The Mask of Sumi (6 page)

Mannering laughed, suddenly in a better mood.

“I should have known better than to try to fool you.”

“Yes, you should, shouldn't you?” Dottie said sweetly. “But I'll forgive you if you promise not to do it again. John dear, couldn't we work together on this. I promise you nothing would be published until it was all over bar the shouting. My editor has given me instructions to be
very
discreet.”

Her big mouth gaped.

“Let's decide whether to work together when we know what's happening,” Mannering said. “There may be nothing to work on.

“Oh, but there's bound to be,” cried Dottie. “Haven't you heard?
All
the Asri Dynasty crown jewels have been stolen. That's what all the fuss is about. In fact that's almost certainly why Toji killed himself – to escape from the shame of dealing with stolen jewels. And think of all the political repercussions, absolutely thrilling, darling. Did
you
know they were stolen?”

“No,” lied Mannering. He did not think she believed him, and wondered what the police were thinking of him then.

It was almost a relief when his telephone rang.

“Mannering,” he said.

“I thought you would like to know that the
East Africa Star
has dropped anchor,” the receptionist told him.

 

 

It was pointless to try to pretend to Dottie or anyone that he wasn't here because of the Mask of Sumi, Mannering realised. It would be better to show himself at the jetty, and get the first encounter with Gordon over. He turned round to Dottie.

“The police are going to board the
East Africa Star,
” he told her. “There's your story for you. But if you let them know how you found out, that will be the last piece of inside information you'll ever get from me.”

“Bless you, John!” cried Dottie Mills. “You're a doll!”

She was out of the room before he could reach the door.

Half-an-hour later he was at the quayside, standing beneath a sign reading
Welcome to Gibraltar.
The roof of the shed gave shade and coolness; two steps away in the blazing, blinding sunlight, the heat was almost unbearable. A couple of hundred yards out the big tender was approaching, packed with passengers and looking rather like the
Bournemouth Belle
on its way to the Isle of Wight. The sun burnished the white sides of the
East Africa Star
, which was a quarter of a mile further away.

At another spot further along the quayside were a dozen Gibraltarian policemen, for all the world like London bobbies allowed to dispense with their tunics because of the heat. In a patch of dark shade were two officers of the force, two Customs men, and tall, dark, aloof-looking Chief Inspector Gordon of New Scotland Yard.

None of these appeared to have noticed Mannering, who was standing in the shade. There was no sign of Dottie. Two or three Gibraltarians, brown, hardy-looking men, waited for the tender to come alongside, one of them holding a rope as thick as his wrist. Beyond, the sea was like blue glass.

Soon, the tender bumped against the quay; within seconds, a gangway had been pushed across. The police lined up on either side and a man called out on a loud-speaker fastened just above Mannering's head: “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret any inconvenience caused, but the Gibraltarian Police need to examine any luggage, packets or parcels which visitors may be carrying. The examination for each person need take only a second. We will be grateful for your co-operation.”

The passengers began to chatter among themselves as they came off. Most were empty-handed, and were passed through without comment. Most wore lightweight clothes, many only shirts and shorts, or cotton dresses, and none of these could be hiding anything as large as the Mask of Sumi. Two or three with shopping bags were called aside, others with big cameras inside cases opened them unprotestingly. As the flow passed the inspection they climbed into taxis and little horses and carts, and were hustled towards the town or the Rock itself.

A short, dark man, empty-handed, appeared at the end of the line of policemen. He wore a dark suit, and a packet might be hidden under it. One of the policemen called him aside. For the first time, Mannering noticed a man who looked scared. He wondered if the police realised that. Gordon and the senior officers were busy with a couple who had two valises and were arguing volubly.

The little man took off his coat. He watched the men search it and there was no doubt at all that he was very much on edge. Mannering watched him. The police gave him back his coat, and one of them helped him to put it on. He hurried off.

Mannering saw a blonde woman, and stepped forward to see better. The little man saw him, and gasped: “No!”

He was so near that only Mannering heard him clearly. Mannering switched his gaze from the blonde, who had a child clutching her skirts. He saw the terror on the little man's face.

Terror – at sight of
him.

Mannering stood squarely in front of the man, who hesitated for a split second then turned and began to hurry towards the row of taxis. Mannering was caught between the desire to follow him and eagerness to see whether the police found the woman they were looking for.

The little man reached the nearest taxi, looked over his shoulder, and jumped into the back. His expression was still so full of terror that Mannering made a decision on the instant. He noted the number of the taxi, with its GBZ sign, and strode to his own, which was parked a few yards off.

“Follow that pale blue Austin Cambridge,” he said.

