by John Creasey
“And I’m to keep you informed,” said Bristow dryly. “When are you going?”
“As soon as we can get on a plane.”
“I’m told they’re pretty full,” said Bristow. “No doubt you can pull enough strings to go when you want to.” He stood up. Don’t take too many chances, John. I shouldn’t think Phiroshah or his Maharajah friend are worth dying for.’
Bristow might know more than he’d said.
Mannering went straight back to Quinns. The policeman was still outside; inside, Lorna was trying to cope with a customer, and there was no sign of Larraby. In the middle of earnest discussions on the merits of a piece of sixteenth-century Arab silver, Plummer came in. The customer bought the silver and went off practically cooing with delight. Plummer smoothed down his fair hair.
“So that’s how you make money.”
“That’s one way,” said Mannering.
“I’ll change jobs any time you like.” Plummer smoothed down his hair again, a mannerism nothing could change.
“Where’s Josh?” Mannering asked Lorna.
“He wouldn’t stay after Mr. Plummer called to say he had followed Phiroshah’s daughter to the Mirabar in Kensington, and wanted someone to watch there.”
“That’s right,” said Plummer. “Josh was anxious to prove he wasn’t hurt. The man in the taxi went as far as the Mirabar and then moved on. He’s staying at a boarding house in Bloomsbury. Name of Banu. He arrived in London two days ago by air, and he’s officially on business. I don’t know what business. Larraby’s watching the Mirabar hotel, but he’s anxious to get back here. I’ve sent for a man to relieve him. All you want is to have the girl looked after, I take it.”
“Give me the address of Banu’s boarding-house, will you?” Mannering asked.
Plummer scribbled on a piece of paper.
Mannering tucked the note away. “Thanks for everything, Jeff.”
“A pleasure.” Plummer’s hand strayed to his hair again. “Be careful with these people. If you get a bad one, he’ll be deadly.”
“Tell that to my wife,” said Mannering.
Lorna laughed it off, but was thoughtful when Plummer had gone. Mannering dropped the catch at the door, and they went into the office. He took the blue diamond out of the wall safe and laid it on his desk; the light gave it fiery blue beauty.
Lorna picked it up. Its beauty fascinated her, but she didn’t revere it as her husband did.
“And there are more of those, according to the story,” Mannering murmured. “Still want a holiday in India?”
“In spite of what I read in the newspapers, yes.”
“What’s this?”
“I read all about the Rangipore jewels and the prince’s quarrel and the fanatical group who say they’ll get back all the jewels sold by Indian potentates for their private use. John – what more do you know?”
“I know I’ve a deceitful wife.”
“About Phiroshah, and that thing, I mean.”
Mannering winced.
“Thing? You’re nearly a vandal.” He dropped the banter. “I know only as much as you, but I guess that Phiroshah and probably some of the princes don’t like your fanatics, the Indian authorities won’t exert themselves, and Phiroshah thinks I might pull off a trick or two. I doubt if we know everything Phiroshah has in mind yet, and he’ll only tell me all if I go to India.”
“Then we’ll go.”
Mannering moved swiftly, took her into his arms and kissed her. He stood back and said quietly: “What’s got into you?”
“You need a change desperately,” Lorna said. “Some people would need a rest, but rest won’t help you. You’ve had nothing to put your heart and soul into for too long. Quinns isn’t enough by itself. Jewels are half of your life. And there’s the conflict between the fleshpot princes and this organisation of zealots who seem to be working as the Baron’s often worked – robbing to help the poor. But are they? Phiroshah’s not a rogue. And you’re more yourself since you first heard from him than you’ve been for weeks.”
After a short silence Mannering said: “So that’s it. Everything?”
“I want to see India,” Lorna said.
He began to smile, kissed her again, and picked up the telephone.
“How long will it take you to be ready?”
“How long can I have?”
