The Chinese Puzzle

by John Creasey

  “Who but the ubiquitous Thomas Cook’s,” answered Mannering, and he stretched out for the telephone. Lorna sat motionless, giving the impression that she still was only half convinced.

  The travel agency answered, and soon Mannering was talking to a man with a brisk voice and an encyclopaedic knowledge of passenger ships and sailings. Over the years this office had done so much work for John Mannering and his clients that they were almost friends.

  “Yes, Mr. Mannering, and you may be lucky … for Orienta on Tuesday next.” Mannering mouthed “Tuesday” to Lorna, who mouthed back “What?”

  “The newest and undoubtedly the best ship in the P. & O. fleet, an improvement even on the Canberra. I was told only yesterday that she was fully booked. However there may be a cancellation, I heard a rumour that the High Commissioner for Malaya was likely to postpone his voyage. I will know in a few minutes. Shall I call you back?”

  “When?” breathed Lorna.

  “Tuesday,” whispered Mannering.

  “What was that, Mr. Mannering?”

  “I stifled a sneeze,” Mannering said.

  Lorna was close behind him, arms round him; he could feel the soft pressure of her breasts against his back. He turned his face upwards, and the sight of the radiance in her eyes almost hurt.

  “So we are going?”

  “Did you ever doubt it?”

  “Won’t keep you a minute, Mr. Mannering, I’m calling P. & O. on the other line. Meanwhile, here are a few details of the ship and ports of call …”

  “The extension!” Mannering hissed at Lorna, and she flew across the room towards the hall.

  “This is a very bad line,” the Cook’s man complained. “I was saying, the Orienta is the newest ship in the fleet. It is diesel driven, forty-six thousand tons gross weight, one funnel aft. She has built-in stabilisers, of course, and is fully air-conditioned. The whole of the promenade and the sun deck are given over to First Class, but in Cabin there is plenty of deck accommodation.”

  “Can you tell me the ports of call?” interrupted Mannering. He could see Lorna standing by the telephone in the hall, the receiver at her ear.

  “By all means. First call is Aden, for twelve daylight hours, the next is Karachi, also for twelve daylight hours. Third is Bombay, two full days. Next is Colombo, one day, no time to run up to Kandy, I fear. Fifth, Singapore, sixth Hong Kong. The ship goes on to Japan and then Australia and New Zealand, across the Pacific with the calls at Suva, Fiji—”

  “I hate to say it,” interrupted Mannering, “but Hong Kong is as far as we can hope to go.”

  “I quite understand,” said the Cook’s man. “Hold on, please.”

  They could hear him talking on the other line. Lorna hitched up a stool and sat down. Whatever fears she had felt, the night had driven away, and she wanted nothing more than to go on this voyage. She called across: “When does it reach Hong Kong?”

  “Forgot to ask,” Mannering called back.

  “On the nineteenth day,” answered the Cook’s man, without warning. “Ha, ha, ha, you didn’t realise I had a telephone to each ear, did you? Half a mo’ … Here we are!” The tone of his voice told of good news. “The High Commissioner is going after all, I’m told he’s a very congenial companion, just married for the second time, you know. His first wife died of cancer. His new wife is quite young, but you don’t want me to tell you all the gossip in advance, do you? There is a double cabin available on A’ deck. It is not one of the best but has an excellent position amidships, close to the main hallway, beauty salon, stairs and lifts to the dining-room. The P. & O. had kept it back in case of a last-minute emergency, and once I mentioned the name of Mr. Mannering it was pencilled in for you. Shall I confirm?”

  “Yes, please,” Mannering said.

  “How much is it?” Lorna wanted to know.

  “The fare per person double occupancy is £320 1s. exactly,” the Cook’s man said. “If you’ll let me have the confirmation in writing, for formality’s sake …”

  When they rang off, they walked towards each other and met in the middle of the hall. Strangely, they were not smiling; it was almost as if the ease of getting the accommodation was an anticlimax.

  Lorna actually shivered; but a moment later, she laughed. “We’ve only five days to get ready in, darling! No more lying in for you!”

