by John Creasey
“I told dear Chitty I was sure you wouldn’t ask me here unless it was very confidential.”
“It certainly is,” said Mannering.
“Any minute now you’re going to say ‘off the record’, you naughty man!”
“Off the record only for a short while,” Mannering assured her. “I know I can rely on you.”
“I should be utterly desolated if I thought you thought you couldn’t!” Dottie drew nearer, fluttered her fingers at Lorna, to draw her closer, and asked conspiratorially: “Was it the blonde?”
“Blonde?” ejaculated Mannering.
“The blonde beauty who came on board late.”
“Was there one?”
“Are you after a blonde, Mr. Mannering?”
“I thought she would have dyed her hair before coming aboard.”
“Oh, my dear man!” Dottie glanced at Lorna as if to ask: “How naïve can the male sex be?” She leaned even closer and he could feel her breath on his cheek. “She was dyed.”
“Oh,” said Mannering.
“About five feet seven, beautifully sexed, so vitally statisticated to coin a word, and so very anxious to find out whether she had been followed. Is that the woman you’re after, Mr. Mannering?”
“It sounds very much like her,” Mannering felt excitement racing.
“From the moment dear Chitty told me you were interested I found myself thinking of Melody Yesling,” declared Dottie. She thrust two bony fingers down the V of her dress and drew out several folded sheets of paper. As she unrolled these she went on conspiratorially: “Here is the passenger list. Melody Yesling booked only yesterday, and she was very lucky to get a single cabin. Isn’t that interesting? Above everything else she had to have a cabin to herself, and by great and good fortune the Maharajah of Somewhere cancelled at the last moment, some marital problem or other, and so she took his, at great expense.
“Could she possibly be a kind of Mata Hari of the smuggling world, Mr. Mannering? Do say she could.”
Dottie Mills had gone, gushing to the last, outwardly convinced that she was on the inside of a story of diamond smuggling, and outwardly completely assured that in due time Mannering would make sure she had a scoop. Mannering and Lorna were thoughtful over dinner, while Mannering filled in the details. They had coffee in the drawing-room, where Lorna took up her favourite position on the pouffe, and sat close to Mannering’s side.
“There isn’t any certainty that the blonde took the mask on board, is there?” Lorna asked.
“None at all. But presumably she would want it out of the country as soon as possible.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Where does the East Africa Star call?”
“First stop, Gibraltar,” Mannering answered. “After that Port Said, Aden, Mombasa, Dar es Salaam, and places south.”
“So she could take the mask off at any one of those ports.”
“Yes,” agreed Mannering, grimly.
Lorna said: “Darling, why has this come to mean so much to you?”
“Are you sure it has?”
“I know the look in your eyes,” Lorna said. “Is it because of Nikko Toji?”
“It’s because Toji believed the blonde was my messenger, and he died because of his trust in me.” That was the simple truth and his depth of feeling robbed the words of any pomposity.
Lorna was looking straight up into his eyes.
“It’s a waste of time telling you that it isn’t your fault by any stretch of the imagination,” she said. “Oh, how I love you!”
The passion in her voice took him completely by surprise. Suddenly, they were hugging each other, the years rolling back to the early days of their life together. Mannering knew exactly what had passed through Lorna’s mind; a flash of the past, when an incident like that of Toji’s death would lead him, Mannering, out of a happy and secure daily life into a danger which could bring death.
Lorna freed herself.
“I know I’m a goose,” she said. “No, don’t say anything.” She pressed her hands against her thick black hair. “Do you really think that Dottie’s Melody Yesling is the blonde of the taxi?”
“Don’t you think it’s likely?”
“I suppose so,” Lorna admitted. Dottie had described how the woman had arrived only half-an-hour before the ship had sailed, carrying one suitcase. Dottie ‘had happened’ to notice her; Dottie’s nose was even longer metaphorically than it was physically, and she missed nothing. Her description of the way the last-minute passenger had watched the gangway and the quayside had been very vivid. “Yes,” went on Lorna, “I expect it was the same girl. What are you going to do? You know the obvious thing, don’t you?”