“At once, sir. You wish to go to the Cave?”

“Just follow the Austin Cambridge.”

“Yes, sir!”

The taxi was soon in an area where new buildings were springing up everywhere. It turned at a roundabout with a fountain in the middle, and quickly reached a place called Ragged Hill. The Austin turned left, past some military. Mannering's driver glanced over his shoulder and beamed.

“St. Michael's Cave!” he called in jubilation.

The road was narrow and steep. At sharp turnings signs pointed to The Cave and to The Apes. Dust rose on either side, covering the bushes and the hedges. A cloud of dust ahead showed where the Austin was. The taxi slowed down at a corner on a steep gradient, the driver hooted his horn violently, and rasped his gears as he took the bend.

A long way ahead on another gradient, the blue car stood stationary. A man jumped out of it and leapt up the hillside, disappearing almost at once. A second later and Mannering would have missed him. Mannering's driver raised one hand in despair, but set the car against the gradient. The engine roared.

The blue car went on. Mannering caught a glimpse of a
No Entry
sign. He judged the place where the man had jumped from the taxi and tapped his driver on the shoulder.

“Stop, please.”

The man half-turned.

“
Stop?
” Amazement made his voice shrill.

“Stop,
now,
” ordered Mannering.

“But the Cave—”

“Damn the Cave!” Mannering pulled a pound note out of his pocket, and thrust it into the man's lap. The car was now moving very slowly. He opened the door and jumped out.

“Wait where you can,” he called.

He espied a gap in the hedge and hoped that was where the man from the
East Africa Star
had gone. Some broken twigs showed on either side of a narrow path. Branches caught at his clothes as he pushed on. The hillside was very steep, and clumps of shrubs and coarse grass dotted it. The sun burned down. Mannering narrowed his eyes and peered about the hillside.

Fifty yards or so ahead, to his right, he saw a little haze of dust as if someone had been there recently. He climbed towards it, half crouching, occasionally touching the hot, sandy soil with his hands.

He saw something rise in the air, twenty yards away. It came from behind a bush, and he saw a movement half hidden by the bush. A rock, the size of a man's clenched hand, struck the earth close by him. Another whistled close to his head, a third hit him on the shoulder with staggering force. He backed, missed a step, recovered, and saw the terrified man standing in the open in the act of hurling another stone. It came straight at Mannering, who ducked hurriedly. He felt it touch his hair.

This man's throwing was almost deadly, and one of those stones could do a lot of damage. Three came in quick succession. He flung up his arm to cover his face. Off balance, he began to stagger backwards. A stone struck his wrist painfully, another smacked against his thigh.

He tripped and fell.

Something like panic seized him as he hit the ground; for that moment he was a sitting bird. Unable to see clearly because dust got into his eyes, he covered his head with his arms and looked round for cover, body hunched up to meet another blow.

None came.

He heard a kind of scrambling sound. He was on one knee, facing outwards towards the calm blue sea, and the only sound in the stillness was that scrambling. He twisted round. The little man was hurtling towards him, and the sunlight glinted on a knife in his hand.

In this moment of acute danger the panic died away. Tensely, Mannering waited in a crouching position, the sheer drop only a few yards behind him. The man's swarthy face looked pale in the bright light, and his eyes glittered like crystals. The knife was held ready for thrust or throw.

Mannering thought: he'll throw.

He remembered the accuracy of that stone-throwing, saw the arm flex, and dodged to the right. The knife passed within inches of his face, at eye level. The attacker was trying to stop himself from coming so fast, but could not.

Mannering dodged again, and shot out a leg.

His assailant kicked against it, pitched forward and disappeared over the edge of that steep cliff.

Gasping for breath, Mannering straightened up. Dust rose above the cliff and a rustling sound came, too, somehow ominous and menacing. It stopped, and the dust began to settle. Then came the clatter of footsteps, and men's voices. Mannering peered over the edge. On the road some fifty or sixty feet below him the body of his assailant was spreadeagled. A British soldier and the taxi driver were running down towards him.

 

Two hours later, his left wrist bandaged where the stone had cut and bruised him, Mannering sat in a small room near the entrance to St. Michael's Cave. Two Gibraltarian policemen in plainclothes and Chief Inspector Gordon were in the room with him. Mannering had answered all Gordon's questions, and made a comprehensive statement. Gordon's manner was aloof but not actually hostile.

Now, he said: “Why didn't you ask for help at the quay? There were plenty of policemen about.”

“Police would hardly have jumped to it if I'd told them I thought the chap had a guilty look, would they?”

“I suppose not,” Gordon conceded. “Did the man see or speak to anyone?”

