by John Creasey
“The Prince is well known for his democratic principles,” the Consul said. “He could safely be entrusted with such a delicate mission. However, his wife, Princess Kana, persuaded him to work through Mr. Toji, whose reputation for integrity is rivalled only by his knowledge. The Princess had worked with Mr. Toji before and knew how fully he could be trusted. Now my Government feels that it owes the Government of Sumi a great debt. We wish to repay it by finding the crown jewels.”
Mannering said sharply: “Don’t you mean the Mask of Sumi?”
The Consul said gravely: “It is now known that all the jewels are missing, not only the mask. You see how great is our moral obligation?”
After a long pause, Mannering said: “I do indeed.”
“And you will help?”
“In every way I can,” promised Mannering.
“I am most grateful.” The Consul shook hands again, bowed, and allowed Bristow to usher him into the arms of a detective inspector, who took him away.
Mannering looked at Bristow and said flatly: “Did you know about the rest of the jewels?”
“Only from the Consulate,” said Bristow. “That’s what makes the problem so acute. It’s a lot of money for a tiny independent country, and it could make the difference between economic prosperity and disaster. You know what the Consul thinks, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That Toji knew where the jewels were, and told you before he killed himself out of shame at being robbed of the mask.”
“It’s possible,” Mannering conceded. “But it isn’t right, Bill. I know exactly what I’ve told you and no more. Have you any clues at all?”
“No.”
“No known fingerprints?”
“Nothing. The blonde who called herself Yates has vanished. She might now be a red-head, a brunette, or an ash-blonde, and be anywhere in London. Have you any ideas?” Bristow asked, in turn.
“Not yet,” Mannering said, grimly.
That was really the moment when he decided to keep the matter of the British India Line label to himself. Bristow hadn’t specifically warned him not to investigate on his own. There was little doubt that the Yard man expected him to. Probably Bristow felt that it would be virtually impossible for Mannering to resist the temptation of going after the missing jewels himself. Certainly he would know that if any of them came on the market, Mannering was likely to find out, for the trade had a remarkable information system.
“If you hear anything at all about it, let me know at once, won’t you?” Bristow said. “Whether you hear of anyone who wants to sell it, or to buy it?”
“I will,” promised Mannering.
He left the Yard about half past four, and took a taxi straight to Quinns. Two people were standing admiring the beautiful wrought silver table in the window. They gazed with rapt attention, without saying a word. Mannering went in. Larraby stood at one side of the long, narrow shop, with a brilliant light shining on a piece of early Babylonian corsage jewellery. A bald-headed man was studying this through a watchmaker’s glass.
There were several messages in the office, but none about the Thai affair. One note was from the dealer who wanted the Genoese table.
“I will meet your price subject to a discount of five per cent.”
Mannering scribbled over this: “Settle for three and three quarters per cent” and put the papers aside. He picked up The Times and scanned the Shipping arrivals and departures column.
He read:
S.S. East Africa, London to Durban, 12 noon.
He ran his finger down the list of “British” in the telephone directory, found British India Steam Navigation Company Limited, and dialled the number at its offices in Aldgate. A girl answered.
“I think the East Africa Star sailed on time, sir. Hold on and I’ll make sure.”
Mannering held on for a few seconds until a man spoke.
“What was your enquiry about the East Africa Star, sir?”
“Did she leave on time?”
“She left at one o’clock.”
“Do you know if any intending passengers missed the ship?”
“No, sir, not to my knowledge. I think I would have known by now if anyone had.”
“Where’s the first port of call?” asked Mannering.
“Gibraltar, at ten o’clock on Monday – four days from now.”
“Thank you very much,” Mannering said.
He rang off and took out the B.I. label, fingering it very carefully. He put a book along one side and a heavy ruler on the other to hold it straight, and then took a tin of powder from the bottom drawer of his desk. It was a grey dusting powder. He sprinkled some of this over the yellow label, and blew gently. Most of the powder disappeared, but in several places it clung, until well-defined fingerprints showed up. Mannering took out a magnifying glass, and the photographs of the prints filched from Bristow’s office.
His heart began to beat very fast.
The loops and whorls of two sets of prints were identical. The two marked female were absolutely identical with two of the prints on the label.
“That might mean that our blonde is on that boat,” Mannering said aloud. “I wish I knew how to be sure.” He lifted the telephone again and dialled the British India Line.
“I want to find out if a friend of mine caught the East Africa Star today,” he said. “Is it possible to see a copy of the sailing list?”
“If you care to give us the name of the passenger and which class, sir, I can tell you.”
“Yates, Miss,” replied Mannering promptly. “And I imagine first class.”
There was a pause.
“No, sir, we’ve no passenger named Yates about. There’s a Mr. and Mrs. Gates and three children, and Sir Archibald Bates, but no Yates. Are you sure it was the East Africa Star?’’
“Yes,” said Mannering. “Thank you for your trouble.”
He was annoyed with himself because he had given the passenger’s name. This affair had caught him on the wrong foot. He pondered for five minutes, then called the Daily Globe and asked for the Reporters’ Room.
