by John Creasey
He rang off, the last words echoing in Mannering’s ear. They had come so clearly and so loudly that he thought Lorna had probably heard them. He saw her lips move, forming “Love to Lorna indeed”. Mannering put the receiver down, but did not move away from it. He took out his cigarette case. Lorna struck a match for him, and watched the flame die down, as she often did. Once again Mannering had a swift, mental picture of the cruel sight: the bloodied back of the woman’s head, the orphaned child’s eyes strangely bright and bold, yet somehow fearful, in the flickering light of a match.
He drew deeply on the cigarette.
“No one will make up your mind for you, will they?” Lorna said. “You’ve just got to do it yourself.”
Half smiling, and with smoke curling out of one corner of his mouth, Mannering asked: “Won’t you make it up for me?”
Slowly but quite positively Lorna shook her head.
After they had gone to bed Mannering lay awake long after the moment when Lorna began to breathe deeply in sleep. One window was open and he could just see the stars, which looked close and bright, like the match light on the eyes of that bereaved child. It was still easy to hire children as aides to successful begging, the police officer had said, but he was not convinced in this case. The way that child had clung to the sari had made him think instinctively of them as mother and child. What would happen to the mother and her infant now? Burning on one of the funeral ghats, the bodies devoured in the leaping, crackling flames, far out of the pain, the hunger and the fears of the world, as well as robbed of its light and its hope. The living child would now be put out to hire so as to touch the hearts of the simple and the generous. What could he do about it anyhow? He was Mannering, not Mason; if as Mannering he showed any sign of interest in the child the police might suspect the truth, and if they began to question him closely and to probe, he might not be able to leave Bombay for days. Give the police any reason at all to suspect him, and they would worry him, terrier-like, until they felt they knew the truth.
At last he went to sleep. He did not dream. When he woke it was full daylight. The sun did not strike the window but seemed to strike the sky, tingeing its blue with gold. He glanced at Lorna, and saw her looking at him, half smiling.
“Sleep well?” he asked. “Fine, yes. Did you?”
“Better than I expected,” he admitted. “Better than I should have done, I suppose. What a beautiful morning. Like some tea?”
“Soon,” said Lorna. “Darling—”
He did not quite know what to make of her, and it was not often her mood puzzled him. He said: “Hm—hm?” and waited.
“I’ve made up your mind for you,” Lorna said with great deliberation. “In two ways, I mean about two things.” Mannering felt his heart begin to pound, and also felt the words “no, don’t”, spring to his lips. Even with her, his mind was his own. But he kept silent, and she went on: “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t think twice about going to Hong Kong, and I’ve always wanted to go there. Why should I let you be so over-protective that I have to stay away?”
Now his heart leapt, but he lay quite still.
“And the other thing is about this child,” Lorna went on. “Do you remember selling some Indian jewellery for the Oxford Committee for Famine Relief? It had been given by Indian donors in England, and you didn’t charge commission.”
Mannering made himself say: “I should think not.”
“We had a letter from a Mrs. Patel Chandri, who serves on the Committee here. I’ll go and see her today, and tell her I’m representing a Mr. Mason, an American friend who wants to keep out of the picture. I’ll ask her to make sure the child is properly cared for, and we’ll see it doesn’t cost anyone any money. Will that do, John?”
“How do you know Mrs. Chandri’s still here?”
“I didn’t tell you, I’d forgotten, but when I told Lucy Pleydell we were calling at Bombay she asked me to try and see Mrs. Chandri, who is still very active in good works over here.”
“There must be a thousand opportunities a day for people to do good works,” Mannering said, very humbly. “Are you sure about Hong Kong?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then I know how to advise Li Chen,” said Mannering almost flatly. He did not want to show his feelings too much. “I’ll tell him that if I were in his shoes I wouldn’t try to come to terms with either government, I would do my damnedest to prove they were involved, and so make them call off their dogs. And I would honour the trust the Americans put in me. I’d protect that treasure as long as I breathed.”
