by John Creasey
Only the wounded man was free.
Mannering went across to him. He was unconscious, and the wound was high in the chest – too high, probably, for lung or heart. He tied the man’s legs, loosely but in a way that would be difficult to undo, and did the same to his hands. Standing upright, the top of his head brushed the roof of the passage.
He went back towards the corner, stopped and picked up one of the lamps. The gentle light showed Phiroshah, still unconscious. Mannering lifted him gently and carried him to the other lights.
Phiroshah had a nasty knife wound in the temple and bruises on the back of his head, but he wasn’t fatally injured – unless he were too old to stand the shock. Mannering wrapped his coat round him more closely, then lifted him again. He was able to pick up one of the crucibles in his left hand, and keep the gun in his right, with Phiroshah over his shoulder. He walked away from the now silent card-players, and seemed to walk for hundreds of yards. Then he saw the sky, the stars.
He laid Phiroshah down and crept forward; this was the entrance, and there would probably be a guard. He reached the gap at the end of the passage which was really a tunnel. He peered about him, but saw no shapes, nothing to suggest that anyone else was there. He ventured out a few paces. Nothing happened. He went back to the entrance, and peered out cautiously.
No one appeared.
Mannering went back for Phiroshah, lifted him and, with the old man over his shoulder, gun in hand and the light of the stars to guide him, stepped out of the tunnel. There were thick bushes and trees and, way above his head, the still, spectral heads of coconut palms. It was warm; not hot, but warm enough to bring the perspiration oozing out. He missed his footing once or twice, then came to a gap in the bushes.
He went through it.
As he saw a stretch of water, surface unruffled but peppered with the reflections of the stars, he also saw a man squatting at the water’s edge.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE LAKES
Mannering lowered Phiroshah gently to the ground and straightened up. Apparently the squatting man had not heard him. He was twenty yards away, a dark figure, staring into the water. The stars were bright above their heads, and the water was like a gigantic mirror. Coconut palms fringed the edges of the lake, but the bush was thinner there. The ground was damp, but the mud was crumbly.
Mannering crept forward.
He was twenty feet from the man when the squatting figure stood up, without any sign of haste or alarm, and stared across the water. Mannering could have shot him; he kept the gun trained and stepped nearer.
The man turned.
He saw Mannering and gave a choking gasp, stepped back – and slipped. He fell backwards into the water. The splashes reached Mannering’s waist. The surface was suddenly churned with fury; the stars danced on it. The man’s figure showed clearly as he surfaced. The lake was deep – much deeper than Mannering had expected. The man hadn’t a chance. All Mannering had to do was wait for him to scramble ashore.
Mannering waited.
He saw nothing new at first; heard a sudden rush through the water followed by a wild scream. Then he saw two great jaws open, heard them snap. The man screamed again, and disappeared. The water was beaten as by a sudden, lashing tumult, then gradually settled.
Horror choked Mannering. The scream, the snapping jaws, the swift disappearance – it hadn’t been real. But it had happened – a crocodile had taken a victim.
The water must be infested, even so close to the land as this.
Mannering’s mouth was dry and his lips felt cracked. He saw a long, narrow boat, little more than a canoe, tied up to a jetty made of long, straight logs lashed with ropes. The boat was still.
There was no way to the mainland, which looked so near, except by water.
He peered into the dark surface, imagining shapes which probably weren’t there. He looked across at the mainland again, where the starry tops of the palms were dark and peaceful against the stars. They rose high above the other trees. He could see no light, nothing to suggest life.
He went to the jetty, walked along it, felt some of the logs give a little; and the water was very deep beneath it. He knelt down cautiously by the side of the boat. There was room for two, perhaps three, people. There were two paddles, with wide blades. At the bottom was a little water and an old tin.
If he waited here, others would come. He had little ammunition. His one real chance was to get to the mainland at once. He didn’t know where he was; it might be hundreds of miles from Bombay – a day and a night might have passed since he had been kidnapped. He stood up cautiously, but the jetty seemed to rock.
Phiroshah hadn’t moved.
Mannering lifted him and carried him to the jetty. In spite of the warmth, he felt cold. He lowered Phiroshah carefully into the canoe. It swayed up and down against the jetty. He stepped in gingerly, and the boat veered over, under his weight.
He stood upright, with the canoe swaying and water lapping over the side. He waited until it steadied. He could hear a sound now – the thumping of his heart. He lowered himself to the single seat, two logs lashed together, and picked up the paddles. Then he realised that he hadn’t untied the mooring rope; and he had to untie it, for he hadn’t a knife. He could have had four.
The rope parted at last, and he fancied he saw a dark shape close to the surface; fancied he heard the swirling noise. He sat down again and picked up the paddles. He put one between his feet and used the other, paddling first this side, then that. The boat moved sluggishly and was low at the stern. He felt water splashing over it gently. The water ran to and fro, sometimes over the tops of his shoes. He tried to go more cautiously, to keep the canoe steady. In spite of the calm surface he failed. He saw water moving sluggishly about Phiroshah’s body; it seemed to be creeping up.
