The Baron Goes East (3 page)

 

Mannering heard a faint rustle behind him; Lorna was creeping down the stairs. From the moment he had been warned by a gasping sound less than twenty seconds had passed. The one dark-skinned man was still bending over Larraby, the other remained by the door. Both would move within the next few seconds. Both had heard the Mannerings talking, and would notice the silence after Mannering's loud remark meant for their ears.

Lorna was close behind Mannering.

“Back,” he whispered. “Noisily. Shout out to me.”

She turned at once. He withdrew his head as the man by Larraby began to turn. She called in a slightly husky voice: “John – are you in there?”

He didn't try to answer, but pressed close against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The men would probably come to investigate together, and would be armed. He took out his cigarette-case, then stretched up for a match lock pistol hanging on the wall above the doorway. He could just reach it.

“Oh, there you are!” Lorna's voice came clearly; she never needed much telling about tactics. The two men should be reassured.

A head of oily, wavy, dark hair.

Yusuf and Ali had been murdered . . .

Mannering smashed the butt of the match lock on the head, moved forward and thrust his victim backwards. The other was a yard behind him; both had knives. The first man fell against his companion. Mannering went forward swiftly and smashed at the hand holding the knife. The knife dropped. The second man twisted himself free and ran towards the door, leaping over Larraby.

Mannering stood to one side. The man might have a gun as well as a knife. There was no shooting. The door opened and closed with a bang and the fugitive raced along the street towards Bond Street.

The other was trying to sit up. He had one hand at his head, and his eyes were dazed. Mannering hauled him to his feet by his coat lapels and pushed him into an old winged armchair. He struck him sharply on the side of the chin, pulled his arms behind the chair and tied the wrists together with picture cord.

No one approached from the street; so the fugitive, even if noticed, hadn't been seen to run from Quinns.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs – Lorna in a hurry. She burst into sight.

“John—”

“All over,” said Mannering. “Call Bristow for me, will you?” He hurried to Larraby, who was groaning – a good sign. He straightened him out carefully, felt his head, discovered a good-sized bump but nothing broken. He lifted his manager into another armchair, took off his own coat and wrapped it round Larraby, and then stood back. Larraby's eyelids were flickering.

“All safe,” Mannering said. “Take it easy, Josh.” Loma, talking into the telephone, glanced round.

“Bristow's not there. He's never there when we want him.”

“Do they know when he'll be back?”

“Any minute.”

“We'll ring later.” Mannering went back to Larraby, who was licking his lips. Lorna went into the kitchenette behind the shop. She would put on a kettle and make some tea, and probably bring a blanket – one Larraby used when he occasionally stayed up all night on some special job. “We caught one of them. Josh; it's all right.”

“I—I'm sorry, Mr. Mannering. They were
inside
. Must have been here for hours. In that cupboard.” He pointed to a big Elizabethan cupboard which filled one corner. “See, the door's open.”

Mannering inspected the cupboard, and saw footmarks on the inside. The men could easily have slipped into the shop during the morning. There had been a delivery of pictures, men had been coming in and out, and he had been in the office while Larraby had superintended. The two chief assistants were off – one sick, one on holiday.

Mannering went back to the Indian as Lorna came out, with a cup of tea in her hand, and a blanket over her arm. She pulled away Mannering's coat and tucked the blanket round Larraby. He was all right, he could get up. She made him sit there and sip hot, sweet tea.

The Indian was stirring.

Mannering checked the cord at his wrists, then went to the street door, slipping on his coat. Two or three people were outside, two of them looking at a milliner's next door; a shop where a piece of tulle and some straw were turned into a fortune. A big policeman was coming from the corner, ponderous and familiar. Mannering beckoned, and he hurried.

“Yes, sir?”

“We've had a little trouble,” said Mannering. “My wife's here with Larraby, who's been hurt. I've to take a prisoner to the Yard right away, for Mr. Bristow. Keep an eye on things while I'm gone, will you?”

“What kind of trouble, Mr. Mannering?”

“Shoplifting.” That would serve.

Mannering went back along the street to a small car-park, free to anyone but used mainly by the tenants of Hart Row. His black Rolls Bentley stood in the corner. He drove to the shop. The policeman was at the open door, a strong sense of duty keeping him there instead of inside asking the obvious questions. Mannering said enough to convince him that he was expected at the Yard and went to the back of the shop.

