by John Creasey
Mannering said: “Where is Thomas?”
“He’s got three cabs – he’s out in one and there’s this one and another, all on the look-out.”
“Note the name of this street and the robe that chap’s wearing,” Mannering said. “And in ten or fifteen minutes try to be back here with Thomas and anyone else who will take a chance.”
“A chance of what?”
“A knife in his back.”
“They’ll all come,” Joslyn said. “How about you?”
Mannering said in a louder voice: “I’m all right. You get back to the ship and report that Pearl’s missing.”
He winked.
Joslyn glanced at the Arab, and said: “I get you. Be careful.”
Mannering waited until the taxi had gone, and turned back to the Egyptian.
“Where is the Oriental girl?”
“English gentleman come with me, please.” The man turned to one of the doorways, and Mannering thought: “Thomas’s chaps won’t have any trouble finding this.” It was dark and cool. He followed the man along a narrow passage, and then through a doorway into another street.
“What’s this?” Mannering demanded.
“Special exhibition with Oriental lady in different place near Gibson Market,” the man said. “Car waiting.”
It was another of the big old American cars: a Buick. A driver was at the wheel. Mannering hesitated, then got in at the back. The man who had led him here stayed on the pavement. Mannering leaned back in the sweltering heat of the car, with the sun already burning hot.
The car went rattling along, hooting at every corner and at everyone who stepped off the pavement. The streets were crowded. Fruit sellers were serving boys and women, some wearing short-sleeved, knee-length dresses, some wearing black, with their yashmaks showing only their eyes. The stench from some side streets was revolting.
Mannering gave up trying to see where they were going. The vital factor seemed to be that they were taking so much trouble that it was unlikely they planned to kill him.
The car swung round a corner, horn blaring, and jolted to a standstill. The driver got out and opened Mannering’s door.
“This way, please.”
The stench of rotting vegetables and a heap of putrefied meat from tiny shops almost made Mannering sick.
Half-a-dozen small boys were kicking at a rotting melon. A silent row of women in black which covered them from head to foot, showing only their eyes, sat on the kerb by a bus stop.
There was a narrow turning between tall, narrow houses, which looked as if the walls would cave in. The windows were shuttered, the pathway of bare earth trodden by countless feet to an uneven, concrete-like hardness. Mannering’s guide led him along here. It seemed a perfect place for murder, but such a trail would be too easy for the police to follow.
The man pushed open a door studded with brass which hadn’t been cleaned for years, and edged with intricate carving which had dried out to a drab browny-grey. Mannering, heart in mouth, stepped inside. The cool, dark passage beyond was clean and fresh-smelling. An archway led into a small courtyard where a fountain played, the water crystal clear. No one was here but it was blessedly cool.
The man led him through another archway, and into a high ceilinged room. Along one wall was a couch, and on the couch lay Pearl.
She was wearing a simple yellow dress, with three-quarter sleeves and a split skirt. She lay at full length on her back, her hands by her sides. She wore no shoes. Mannering went slowly towards her, and stared down. It was a long time before he could be absolutely sure that her bosom was rising and falling.
Mannering looked round for the guide, but he had gone.
The room was beautifully cool, barely furnished, with a Persian carpet in the middle, of rich but subdued colours.
Mannering knelt on one knee beside the girl.
“Pearl,” he whispered.
She did not stir.
“Pearl!” He raised his voice, but she did not stir.
He took her arm and raised it.
“Pearl, wake up!”
Her arm was limp.
He shook her shoulder vigorously.
“Pearl, you must wake up!”
A man said from behind him:”She is sleeping too deeply, Mr. Mannering.”
Mannering stood up and turned round slowly. A small man wearing a red fez but dressed in a pale brown Western suit which was perfectly tailored, was standing in the arched doorway. He had a droll Punch-like face, the full lips turned down at the corners, and heavy eyelids looked so weighed down by wrinkled flesh that he could not open his eyes fully. Even half-closed, they seemed enormous.
“You mean she is drugged,” Mannering said.
The man spread his arms.
“That is so.”
“Who drugged her?”
“I did.”
“Kidnapping and administering drugs,” Mannering said. “The police will like that.”
“Mr. Mannering, even in the New Egypt there are ways to satisfy the police.”
“Not for long,” Mannering said.
“For long enough,” declared the small man.
“Mr. Mannering, you have caused a great deal of trouble, and you have been very lucky. Your luck cannot last forever.”
“But the trouble I cause might last for long enough,” said Mannering tartly.
“I doubt that very much. However, I am here to make an arrangement with you – a sensible arrangement by which there need be no more trouble.”
“I don’t think I want to come to an arrangement with you.”
“For that young woman’s sake you would be wise to listen,” the man insisted. “It is very simple. Take her back to England, Mr. Mannering. The Himalaya of the P&O line is in the Canal now and will be calling here to take on water. There is ample accommodation on her for you and Miss Toji. Take her on it and forget the Mask of Sumi and the other jewels. That is all I ask.”