“Mr. Chittering, please.”
“Hold on.” There was a clatter of typewriters and a chatter of voices which seemed to last for a long time before a man said briskly: “Who is it?”
“Mannering,” announced Mannering.
“What?” Chittering’s tone changed. “The great John himself?”
“Just John,” said Mannering drily.
“What can I do for you?” Chittering, an able man, was invariably affable with Mannering.
“Get me a list of passengers on the East Africa Star, which left London for Durban this morning.”
“That’s easy,” said Chittering. “A couple of sheiks from the Aden Protectorate were on board. There was quite a party. What do you want the list for?”
“I’m looking for a certain party.”
“I don’t mind a joke but I can’t stand a pun,” said Chittering. “I’ll get the list for you and put it in the post.”
“Can I collect it?” asked Mannering.
“So it’s urgent,” said Chittering slyly. “Who are you looking for?”
“A blonde beauty.”
“You’ll have me believing you in a minute. Is there a story in this?”
“There could be,” said Mannering. “Who covered the sheiks for you?”
“Reggie Frost and Dottie Mills,” said Chittering. “Reggie’s gone up to Scotland but Dottie is around. Shall I ask her to bring you the passenger list? Then she can worm the whole story out of you.”
“If she’ll come to my flat about half past six she can worm a drink out of me,” Mannering said. “Thanks, Chitty.” He rang off, and pondered for a few minutes; he would have to have some kind of
story for Dottie Mills, preferably one which would make her remember any blonde whom she might have noticed on board. As Bristow had said, the blonde who had lured Toji to his death might have dyed her hair by now; but Dottie had a remarkable nose for news, and would have noticed anyone the slightest degree out of the ordinary.
He sent for Larraby, and told him what had happened. Then: “The police want to know if there could have been a leakage of information about what Toji had with him. A leakage from us, I mean.”
“I don’t think there is the slightest possibility,” Larraby said. He looked rather like the grandfather of all cherubs, although just now there was nothing seraphic about his expression; obviously he was troubled. “Certainly I told no one.”
“Could anyone have overheard us talking?”
“Do you mean among the staff?”
“Anyone at all.”
“I feel quite sure that the staff is utterly discreet,” said Larraby. “Paterson is quite new, of course, but I should think irreproachable. The story is bound to appear in the evening newspapers,” went on Larraby. “I should be able to find out from their comments if any of the staff had any idea that Toji was on his way to see us.”
“Let me know as soon as you can,” urged Mannering. “And try to find out from the Far Eastern News Agency what you can about the Asri Dynasty and the political situation in Sumi.”
“Very good,” said Larraby.
Mannering signed some letters, telephoned to close the deal for the Genoese table, and stepped to the door as his telephone bell rang. Almost simultaneously the office door opened on Larraby. Mannering went to the telephone, watching his man, who carried a copy of the Evening News. Larraby pointed to a headline which Mannering could not read, and shook his head. Mannering nodded, and lifted the telephone.
“Mannering.”
“John, has your inquiry for the passenger list anything to do with the Thai jeweller who was found dead in a Bayswater hotel this morning?” demanded Chittering.
“Not a thing,” Mannering said promptly. “There might be a woman on board the East Africa Star who brought in some diamonds when she shouldn’t. I’m a long way from certain and if a whisper of it gets into the Globe you could have a big action for libel on your hands. But if Dottie will help me, then I’ll do what I can for you both if anything breaks.”
“You can’t say fairer than that,” conceded Chittering. “Thanks, John.”
Mannering felt that he had lied in a good cause, and now knew exactly what line to take with the woman reporter. He tidied his desk, left Larraby to lock up, and went to a small car park where he kept his Bentley. He drove through rush-hour traffic and reached Chelsea, where he lived, just before six o’clock. His flat was at the top of one of three old buildings, the only ones left out of what had once been a handsome terrace. New flats in small, rectangular blocks were on either side of the three houses. He had room to park his car, went in and waited for the small lift which had been installed fairly recently. As it crawled upwards he thought he heard a woman call out. As it stopped and the gates opened automatically, Lorna – his wife – appeared.
“John, hurry!” she exclaimed. “There’s a call for you from Bangkok.”
Chapter Four
CALL FOR HELP
Mannering squeezed Lorna’s hand as he passed her and went into the flat. The door of his study was wide open, and he saw the telephone receiver off its cradle. He picked it up quickly.
“Hallo.”
“Mr. John Mannering?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“I have a call for you from Bangkok, Thailand. Hold on, please.”
“I’ll hold on.”
The usual buzzings on the line followed. Lorna came in and sat on a pouffe near Mannering. She moved with unusual grace for a tall woman, was still raven-haired, had a near-perfect complexion. In repose her heavy eyebrows gave her an almost sullen look, but any kind of animation drove that away. Now her clear grey eyes were bright, and her lips were parted so that he could just glimpse her teeth.
“Is it about Nikko Toji?”