  Grey-haired, gentle-faced Larraby, manager of Quinns, seemed genuinely delighted. In the long, narrow shop which for nearly four centuries had contained the old and the gracious in furniture, jewels, and paintings as well as objets d’art, he smiled into Mannering’s eyes. He was reflected in the burnished gold of a ceremonial tray from Bangkok, hanging on the plastered wall from a massive oak beam which was even older than the tray. Outside, London’s traffic sped and roared and groaned within a few yards, but Hart Row itself had recently become a paradise for pedestrians only; access for vehicles was at the back of the shop.

  “I’m very glad indeed, Mr. Mannering, I’ve felt for some time that you needed a good holiday. You’ve been working very hard.”

  “Have I, Josh?” Mannering was vaguely surprised.

  “Unnecessarily hard,” Larraby assured him, with a faint note of reproof in his voice. “How long do you expect to be gone, sir?”

  “Six weeks or so,” Mannering answered.

  “The season doesn’t really begin until after Easter,” mused Larraby. “You could quite comfortably extend the trip by two or three weeks if you wished.”

  He did not add “everything here will carry on as usual, you will hardly be missed”, but his words implied it.

  A little ruefully, Mannering settled down at his bow-fronted Queen Anne desk in a small, well-appointed office filled with antiques and small pieces of great intrinsic value. He wrote the confirmatory note to the travel agents, and went through a list of matters awaiting his attention. Yesterday, many had seemed of pressing urgency; today few seemed to demand his personal attention. He dictated a dozen or so letters into a tape-recorder, then sent the tape to an office nearby for transcribing; it was a long time since he had employed a full-time secretary.

  Next he glanced through his diary. There were several private sales, one of them in France, which he had planned to attend, as well as some important days at Sotheby’s and Christies’. Larraby could do quite well as he himself, Mannering decided. There were now nine members of the sales staff, and two warehousemen at Quinns, all of whom knew their jobs thoroughly.

  He sat back, chuckling.

  “Raymond Li Chen couldn’t have selected a better time!”

  A few moments later he asked himself the question which had teased both him and Lorna: could there be any ulterior motive behind the invitation? On the spur of the moment he telephoned Christiansen, one of London’s most famous dealers, on the pretext of inquiring about a pair of fifteenth-century Toledo swords, and when he was about to ring off, he asked: “Shall I see you in Hong Kong?”

  Christiansen paused, it seemed for a long time. That did not really matter, and yet in a way it mattered a great deal.

  “Oh, I’ve just realised what you mean,” the other dealer said at last. “Li Chen’s party. No, John, I don’t think I can spare the time.”

  So the invitation had been general, and not particular to him; undoubtedly Lorna would be glad to hear that. Mannering pushed the vague premonitions away from him, trying to laugh them off. He had been involved so often in investigations and inquiries for missing jewels and valuables that he had become suspicious almost by second nature.

  What clothes, if any, did he need to buy? He had sufficient tropical suits and lounge clothes, sufficient cabana sets, nearly everything. A pair or two of shoes and a shirt or two, and he would be properly set up. He would need travellers’ cheques and perhaps letters of credit, in case he came across something he thought worth buying at one of the ports of call.

  There wouldn’t be time, except possibly in Bombay; in any case this was a holiday. His oldest friend in Bombay, Old P
hirozha, had died two years ago.

  “No business at the ports of call,” he decided firmly.

  As he began to make a list of people whom he would normally see in the next few weeks, and whom he ought to talk to before he left, the telephone bell rang.

  “Mannering of Quinns,” he answered.

  “Hold on, please,” a girl said in the preoccupied manner of telephone operators the world over. “Mr. Bristow wants you.”

  The only Bristow whom Mannering knew was Superintendent William Bristow of New Scotland Yard.

  It was unlikely that Bristow was calling to pass the time of day, or for any social reason. This would be official business. Well, what about it? Mannering asked himself irritably. Bristow often called on some trifling inquiry. True, he hadn’t done so for several weeks, but there had been long gaps between inquiries before. Why was he so sensitive this morning? And why was Bristow so long?

  “You’re through,” the girl said at last.

  “John?” Bristow’s voice was as unmistakable as the sound of Bow Bells, not Cockney but unmistakably a Londoner’s. “How busy are you?”