“There’s my John!” Lorna’s smile had an ineffable quality. “I would hate you to be anything but yourself for me.”
Mannering felt as if the very air was ambrosial; he had never felt more deeply in love.
With the decision made, the way to implement it opened almost at a touch. Mrs. Patel Chandri, middle-aged, plump, gracious, sari-clad, was delighted she could help. During the day she telephoned Lorna.
“We have the child in a private home of worthy people, Mrs. Mannering. Such sadness there has been for her, but she will soon forget. Also, the police have found the murderer, who attacked her mother for the little money she had, and killed her because she screamed.”
Mannering felt a sense of deep relief; at least he was not responsible for what had happened, unless he could blame himself for being generous with her.
Raymond Li Chen said simply, on the telephone: “I feel shame that I ever hesitated, Mr. Mannering. If you come to Hong Kong, I will show you that I will not hesitate again, although I cannot pretend that I will not be afraid.”
The Wilmingtons, in Delhi, submerged them with hospitality, and tried hard to make them stay.
Instead, James C. Mason, with a false passport and some substantial American Express Travellers’ Cheques, flew on the same aircraft as Lorna to Bangkok, then left her with friends at the British Embassy while he flew ahead to Hong Kong. She had fewer fears for him as James C. Mason.
Chapter Eleven
The Island Of Jewels
“Have you ever been to Hong Kong before?” inquired the stewardess, who was young and charming and very English. For some reason she had taken a liking to James C. Mason, possibly because he was one of the two unaccompanied men on board; this had proved to be a family flight.
“No, ma’am, never in my life,” said Mannering. “I’ve been most places, but not to Hong Kong.”
“I hope you like it,” said the girl.
“Why? Don’t you?”
She looked at him frankly, and there was a dreamy expression in her eyes; they reflected the blue of the sky which stretched out of sight in all directions.
“I love it,” she said simply. “It’s like an island of jewels by night as well as day.”
Several passengers who heard her, stared. The steward came along and broke the spell by saying they were approaching land. The “Fasten Belts” sign began to flash over the cockpit door, alternating with “No Smoking”. Mannering fastened his belt, and the stewardess checked it; she used a perfume like attar of roses and had a complexion like Dresden china.
“You can see the island now,” she said.
It was indeed like a jewel, close to the great, sprawling mass of the mainland. Pale mist rose from the sea but the sun struck the hills and the buildings on the island and the myriad of ships in a harbour which seemed to grow and glow. There was a kind of iridescence, many colours of subtle hues, and as they drew nearer, inlets into the island and the mainland showed, crammed full of ships which looked so tiny, and also looked as if they had come from another world.
A man leaned across to Mannering.
“We land on the New Territories,” he vouchsafed knowledgeably.
“Look!” a woman said from behind them. “There’s Red China!”
As far as the eye could see there was Red China, and in sight was the border across which so many jewels were smuggled.
There was more than the usual hustle and
bustle on board as they approached the airfield; there was real excitement. This was dimmed only a little when the customs authorities, some Chinese and some English, proved very thorough, although hardly a thing was dutiable here. Mannering wondered why they took quite so much trouble. The excitement was dampened a little more because the taxis looked so dilapidated, and so many Chinese were in Western dress. It was not until they were driving through the streets of Kowloon itself that a sense of excitement came back. Great banners with Chinese lettering hung and swung from the narrow windows of new buildings and of old, and huge lanterns hung with the colourful washing on a thousand poles jutting from a thousand windows.
“This is Nathan Road, sir,” announced the driver. “Peninsular Hotel, just round the corner. Hong Kong Island is across the water.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Chinese receptionist, “we have your cabled reservation … Yes, sir, there is a room with a harbour view … Will Mrs. Mason be coming today? … Later, sir, I quite understand.” Keys jangled and porters hovered, lifts worked slowly, and deposited Mannering on the seventh floor. White-clad servants stood by an open door at the end of a long wide passage, another was waiting inside the large, high-ceilinged room with two windows overlooking the incredible blue of the harbour which was seething with large and small craft, junks and sampans and modern catamarans, warships, and cargo boats and a great, white-hulled ocean liner.