“Tell Bristow.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve left it late,” said Mannering.
“There’s still time to tell him. The police could have Melody Yesling questioned at Gibraltar.”
“There’s always a chance she was eloping, and afraid her father was on her trail,” said Mannering lightly. “I don’t want to send Bristow haring after the wrong woman. Besides—”
Lorna drew in her breath. “Yes?”
“Bristow thinks that Toji committed suicide,” Mannering said. “I can’t really believe it, and his own daughter doesn’t. I think we ought to wait until Pearl Toji arrives. The East Africa Star won’t be at Gibraltar until Tuesday. There’ll be plenty of time to fly to the Rock and check up on Melody Yesling after I’ve talked to Pearl. There’s one peculiarity,” he added. “The blonde gave her name as Yates, and there aren’t many people whose name begins with Y. I wonder how she signed that register?”
He rang the Compton Hotel, and spoke to the grey-haired Smith.
“She signed as Miss Mary Yates,” Smith insisted. “I assure you I had no idea at all that it wasn’t her real name. The initials were on her travelling case – I actually saw that myself as it stood on the dressing-table.”
“That clinches it,” said Mannering to Lorna, when he rang off. “The label wasn’t stuck on properly and fell off behind the dressing-table. Mary Yates and Melody Yesling are one and the same person.”
“Do you think she took the Mask of Sumi with her?”
“It’s the most likely reason for her sailing,” Mannering said. “The real question is whether she knows where the other jewels are.”
Chapter Five
ALIAS MARY YATES
Melody Yesling, alias Mary Yates, sat in her cabin on board the S.S. East Africa Star as it neared Gibraltar on the following Tuesday, and stared at the incredible beauty of the mask on the dressing-table. The beauty was beyond question, yet there was something quite repellent about it.
It was a mask and yet there was something almost human in the set of the features.
Or something sub-human.
She did not touch it, just stared as if fascinated. It was in the shape of a round human face, with sockets for the eyes and a slash for the mouth; there was no opening for the nose, only a kind of protuberance in which the nose would fit.
The mouth opening was lined, at both top and bottom lip, with rubies. They glistened in the dressing-table light like blood. The eye-sockets were encrusted with emeralds, and in the centre of the brow was a big diamond, shimmering and glistening. The ears were made of some semi-precious stone which Melody did not recognise. Little clusters of rubies and sapphires covered the cheeks, and on the chin, like a clipped beard, was gold worked so beautifully that it looked almost like a man’s hair.
The mask had affected the woman strangely from the moment she had first seen it – after she had left the hotel in Bayswater. That had happened so long ago that it was like something in a dream and only partly remembered. At the time there had been the excitement of danger and the elation of success, but now she hardly remembered the face of the little O
riental whom she had fooled so successfully.
Someone passed outside the window.
The cabin was on A Deck, and there was a promenade walk all around here, used mainly by Tourist class passengers. The window had plain glass on one side and a frosted glass shutter on the inside; this was closed and fastened. It was very hot in the cabin despite the air from the louvres, the whirring fan, and the vents of the shutter.
A man was saying: “And I said to him, he ought to come and spend a year in Kenya. He’d soon change his tune.”
“It’s a waste of time arguing with them. They don’t understand.”
The voices and the footsteps died away.
Melody looked away from the mask into the mirror. She was shocked by her own pallor. It was absurd, but the mask had that effect on her. She hated it already. It seemed touched with malevolence and evil. She told herself that this was her own ridiculous way of seeing it; no inanimate thing could be malevolent.
She glanced down and it seemed as if a living face was glaring up at her. She gave a little shiver, picked up a sandalwood box which was very light, and opened it. The mask fitted inside, face downwards. Some kind of spongy material lined the oval-shaped hole in which it sat. She picked it up gingerly, for she had been afraid of dropping it ever since she had brought it away from the Compton Hotel. She placed it into its receptacle carefully, and closed the lid. Almost at once she felt better.