“I don’t know.” He had finished dialling, and said: “British Overseas Airways? . . . Mr. David Kelly, please.” He didn’t hold on for long. “Hallo, David—John Mannering here . . . Fine, thanks, and thinking of flying to India on Saturday . . . Well, all right, Sunday would do . . . My dear chap, there must be room, there’s only two of us.” He laughed. “Yes, Lorna. Yes, I’ll hold on a minute.” He lowered the receiver. “Impossible for at least two weeks officially!” He put the receiver to his ear again, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “There are two ways of tackling this. Go for Banu and any of his friends here. That might take some time, and would certainly run the risk of crossing Bristow. He’s being very helpful. The other way is to fly to Bombay as soon as we can and get everything straight from Phiroshah.”
“Do that,” Lorna said.
“We’ve been able to fix it,” Kelly said. “A couple of V.I.Ps. were going on Sunday, but they’ve been held up.”
“I’ll get Lorna to paint you one day. Where do I pick up the tickets? . . . Right. Thanks again. Here, hold on!” Lorna was waving frantically. “Just a minute.”
“Ask him what the weather will be like at this time of the year, what clothes I’ll need, all that kind of thing.”
Mannering chuckled.
“David,” he said. “Lorna wants to talk to you.”
“Thank you, David,” Lorna said a few minutes later. “You’ve been wonderful. ‘Bye!” She rang off, eyes glowing. “We’ll arrive during the monsoons, darling – the worst of the heat will be over. There’ll be some rain, but it shouldn’t be too bad. It’ll be pretty warm everywhere, except at night if we go north. We needn’t take too much in the way of clothes; we can always buy something there.”
“Oh, always,” said Mannering. “Dear David.”
“Be enthusiastic, darling.”
“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, we’re going to Bombay in the morning! Well, on Sunday morning. Two days after Shani. I hope she isn’t going to run into danger, but she seemed to think that will keep the diamond company. Better send it on ahead, I think.”
“Yes, I’d do that.” Lorna was suddenly sober.
Mannering laughed.
Lorna went off, with a host of things to do. Mannering picked up the telephone again and put in the call to Bombay; it would come through between four and five o’clock, he was told. He rang off and called a Golders Green number, where Sylvester, an old man who had once managed Quinns, lived in retirement. Could Sylvester come back for a month or two?
Sylvester not only could but seemed eager.
Mannering put down the receiver as Larraby came in, little the worse for wear. He had nothing new to report. Shani was at a small hotel where other Indians lived – some students, some politicians, some minor officials at India House.
Larraby was delighted to hear about Sylvester.
Mannering left just after one o’clock, had lunch at a snack bar, and then went to his flat at Green Street, Chelsea. Lorna wasn’t there, and the maid was busy in the kitchen. There was a letter on the mat delivered by hand, not postmarked. He opened it as he went towards the bedrooms.
There were two words: “Don’t go.”
The maid knew nothing about it, or the note wouldn’t have been on the mat. Mannering handled it gingerly to avoid smearing prints. The writing was in block capitals and offered no clue. He took it into his study, a small room furnished from Quinns, took out grey powder, a camel-hair brush and a sh
eet of paper. He tested the note. The only prints were his own.
He burned the note and cleared away all evidence of the test.
Lorna needn’t know. Lorna was excited, and excitement dulled awareness of danger. No doubt she meant everything she said about him. No doubt she knew that months of inactivity had worn at his nerves; but above all that, she herself was eager to visit India and could blind herself to risk.
Already excitement was deep in Mannering, quickening his pulse and his mind.
He changed into an old suit and some worn golf shoes and left soon after two, carrying a Leica camera and a small make-up case. At a lock-up garage near Victoria station he kept a Buick for emergencies he didn’t want the police to know about.
There was a mirror on the wall. Locked inside, he opened the make-up case and started to work, to change himself. Deft touches at the eyes and mouth, rubber cheek pads, plastic covering for his teeth – these transformed him. It wasn’t Mannering, but an older, plumper man who stared back at him from the mirror.
