by John Creasey
“Famous Mr. Mannering, this is yours.”
Mannering said: “That’s right.”
“Where did you get it?” Lorna demanded sharply.
“Lady, ask no questions, hear no lies,” said Patandi, and roared with laughter. “I tell you. These boys, they will beg, rob, steal, do anything, yes. They climb through to the airfield, they attack last night, isn’t that so? They take the case to the old man who employs them. A bad old man, yes. He sends it with a boy to me. You ask, why to me? I tell you. I sell many things. Bags, cases – very fine lady’s crocodile, tiger-skin handbags, lady, best in India; you must come and see for yourself, please. New, second-hand. I pay twenty rupees for this bag, the boy goes, I open it—and what do I find? Your name, Mr. Mannering. So, I am an honest man. Twenty rupees – what is it? The price of honour? Too cheap. I give it back to you.”
He held the case on the palms of his hands and thrust it in front of Mannering. His smile was gentle now, as if appealing for praise. Mannering, who had looked at him throughout the last ten minutes with dull eyes and without moving, took it and smiled thinly.
“Very kind of you. Thanks.”
“Sir, it is my duty,” said Patandi. “An honest man returns to its rightful owner any article which strays into his possession. Not all poor men are dishonest. When will you come to see me?”
“This afternoon.”
“Come to any of my shops, say you wish to see me, they will send for me at once. Five minutes, ten minutes, and I will be with you. Famous English gentleman, au revoir.” He turned massively, then darted a glance at Lorna. “And famous lady.”
He reached the door.
It opened, and Amu appeared, looking at Patandi with sneering contempt. Patandi stalked out. Amu closed the door silently. Mannering sat without moving. Lorna lit a cigarette, stood up and began to walk restlessly about the room. She started to speak, looked at him and stopped.
He picked up the brief-case, opened it deliberately, and took out the contents. From one section, three novels; from another, two slim volumes of Browning and Keats; from the third, a package which looked like a book. He opened this. There were no leaves, but a small, sealed brown paper packet was inside. The seal had been neatly broken, as neatly re-joined. Lorna moved towards him and rested a hand on his shoulder as she looked down. He unwrapped the package and came to a thick cardboard box, opened this to the cotton wool, pulled the cotton wool aside, and found a blue diamond.
It was the replica that Gall had made for him.
The surface was scratched and he peered at it closely, then took a small magnifying lens out of his pocket and peered through it. He gave a quick, gusty laugh.
“What is it?” Lorna demanded.
“They’re good. They’re very good.” He handed her the glass and the paste diamond. After a pause, she read out slowly: “Go back.”
She lowered the glass.
“We can have a week of sightseeing and then we have to go back,” murmured Mannering. “Orders.”
“I think I’m going to be frightened,” Lorna said. “There was a note on your seat at Karachi, wasn’t there?”
“And I thought I’d fooled you!”
“What did it say?”
“ ‘Go back’.”
“Had there been anything else?”
“A series of cryptic orders not to come.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You weren’t in a mood to heed the instruction. Nor was I.” Mannering leaned back and stretched out his legs, lit a cigarette, and looked at Lorna. Her nose was a little shiny, and there was perspiration at her eyelids; neither stopped her from looking lovely, and uncertainty had put a new, provocative light into her eyes. “The case was snatched at the airfield because they hoped the real diamond would be in it, but there were side-issues. The small boy could have used a knife as easily as he used his fist, so I know what to expect. Patandi comes and allows me a week. If I stay longer, there will be trouble – worse trouble than at the airport. Clever Patandi.”
Lorna said: “He could be a devil.”
“Oh yes. He wrapped the threat up beautifully so that we knew what he meant and yet it could be taken so innocently.” Mannering chuckled. “I suppose we ought to be thankful that they’ve given us a week’s grace.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have a heart-to-heart talk with old Phiro while you see the sights of Bombay,” said Mannering. He rang the hand bell, and Amu appeared, like a spirit at the rub of a lamp.
“Memsahib will have a drive round the city,” Mannering said. “You’ll go with her, Amu.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“I am going to see Mr. Phiroshah.”
“Mr. Phiroshah, sahib, will come to see you at noon, if that is convenient.”
“Just right,” said Mannering. “Get a taxi and—”
“The car is waiting, with Mr. Phiroshah’s chauffeur.”
“Better,” said Mannering appreciatively.
He stood on the steps of the hotel, watching Lorna being driven off. Amu sat in front, next to the driver. The excitement was back in Lorna’s eyes; he hadn’t thought that Patandi would drive it away for long. The threat hadn’t yet become imminent. He lit a cigarette and strolled across the road, walked through the Gateway of India, with boys rubbing their stomachs in front of him, old men selling foreign stamps, others selling postcards. A brisk youth in European clothes and carrying a Gladstone bag saluted smartly as Mannering leaned against the parapet and looked out at the harbour and the small yachts.
“Cut corns, mister? Fully qualified chiropodist, mister.”
Mannering grinned. “No corns, thanks.”
“Stop corns coming, mister. Fully qualified chiropodist. Very cheap.”
