The Mask of Sumi (12 page)

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.

 

 

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 beautified 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.

A man called: “A moment, sir, if you please.”

Mannering stopped and looked round. It was the robed Arab who had brought him here.

“Colonel Kassim would like you to ride with him back to the ship.”

“All right. But I'm in a hurry.”

“Thank you, sir. A moment, please.” They waited in the shadowy hall until brisk footsteps sounded and Kassim appeared, looking unperturbed as well as immaculate.

“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Mannering. My car is coming.” The Arab opened this door and a new Cadillac stood outside, a shining monster against the squalor of the street. Across the street a dozen small boys stood admiring but none ventured across for backsheesh. An old man squatted by a pile of rotting water-melons, two youths sat outside the butcher's shop which was alive with flies.

The Arab opened the door.

“After you, Mr. Mannering—” They sat inside. “I understand that you wish to discuss some matter with me.”

“The Mask of Sumi,” Mannering said. There was no need to let this man know that the shell of the mask had been discovered.

“I understand. You found the description and some letters from my old friend Mr. Harding in my desk.”

“That's right.”

“Had it been possible to help Mr. Harding I would gladly have done so. The need has not arisen.”

“Was it Harding who paid you to try to kill me?”

“You shock me, Mr. Mannering.”

Mannering said grimly: “I am not working for the police, and I don't have to report everything to Scotland Yard. But I can if I want to. All the lying witnesses in the world won't help if your Government is convinced that you are betraying Egypt.”

“I do nothing of the kind.” Kassim was indignant. “I do not understand you.”

“Colonel,” Mannering said, “you are not the only one who can bribe witnesses. If I have to lodge a complaint against you it will be a great nuisance and take up much time. I don't want that. But I mean to know who paid you to try to kill me, and who told you to change your mind and try to persuade me to leave the
East Africa Star.
It wasn't Harding.”

“How can you say that?”

“He hasn't got that kind of money. Who was it?”

Colonel Kassim spread his hands.

“You have been mistaken, Mr. Mannering. No one tried to kill you. I tried only to persuade you to go back to England with the very lovely girl. You understand I would not have harmed her in any way.” Kassim shot Mannering a glance from under his lashes. “I said what I did only to try to persuade you to take her away.”

“Who paid you to do that?”

Kassim spread his hands again.

“Would you betray a friend, Mr. Mannering?”

Mannering said: “When did you receive the instructions?”

“Only yesterday, or I would not have improvised so clumsy a method.”

“What time did the cable from the ship reach you?”

“Mr. Mannering, I did not say the cable came from the ship. You must not put words into my mouth.” Kassim looked out of the window, as if nervously. “Why must you insist on asking questions which I cannot answer? I cannot tell you what you wish to know.”

“You can, you know,” said Mannering. “If you don't we'll go on board the
East Africa Star
together and you can explain to Captain Cross why you sent the thief to my cabin this morning, why you put drugs in my cabin and told the police I was smuggling them, and why you kidnapped Miss Toji. We're very near the docks,” Mannering went on softly. “You haven't much time.”

Kassim drew a deep breath, and then said: “You are a hard man.”

“Just tell me who it was.”

“It was Naomi Ransom,” Kassim said. “But be sure of this, she did not do it for herself. Someone paid her. She is not wealthy, but she represents very wealthy interests.”

 

Mannering evaded most of the itinerant sellers, running a kind of gauntlet of leather goods, watches, dirty postcards, fly whisks and sandals thrust in front of him. Two passengers on the promenade deck were haggling over a carpet.

“Ten pounds, mister, dirt cheap,” the Arab was saying.

“It's barefaced robbery. I'll give you five.”

“No, mister, five not enough money. Eight pounds ten, mister.”

“
He's coming down,
” the haggler whispered in satisfaction to his plump wife. In a louder voice: “Five pounds, that's my limit.”

“They always cheat you,” a man said to Mannering.

“Do they?” Mannering pushed past a knot of Kenya farmers busy in their interminable argument about the future of their country.

“I tell you the wogs will kick us out the minute they can.”

“And I tell you if you keep calling them wogs you deserve to be kicked out.”

Mannering went down to his cabin, unlocked the door, and checked that no one had been here. He sat back for five minutes, going over everything that had happened, needing a rest and trying to empty his mind completely. So much had happened that there was only a confusion of impressions in his mind. As he smoked a cigarette, some kind of order began to take shape. Someone, or something, had frightened Kassim or he would never have permitted that search. Had it been Thomas? Had it been physical fear under threat from Thomas?

There was no way of answering that question now. It was far less important than the next: had Kassim lied about Naomi Ransom?

Mannering was surprised at the fervour of his hope that he had, but – why lie? Simply to put Mannering on the wrong track?

He let this and other thoughts and reactions drift through his mind, and then decided what to do. He took out his copy of the
Antiquarians' Cable Code
and coded a cable which read:

 

“Larraby, Quinns, London. First obtain and send airmail to Aden copies of photographs of James (Jimmy) Harding, Naomi Ransom, Pearl Toji stop check and send details war record and post-war record Colonel Akbar Kassim of Port Said stop ditto of Colonel (possibly military rank during war) Michael (Mick) Thomas now on board stop also advise if any trace of James Harding since his disappearance. Radio telegraph replies to ship. Mannering.”

 

He went up to the wireless officer, who was on duty but not busy.