He slipped a specially made rubber ring round his waist and inflated it a little; his trousers buttoned tightly round it and increased the look of stoutness. He hadn’t forgotten any tricks. He left the make-up case in the Buick, went out and took a taxi to the address which Plummer had given him, the address to which the man Banu had gone after following Shani.
The narrow street was filled with boarding-houses; several windows had a placard: “No vacancies”. One opposite Banu’s carried the sign: “Apartments”.
A youngish fluffy-haired woman opened the door. She hadn’t a front room, she was sorry. She saw the five pounds in his hand and changed her mind. She could put a bed up in her parlour to oblige the gentleman. He didn’t want a bed, just an armchair by the window during the day and part of the evening. Oh, that was easy.
Yes, she was on the telephone.
Mannering talked to the exchange, arranged for the Bombay call to be put through here, and settled down to watch the boarding-house opposite. Banu came out once, and returned after twenty minutes, carrying a newspaper. Two or three other Indians arrived and went inside. Mannering smoked cigarette after cigarette, and the fluffy-haired woman kept bringing him cups of tea. It was nearly half-past four when a taxi drew up opposite, and Mannering had to change his position to see who got out.
It was the smaller of the two men who had raided the shop.
The man paid off the cab and hurried into the house. A few minutes later Mannering saw him at a first-floor window talking to Banu. The faces of both men registered vividly. Banu, youthful, lean, lithe and handsome, with the smooth good looks of the better-class Indian; the other man short, with an older face, ugly, teeth stained red from betel-nut chewing, a low wrinkled forehead. He wore a white turban, only a twist or two of cloth.
Mannering photographed them both, and other Indians who went to the house; better not to rely on memory.
Then the Bombay call came through.
Phiroshah’s voice was as clear as if he were talking in the next room. It was frail, but his English was excellent. He was delighted to hear from Mannering, hoped that it meant that they would soon meet again. Yes? That was excellent news. His daughter Shani – yes, he would describe her. He described Shani in detail, and Mannering had no doubt that his daughter really had come to Quinns.
Mannering rang off and went back to the window seat. He could see two short words: “Don’t go”, as if they were painted on the window. Whoever had sent it had lost no time. Who had sent it? One of the Indians he’d seen? Banu?
Guessing didn’t help. He had four days to clear everything up; couldn’t afford to spend much time watching here; little for seeking the writer of the note. Had he been too hasty?
He concentrated on watching the doorway opposite. Now and again the camera clicked.
He was lighting a cigarette when a taxi drew up, just short of the boarding-house, and Shani stepped out.
CHAPTER SIX
THE FLIGHT
Shani was in the house for over half an hour, but Mannering did not see her at any of the windows. When she appeared again, Banu was at the door to see her off. She did not look round at him, and he soon closed the door.
Mannering saw the girl’s face clearly as she stepped into the waiting taxi. Her gravity, like the red sari, revealed nothing. As soon as she left, he went to the telephone and dialled the Chelsea flat.
Lorna answered.
“John, I wondered where—”
“Later,” said Mannering, “over the celebrations. I haven’t got used to that Louvre sale yet. My sweet, take an hour off from packing and preparing to pack and go to the Mirabar. Go right away, and you should be there about the time that Shani gets back. Tell her that we’re going. Ask her whether she has been followed while in England, whether she’s had any kind of trouble. Just that.”
“Very well,” said Lorna.
Mannering rang off.
He left the boarding-house and walked slowly towards the end of the street, limping. No one would have recognised him, and no one followed. He took a taxi to the garage, removed the make-up quickly, but still had traces of it when he took off the cushion and went to Chelsea. Lorna was out, so was the maid. Their bedroom was a glorious muddle. Lorna had started sorting out clothes in earnest. Leaving the room like this must have been a wrench.
It was half-past six.
