shoulder to the floor, and took his weight on it. Before he even began to get up, Mannering and Bristow were rushing towards the Chinaman. At least no blood showed. Bristow reached the man first and knelt over him, straightening his body and then feeling gingerly for the wound in his head. The others gathered round, one man helping Winchester to his feet. Mannering spared a glance and a “Nice work, Guy,” as Bristow said: “Doesn’t seem to be broken.”
“It’s a nice smooth corner,” Mannering remarked, running his hand over the oak darkened by centuries of polishing. “Think you need a doctor for him?”
“Shall I telephone for one?” asked Larraby.
Bristow was prodding gently but firmly, and at the same time feeling the Chinaman’s pulse.
“I don’t think it’s necessary, but it might be wise. It might be wise to make sure he can’t fox us, too.” He took a pair of slender handcuffs out of his fob pocket, where they did not spoil the fit of his trousers, clipped one round the Chinaman’s tiny, bony wrist, and the other round the cross-piece of a stout William and Mary slung chair. “That’ll hold him.” He straightened up. “What time are you due to sail, John?”
“Half past twelve,” Mannering replied.
“Did Larraby hear everything this man said?”
Before Mannering could answer Larraby declared emphatically: “Every word, sir.”
“Then you’d better get off,” Bristow said to Mannering. “If there’s any need, I can telephone you on the ship.”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “Yes, you can. Thank you, Bill.”
The truth was, of course, that he did not want to go. The unconscious man might have told the truth, and that fabulous collection might be here in London; he yearned to see it. It was exasperating and even ludicrous, but above everything at that moment he wanted to stay and see this thing through.
Obviously Larraby sensed his mood.
“Mrs. Mannering will be very anxious, sir.”
“Yes, won’t she?” Mannering forced himself to look away from the man on the floor. He grinned suddenly, clapped Bristow on the shoulder, swung round to Larraby and gripped his hand. “Josh, look after everything. Tell the Superintendent the sad story of the Ming vase, and don’t keep anything back.” He shook hands with Winchester, who looked rather like an overgrown schoolboy, slightly red in the face, at least twice the size of the man he had felled. “If you hadn’t had your wits about you, we’d have lost him, Guy. Thanks.” He raised his right arm in a comprehensive wave to everyone else in the shop. “Goodbye, all. See you in the spring!” He swung round and strode into the office for his briefcase, saw the other Chinaman sitting in a carved Jacobean chair, pale as death but breathing. “He looks almost like Confucius,” he confided to Larraby, who was just behind him, then went striding out the back way to the waiting car, without glancing behind him. It was utterly ridiculous, of course he wanted to go! In fact he could hardly wait to get aboard that ship. Anyhow the little Chinaman had certainly been lying.
Had he?
What reason could he have for such lies except the improbable one of trying to keep Mannering in London?
“I must forget it,” Mannering told himself as he sat back in the car. “I’ve got to make Lorna believe that everything’s as right as can be.”
The suitcases, seven of them, were already at the front porch, brought down one by one in the tiny lift. Two hanging bags, containing Lorna’s dresses, were draped over the banister rail. Mannering stepped out of the lift into the small hall of their flat, and heard Lorna saying: “I’ll send you a card from time to time, and give you plenty of notice when we’re coming back. If you need to get in touch with us, Larraby at the shop will know where to find us.” Lorna glanced up, saw Mannering, and smiled a bright welcome. “Hallo, darling! I’m absolutely ready.”
“Give me two minutes,” said Mannering.
He was ready in three minutes, level. They paused to take a last glance round at the apartment they had not left for so long a period for many years, two dailies – one young, one middle-aged – watching them.
Mannering put his arm round Lorna’s waist, and squeezed.
“We’re off!” he cried. “Next stop Hong Kong!” He strode to the lift, which was open, handed Lorna in, and stepped in beside her. “If you weren’t so beautifully made up, I’d spoil your lipstick.”
Her eyes were glowing.
“You’re as excited as I am,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be.”
That was exactly what he wanted her to feel.