The mainland had seemed near; now, it was apparently as far away as it had been when he had started. Was there a current?
He kept on, his teeth still clenched tightly, breathing heavily through his nostrils. The canoe seemed to be made of lead. His feet were in water all the time now.
Light suddenly attracted him.
It moved along the trees on the mainland – the headlamps of a car. It was travelling slowly, and the beams went up and down. They turned suddenly and shone out on to the lake. Lights rippled on the water, a hundred yards away from it. The shape of another jetty and more canoes showed up; then the figures of small men climbing from the jetty into a canoe.
The headlamps went out; so did the parking lights. Only the stars gave light now.
Mannering headed towards a small island, which gave him some cover, the new development giving him temporary respite from the closer fears of the water. He watched the other boat moving swiftly, heading for the island. They would make twice the speed he was making; would quickly discover what had happened and raise an alarm. Someone would have been left in charge of the car. He paddled slowly round the sheltering island, but had a new fear – of the noise that his paddle made.
The paddle touched bottom, and the canoe swung gently round. It was pointing towards the jetty, but at least a hundred yards away. The paddle touched the bottom again and again, then the canoe shuddered as it hit mud, tipped over, and flung him to one side.
He gasped aloud.
As he grabbed the side with one hand, the other slipped and went deep into the water. He snatched it out, his heart thumping wildly. The canoe steadied, but still had a list. He sat motionless, with sweat oozing from every pore, and it was a long time before he could bring himself to move again.
They were firmly stuck. He climbed out on the landward side, and was nearly knee deep in water that seemed warm. He didn’t try to pull the canoe further in, but, with his feet sinking into the mud, lifted Phiroshah and started towards land. Every step was an effort and an ordeal, but the land was ne
ar.
He reached grass.
He staggered away until he found a path with coconut palms on either side. He walked until he judged that he was nearly level with the jetty and the car, put Phiroshah down on the grass, and straightened up to ease his cramped back. He stepped through the trees and saw the shape of the car twenty yards away from him.
He edged his way towards the car, looking for a guard. He saw no one this side, and went to the other. A man was lying on the damp ground, a blanket covering him up to his chin, apparently asleep. Mannering crept nearer. The man didn’t stir when Mannering hit him on the side of the jaw.
The car was an old Buick; the keys were in the ignition.
It was a nightmare drive. First along an unmade road, with the lake on one side and wooded hills on the other. At least he couldn’t miss his way – there was only the one road. Then on to a gravel path which bumped him from side to side, worried him for Phiroshah; then on to tarmac, through the dark countryside, past the walking figures of the natives, past little shops where lights still burned. He didn’t stop to ask the way; the road would take him somewhere.
Suddenly, the headlights shone on a signpost. He saw one finger, reading: Bombay.
Nearly an hour later he pulled up outside Phiroshah’s bungalow.
The door opened as the car came to a standstill, and men ran down the steps, Amu and Joseph among them. They ought to be with Lorna, looking after her, thought Mannering; they oughtn’t to be here. He saw Shani, then Lorna just behind her.
Shani stayed at the top of the steps, Lorna hurried down.
He called out hoarsely: “I’m all right.”
He staggered out and would have fallen but for Amu’s help. Lorna reached him and gripped his arm. He didn’t speak to Amu, knew that the bearers were getting Phiroshah out of the back of the car. With Lorna on one side and a bearer on the other, he started up the steps. He swayed in the entrance of the hall and nearly fell again.
“Crazy,” he muttered.
“You always were,” Lorna said in a choky voice.
He saw Shani.
“Both of us,” he said. “Your father’s all right, Shani. Doctor wanted, though. I need—a drink.”
“I know what you need,” Lorna said.
Everything that followed was vague. The lights were too bright and hurt his eyes, but he didn’t complain. Lorna and a bearer took him to a bedroom. There was a big divan bed – the most inviting bed in the world. He sat on the edge, and Lorna undressed him. A servant came in with hot soup. He had a little, waved it away, and sank back on the pillows. He had a confused mental picture of a dark tunnel and swirling water and snapping jaws.
Then he faded into sleep.
It was dark when he woke, but not with the darkness of the night. Venetian blinds were drawn at the big windows of the bedroom. A fan was whirring, but there was no other sound. The room was unfamiliar. Slowly he recalled what had happened, where he was. His mouth was dry and his head ached dully, but apart from that and stiffness he judged himself fit enough. He sat up cautiously and put a hand to his head. There was a patch of sticking-plaster.
He wondered how Phiroshah was.
He looked at the bedside table and saw a handbell of brass, inlaid with enamel. He rang it, and the tingling sound seemed too soft to reach anyone outside the room, but the door opened almost at once and Shani came in.
She wore blue. She looked young and fresh and untroubled. She smiled as she approached, and he saw a bearer moving away from her. She reached the bed and went down on her knees beside it.
“So he’s all right,” Mannering said.
“He will recover, with care,” said Shani. “And so for the second time he owes you—”
“Forget it, please.”