  That was characteristic of the detective: to say a lot in a single brief sentence, and it would be characteristic of him to be acutely disappointed if Mannering were to say he was very busy indeed.

  “Why?” Mannering asked guardedly, and added disarmingly: “How are you?”

  “I’m all right.” Bristow almost brushed the inquiry aside. “I’d like to talk to you about a job that’s been dumped into my lap and which I don’t think I can handle as well as you can.”

  “Never let it be said,” retorted Mannering, and Bristow almost snapped a retort: “This is serious. Are you free for lunch?”

  Strictly speaking, Mannering was free. He had intended to go and browse over the travel section of Hatchard’s, not far away, and buy whatever books he thought would most attract Lorna, and he had planned to pick up some travel brochures on the way. Still, if he took Larraby’s words at their face value, it didn’t greatly matter whether he was in that afternoon or not.

  “I could be,” he said, still cautiously.

  “Thanks. Will you meet me at Stanwell’s at five to one?”

  “Your treat?” inquired Mannering, almost unbelievingly.

  “Yes,” answered Bristow, quite brusquely. “I’ll see you there.”

  He rang off, and Mannering did not fully realise for some minutes that he had allowed the Yard man to go without asking what he wanted to talk about.

  “This isn’t my morning,” he said sotto voce. “It’s certainly time I took a holiday.”

  He found himself chuckling again, and remained in the best of humours before leaving the shop at twenty minutes to one.

  It was a bright crisp day. There was colour in the cheeks and a glow in the eyes of most Londoners in Bond Street and the narrow Mayfair streets which took him to Stanwell’s. The restaurant was over one of London’s oldest and quaintest of public houses, My Lord of Mellon’s, and next to it, on a corner of a square as old if less renowned than Shepherd Market, was another antique and fine art shop: Ho’s.

  Ho’s had once been owned by a Chinaman from Peking, but for many years it had been owned by two London Chinese who knew a great deal about oriental art. Their trade was more general than Mannering’s, and there was a great deal of bric-a-brac in the windows which would never get house-room at Quinns; yet the window was attractively dressed, and possessed an unmistakable oriental dignity.

  Mannering almost missed a step as he turned into the narrow entrance which led up even narrower stairs to Stanwell’s, for suddenly he wondered why Bristow had chosen to meet him at this particular spot.

  He tried to convince himself that this was simply coincidence, but he did not wholly succeed. It was nearly five to one when he entered the restaurant, and immediately Bristow stood up from a stool at the bar. Bristow was alone, a bigger man than he appeared to be because of his well-cut, snug-fitting pale-grey suit. It struck Mannering forcibly that Bristow didn’t look a day older than he had twenty years ago. Even then his hair had been grey and close-trimmed; even then his clipped moustache had been stained yellow by nicotine, as it was now. He moved forward, hand outstretched, smiling, as if he was anxious to create a good impression.

  “Hallo, John! Good of you to come.”

  “For such an occasion, what could keep me away?” asked Mannering. They shook hands, and stood facing each other, Mannering two inches taller, broader, and as dark-haired as Bristow was grey. Bristow had good features which were somehow put together in a way which failed to make him handsome.

  “What will you have?”

  “Some beer at the table will suit me,” Mannering said. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  “Nothing would,” Bristow answered him drily. They went to a corner table, so placed that they could not easily be overheard, and after a few courtesies, studied the menu.

  “I think I’ll have steak and kidney pudding,” Mannering decided. “I probably won’t have much chance of ye olde English fare for a few weeks, so I’ll tuck in while the going’s good.”

  As he had expected, and in fact intended, Bristow asked sharply: “Are you going away?”

  “Yes, Bill.”

  “Where?” inquired Bristow. He gave the impression that he would soon be very disappointed. Mannering feigned a deep interest in the comparative merits of cabbage and spinach, sauté and boiled potatoes, made his choice, looked smilingly into Bristow’s eyes, and answered: “A long way out of your reach, Bill. Lorna and I are going to Hong Kong.”