“I need a drink!” she exclaimed, and rang for her steward.
While waiting for him, she thought over all that had led up to this. She worked for an obscure jewel merchant who specialised in Oriental jewellery – a man named Harding, Jimmy Harding. She wasn’t exactly in love with Jimmy but that hadn’t stopped them from having an on-off kind of affair for over a year. She had learned that he dealt in stolen jewellery, and the realisation had shocked her at first, but gradually she had come to accept it. She had lost count of the number of pieces of jewellery she had sold to unsuspecting people, usually visitors to London. It was quite easy: a casual acquaintance, talk of jewellery, talk of a bargain—
Melody had become very skilled at the business.
When Jimmy had told her about Toji, she had not been greatly worried. Someone whom Jimmy knew in Bangkok had sent the coded cable with the information, and Jimmy had been sure it was reliable. She had to meet Toji, say she was Mannering’s confidential secretary, and take the jeweller to the Compton Hotel where, she knew, Jimmy had booked a room under the name of Mannering. Jimmy had seen to everything: her ticket to Gibraltar, a hotel for a night, then a flight home unless she received other instructions at Gibraltar.
The first thing she had not bargained for was the death of Toji. Why had the old fool had to kill himself? It had shocked her badly when someone had talked about that at dinner; one of her seven table companions who had heard about Toji’s death on the radio.
The second thing she had not bargained for was the effect of the mask on her. Even in its beautifully smooth and perfectly-made box, it seemed to leer.
“Nonsense!” she said aloud.
A moment later there was a tap at the door and the steward, small and dark-skinned, came in with her drink. She smiled at him as she always smiled at men. When he had gone she drank half the whisky in one gulp, then sipped the rest slowly. She felt tired. She had been up too late last night, dancing with Jimmy.
A tall, blond man going back to his farm in Kenya would have taken her to his cabin if she had given him the slightest encouragement. She was almost sorry that she hadn’t felt in the mood.
She yawned.
Perhaps half-an-hour’s sleep would do her good.
She slipped out of her cotton dress, a pattern of sunflowers on green, and stood for a moment looking at her reflection in the mirror. She certainly had a figure which the Kenya farmer hadn’t missed. She loosened her brassiere, pictured the blond farmer, smiled, yawned, and got on the bed.
Soon, she was asleep.
Soon, she was dead.
The door of Melody Yesling’s cabin opened. A man appeared, looking round the door. He was short and olive-skinned, and wore a dark serge suit, rather like a cabin boy’s. He peered round the door and saw the recumbent figure of the girl. He came in, closed the door, and locked it. He moved to her side and felt her pulse; his sharp-featured face was expressionless. He nodded, then took out a small cardboard pill-box. He handled this with great care, placing it between the dead girl’s thumb and forefinger. He made two or three different impressions this way, then took the box – careful to hold it by the edges. He opened the girl’s handbag and dropped the box inside.
Next, he picked up the sandalwood box, opened it, took out the mask and stared at it. For the first time, he showed some expression; he smiled. Then he wrapped the box up in a sheet of brown paper and tucked it under his arm.
Mannering stood near the Moorish Castle on Gibraltar, looking out to sea. Along a steep, narrow road to his right was a road leading to the old galleries, where Gibraltar had withstood the sieges of old wars, and had added each time another powerful reason why the Rock should be forever British. In front of Mannering the tower of the Moorish Castle, built a thousand years before the British had arrived, might by the same token argue that the Moors should hold the Rock this very day.
Mannering wasn’t thinking of any of these things; he was watching the open sea. Several vessels seemed to float on a faint blue haze which rose off the water. One, larger than the rest, was a single-funnelled vessel, with good lines but a very large black and white funnel. The hull was painted white. This was the East Africa Star. He judged that it would be half-an-hour before the vessel lay to, and perhaps an hour and a half before the tender brought the passengers ashore, some to stay, some to spend a few hours ashore before hurrying to the ship for the next stage in their voyage.