Lorna left Larraby, who looked better.

The Indian had come round.

“What are you going to do?” Lorna asked.

“Make him a present for Bristow,” said Mannering. He didn't speak to the man as he untied the cord, pulled him out of the chair, then bound his wrists behind him more tightly. Lorna looked dubious.

“Wouldn't it be better to question him yourself?”

“He won't talk, except under pressure, and with a copper on the doorstep I daren't press. If I behave nice and correctly, Bristow will probably tell the Bombay police that I'm worth looking after. It would be nice to have friends at court in Bombay.”

“So you've decided.”

“I couldn't disappoint you when you'd set your mind on it!” Mannering gripped the Indian's shoulder and pushed him towards the door. Lorna sat down on a stool, near Larraby, watching her husband. Mannering moved quickly and easily. He knew exactly what he was doing; probably he was working out moves that lay weeks ahead. She marvelled at it, at everything about him.

Larraby said: “It's amazing, isn't it? He's been touchy and difficult for weeks. Now this comes along, and he's himself in two shakes of a lamb's tail. I'm all right now, Mrs. Mannering, I'll get up.”

She could not stop him.

 

Mannering bundled the Indian into the back of the car while the policeman held the door, then took the wheel. He drove off, thinking as much of Lorna as of the man in the back. She had been urging him to go away for a few months, leaving Larraby in charge; perhaps she saw this as the great chance.

Forget that.

He could take his prisoner to a quiet spot and try questioning him, but he had little time and it would be risky. The policeman had probably called the Yard or his station by now. Mannering headed for the Yard.

What should he tell Bristow? Any part of the story about the blue diamond? Or anything that would connect the prisoner with that and old Phiroshah?

Mannering reached the big new building of Scotland Yard which housed the Criminal Investigation Department. The man on duty at the gates recognised, saluted and waved him inside. A dozen cars were parked at the foot of an imposing flight of stone steps. Mannering helped his prisoner out, watched by the gate duty man and two others who stood at the top of the steps.

The sergeant at the top of the steps saluted.

“Brought us a present, Mr. Mannering?”

“That's right. Think Mr. Bristow will like him?”

“Shouldn't be surprised. Does he know you're coming?”

“I think so. I was told he'd be in.”

“Came back ten minutes ago,” said the sergeant. “I'll telephone him. Want any help??”

“No, thanks, but if you—”

Mannering broke off, felt the Indian writhe and twist, actually saw the cord fall from his wrists. The man swung on his toes and dived between Mannering and the sergeant towards the steps. He was as swift as an arrow. Mannering shot out a leg and the man kicked against it and fell. The sergeant, a portly fifty, went down in a flying tackle, caught the man's legs and hugged them.

Mannering said mildly: “Perhaps I'd better have some help after all.”

“Slippery devil.” The sergeant slid a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped them on and stood up, yanking the man after him. “Smith, go along with Mr. Mannering. He won't slip those in a hurry, sir.”

“I'm sure he won't.” Mannering held the Indian's right arm, the policeman his left, and they walked to the lift and went up to Bristow's office.

Mannering tapped on Bristow's door and received a gruff “Come in”. He opened the door and pushed the Indian inside. Bristow gaped. “Thanks, Smith,” Mannering said to the constable, then pushed the prisoner into one of two armchairs in Bristow's long, narrow office. This overlooked the Thames Embankment, and May's sunshine had brought the leaves of the plane trees to pale green beauty; one was just outside the window, its nearer branches almost within arm's reach.

“There you are,” said Mannering. “Good for the evil aspersions you were so busy with this morning.” He grinned. “How's that for pomposity?”

The Indian sat silent and sullen, meeting Bristow's gaze defiantly.

Bristow lit a cigarette, studied first the Indian, then Mannering, and made a palpable effort to regain his self-control. He blew smoke-rings as he said: “Isn't there a police station near you?”

“I could have tried Great Marlborough Street, but as I wanted a word with you I thought I'd bring him in person. Care to have him charged with assault on Carraby while we have a chat?”

Bristow said: “I wonder what you really want.” But he sent for a sergeant and gave instructions. The sullen Indian was taken out. Bristow lit a cigarette from the stub of one that was only half-smoked, leaned back in his chair, and said: “Now what?”