“No, thanks.”
The youth drew nearer and lowered his voice.
“Dirty postcards, mister; very cheap. They—”
A soft voice sounded nearby, two or three words which had an electrifying effect on the qualified chiropodist. He tucked the postcards away and hurried off, while Phiroshah, dressed exactly as he had been the night before and with the sun making his dhoti look snowy-white, smiled up at Mannering. Mannering, in light-grey tropicals, was more than a head taller.
“Good morning, my friend. You will have to learn the few words that will show them you’re not just another tourist.”
“Good morning,” said Mannering. ‘They’d pick me out a mile away, and my accent would be my downfall. How are you?”
“Happier because you are here.”
“Where can we talk?”
“We will go to my bungalow,” said Phiroshah. “I have told my chauffeur to take Mrs. Mannering there when she has finished her drive.”
They walked towards another Daimler. As they drove through the city, Mannering felt the fascination of the hordes of people, the thronging roads, the reckless traffic, the careless gharry-drivers. Horns blared incessantly. Policemen gave vigorous signals which some motorists actually obeyed. Phiroshah sat back, smiling, untroubled, while Mannering looked about him.
They turned into the Marine Drive. The tide was out, rocks showed above the surface of the water. Hotels and tall houses ringed the bay. A few people walked along the wide promenade. There was little traffic here, and for some distance it was a dual carriageway. They turned left with the drive, then uphill, then sharply to the right up a steep hill. Large houses were on either side, most of them hidden by trees. They turned into a gateway, and a big, old-fashioned house, with ornate carving and narrow windows, stood at the end of the drive.
Mannering had pictured a single-storey building; this “bungalow” was at least three storeys high.
White-clad boys were at the door.
Phiroshah led Mannering across a spacious,
barely furnished hall towards double-doors which stood wide open. These led into a long, narrow room. The floor was polished, and there were some skin rugs. Silken cushions were on the floor, but there were also couches and easy chairs. Heavy silken draperies hung from the wide window overlooking the harbour, and from the doors.
They rustled at one door as if in the wind.
The double-doors through which they had come were closed. The boys stayed outside. Phiroshah led the way to chairs in front of the window. The view was magnificent; the water of the bay had the pure blue of the sky.
“Now we can talk freely,” Phiroshah said. “I can see that you are worried, and—”
Mannering said: “Not very worried, yet, but I think I’m going to be.” He glanced at the doorway where the curtains had rustled. They were still, but something behind them prevented them from hanging straight. He took a step forward.
The curtains were convulsed as if by a high wind. A small, dark figure, naked except for a loin cloth, darted out. The knife in his hand was curved, cruel. Mannering shot out a foot, the man leapt over it and hurled himself towards Phiroshah with the knife raised.
Mannering’s hand was in his pocket, fingers about a gun.
He fired through his pocket. The naked man coughed and sprawled forward. The knife slipped out of his hand and fell at Phiroshah’s feet.
CHAPTER TEN
THE STORY
Mannering heard the doors opening behind him, and the rush of feet. Before he could reach his victim, two servants were standing over the man. Phiroshah spoke gently, without any sign of flurry. They lifted the naked man, one taking the shoulders and the other the legs, and carried him out.
Blood dripped on the polished floor from the wound; a servant wiped it up.
The doors closed.
Phiroshah said: “I was in your debt when you agreed to come and help me, Mannering. Now I owe you my life.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“Did you see him?” asked the old man.
“I saw the curtains bulge.”
“I am getting too old,” said Phiroshah. “And one of my servants is disloyal, or the man could not have found a way in. Please sit down.” Mannering sat down in an easy chair overlooking the bay, taking his hand out of his pocket; there was a small bullet hole, which had frayed the cloth. “If he lives, they will try to make him talk, but it will not be easy. Probably he was just ordered to come here and kill me. If necessary, I will see him myself.”
“The police might even be interested.”
Phiroshah smiled. He had good teeth and they looked natural.
“They will deal with him later. They are my good friends, Mannering, although they know nothing of the blue diamonds. There is a question burning in your mind. What is it?”
They could talk about the attack later.
Mannering said: “Why send for me? I don’t know the criminals here, the ways of the criminals, the law—anything. I can only work blindly.”
“As you have this morning!”
“That was luck.”
“Haven’t I heard you called Lucky John Mannering? You may know something of this already. You are not a man to act blindly. I know your love of jewels and your skill in probing for the truth. I am in great personal difficulty, because of my grievous losses and—uncertainty. You read of the Rangipore jewels, of course.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that it is said that a group of fanatical patriots who do not think our Government’s attitude towards certain princes is strong enough have appointed themselves judges and executors. They have stolen – taken – jewels from many of our princes who live much of the time out of India. They say that these jewels will be sold to alleviate distress in the famine states, but there is no evidence of this yet. I doubt their honesty of purpose. They could be murderous thieves. The police have had no success against them. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now I, who have suffered so much, begin to wonder if these men have some leader whom no one suspects, who has a form of protection – such as a high position in government. That is one aspect. The other is this. The Maharajah of Ganpore has a very fine collection of jewels including the blue diamonds. He wishes to sell them, and is nervous about the fanatics. Already the murder of my sons suggests that the group is after the blue diamonds. Now! I have suggested to the Maharajah that you could dispose of them for him, and could help to outwit and uncover the fanatics – find out the truth. I tell you, Mannering, I am not sure that anyone here wants to know the truth.”