Mannering bathed, got rid of the last traces of the make-up, dressed, and went into their bedroom. The flat was small but perfectly appointed, mostly furnished from Quinns. It was on one floor, with a large attic studio above for Lorna. He opened the wardrobe, knelt down, and pressed a small knob which revealed a secret drawer. Here were his tools. Any cracksman in England would have been proud of that set. Everything needed to force a safe was here – even nitroglycerin. He checked it, oiled some of the pieces, then packed everything in a small specially fitted case. It made a heavy parcel.
He took out two .32 pistols, several clips of ammunition, checked them, and put them away again.
It was seven o’clock.
He went up a step-ladder to the studio and looked round. One of Lorna’s unfinished canvases stood on an easel – a portrait of a society beauty. Lorna’s brush would be able to run riot in India.
He went down to the flat, and heard Lorna coming up the stairs. He stood in front of the door as she opened it. She started.
“Oh!” She recovered. “Brute!”
“Just testing your nerve,” said Mannering. She wore the same clothes as she had that morning; her cheeks were flushed; excitement hadn’t dimmed in her eyes. He took her hands and pulled her to him. She was breathless when he let her go.
Her eyes were radiant.
“Still like that?”
“Just like that.”
“These Indian women are very beautiful.”
“Every man to his taste. How’s Shani tonight?”
“Solemn as ever.”
“What did she have to say?”
“She was gravely delighted, said that she would cable her father immediately and that she was sure that you would succeed.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “And the rest?”
“She hasn’t been followed, at least she doesn’t think she has. I’d say she was completely innocent.”
“That’s because you’re so young,” said Mannering. “Did she happen to mention that she had been visiting compatriots this evening?”
Lorna didn’t speak.
“And that she had a session with a man named Banu, who had an earlier session with the man who escaped from the shop.”
Lorna said weakly: “I don’t believe it.”
“Of course, it might have been an innocent visit; she may know nothing about Banu,” Mannering said drily. “He might even be the man her father sent
to look after her, and he also could be the rogue.”
“It’s hard to believe that girl—”
“I don’t know what will happen to you when you meet a really handsome Indian prince,” said Mannering. “It’s time to dress, we’re going to Ciro’s for champagne and—”
“We are not,” said Lorna. “We’re going to have supper in the kitchen. There’s far too much to do to go gadding about at night.”
Mannering left her in the kitchen when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver in his small, book-lined study, still smiling at Lorna’s eagerness.
“John Mannering here.”
A man spoke in a soft, penetrating voice.
“Don’t go,” he said. “Don’t go.”
The line went dead as the smile faded from Mannering’s lips. Lorna called: “Who was it?” and his “Wrong number” rang true. He was at his gayest at supper.
The consequence of the evening’s earnest inspection of wardrobes was that Lorna would have to do some shopping next day.
Mannering left the flat soon after breakfast. To prove his eagerness old Sylvester was already with Larraby in the shop. Mannering took the blue diamond from the strong-room, where Larraby had put it for the night, slipped it into a pad of cotton wool and then into a wash-leather bag, and went out. By ten o’clock he was at a small diamond merchant’s office and workshop in Hatton Gardens. Gall, the diamond merchant, was a little old man with wispy grey hair and a wealth of knowledge about jewels. Little surprised him. Mannering simply took the diamond out of the cotton wool and handed it across.
“Can you make a copy of that for me quickly?”
Gall caught his breath, touched the stone, then picked it up between a pair of tweezers. He took it to the bright light above his desk, sat down slowly, an inspected it. He seemed to take an age. Finished, he laid it down reverently on the pad of cotton wool.
“Beaut-i-ful,” he declared.
“Can you copy it?”
“Oh yes, yes. But not perfectly, Mr. Mannering, and not well. You know that. We can put some life into white diamonds, even into rose tints, but this—I have never seen anything like it. What a remarkable man you are.”