Mannering murmured: “In confidence, off the record, not for publication.”

“I'm not a newspaperman.”

“Of course,” went on Mannering, “I could just leave things as they are and you guessing. But I thought you'd like to know what he really came for.”

Bristow smoothed down his moustache.

“That blue diamond. Where's the mystery?”

He was no fool. He could be obstinate, could refuse to listen to a story in confidence. If he refused, Mannering need say nothing but would not gain what he wanted – recommendation to the Bombay police. He sat back, smiling.

“All right, let's have it,” Bristow said.

He did not have to help, even when he knew the story. Mannering had been the Baron, and no policeman could forget that. Any policeman, even Bristow, who had become a friend, might rebel against recommending him to another police force, especially in a country bristling with jewels.

Mannering felt on edge, briskly though he talked.

 

 

Bristow listened, Mannering talked and thought. There were a dozen reasons why the Yard man should decide that this was an official matter, and that the only help he could give was official. Mannering “forgot” to say that Yusuf Phiroshah had been murdered in New York; “forgot” to mention that the Maharajah of Ganpore was believed to have a store of the blue diamonds. Old Aly Phiroshah wanted help; it would be a business trip and holiday combined. If he, Mannering, ran into trouble, it would be invaluable if he could call on the Indian police knowing that he had the moral support of Bristow of the Yard.

He etched in the raid by the two Indians; obviously they had believed that Shani had the diamond and had broken in to try to get it. The smaller of the two men had escaped, the larger was the prisoner.

“What's his name?” Bristow asked.

“I don't know.”

“So you really want to convince me that you haven't questioned him.”

“It can't be half an hour since I caught him,” Mannering pointed out.

“Almost a reformed character, aren't you? Well, whatever happens won't be on my doorstep. I'll tell them at Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta what a wonderful amateur detective you are and how often you've helped the Yard. I'll forget to tell them that you're the best man at cracking a crib in England.”

Mannering kept a straight face.

“That's fine, Bill.”

“Lorna going?” asked Bristow.

“She'd like to.”

“I don't know that I'd take her,” said Bristow thoughtfully. “I'm not sure that India's a place for a white woman these days.”

“Don't tell me
you
know India.”

Bristow grinned. “Bombay, Calcutta and Madras—yes. Years ago.” He picked up the telephone and said into it: “Get me Chamberlin.” He held on, and added for Mannering's benefit: “Chamberlin knows more about India than anyone here. He went to study drugs there, a year ago. It strengthens our hand when we're dealing with our floating Indian population. We get some bad ones. Hallo—Chamberlin. Bristow . . . Do you know if old Kana is still working at Bombay? . . . He is? . . . Good, thanks.” Bristow rang off and chuckled. “Kana's one of the Chiefs of Police. He was high up, even when the upper crust of their C.I.D. was European. He's a shrewd chap, and I think he'll tolerate you. Give him my personal regards, and take him a couple of pounds of barley sugar pieces. Don't let him get near Lorna; she'll scream out that she wants to paint him, and that would mean leaving her alone with him for too long.”

“Kana,” echoed Mannering. “Bill, after this I forgive you for everything.”

“Anyone who's going to try to tackle a job in India has my sympathy. We shall probably have to send wreaths! Now what about this chap you brought in?”

“You could look for his friend and others who might work with him,” said Mannering. “They could have followed Shani here, or they may be local people who've had instructions from India.”

“And I'm to keep you informed,” said Bristow dryly. “When are you going?”

“As soon as we can get on a plane.”

“I'm told they're pretty full,” said Bristow. “No doubt you can pull enough strings to go when you want to.” He stood up. Don't take too many chances, John. I shouldn't think Phiroshah or his Maharajah friend are worth dying for.'

Bristow might know more than he'd said.

 

Mannering went straight back to Quinns. The policeman was still outside; inside, Lorna was trying to cope with a customer, and there was no sign of Larraby. In the middle of earnest discussions on the merits of a piece of sixteenth-century Arab silver, Plummer came in. The customer bought the silver and went off practically cooing with delight. Plummer smoothed down his fair hair.

“So that's how you make money.”

“That's one way,” said Mannering.

“I'll change jobs any time you like.” Plummer smoothed down his hair again, a mannerism nothing could change.

