The Mask of Sumi (8 page)

 

Mannering recognised the South African and Rhodesian accents and the less noticeable accents of the Kenyans, the rather affected sound of some English voices. Gradually he became used to them. There was the inevitable core of hearty players and hearty talkers. Mannering met more and more men and women whose names were on the games boards, heard snippets of conversation, saw some elderly people obviously preoccupied, quite as many bored. A few sat about reading, mostly thrillers, a few westerns, a few heavy-looking tomes.

The sea was as calm as the Mediterranean could be, but a breeze kept the heat down.

Mannering studied his marked passenger list, and put first this, then that man off the suspects. Gradually, the picture took shape. Except for known people or obviously innocent ones going to Africa for the first time there were five men and three women on board who might be involved.

One of them was Katman.

Another was Geoffrey Nares, a man in his thirties, nearly as tall as Mannering, well-groomed, active. They met for the first time at deck quoits, passed the usual pleasantries, and then began to play in earnest. Mannering won with a point to spare.

“Now let me buy you a drink,” Mannering said.

“Nice of you.” They went to the ballroom, the sliding doors of which were all wide open. The heat was more oppressive today. Pearl was sitting with two youngish couples and Raymond Joslyn, whose right hand was bandaged and whose forehead was discoloured with bruises. It did not stop him from being good at games. Mannering waved across to her.

“You're
the
Mannering, aren't you?” asked Nares.

“I'm the Quinns Mannering,” agreed Mannering lightly.

“Same thing. Is the Japanese girl any relation to Nikko Toji?”

Mannering said: “Yes. She's a Thai, by the way.”

“Never can tell these Orientals apart,” Nares said casually. Mannering began to dislike him. “Sly lot, on the whole. The Pearl of Thai doesn't seem particularly upset about papa, does she?”

Mannering felt almost a sense of shock.

“Orientals hide their feelings pretty well, too,” he made himself say.

“A devoted daughter ought to be desolate about the death of her father,” Nares said. “Surprising how westernised they're becoming.”

“In some ways,” Mannering temporised.

“What brings you to Africa?” asked Nares.

Mannering said briskly: “Business.”

Nares chuckled.

“Nice tax excuse, anyhow! Oh, don't think I mind. We all do it. Do me a favour, will you?”

Mannering said: “If I can.”

“Introduce me to the Pearl of Thai – she's really something in statistics, and she might have Western ideas about bed-life, too.”

“She has very definite ideas about a lot of things,” Mannering said.

He disliked Nares more than he had disliked a man for a long time, but that didn't make him the chief suspect.

An elderly, deeply tanned man with grizzled hair and the most piercing blue eyes stopped Mannering later that day.

“I think we have to play table tennis. My name's O'Keefe.”

They shook hands.

“Aren't you John Mannering of Quinns?” asked O'Keefe.

“That's right.”

“Often thought that too little attention is paid by antique dealers and people like yourself to Africa,” said the grizzled man.

He was Ralph O'Keefe, according to the passenger list, and his occupation was listed on his passport as:
Independent Means.

“How right you are,” said Mannering.

“I could introduce you to a few people who know where to put their hands on some very valuable and rare things,” O'Keefe volunteered.

“Really?”

“Let me know if I can help, won't you?”

“I certainly will,” said Mannering. “Like to get this game over? The table's free.”

O'Keefe was ten years older than Mannering, yet won in two straight, lively sets. They arranged a drink together.

“Now I'll go and hunt for my opponent in the semi-finals,” said O'Keefe.

It was nearly lunchtime on the third day out. The chimes of the gong were clearly audible, most families had already gone down to tidy up for the meal. Mannering went along to his own cabin. There was a note on the mat, and he expected it to be an invitation to a cocktail party.

Instead, there were two sentences on
East Africa Star
paper.

 

“If you interfere any further you will regret it. Enjoy your trip and get off at Port Said, taking the coloured girl with you.”

 

Mannering thought almost with elation: “He's getting worried!”