“Not as far as I could tell, but he was out of my sight for a few minutes. He didn't have that mask with him – the police searched him too thoroughly.”

“Glad you noticed that,” said a big, smiling Gibraltarian. “I think Inspector Gordon believes we let him go through with it.”

“If he didn't have the mask, or something he shouldn't have with him, why should he be so scared of Mannering?” asked Gordon logically. He waved a hand. “Oh, I know you chaps made sure he didn't have the mask, but there is another possibility, isn't there?”

“What is it?”

“You're slipping,” Gordon said, with obvious relish. “The man could have taken the jewels out of their setting – the mask – and carried them in a much smaller container, possibly loose in his pockets.”

The Gibraltarian said flatly: “Well, he didn't have them, and he'll never tell us why he behaved like he did.”

“So he's dead,” Mannering said heavily.

“Landed head first,” announced the local policeman, with welcome brevity. “No name, no address, only a little money in his pocket. He was booked for Port Said. His name was Yiman Ali. He'd booked a week before the
East Africa Star
sailed, through a Thomas Cook's office. Cook's say he was a chance customer.”

“You've been busy,” Mannering said thoughtfully.

“By telephone we're as near London as Brighton is,” the Gibraltarian declared.

“Is there any trace of jewellery in his pockets?” asked Mannering.

“Could you tell?” Gordon demanded.

“If there were small gems one might have fallen out,” Mannering answered. “And some stones will make cuts on certain material. It ought to be possible to see if he had loose stones in his pockets. Apart from the stones he threw at me. I felt as if I was at the wrong end of an anti-tank gun.”

“Let's have his clothes in,” said Gordon.

They turned the pockets of the dead man's clothes inside out, and found nothing to suggest he had carried gems. By that time Mannering felt sure that they had not found Melody Yesling
alias
Mary Yates but he hadn't inquired: with a man like Gordon, almost saturnine in appearance and still very aloof in manner, asking the obvious was asking for a rebuff.

Gordon turned to him, half-smiling.

“Are you fully recovered now, Mr. Mannering?”

“I'm all right,” Mannering said. “Is there any need to stay here any longer?”

“No. I would like you to come and view the other body.”

“
Other
body?” Mannering was startled.

“So you didn't know that when we failed to find Melody Yesling among the passengers who came ashore, we went on board the
East Africa Star
and found her dead in her cabin. She'd killed herself by taking poison, just as Nikko Toji did.”

 

 

Mannering stared down on the blonde girl's body.

She looked quite lovely, as if in sleep. Nothing suggested fear or anxiety or greed; hers was the peace of death. Her blonde hair framed her head like a golden halo.

“Have you ever seen her before?” asked Gordon.

“No.”

“She works for a competitor of yours.”

“Who?”

“A man named Harding, James Harding.”

“Of Chelsea? Fulham Road somewhere.”

“Do you know him?” Gordon said heavily.

“I've bought a few pieces from him occasionally, but I never feel I can rely on the quality of his goods,” Mannering said. In fact he knew that Harding sometimes bought stolen jewels and tried to pass them off in the trade but that was a matter between the dealer and the police.

“Have you done any business with him lately?”

“Not for a year or more.”

“Do you know if he specialises?”

“No,” said Mannering. “I don't particularly like him.”

“Funny you should say that,” said Gordon. “Nor do we.” He obviously meant that the police had their suspicions of Harding, but he did not commit himself any further. “Well, we'd better get the body ashore and flown back to England. I'll see the Captain of the
East Africa Star.
He's being most co-operative, but he wants to sail on time.”

“Do you need this cabin locked and sealed?” asked the Gibraltarian policeman.

“It wouldn't do much good. We've been over it, and had all necessary photographs taken. Unless there's anything more you'd like to do here, we can hand it back to the ship.”

“We've finished,” the local man said.

When they went outside the narrow passage was crowded with people. At the Purser's Bureau Hall, Dottie Mills was lurking. She kept making signs to Mannering.

He joined her.

“No,” he said simply.

“Mr. Mannering, you can do the
Globe
a very great favour.”

“I doubt if I'm in a position to do anyone a favour,” Mannering said.

“Oh yes you are. My editor has recalled me, and I have to fly back. Will you be a special reporter for the
Globe
for the rest of the trip?”

Mannering actually chuckled.

“No, Dottie, I will not. But if I can give you a story afterwards, I certainly will. Sure the editor won't stake you as far as Aden?”

“I only wish he would,” said Dottie wistfully. She took his hand between both of hers. “Do your best for us, John, won't you?”

She went off, like a happy ugly duckling.

Gordon and the local police had gone away, presumably to see the ship's Captain. Mannering stepped to the grille of the main bureau, and a plump man in snow white uniform looked at him pleasantly.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. Can I book a passage?” Mannering asked.