“Where's Josh?” Mannering asked Lorna.

“He wouldn't stay after Mr. Plummer called to say he had followed Phiroshah's daughter to the Mirabar in Kensington, and wanted someone to watch there.”

“That's right,” said Plummer. “Josh was anxious to prove he wasn't hurt. The man in the taxi went as far as the Mirabar and then moved on. He's staying at a boarding house in Bloomsbury. Name of Banu. He arrived in London two days ago by air, and he's officially on business. I don't know what business. Larraby's watching the Mirabar hotel, but he's anxious to get back here. I've sent for a man to relieve him. All you want is to have the girl looked after, I take it.”

“Give me the address of Banu's boarding-house, will you?” Mannering asked.

Plummer scribbled on a piece of paper.

Mannering tucked the note away. “Thanks for everything, Jeff.”

“A pleasure.” Plummer's hand strayed to his hair again. “Be careful with these people. If you get a bad one, he'll be deadly.”

“Tell that to my wife,” said Mannering.

Lorna laughed it off, but was thoughtful when Plummer had gone. Mannering dropped the catch at the door, and they went into the office. He took the blue diamond out of the wall safe and laid it on his desk; the light gave it fiery blue beauty.

Lorna picked it up. Its beauty fascinated her, but she didn't revere it as her husband did.

“And there are more of those, according to the story,” Mannering murmured. “Still want a holiday in India?”

“In spite of what I read in the newspapers, yes.”

“
What's
this?”

“I read all about the Rangipore jewels and the prince's quarrel and the fanatical group who say they'll get back all the jewels sold by Indian potentates for their private use. John – what more do you know?”

“I know I've a deceitful wife.”

“About Phiroshah, and that thing, I mean.”

Mannering winced.

“
Thing
? You're nearly a vandal.” He dropped the banter. “I know only as much as you, but I guess that Phiroshah and probably some of the princes don't like your fanatics, the Indian authorities won't exert themselves, and Phiroshah thinks I might pull off a trick or two. I doubt if we know everything Phiroshah has in mind yet, and he'll only tell me all if I go to India.”

“Then we'll go.”

Mannering moved swiftly, took her into his arms and kissed her. He stood back and said quietly: “What's got into you?”

“You need a change desperately,” Lorna said. “Some people would need a rest, but rest won't help you. You've had nothing to put your heart and soul into for too long. Quinns isn't enough by itself. Jewels are half of your life. And there's the conflict between the fleshpot princes and this organisation of zealots who seem to be working as the Baron's often worked – robbing to help the poor. But are they? Phiroshah's not a rogue. And you're more yourself since you first heard from him than you've been for weeks.”

After a short silence Mannering said: “So that's it. Everything?”

“I
want
to see India,” Lorna said.

He began to smile, kissed her again, and picked up the telephone.

“How long will it take you to be ready?”

“How long can I have?”

“I don't know.” He had finished dialling, and said: “British Overseas Airways? . . . Mr. David Kelly, please.” He didn't hold on for long. “Hallo, David—John Mannering here . . . Fine, thanks, and thinking of flying to India on Saturday . . . Well, all right, Sunday would do . . . My dear chap, there must be room, there's only two of us.” He laughed. “Yes, Lorna. Yes, I'll hold on a minute.” He lowered the receiver. “Impossible for at least two weeks officially!” He put the receiver to his ear again, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “There are two ways of tackling this. Go for Banu and any of his friends here. That might take some time, and would certainly run the risk of crossing Bristow. He's being very helpful. The other way is to fly to Bombay as soon as we can and get everything straight from Phiroshah.”

“Do that,” Lorna said.

“We've been able to fix it,” Kelly said. “A couple of V.I.Ps. were going on Sunday, but they've been held up.”

“I'll get Lorna to paint you one day. Where do I pick up the tickets? . . . Right. Thanks again. Here, hold on!” Lorna was waving frantically. “Just a minute.”

“Ask him what the weather will be like at this time of the year, what clothes I'll need, all that kind of thing.”

Mannering chuckled.

“David,” he said. “Lorna wants to talk to you.”