He went down to luncheon. Pearl was already there with a middle-aged and a youngish couple who shared it with them. She was unrolling her table-napkin when a slip of paper fell out. It fluttered to the floor, and the Indian waiter bent down to retrieve it, quickly.

“Thank you.” She was smiling with that quiet charm which distinguished her when she unfolded the paper. She glanced down – and immediately lost her colour. She looked as if she were badly shocked.

She tucked it into her dress, and from then on behaved quite naturally.

 

“Where is it?” Mannering asked her.

Pearl took the paper out of the neck of her dress and handed it to him. He opened it, and read:

 

“Go home, you yellow-skinned bitch, or you'll regret it. Fly from Port Said.”

 

Mannering said: “Pearl, I'm terribly sorry.”

“It is my own fault,” she said. “I came here against advice from the police.”

“Of course you came,” Mannering said.

Her eyes lit up.

“You think I was right?”

“If you're your father's daughter I don't see what else you could have done,” Mannering said. “How far will you go?”

“I don't understand you.”

“There are at least five men on board, any one of whom might be the man we're after.”

“Yes, I know. They are Nares, O'Keefe, Katman, Corrison, and Mehta.” Corrison was an Australian who said he was going to explore the possibilities of large scale sheep farming in parts of the highlands.

“Kikuyu or no bloody Kikuyu,” he would say blandly.

Mehta was an Indian, whom rumour said was an Arab sheik travelling in disguise. He was a small but very handsome man, sallow-skinned, with a hooked nose. He was pleasant to everyone, and his manners and his accent had obviously been acquired in England.

“How well do you know them?” Mannering asked.

“Not very well.”

“Nares is anxious to get to know you better.”

“I am quite aware of that,” said Pearl, with feeling.

“You probably won't find him very nice to know. But—”

“It might be helpful for me to get to know him and the others, you mean?”

“I think so. Talk to them and try to make them talk about themselves.”

“I will do this, of course.” Pearl had been very subdued since the note incident, but began to cheer up now. “I will do anything at all to find the man we are seeking.”

Mannering found that easy to believe.

“If Nares makes too much of a nuisance of himself—”

Mannering stopped, for he realised that her eyes were laughing at him. He squeezed her hand.

“Except for murderers, I can look after myself well,” she declared.

He was still feeling a little rueful, as he went on: “There's one other thing, Pearl.”

“And what is that?”

“I want to search each man's cabin, soon.”

“Oh,” Pearl said, very thoughtfully. “I begin to see.”

“And I need to be sure that he won't come in while I'm doing it.”

“But, John, if anyone should see you, what will you do?”

“In everything except giving advice to beautiful young women I can handle things reasonably well,” he retorted.

They laughed together; it was good to hear her happy, but he could not get Nares' comment out of his mind.

“When will you want to make your first visit?” Pearl asked.

“I'll try O'Keefe, between four o'clock and half past. He usually comes up for tea in the drawing-room.”

“I will be there with him,” she promised. “But isn't Nares a greater suspect?”

“The best time to make sure he's out of his cabin is during the evenings, when he's either drinking or dancing,” Mannering said.

“Tonight it is dancing,” Pearl remarked. There wasn't much she missed.

At ten past four Mannering saw her sitting with O'Keefe, who was talking earnestly. Could he have sent those notes? They had seemed much more like notes which Nares would write.

Mannering went out, and down to B Deck, where O'Keefe had one of the deluxe cabins. It was a ‘dead' time of day. The Purser's office was not open, and the Indian stewards were off duty. Even the bath-boys were absent. Two young girls, their long legs beautifully tanned, young bosoms beautifully rounded, were talking about what to wear at the dance tonight. Mannering realised that they had noticed him; it would have been better if they hadn't. He turned into the narrow passage leading to O'Keefe's cabin.

He felt completely on a limb. If he were caught, Cross could not possibly overlook it.

Mannering tried the handle of the door; and it was locked.