“How can we forget? He doesn’t know what happened, but when he learns he will have a deeper gratitude than ever.” She looked up into his face, and he felt the simplicity of her being.
He heard a movement, and Lorna came in, Lorna in a white linen suit, dark hair a mass of waves, eyes bright as they had ever been. Mannering felt his spirits rising. Shani stood up and went without a word. Lorna sat on the side of the bed and gripped his hands.
“All right,” he said. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“I suppose so. I—but you need something to eat. They seldom cook food our way here, but I’ve been given the run of the kitchen. Darling—”
“Hm-hm?”
“They haven’t told the police. Are you going to?”
“Problem,” said Mannering. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene on the island and those snapping jaws. He opened his eyes again. “Let’s think about it. There isn’t any hurry. Nothing else has happened, has it?”
“Nothing that matters,” she said, and hurried out.
He lay back, wondering what she had meant. Then he began to wonder where he had been, where the crocodile-infested lakes were. He remembered Phiroshah asking him whether he had been known as Lucky John Mannering. He was smiling when Lorna came back with a tray. She put the tray down. To bring it in here by herself without having a bearer carry it for her was an achievement of its own.
“What’s the thing that doesn’t matter?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing.” She grimaced at him. “Except that Imannati Patel died last night. Oh, and the son of the Maharajah of Ganpore is here and has a ridiculous idea that he’s going to talk to you this morning.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DR. WEINER
Patel, who had called Mannering a fool and Phiroshah a liar, was dead. The man Phiroshah feared, the man who admitted that he was after the blue diamonds, was no longer a threat. Mannering pondered over this as he had a light breakfast and drank a lot of coffee. Lorna moved about the room, touching this, fiddling with that, trying not to break the train of his thoughts. She had recovered from the shock after Patandi’s death, and was probably resigned to the fact that nothing would take Mannering away.
“Like the son of the Maharajah?” Mannering asked her.
“I haven’t seen much of him,” said Lorna. “He looks like an immaculate Frenchman with a dark skin. All gallantry, polish and sang-froid. He talks in perfect English to me and in French to Shani.”
“Age?”
“It’s always difficult to tell. Twenty-three or four, perhaps a year or two older.”
“And I suppose they knew each other. Shani and the son of the Maharajah, I mean. What’s his name, my sweet?” He finished his third cup of coffee, leaned back on the pillows and enjoyed looking at Lorna as she sat on the hide-covered pouf, hugging her knees, her head raised, and the wind from the fan ruffling her hair.
“Oh, they’ve met before. And his name’s Jagat. J-A-G-A-T, I think.”
Mannering murmured: “Could there be romance?”
“If they were English I’d make a guess, but I’m not going to try. They hide their feelings so well. The trouble is that they all look as if they have no feeling. What made you ask?”
“A leakage at the Maharajah’s palace and a leakage here,” said Mannering. “Still faithful to the innocence of Shani?”
Lorna considered him almost with distaste.
“Of course I am. But I know I shouldn’t be.”
Mannering laughed, and a streak of pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes, heard a sound at the door, and then a murmuring. He opened his eyes a little. Joseph, with a black eye and a cut on his right cheek which looked angry and sore, was holding the door as a white man of medium height, inclined to plumpness, grey-haired and wearing glasses with thick lenses, came in breezily. He carried a brown bag. The door closed as Lorna stood up.
“Well, now, how is der invalid?” The newcomer had an accent. “Not so bad, eh?” He rubbed his hands together and smiled. He wasn’t good-looking, but he had a certain bre
ezy charm. His nose was rather too small for the rest of his face, giving him a slightly comical look. He held out his right hand. “I am Dr. Weiner. How are you, how are you?” He sat on the side of the bed and opened his case, then shook hands as if by an afterthought. “What a wonderful old man your host is, eh? Any other man of his age would be dead. Do you know how old he iss? Eighty-three. Yes, eighty-three. Kidnapped from his own car in a dark street, injured, and now sitting up and giving orders already. Isn’t it wonderful? Now just undo der top buttons.” His cool fingers had felt Mannering’s pulse; he took out his stethoscope. “Now just keep quiet a minute while I see how near der grave you are.” He beamed; he had small, very white teeth. “Just keep quiet.” The metal top of the stethoscope wasn’t really cold. “Ah, that’s all right. You married an ox, Mrs. Mannering. Constitutionally, I mean – don’t misunderstand me!” His accent and his manner made everything attractive. “No need to look at the head, I don’t think. It will be all right if it is dressed again tomorrow. Bed, today, if you’re a wise man, and if you’re not, don’t go running about. Now, tell me, what happened?”
Lorna said: “Dr. Weiner is a family friend of Phiro’s, John.”
“Ach, yes, for generations,” said Weiner. “Without me, the old man wouldn’t have had one of his children!” He roared with laughter. “But I must be serious.” A frown wrinkled his brow alarmingly. “It is a ver’ sad story. Phiroshah was proud of his children, and they were good children. Yusuf and Ali, especially. He had three favourites, now only Shani. When you help him, you help a good man.”
“That’s how it seemed to me,” said Mannering.