“You want something, please?” asked the white-clad man. “I your room boy, you tell me.”
“Fine,” Mannering said, and realised on the instant that he had used his English-speaking voice, so great was the effect on him. “Later,” he added, and slurred the “t”.
“One thing remember, please.” The “boy” made it sound almost like “lemember”. “Water very scarce Hong Kong, one hour morning, one hour evening. Bath full now, no more till six o’clock.”
It was now half past two.
“I’ll remember,” Mannering assured him.
“Velly good, sir.” The boy, who was fifty if he was a day, bowed himself out, and the door closed.
“I must shake myself out of this,” Mannering said aloud. He unpacked one suitcase, then opened a map of Hong Kong which he had studied on the aircraft. This was Salisbury Road, and he had to turn left out of the hotel, then left again into Nathan Road to reach the shopping district of Kowloon, where Raymond Li Chen had his main shop; he had a smaller one on Hong Kong Island. Mannering went out, taking the city map with him, read street names and found his way without difficulty. The shops were on the right, behind a facade of new hotels and office buildings, but with some older shops as well. The pavements were crowded with bustling people, mostly very slight and small; shop after shop was crammed with curios. He saw more ivory carvings, more jade and more costume jewellery in the course of half an hour’s walking along narrow streets and through modern arcades than he had ever seen in one place before.
“I should have been here years ago,” he told himself, but it was only a passing thought. “Won’t Lorna rub her eyes!” He laughed in anticipation, the danger which would also surround her almost forgotten.
He came upon a corner shop near Mody Road. It was built in the apex of a triangle of narrow streets, and had long windows along each side, but this did not explain the sudden change in his manner. The contents of the window did. There was a Ming vase, duck-egg blue in colour, which was almost identical with the one which had been broken at Quinns. Next to this was an ivory set of an emperor and his empress carved so exquisitely that only a master could have done it. On a shelf, near these, were some green jade vases, each almost unbelievably beautiful in shape and carving.
It was almost incredible to find so much together in one place.
He looked up to the facia board and read: Li Chen Brothers: Works of Art.
Inside the shop was a woman in a high-necked gown of sapphire blue, and an elderly man in European dress. Mannering knew they were aware of him, but they concealed their interest. Little men stood near most shop doorways, ready to invite visitors in, but no such touting was permitted at Li Chen Brothers.
Mannering stepped inside. The woman waited until the door closed behind him before coming forward. She was not young, and yet there was a look of youthfulness about her, in spite of the lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth, which looked like hairline cracks in precious porcelain.
“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”
“I’m just looking round,” Mannering said. “A friend recommended this shop to me; he told me I could rely on getting good value and genuine works of art here.”
“That was very good of him.” There was a slight lilt to the woman’s voice. “I am sure we shall justify his confidence in us. Please do look at everything you wish, and take what time you need. If you require help, please call on me.”
“Why, thanks.” Mannering nodded, smiled, saw the oldish Chinaman smiling at him gravely, and began to move around the shop. It was quite dream-like here. Year after year he had seen the Li Chens’ catalogues, yet he had never pictured such variety, such excellence, such quantity. In this one shop there must be two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of objets d’art. Ivory, jade, turquoise and rose quartz carvings filled a dozen shelves on a dozen showcases.
He moved back to the woman, empty-handed.
“It is too much to take in at one visit,” he said fervently. “I’ve never seen such a display anywhere.”
“You’re very kind, sir.”
“The Ming vase,” Mannering said. “What period is it?”
“The seventh, sir, the Dynasty of Lo Ming. There are only four such vases in the world. One is in the Mellon Gallery in Washington, one in the Guggenheim Museum in New York, one is in the shop of Quinns, in London. And of course, this one.”