Now his heart began to beat faster. At sea, few people locked their doors. Had O'Keefe some special reason for doing so? Mannering took a pen-knife out of his pocket, one with a pick-lock blade. It clicked open. Someone walked along the passage – a woman, heels tapping. Mannering hunched his shoulders to lose height, and waited until she passed; he had no idea whether she had noticed him.

He inserted the pick-lock blade. The lock was straightforward, and Mannering had never lost his dexterity in the use of the pick-lock. He felt it catch on the barrel, twisted, and heard the lock click back. He thrust open the door and stepped inside.

He heard a rustle of sound and his heart leapt; but it was a shirt, blowing in the breeze of the electric fan. He closed the door. O'Keefe also kept his inside window up – the one with slats; he meant to make sure no one could get in.

Was it possible that the first attempt would be lucky?

It was a quarter past four; Mannering believed he could rely on another twenty minutes.

He began on the cases. There were seven large and three small. The first three he tried were unlocked and contained clothes and oddments, the fourth was locked. He used the pick-lock, and in a few dexterous movements, had the case ready to open. He thrust the lid back. It was filled with cigarettes, gin, and whisky, presumably bought very cheaply at Gibraltar. Mannering moved each packet of 200 cigarettes and each wrapped bottle, made sure the mask wasn't there, and started again.

He forced one more locked case, threw back the lid, and started at the sight of English currency. After the first shock, he counted; it contained over a thousand pounds in sterling notes and nearly as much in East African, Rhodesian, and South African money. He relocked the case, very thoughtfully. O'Keefe wasn't what he seemed but Mannering's interest was not in this kind of currency fraud. He ran through the drawers, the wardrobe, and everywhere a box containing the mask might be found, but there was nothing.

He listened at the door for a moment, heard no sound, stepped outside and locked the door with the skeleton key.

He stepped into the passage, and no one was about.

A few yards along the passage was Corrison's cabin. Corrison didn't drink tea, but always champed at the bit until the bar was open at five o'clock. Mannering went along to his own cabin, which wasn't locked. He opened the door, and had his second shock, this one much greater. A pair of long, slender, lovely legs were stretched out on his bed; a woman's legs. She was wearing shorts, and a shirt blouse, the top buttons of which were undone. She was smiling at him, her hands behind her head, and the position thrust her bosom forward. Her hair was glossy and dark. She was Naomi Ransom, whom he and Pearl had played in a doubles match of deck tennis.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mannering.”

“Hallo,” said Mannering. “Don't you take tea?”

“No more than you do,” Naomi Ransom said.

She was a suspect only because she had booked her passage just a day before the ship had sailed, and was not known by the British India Line. She was due to get off at Mombasa, and was officially touring.

“Oh, I hate tea,” Mannering said, and leaned over her to press the bell for the steward. She moved her right arm, and held his wrist. It hurt a little from the Gibraltar bruise, but Mannering did not show it.

“I shouldn't,” Naomi said. “It isn't proper to entertain a lady in your cabin.”

“Oh, ladies are always welcome,” Mannering said. “And I'm sure my steward wouldn't be shocked.”

“You should be.”

“It doesn't happen easily.” Mannering moved back from the bed and pulled up a chair. “Apart from compromising yourself, what are you doing here?”

She looked at him from beneath fine dark curling lashes. She was strikingly handsome, but far more important just then, she was superbly confident.

She smiled very slowly; some would say seductively.

“Shall we say five hundred pounds?”

“That's a lot of money,” Mannering remarked.

“Not for you.”

“It's a lot of money for anybody.”

“Not for John Mannering of Quinns.”

He smiled at her amiably.

“I know some of you are expensive, Mrs. Ransom, but aren't you pricing yourself out of the market?”

“I'm past being insulted,” she said, “and I'm not selling my feminine charms.”

“Then why do you expect to get five hundred pounds?”

“For my silence,” she said.

“Oh,” said Mannering softly. “Blackmail, is it?”