 

“
Thank
you, David,” Lorna said a few minutes later. “You've been wonderful. ‘Bye!” She rang off, eyes glowing. “We'll arrive during the monsoons, darling – the worst of the heat will be over. There'll be some rain, but it shouldn't be too bad. It'll be pretty warm everywhere, except at night if we go north. We needn't take too much in the way of clothes; we can always buy something there.”

“Oh, always,” said Mannering. “Dear David.”

“Be enthusiastic, darling.”

“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, we're going to Bombay in the morning! Well, on Sunday morning. Two days after Shani. I hope she isn't going to run into danger, but she seemed to think that will keep the diamond company. Better send it on ahead, I think.”

“Yes, I'd do that.” Lorna was suddenly sober.

Mannering laughed.

Lorna went off, with a host of things to do. Mannering picked up the telephone again and put in the call to Bombay; it would come through between four and five o'clock, he was told. He rang off and called a Golders Green number, where Sylvester, an old man who had once managed Quinns, lived in retirement. Could Sylvester come back for a month or two?

Sylvester not only could but seemed eager.

Mannering put down the receiver as Larraby came in, little the worse for wear. He had nothing new to report. Shani was at a small hotel where other Indians lived – some students, some politicians, some minor officials at India House.

Larraby was delighted to hear about Sylvester.

Mannering left just after one o'clock, had lunch at a snack bar, and then went to his flat at Green Street, Chelsea. Lorna wasn't there, and the maid was busy in the kitchen. There was a letter on the mat delivered by hand, not postmarked. He opened it as he went towards the bedrooms.

There were two words: “Don't go.”

 

The maid knew nothing about it, or the note wouldn't have been on the mat. Mannering handled it gingerly to avoid smearing prints. The writing was in block capitals and offered no clue. He took it into his study, a small room furnished from Quinns, took out grey powder, a camel-hair brush and a sheet of paper. He tested the note. The only prints were his own.

He burned the note and cleared away all evidence of the test.

Lorna needn't know. Lorna was excited, and excitement dulled awareness of danger. No doubt she meant everything she said about him. No doubt she knew that months of inactivity had worn at his nerves; but above all that, she herself was eager to visit India and could blind herself to risk.

Already excitement was deep in Mannering, quickening his pulse and his mind.

He changed into an old suit and some worn golf shoes and left soon after two, carrying a Leica camera and a small make-up case. At a lock-up garage near Victoria station he kept a Buick for emergencies he didn't want the police to know about.

There was a mirror on the wall. Locked inside, he opened the make-up case and started to work, to change himself. Deft touches at the eyes and mouth, rubber cheek pads, plastic covering for his teeth – these transformed him. It wasn't Mannering, but an older, plumper man who stared back at him from the mirror.

He slipped a specially made rubber ring round his waist and inflated it a little; his trousers buttoned tightly round it and increased the look of stoutness. He hadn't forgotten any tricks. He left the make-up case in the Buick, went out and took a taxi to the address which Plummer had given him, the address to which the man Banu had gone after following Shani.

The narrow street was filled with boarding-houses; several windows had a placard: “No vacancies”. One opposite Banu's carried the sign: “Apartments”.

A youngish fluffy-haired woman opened the door. She hadn't a front room, she was sorry. She saw the five pounds in his hand and changed her mind. She could put a bed up in her parlour to oblige the gentleman. He didn't want a bed, just an armchair by the window during the day and part of the evening. Oh, that was
easy
.

Yes, she was on the telephone.

Mannering talked to the exchange, arranged for the Bombay call to be put through here, and settled down to watch the boarding-house opposite. Banu came out once, and returned after twenty minutes, carrying a newspaper. Two or three other Indians arrived and went inside. Mannering smoked cigarette after cigarette, and the fluffy-haired woman kept bringing him cups of tea. It was nearly half-past four when a taxi drew up opposite, and Mannering had to change his position to see who got out.

It was the smaller of the two men who had raided the shop.

The man paid off the cab and hurried into the house. A few minutes later Mannering saw him at a first-floor window talking to Banu. The faces of both men registered vividly. Banu, youthful, lean, lithe and handsome, with the smooth good looks of the better-class Indian; the other man short, with an older face, ugly, teeth stained red from betel-nut chewing, a low wrinkled forehead. He wore a white turban, only a twist or two of cloth.

Mannering photographed them both, and other Indians who went to the house; better not to rely on memory.

Then the Bombay call came through.