“How much is it?”
“In Hong Kong or American dollars, sir?”
“American dollars, I guess.”
“Fifteen thousand four hundred and fifty American dollars, sir. But there is one thing I must tell you. I cannot give a certificate of origin to satisfy your customs regulations. It is genuine, you understand, and was made in the China mainland.”
“I know the difficulties,” Mannering said. “There’s no chance of smuggling it in, either. Is Mr. Raymond Li Chen in?”
“I am sorry, but he is away on a buying mission. Mr. Charles Li Chen will be glad to help you, Mr. Raymond’s brother.”
The elderly little man who had kept so silent and so still, looked up with another smile. He came forward, and at the same time the door at the back of the shop opened, and a girl appeared, with tea and tiny cups on a decorated papier mâché tray.
“I am Charles Li Chen, sir.”
“When will your brother be back?”
“In a few days at the most,” the Chinaman replied. “He is to return here for an exhibition which it is proposed to hold in our Hong Kong Island galleries. You have perhaps heard about that?” He poured out tea, and offered little golden brown biscuits from a porcelain jar.
“Sure, I’ve heard about it,” Mannering said. “Thank you.” He sipped. “I certainly hope to come and see it. My name is Mason, and I’m from Boston.”
“I am glad to know you, Mr. Mason. Please come here as often as you like, without obligation. I hope that—”
He broke off, and his courteous expression changed to one of alarm. Mannering spun round. A small car was passing, and a man was standing up in it and hurling something at the window, a small, round, dark missile, which might be a rock or might be a grenade. It crashed against the window. A great star appeared, spreading from the centre of the glass. The woman went forward with bewildering speed, and Mannering saw that she was making a desperate attempt to protect the Ming vase. Two men ran past the window, as if to chase the little car. Charles Li Chen went towards the door. The glass did not shatter and did not fall, and the missile hit the pavement and rolled harmlessly into the gutter. The woman now stood between the window and the vase, like a he
n protecting her chicks.
Then two things happened at once. Charles Li Chen, in the doorway, suddenly went flying, and two men appeared in his place. They wore peaked caps, low over their eyes, and European clothes which were too big for them.
One of them pulled a hammer from under his coat, the other a length of iron piping. The woman cried out in Chinese, but her tone was unmistakably one of anguish. The door at the back of the shop opened and another man appeared, elderly, scared-looking. He was no match for the raiders, and even had he been, even if he put up a good fight, hundreds of the precious things in the shop would be damaged, and most destroyed.
Mannering remembered the way the Chinaman at Quinns had eluded all the assistants. Each of these men might be just as difficult to catch, and even more willing to smash that vase. He did the only thing possible: pulled the automatic from his pocket and fired into the floor at the feet of the two men. The report rang out, making Mannering’s ears ring. The men, who had ignored him until then, started back. Their weapons were raised, fear driving away their determination to smash everything within reach.
“Out,” said Mannering. “Quick!” He fired again. One of the men jumped backwards, the other dropped his hammer and raised his arms as he also backed towards the door. “Get a move on!” Mannering roared. “Out!”
Charles Li Chen, on his feet again, moved towards them quickly, and kicked each behind the knees. They crumpled up. Outside, dozens of people had already gathered, mostly Chinese but with a sprinkling of European, and as Charles Li Chen bent over the raiders and delivered chopping blows on each man’s neck, two policemen appeared, uniformed and armed.
The woman was moving across the shop to Mannering, and there was a film of tears in her eyes.
“It will never be possible to thank you, Mr. Mason, never. And it will be impossible to say how grateful I am.”
“Mr. Mason,” said Charles Li Chen quietly. “Whatever we can do for you, we shall do. Please command us.”
“Are you Mr. Mason?” one of the policemen asked, with a kind of polite aggressiveness. Two more had arrived, and were marshalling the crowd outside.