“I think we can fix you up, sir, quite a number of passengers disembarked at Gib. Where are you going, sir?”

“Mombasa,” Mannering said thoughtfully. He knew the ports of call, and he knew Mombasa was a major one, where the ship stayed for several days; it was as good a place as any to book for now.

“First class, sir?”

“Yes, please. Cabin 73, preferably.”

The plump man started.

“73, sir? Why, that's where—”

“Miss Yesling's cabin, I know.”

“You
want
that cabin?”

“If it's available.”

“I'll have to check with the Purser, sir. We may wish to leave that room empty. Have you brought your luggage?”

“It's at the Rock Hotel,” Mannering said. “I'll have to nip back and pack.”

The plump assistant Purser seemed to be more embarrassed than ever.

“I'm sorry, sir, but the only tender—
oh!
You came with the police party, didn't you?”

“Yes. They'll look after me, I'm sure,” Mannering said.

He turned round, to find Gordon at his elbow. Gordon was frowning, and yet his manner was still not really hostile; Mannering had known him much more sour than this with less excuse. Gordon was alone.

“Spare me a minute, Mr. Mannering?”

“Of course.”

Gordon moved to the far side of the hall. Three Indian stewards were gathered in a silent group.

“So you're going ahead with the ship,” Gordon said.

“Yes, that's right.”

“You think the mask is still on board.”

“If ever it was on board – yes, I do.”

“So do I,” said Gordon. “And so does Mr. Bristow. We can't be absolutely certain but there isn't much doubt that the dead woman got it from Toji. It's possible that she gave it to someone else, but it isn't likely they would send her to Gibraltar as a decoy. The incident with the man who attacked you makes it pretty certain that he was involved, recognised you, and was scared out of his wits.”

“It could be,” Mannering agreed.

“As he didn't have the mask, and it hasn't been brought ashore as far as we can trace, the
East Africa Star
is the best bet,” said Gordon. “The Captain has promised to be as helpful as he can, and Lister, his Master-at-Arms, is an ex-Scotland Yard man, but Mr. Bristow thinks you're more likely to trace the mask than anyone else.”

Mannering murmured: “Nice of him.”

“You know that I'm not a great lover of amateur detectives,” said Gordon. “But I agree with my Chief this time. You're the man for this job.”

“Ah,” said Mannering. “What about the Captain? Does he know the true situation?”

“I've just discussed the situation with Captain Cross,” Gordon said. “There are obvious difficulties for him whichever way we work. If there should be an official search of the ship, it would soon get round. Some passengers would get angry, others would start a lot of gossip, and the man we're after would be on the alert all the time. You can understand all this, can't you?”

“Perfectly,” Mannering said. “But the Captain can't possibly give me the all clear to search. Not if I know ships' captains!”

“You obviously know ships' captains,” said Gordon. “No – but you could work on the passengers and single out suspects, then co-operate with the Captain and the Master-at-Arms.”

“I see,” said Mannering.

“You don't seem too enthusiastic.”

“If ever there was a case for working on my own without having to call on authority, this is it,” said Mannering.

“If you started visiting cabins and searching them they'd probably have you in irons within a couple of days,” said Gordon. “I'm sure this is the best way. Will you go ahead?”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “How much is known, Gordon?”

“Nothing for certain,” said Gordon. “We've been in touch with the police in Bangkok and in Sumi. There's a possibility that the theft has a political motive – as you know. And it's quite as likely that it's just the loot the thieves are after. There's one rumour we can't confirm.”

“What is it?”

“That the secret of the hiding place of the rest of the jewels can be found in the mask,” answered Gordon. “But it's only a rumour.”

“It could explain why a life or so doesn't stand in anyone's way,” Mannering said. “Gordon.”

“Yes, Mr. Mannering.”

“Do you think Melody Yesling killed herself?”

“It would be quite a coincidence if she had,” Gordon said. “You know the dangers all right. They've killed twice.”

“I know the dangers.” As Mannering spoke, he thought of Lorna, and he realised just how great those dangers were. He recalled those moments of panic on the hillside, but the killer of Nikko Toji and Melody Yesling had worked with stealth. The killer might be on board; almost certainly someone on the ship had the Mask of Sumi, and would kill to get it for its intrinsic value, its political significance, or because it could lead to the rest of the jewels.

“There's one other thing,” Gordon said.

“Have you any idea whom I might be looking for?” Mannering asked.