When they reached the street level, all the baggage was loaded in a second hired car. Mannering and Lorna got into the first. The two dailies, the milkman, a neighbour, and a postman gathered, as it were, to see them off. They swung out of the street on to the Embankment, towards the smiling river. Ten miles along its winding, silvered length was the Port of London, and in the King Albert Dock a great ship was waiting to carry them across the seas.
A man turned the corner, and stared at them. He was small and impeccably dressed, and looked as if he could be the brother of the Chinaman who had been unconscious in the shop.
Lorna did not see him. Mannering made no comment as he sat back. He tried to convince himself that it was coincidence, there were many thousands of Chinese in London and as many other Orientals who weren’t very different in appearance. Yet now and again he glanced out of the back window, if he felt sure Lorna would not notice, because he half suspected that the Chinaman might be following them.
There was no sight of anyone on their heels, and he did not see the man again. By the time they reached the East End, Mannering had stopped looking, but as they drove along the narrow streets and passed the tiny terraced houses, he saw not one but dozens of Chinese: men, women, and children, all as ordinary as could be, and certainly taking no notice of him.
They turned into the docks. A policeman at the main gate – No. 7 – saluted them, but that was probably an ordinary courtesy. The elderly driver of the car knew the way, and soon they saw the solitary beige-coloured funnel of the Orienta rising high above the wharves and warehouses. As they drew near, Mannering saw that the booms had been shipped, showing that loading was finished. A small man with a shiny, rosy face checked their tickets, and immigration was a formality.
“Your baggage will go direct to your cabin,” the shiny-faced man told them. “You’re free to go aboard now.”
There was a radiance in Lorna’s eyes, and it was easy to see she had not really believed the voyage would actually take place. She preceded him up the gangway, and at the ship’s hall a serge-clad steward asked: “What cabin, sir? … A31, this way, please.” He led the way down one flight of stairs and past hundreds of people. Here and there among them were Chinamen and an occasional Chinese family. What was surprising about that in a ship going to Hong Kong and Singapore?
The steward turned into a passage-way and opened the door of A31. Quite suddenly, and for no reason other than nervous tension, Mannering pushed past Lorna into the room.
Lorna exclaimed: “John!”
The room was a mass of flowers, huge bouquets and sheaths and bunches, some in vases, some in bow
ls, some on the beds and some even on the floor. The scent of flowers was heavy on the air and their beauty was quite indescribable.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lorna said, after a long pause. She sounded husky. “Everyone who knows we’re sailing must have sent some.” She stood in the middle of the room, while Mannering watched her and scoffed at his own fears.
One thing was absolutely certain: he must do nothing to spoil the send-off for her. He would have to tell her what had happened later, days later, if possible.
“Your steward will be along for your ticket soon, sir,” said the man who had escorted them here. “He’ll get you anything you want.” He went off, while Lorna gazed about her, then saw a pile of telegrams on the dressing-table. The mirror behind them showed her almost full-length – mink coat and mink hat dark and richly brown, cheeks flushed – as she picked up the telegrams.
“One for you,” she said, and began to open the others. Mannering stepped to the ports, one over a bed, one at the foot of a bed, and saw a few men standing about on the quayside, and some baggage being carried by dockers and porters. No one seemed to take any particular interest in this room. He half laughed at himself; how could anyone know which ports were theirs?
“One from the Plenders,” Lorna was saying. “And one from Larraby … One from the curator at the Royal Academy, isn’t that nice of him? … One from …”
Mannering heard her but did not catch the words after that, for he opened his own, and read: “You’ll be a fool if you go, no good can come of it.”
That was all. There was no signature, nothing to indicate who had sent it. It had been handed in in central London only an hour and a half ago. He glanced at Lorna, who was chuckling.
“Listen to this: ‘Now you’ve got him away keep him away.’ Guess who that’s from?”
“I give up,” said Mannering promptly.
“Bill Bristow! Everyone seems determined to give us a wonderful send-off. Who is yours from?” Before Mannering could answer, a steward appeared at the door.