Mannering turned round to his taxi. The driver was standing by it, a short, burly man in a sky-blue shirt and khaki trousers.
“You want to see St. Michael’s Cave, now, mister?”
“Later,” said Mannering. “Take me to the Rock Hotel, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The taxi man beamed. “St. Michael’s Cave is very big. Whole operas play there. You should see it.”
“Later,” Mannering insisted firmly.
He stepped out of the taxi ten minutes later. Men were working on the Rock Hotel, and half-a-dozen were squatting, hammering and banging. Beyond these, two couples were sitting and drinking on a pleasant terrace. Mannering went into the cool, modern hotel, and asked the receptionist: “Is there any message for me, please?”
“Yes, Mr. Mannering. Your wife telephoned. She will call you again at eleven o’clock. She said it is a very urgent matter.” The receptionist leaned forward. “There is much excitement on Gibraltar today, Mr. Mannering.”
“Is there?”
“There is some reason to think a criminal is on board the East Africa Star,” the receptionist declared in a hushed voice. “The police are to meet the ship. No one may bring anything off without it being examined. Customs will be very strict.”
“Oh,” said Mannering. “I wonder what that’s all about.”
He went up to his room, uneasy as he had been from the beginning of this case. He had flown in the previous evening, and the Public Relations officer of the Government of Gibraltar had arranged the room for him here and given him every facility.
“If there is anything else I can do just tell me,” he had said. “If it’s possible, I’ll fix it.”
Mannering stepped to the window. He could not see the ship from here but he could see the bay, and some of the harbour installations. An aeroplane seemed to catapult past his window. He was wondering what the police were after and telling himself it could not be anything to do with Melody Yesling when his telephone bell rang.
“A call from London for you, Mr. Manneri
ng.
There was a pause. Then: “Is that you, John?” It was Lorna.
“Hallo, my sweet!”
“John, have you heard?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“They know the girl’s on the East Africa Star!”
“Who knows?” asked Mannering.
“Bristow and the police,” said Lorna. “Bristow telephoned to ask where you were. He said they had traced the blonde, a Melody Yesling who called herself Mary Yates, to the ship, and were going to pick her up at Gibraltar.”
“Well, well!” said Mannering softly.
“You don’t seem very excited.”
“I’m being wise after the event,” said Mannering. “If I’d told Bristow about that label I’d be in his good books. Did you tell him where I was?”
“No.”
“He’ll probably find out,” Mannering said. “But don’t let him find out from you. How is Pearl Toji?”
“She seems very well,” Lorna said. “I don’t really know what’s going on behind those sad eyes of hers, but I think she’s content to stay here until you get back. She’s had two visits from Consular officials. They’re taking it very seriously. Have you read Larraby’s notes on Sumi?”
“I know them backwards,” Mannering said.
“As far as I can judge they give you the reasons why everyone is so worried,” Lorna said.
“Did Bristow say anything else?” asked Mannering.
“He’s sent Chief Inspector Gordon to Gibraltar with a photograph of the blonde,” Lorna said. “Darling, try not to get too deeply involved too soon. If it is a political matter you’ll be in trouble.”
“You mean I’ll be out of my depth,” Mannering said drily. “It looks as if Gordon will pick up the girl and the mask here, and that will be that. Don’t worry, my sweet.”
When he rang off he had a real feeling of deep dissatisfaction, almost of frustration, which he could not shrug off. He thought over Larraby’s notes on the situation in Sumi. That tiny kingdom had become a republic only a year ago – and the operation had been so trivial by normal standards that no one had taken much interest in it. Sumi, however, was in an important strategic position in the Laos–Thailand part of the world. There were reports that some of Prince Asri’s family were not really democratic and wanted the dynasty to be revived. Asri himself appeared to be a sincere democrat but this did not make him popular with his family.