Mannering said evenly: “Let me get this straight. I am to act as agent for the Maharajah of Ganpore, taking the risk of a head-on clash with the fanatics who use dacoit methods. I’m to smuggle, or find a way of smuggling—”
“No, it is not a question of smuggling. There is no law to prevent the Maharajah sending or taking all his jewels out of the country. The fanatics – shall we give them a name? the Bundi, as they are known – make the danger.”
“Why Bundi?”
“After their leader, it is said. A figurehead – a man who was prominent in anti-British political circles years ago and transferred his hatred to the pro-British princes. He is dead.”
“Bundi is dead, long live the Bundi! And the Bundi is after the Maharajah of Ganpore.” Mannering watched the saintly face and wondered what went on behind the friendly brown eyes. “Tell me more about the Maharajah.”
“He is extremely wealthy – and has fifty of the blue diamonds.”
Mannering drew in his breath.
“You are astounded, of course. Yes, in all there are fifty-one. They are set in jewellery which has no equal in India – in brooches, pendants, ear-rings, tiaras, bracelets, necklets. They were collected centuries ago by the first Maharajah of Ganpore for his wife, and they were buried with her in a tomb which is second, I think, only to the Taj Mahal.” Phiroshah stood up, went across to a cabinet and with great deliberation poured out a whisky and brought it to Mannering on a tray, with water and soda.
“There is still prohibition in Bombay; it is better not to have the servants see this. Now, please follow me carefully. A year ago, the tomb of the first Ranee was broken open. Such an abominable sacrilege! There is untold wealth in the tombs in India, but pillage such as this has seldom been known. The Bundi was named – quietly, in whispers. The Maharajah recovered the jewels. He foresaw a future in which there would be great changes, reasoned that one day even the sanctity of tombs would be ravaged by the Government. More – he saw the evil of famine and poverty existing by the side of entombed and wasted wealth. He decided – so he has told me – to sell them and use the proceeds to help the people of his own state.”
Phiroshah paused again. Mannering sipped his whisky and studied the old man’s face. Phiroshah seemed to feel the story deeply.
“The Maharajah called for me, because I have sold many of his jewels to America, a few elsewhere. They must be taken overseas to get the most for them. Understand, the Maharajah does not like the new form of government and the loss of autonomy of the states, but he has been loyal. Ganpore is a small state, not easily accessible, and is run well. Among other things, he installed a system of dams and irrigation; there is no famine. He is respected by the Government. No man should be so safe from the Bundi. The attempts on his jewels make me doubt the motives of the Bundi. Of course, I am hated by them. I serve the princes.”
Mannering studied the profile against the brightness of the sky, and wondered.
“Now please, your questions,” Phiroshah said gently.
Mannering leaned back, very thoughtfully.
“Other things first. The Bundi is after the blue diamonds, knows your part in it, killed your sons, followed your daughter, raided my shop. They’re strong, they’re ruthless. You’d suffered so much already. Why risk Sh
ani?”
Phiroshah sat very still.
“Well, why?” Mannering’s voice was harsh.
“She was well-guarded,” Phiroshah said. “She is like a son. I am too old, and I could trust no one else with the story. Her guards had to protect her; they know nothing about the blue diamond.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mannering.”
“You trust Shani?”
“With my life.”
“She saw a man connected with those who raided my shop afterwards. A man named Banu. So did my bearer, Amu.”
Phiroshah smiled faintly. Admiringly? “You are a remarkable man. Yes, she did. Banu is not one of my servants, but is an acquaintance. Amu told me that Banu worked against you. Shani saw him, to lull any suspicions he might have of her knowledge. Amu cabled me the information, but if Banu has returned to India, it is secretly; I have not been able to trace him. He could well be with the Bundi. He was prominent in anti-British societies. But Banu is insignificant. You might get at the truth through him, but there are others, more important men.”
Mannering said: “I don’t get it, Phiroshah. The police—”
“The police have tried. I do not believe they tolerate the Bundi, although certain highly placed people do. But the Bundi has adherents everywhere. The Maharajah has become desperately anxious to sell, to be free from trouble. I recommended you. When you did not answer his letters, he tried elsewhere. Several dealers from America and Europe are at or on their way to Ganpore now. I was not satisfied, so—I sent Shani and the diamond. Now—”
Mannering said: “So there is competition.”
“If you can call it that.” Phiroshah smiled. “Knowing they were coming made me more anxious to have you here. I decided that I would succeed where the Maharajah had failed. You say that I judged you by your newspaper reputation.” The smile was one of mild amusement. “Not that alone, my friend. I had met you, I had seen you work. I could well imagine that you would not be prepared to come to India simply to bid against other dealers—but there was a way to bring you here. I promised the Maharajah that I would succeed where he had failed, and—”