“I expect so.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It will be.”
“Mr. Mannering?” A woman’s voice sounded carrying a lilt which certainly wasn’t English.
“Speaking.”
“One moment, please. Miss Toji wishes to speak to you.”
Toji’s daughter, Mannering mouthed to Lorna. He glanced at her. She stood up and went to a carved Jacobean court cupboard where they kept the drinks. She took out whisky, a syphon of soda, and some gin.
“Mr. Mannering, this is Pearl Toji,” a woman said in good English which had a noticeable American accent. “Will you please tell me, did you see my father before he died?”
Mannering wished he could see the girl’s face, or that there was some way in which he could make her feel his sympathy. This young woman was so far away, and it was difficult to talk naturally over the telephone anyhow.
“I saw him for a few moments,” he said.
“Did he speak to you, please?” She was very eager.
“No, I’m sorry to say. He had no chance to.”
Disappointment replaced the eagerness in Pearl Toji’s voice. There was a pause before she said: “You mean you had no word with him?”
“None at all.”
“Mr. Mannering, he told me everything that he was going to talk to you about. Will you see me if I come straight to London?”
“Of course,” promised Mannering.
“Thank you. I will be there the day after tomorrow,” she said simply. “There is one other thing now.”
“If there is anything at all I can do to help—” began Mannering.
“There is one thing,” Pearl Toji repeated almost fiercely. “You can believe that my father did not kill himself. I do not care what anyone says – the police, the Consul, the newspapers – anyone. I want you to find out who killed him, Mr. Mannering. That above all other things.”
Very slowly and deliberately, Mannering said: “If I can, I certainly will.”
“Thank you,” said the dead man’s daughter. “Thank you very much. My father had the highest regard and trust for you. Always,” she added, and her voice seemed to fade. “Goodbye.”
The line went dead.
Mannering seemed to hear her voice still in his ears. He replaced the receiver slowly, only just aware of Lorna moving about. He was in a different world – a world filled with that Thai girl’s voice.
Lorna handed him a glass, without a word. He looked at it blankly at first, and then took it. He sipped, and the taste of the whisky seemed to release him from the spell which the girl had woven.
Mechanically, he said: “Cheers.”
“Is she coming here?” asked Lorna.
“Yes.”
“What does she want you to do?”
Mannering said: “Find her father’s murderer.” He tossed the drink down, put the glass on a table, and went to Lorna and slid his arms round her. “Hallo, my sweet!” He kissed her and held her very tight for a moment or two, then set her away from him. He became brisk and alert. “Dottie Mills of the Globe will be here any minute, and she drinks like a fish. Do you want to put any make-up on?”
“Not for Dottie,” Lorna said. “Why is she coming?”
“Stand by and you’ll hear it all,” Mannering said. “Stall her for five minutes if she comes before I’m ready, will you?”
He went into the bathroom, washed briskly in cold water, then went into the long and lovely drawing-room. The décor was pale blue and grey, and the room was filled with Regency pieces each selected with an expert’s eye. Over the mantelpiece was a head and shoulders portrait of a cavalier. People coming in to this room for the first time were always startled,
for the handsome face, the curve of the lips, the very air of the cavalier were the image of Mannering, as if it were a portrait of Mannering in costume.
That was exactly what it was, a portrait painted by Lorna, who was one of the best known portrait painters in England.
Mannering sat back in an armchair, his eyes closed, trying to think clearly and to decide exactly what he wanted to find out from Dottie Mills, and also trying to decide whether to tell her the truth or not. In some ways that might pay dividends, but if there was even a rumour in the Press that he thought that someone involved in the theft was on board the East Africa Star it could be disastrous. He decided to keep up the pretence that he was interested in a diamond smuggler.
The front door bell rang.
“Why, Mrs. Mannering, how delightful to see you again. We haven’t met since your simply superb exhibition at the Tate, have we? Absolutely divine, and if you don’t mind me saying so I think your work is actually getting better. How do you improve on the best, though? Is your husband in? He told Chitty that he thinks he is on the trail of some wicked smugglers. I do hope he is!”
She went on and on until her voice was cut off by the closing of a door.
Mannering gave her five minutes alone with Lorna, then went into the study.
No one quite knew very much about Dottie Mills. She jumped up from an oak settle as Mannering entered; it was like a spring uncoiling after severe contraction. She was immensely tall, angular, bony, and breezy. She must be fifty but wore a girlish short-skirted dress which fitted her so tightly that every movement seemed a shimmy. Her little breasts poked out like two tennis balls, making her almost ludicrous. She had a big mouth, big teeth, and a hooked nose.
And she gushed.
She took Mannering’s hand and held it tightly in cold, bony fingers.
“Mr. Mannering, how wonderful you look.” She was taller than he, but bent her knees so that she could stare up, as if adoringly, into his face. “And how delightful Mrs. Mannering is, as always. I really cannot tell you how grateful—”
She went on like that for several minutes, between sips of her drink. The glass empty, she gushed.