Mannering said: “I don’t think we can work together.”
“I do not understand you.”
“I don’t react well to threats at the best of times,” Mannering said. “And I don’t like being attacked and being framed without making the bad man pay for his sins.”
“The attacks would have saved us much trouble had one of them been successful,” the man said bluntly. “However, we are discussing the situation as it is now. I will give you your ticket, two hundred and fifty pounds for your expenses on board, and promise you a safe return to England. They are very attractive terms, Mr. Mannering, and should enable you to swallow your pride.”
“Yes, shouldn’t they?” Mannering conceded.
If this man really meant what he said, and there was no reason to doubt it, he was saying that the jewels were still aboard the East Africa Star. Mannering’s mind began to work quickly. He could accept the offer, take Pearl on the Himalaya, and fly on to Aden to rejoin the East Africa Star there. There should just be time. Or he could pretend to accept the offer, but he did not think this little man would be easily deceived.
He said: “No thanks.”
“Mr. Mannering, she is a very lovely young woman.”
Something in the tone carried menace. So did the glance he gave to Pearl. Mannering looked towards her. The word which came to his mind was virginal.
“Don’t harm her,” Mannering said levelly.
“You have her future in your hands,” the Egyptian declared. “You know the North African coast, I am sure. You know what distractions sailors and tourists need. You know how quickly a beautiful young woman can age in such circumstances.”
Mannering’s fists were clenching.
There was something unspeakably evil in the implication of what this man was saying; it was like a spit of malevolen
ce coming out of a bygone age. Mannering could have broken his neck.
The man went on: “Don’t be rash, Mr. Mannering. You would never live to get back to the East Africa Star if you attacked me. Look towards your right.”
Mannering said: “You won’t kill me now, or you wouldn’t have gone to this trouble to get me here.”
“Don’t deceive yourself,” the Egyptian said softly. “Don’t lay a hand upon me, Mannering. If it is necessary I will kill you.”
Alarm rang in his voice, and he shot a glance towards his left. Mannering saw another man standing there, an Arab in a long pearl-grey robe, with his right hand raised and a knife in it.
Mannering said: “You’ve forgotten the age we live in.” Yet he felt both frustration and fear. All he knew was that he must not give way to threats, that he must conquer his own fear. He turned his back on both men and went to Pearl. He thought her eyes flickered as he bent over her.
“Mannering!” The small man called.
Mannering said: “I’m going to take her back to the ship.” He thrust an arm beneath her knees and another beneath her shoulders, and lifted her. He swung round. “Get out of the way.”
“Mannering!”
Mannering said: “I’m going to take her back to the Africa Star until we find the mask and everything connected with it. Get out of the way.”
Over the small man’s head he could see the Arab, a strangely immobile figure with the knife in his hand, eagerly awaiting the order to attack. The small man backed away. His voice rose, and became shrill. He looked more like Punch than ever.
“Mannering, I give you one more chance to put her down and do what I say.”
Mannering said: “And I give you one more chance to get out of my way.”
He did not know what would happen if he thrust himself any further forward. He was acting blindly, and at the back of his mind was the fear that he was acting like a fool, and asking for trouble. But he could not back down now.
For what seemed an age he stood with the girl in his arms and the little man in front of him, and as he stared into the brown eyes he told himself that he had misjudged this man, that he would have no chance to get away.
Then the silence was broken and the tension heightened by a reedy piping sound.
The little man and the Arab swung round. The reedy piping with its eerie note sounded again; it seemed to hold a note of urgency, almost of desperation.
Chapter Fourteen
SEARCH
Mannering heard the Punch-like man speak in sharp, staccato sentences. The Arab turned round, and sped away, long robe rustling. There were other voices, and one of them sounded English. Mannering, with Pearl still in his arms, said quietly: “It isn’t working out, is it?”
The man said: “Mannering, if you send for the police it will be one of your great mistakes.”
“Really?” said Mannering. He heard footsteps, and then almost unbelievably Thomas’s deep voice along the passage: “I know he came here. Don’t try to fool me.
“No, mister, I swear to you—”
“Hi! Mick!” called Mannering. “This way.”
“There you are!” Thomas’s voice sounded much nearer, and a moment later he came into the room. “Hi, John! I—God!”
He had seen Pearl.
Mannering almost laughed, because his expression was so comic.
“Is she all right? If she isn’t I’ll break this so-and-so’s neck,” Thomas said harshly.
“She’s all right, Mick,” Mannering assured him. “Pulse a bit slow because she was given knock-out drops, I would say. How many of you are here?”
“Six,” answered Thomas. “What do you want us to do?”
“Take Pearl back to the ship.”
“That’s easy. What about Kassim?”
“Kassim?”
“Your host,” said Thomas sarcastically. “Colonel Akbar Kassim. Didn’t you know who he was?”
“No,” Mannering admitted. “Should I?”
He glanced to the spot where the little man had been; but no one was there. He had moved as silently as his men. Two more of the East Africa Star Sports Committee came in and took Pearl off, carrying her as if she were fragile.