“No, nothing like that,” said Gordon. “If we learn anything from the Yard, through Harding for instance, I'll see you're told by cable or radio-telephone. I'm going to be much more prosaic, I fear. Mr. Bristow feels that if you are able to help it would be as an official consultant, and your expenses would be paid. I hope that's acceptable, Mr. Mannering.”

Mannering stared, and then burst into a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he said a moment later. “The
Daily Globe
made me a similar offer. Expenses would be very welcome!”

“Within reason,” Gordon put in quickly.

“Most certainly within reason,” Mannering assured him.

He kept chuckling to himself on the way to the quay in a police launch which cut cleanly through the pale blue water. The side of the great rock seemed to carve a chunk out of the sky; a wisp of cloud lay across its top. They tied up, and nearby an aeroplane screamed as its engines warmed up.

“Mr. Mannering,” said the Gibraltarian policeman, “I'd be happy to have one of my men show you round the island. It's a pity to get so near the Cave without going inside, and there's a lot you ought to see.”

“I only wish I had time,” said Mannering truthfully. “But as soon as I've packed my things I'll have to catch the tender. It goes at six-forty-five, doesn't it?”

“Yes. And Captain Cross will be off the moment he can, he never loses a minute,” the policeman said. “Any time you find yourself in Gibraltar, Mr. Mannering, don't hesitate to let me know. My name is Davis.”

“I'm very grateful, Mr. Davis,” Mannering said.

He was even more grateful when Davis put a staff car at his disposal to take him to the Rock Hotel. He had less than an hour to pack, pay his bill and be off, and fit in a telephone call to Lorna. She could not be surprised at what he had decided, but she would be very anxious, especially if the Press played up the stone-throwing incident.

His left wrist, stiff and sore, did not help him to hurry.

He put in a call to Lorna, noted a few things he must ask her to arrange with Larraby at Quinns. Naturally an orderly man with a precise mind, he packed quickly and well. But he had very little to wear for a long voyage, and if he had to go through as far as Mombasa, he would need tropical clothes. He knew what the heat of the Red Sea was like. Was there a chance of a little shopping in Gib?

There was a tap at his door. He called out, “Come in,” and stepped to one side, wary in case of danger; now that his mind was alert to the possibility of attack he would be on the
qui vive
all the time.

The door opened, and Nikko Toji's daughter stepped in.

 

Pearl was small, and quite, quite lovely.

When she had first come to the Chelsea flat, Mannering had seen at once how Lorna had been impressed, and then they had been expecting her. Now, completely unexpected, wearing a slim-fitting dress of lemon-coloured linen, and a small hat to match, she came in like a wraith.

Mannering judged from her expression that she wasn't quite sure what kind of welcome she would get. She stared straight at him with a directness which was at once naïve and yet filled with the wisdom of the ages. Her skin, olive-coloured but not really dark, was without blemish; her eyes were honey-coloured. Her heart-shaped face had something of the child's about it, and her dark hair had a sheen as glossy as a raven's wing.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I come in?”

“My dear Pearl!” exclaimed Mannering.

“I expect you are angry because I am here.”

“I'm not angry but I'm certainly startled,” Mannering said, and made himself ask: “Why did you come?”

“I had to see you.”

“Has anything new happened?”

“No,” said Pearl. She spoke with bell-like clarity, choosing her words with care; the American accent was less noticeable than on the telephone. She took a step forward, hands stretched out. “Have you found the mask?”

“No,” Mannering said gently.

“Was not the woman here?”

Mannering said: “She was here.”

“Then she did not have the mask?” Consternation rang in Pearl Toji's voice.

“Not when she was found.”

“Mr. Mannering.” Pearl was now so close that her hands almost touched his. “What is wrong?”

“She died,” Mannering said.

“She was killed?”

“The police say she killed herself.”

Excitement blazed up in the girl's eyes.

“With poison, like my father? Is that what happened?”

“Exactly the same way, yes.”

“They can't believe that two people would kill themselves in such a way!”

“They're not as sure as they were,” Mannering told her. “It's too much of a coincidence even for the police to accept.”

After a pause, Nikko Toji's daughter said: “So she was killed, but you did not find the mask. Is it now on Gibraltar?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then—where?”

“On board the ship.”

“Still there?” Doubt and dismay clouded Pearl's eyes.

“I think so.”

“Then how can it be found? The ship's Captain, is he going to look for it?”

Mannering smiled. “No. I am.”

Pearl caught her breath.

“You are to sail on the ship?”

“Yes.”

“To look for the mask. Is that your only reason?”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “I think it's the one way to—”

The telephone bell rang; it was probably his call to Lorna. He turned towards it, glad to have a moment's respite, and picked it up. “I think this is my wife.” Voices came and went, and then Lorna's came – explosively.

“John!”