  “Hong Kong!” exclaimed Bristow. Instead of looking horrified he looked delighted, and so shattered the effect of Mannering’s surprise. “That couldn’t be better!” While Mannering was still recovering from the shock, the glow faded from the policeman’s eyes and an intense stare replaced it. Quite suddenly, Bristow became a policeman on the hunt. “But it’s too much for coincidence. You’ve been forewarned.” He leaned forward, his manner was almost accusing. “Out with it, John. How much do you know?”

  Chapter Three

  Cause For Alarm

  The hush over the table seemed to affect the small room; it was as if everyone nearby was listening, even the barman who stood polishing a glass which reflected the array of vivid colours behind him. Mannering knew that Bristow was quite serious, and also knew that his reaction to the question affected him so that any answer would probably lack conviction.

  “Nothing at all, Bill.”

  “There’s no need to lie about it.” The edge to Bristow’s voice told of bad temper held in check; Bristow was never out of temper without good cause.

  Mannering made himself smile, yet had an uneasy feeling that the smile looked forced; he still hadn’t recovered from the shock of the question.

  “Absolutely nothing, Bill, although if Lorna were sitting here she would probably be as sceptical as you are. I had an invitation to go to a special exhibition in Hong Kong, the centenary exhibition of one of the most reputable dealers there. Christiansen also had an invitation, I’ve no doubt all the major dealers have, and many of them will accept, you can be sure. It can be an expense charge against tax, which is quite an inducement.” He stopped, expecting Bristow to make some comment, but the Yard man sat silently watching him, as if warily. Mannering began to feel annoyed. “Believe it or not, it’s true.”

  Bristow picked up a half-smoked cigarette, and lit another from it.

  “Yes, I can see it is. Sorry. It doesn’t make sense, and it can’t simply be coincidence. Or can it?” He stubbed out the old cigarette as he drew deeply on the other. “I’ve known some coincidences that no intelligent man would believe. Whose centenary is it?”

  “Raymond Li Chen’s,” Mannering answered. “Of Li Chen Brothers.”

  “I’ve heard of the firm,” Bristow conceded, “but not in this connection.” He drew back as a waiter brought green pea soup for him, and pâté maison for Mannering. “Have you found more stuff
coming from the Far East than usual?”

  “If you’ll tell me what you mean by stuff, I—”

  “Oh, don’t be so pernickety. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  Mannering was so surprised by this outburst that he almost gaped. A waiter bringing the beer spilled a little, which splashed on to Bristow’s soup spoon. Mannering half expected Bristow to snap at the man as he apologised and dabbed with his snow-white napkin.

  “Leave it alone,” Bristow said gruffly, and the man moved off. Bristow deliberately avoided Mannering’s eye, and scooped up soup. He was so touchy that obviously he was labouring under a great strain, and Mannering selected the soft answer: “I haven’t noticed much more in the way of jewellery or precious stones, but there are a lot of new and old ivory carvings, and some jade as well as rose quartz on the market. Some of it’s very valuable, but it’s never been my special interest. What’s worrying you about it?”

  “A lot of it is being stolen from China, smuggled into Hong Kong, and then into England.” Bristow finished his soup, and forced a smile, not yet himself but obviously trying to be. “Much is reproduction, and liable to heavy duty. I’ve been handling it for months. Two or three small collections turned up in London shops and the shopkeepers swear they didn’t know it was smuggled in. We’ve been working with the Hong Kong police. I thought it was just another routine investigation. This morning I spent an hour with the Commissioner and the Assistant Commissioner, who think I’ve neglected the job. It’s reached top level. So many valuables are being brought out of Peking, Canton, Hankow, and Shanghai that the Chinese top brass made a song and dance about it. Everyone’s so bloody sensitive about hurting the Commies’ feelings you’d think I’d committed a major crime.” Bristow’s grin was fierce but much more natural. “Now you know why I’m in such a foul mood.”

  “Know and understand,” said Mannering commiseratingly. “If it’s worth top level action it must be very big.”

  “They talk in millions of pounds worth stolen from China,” Bristow reported.

  “A million pounds can buy a lot of Canadian wheat for Peking,” Mannering murmured. “I can see why they’re so touchy, too. Have you had any luck at all?”