“It depends on your knowledge of the Middle East,” said Thomas. “I was here during the war. Kassim ran a kind of exotic ENSA entertainment for the troops plus anything going. He passed us a lot of useful information, that’s the only reason no one cut his throat. Made a fortune, partly from that, partly from smuggling and any dirty racket he could handle. Now he runs half the night spots in the Middle East, outside of Israel, and I wouldn’t be too surprised to hear that he had one in Tel Aviv.”
“Could he get away with that?” asked Mannering.
“He can get away with anything. If things had gone wrong here today he would have produced a dozen witnesses to say it was your fault. Only one trouble with Akbar Kassim.”
“What’s that?”
“Physical cowardice,” said Thomas. “Offer him violence and he caves in. He isn’t used to it. Mind if I offer some advice?”
“Not at all,” Mannering said humbly. “Go ahead.”
He felt humble. Brown-faced, ever-brash, Major Thomas, good sort and everyone’s friend on the East Africa Star, had grown ten feet tall in the last few minutes; obviously he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Don’t try to pin anything on Kassim,” advised Thomas. “It will get you so involved in Egyptian red tape that you’ll never get back on the East Africa Star.”
“I’ll take your advice,” Mannering said, still humbly. “Can you get Pearl aboard without raising an alarm?”
“Easy. I’ll say she’s passed out from heat. It doesn’t often happen before we reach the Red Sea, but it’s not unheard of.”
“Thanks,” said Mannering warmly. “I’ll be on board before the ship sails.”
“Aren’t you coming with us?”
“I’ve a little job to do first.”
Thomas looked at him straightly, his grey eyes very clear bright against his dark tan.
“John,” he said, “I know what a hell of a chance you took last night, and again this morning. I know you’re a lone wolf type, you’d be surprised how much all the ship knows about you by now. But Port Said is no place for lone wolfing or romantic heroes or anything but straightforward common sense. Forgive my bluntness.”
“It’s refreshing,” said Mannering.
“What do you plan to do?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You’ll be a fool if you don’t tell me now,” Thomas said.
He was probably right, but there was a growing question mark in Mannering’s mind. Thomas might be ten feet tall, but why had he had Mannering followed? Why had he advised against a complaint about Kassim to the police? Why was he so anxious to know what Mannering planned to do?
“Mick,” Mannering said, “in this kind of shindy I’ve been a fool too often to stop now. There’s one thing you can do for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Check if Naomi Ransom’s all right.”
“Can do, will do. Don’t blame me if you end up in the harbour with your throat cut, will you?”
Mannering laughed.
Thomas said stonily: “Believe it or not, that wasn’t meant as a joke.”
He went out.
Mannering waited until he had gone, then looked about this room. It was not easy to push Thomas’s warning to the back of his mind, but gradually it faded.
There was a beautifully carved desk with brass and silverwork, leather chairs, big leather pouffes. The couch on which Pearl had been lying was covered with a tapestry pattern silk, rich and beautiful. There were three arched windows all fitted with stained-glass which would have b
eautified any cathedral.
No one seemed near; and there was no sound.
Mannering went to the desk.
He took his pen-knife out, opened the skeleton key blade, and inserted it. He had no doubt at all that he was being watched. He opened the middle drawer without difficulty; inside were a few papers, all in Arabic writing. He put these aside and opened the side drawers. One after another was filled with records, some kept in English. Enough was in English to tell him that these were reports from Kassim’s clubs in various parts of the Middle East.
He opened the last drawer and found a file of papers. He took it out and opened it. There in front of him was a full-size coloured plate of the Mask of Sumi.
He looked at the letters, all in English, all signed by James Harding, from his Chelsea address. They had been sent by air. They simply reported that a passenger on the East Africa Star would have this mask and might call on Kassim for help.
“If this should be necessary, please provide all assistance. I will accept your charges as usual.”
Mannering’s heart began to thump, for this could mean so much. He took the colour plate and folded it once, then put it in his pocket. He was more than ever conscious of being watched; there might be spy-holes in a dozen places in the walls, or even at the stained-glass windows.
He closed the desk and relocked it. He went along the passage by which he had come. By an open doorway he heard a rustle of movement. He paused, close to the wall, but there was no threat of an attack. He went on, walking slowly and deliberately, expecting a challenge.
He heard another rustle of movement by an archway.
“Colonel Kassim!” he called.
There was no answer.
“Colonel Kassim!”
There was still no answer.
Mannering said in a very clear voice: “We can talk now or when I get back to the ship. I will telephone Scotland Yard and have them ask your police why you are interested in the Mask of Sumi.”
No one moved.
He went on, acutely conscious of those watching eyes. Only one thing stood between him and death. Kassim’s fear of what would happen if Mannering did not get back to the ship. As he went near the huge door, as beautifully preserved as it was carved on the inside, he was keyed up to a pitch of almost screaming tension.
