The Chinese Puzzle

by John Creasey

  He was this man’s friend, but did that warrant him taking grave risks not only with himself but with Lorna? Everything he had heard made him want to shy away from this affair. The odds were too heavy, the cause not really his. He might, in fact he did, feel almost as if it would be a betrayal of Li Chen if he backed out, but that was an emotional reaction and there was no justification for it. All of this passed through his mind as he looked into the other man’s eyes. Was it imagination, or was there a shadow of both understanding and disappointment in them? As if Li Chen had read his mind, and knew exactly what he would decide.

  He asked abruptly: “When will you go back to Hong Kong?”

  “I am not sure, my friend.”

  “Is it safe for you to go back?”

  “It is not exactly safe for me to go anywhere. Mr. Mannering, will you answer me two questions, and give me the benefit of your advice? Such a problem as this demands the wisdom of Solomon. Would you, if you were me, attempt to come to terms with both governments? Would you, in all these circumstances, feel bound by honour to protect the goods which are held in trust for American friends? Remember that although there is insurance on the goods for which exit permits from China are available, some cannot be insured. In any case it is not possible to cover even the legitimate goods to their full value, which fluctuates from time to time. The Americans would lose much money, and they would lose possessions on which they have set their hearts. You know how collectors feel, Mr. Mannering. No one knows better than you.” Li Chen stopped again, and offered the salver, as if he were deliberately allowing Mannering time to think.

  “No thanks,” said Mannering. “How can I get in touch with you?”

  “You mean here in Bombay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can give you this telephone number, but you should be very careful how you use it.” Li Chen shrugged. “Here in India, as anywhere in the East, it is easy to buy information. In the West this is called corruption, but ways and customs and ethical standards are very different.”

  Mannering nodded. “I know.” He knew it both as a fact and as an excuse, but did not think about it much. “Would you rather I gave a message to the woman?”

  “Woman?”

  “The beggar.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Li Chen. “I think it would be wiser, unless perhaps I telephone you. But what will you wish to discuss, Mr. Mannering?”

  “Whether to go home, or to continue the journey,” answered Mannering. “I need a day or two to think.”

  “Mr. Mannering, there is no need at all to study my feelings or to soften the blow of your return.”

  “I want time to think before making up my mind,” Mannering said. He wanted to telephone Bristow too, and to decide how much of this to talk over with Lorna. He went on: “And I need time to think before answering your questions, too.”

  “You must have as much time as you need,” Li Chen said graciously. “Mr. Mannering, may I hope you will stay and dine with me?”

  “I must get back to the hotel,” Mannering refused. “Thank you all the same.”

  “It is my loss,” murmured Li Chen. “I will arrange for you to be escorted to the temple. From there you will be able to get a taxi.”

  “I can find my way,” Mannering assured him.

  He was almost brusque, and knew that this was because he felt exasperated with himself, his own indecision, and the fact that Li Chen was right and was fully aware of it. He was playing for time so as to let the Chinaman down lightly. Nothing could possibly justify taking any further part, and yet deep inside him there was a voice crying out to take part. The truth was, he wanted to. It was not that he thought he should, conscience had nothing to do with it. He responded to such a challenge as this as other men responded to the call of the high mountains, or the great oceans, or great causes. It was the same call which had made him the Baron. There was one reason only why he did not decide on the spot to go to Hong Kong: and that reason was Lorna.

  Could any man ask for a stronger or better reason?

  Li Chen saw him to the door which opened on to the narrow alley. The combined odours of spices and sewers wafted strongly from the corner. With a quiet: “I will expect word from you soon,” Li Chen closed the door, as if afraid to keep it open too long. A man moved across towards Mannering out of the shadows, and his heart bounded: if Li Chen had cause to fear, then surely he had, too.

  The man was his guide.

  They walked towards the wider street, past the dim lights and the squatting figures and the unseen eyes, and reached the corner. Somewhere reedy music was being played, high-pitched and melancholy. Mannering saw the lights of cars in the distance, and had only to walk to them to find a taxi.

  “I can manage on my own from here,” he said. The guide hesitated. “Go back,” Mannering insisted, and pointed. Still the man hesitated, but he allowed Mannering to walk on alone. The music seemed louder: ding, dong, ding, dong, quite tuneless to him, and yet very sad.

  He heard a different sound: a child’s crying. He should not be surprised and yet he was; one seldom heard a child crying, or even whimpering, in this city. He heard it again, and then in the dim light from a shop where no one sat or stood, he saw the child. She was standing against a wall. By some trick of reflection her dark eyes were shiny and huge in a pale face. She whimpered.

  She, thought Mannering, and realised on the instant that it was the child who had clung to the beggar woman’s sari. There was no other sound.

  He stared at the child, wondering if this was some kind of trick, meant to keep him here, or to make him anxious. He was in India, remember, there was no room for sentiment, for poverty and distress was part of life; no one man could alter that. This was a land of organised beggars, trained from the age of this very child to trade on human sympathy, to make a business of begging.

  He took a coin from his pocket and held it out, but the child did not move a hand; she whimpered more. Then, his eyes more accustomed to the gloom, he saw a dark bundle on the cobbled ground, a few feet away from the child. He stepped nearer. It was not a bundle, it was a prostrate body, curled up as if asleep. Worse: only a few inches from the body was a baby, the baby which had been in the woman’s arms.

  Mannering felt the cold clutch of horror as he called: “Wake up.” The woman did not stir. “Wake up!” he repeated and stretched out a hand. The woman’s wizened face was just visible, and now it was obvious that she was lying in an odd, unnatural position. He drew back, took out a book of matches, and struck one.

  He started back, appalled, for the woman’s head was a mass of hair, matted with blood. Blood was red on her cheeks and slimy on the cobbles where her head lay.

  The match burned low, and died into darkness, and the awful sight was hidden. Slowly, Mannering straightened up. He felt sick with shock and with horror, and with a dawning fear. Had she been murdered so that he would find her here? Her body lay across his path like an immovable barrier between him and Hong Kong.

  A hand touched him and the child whimpered, while the babe lay still as death. The shadowy guide said in English that was difficult to understand: “Go. Pliz go.” He was pointing towards the temple with his other hand, and what Mannering could see of his expression seemed to plead urgency. “Go. Pliz go.” He, Mannering, must run away, he must not get involved in this. For a few seconds he stood still. Then in a sudden surge of anger he shook the urgent hand away, threw back his head, and called: “Police! Police!”

  Almost like a wraith his guide vanished, leaving Mannering alone with the dead woman and the whimpering child. He called again but the only response came from the child who, frightened, began to cry quite loudly.

  “Police!” shouted Mannering, but there was no answer and no new sound. He looked about him, trying to see if anyone approached, but even the silent men who had squatted on their haunches seemed to have gone, leaving the street empty, eerie, frightening.

  Then there was a shuffle of movement, and Li Chen’s gui
de appeared again.

  “Police will come soon,” he stated. “Master telephone.” On the last word, he vanished into the gloom.

  Chapter Ten

  The Orphan

  It seemed a long time, but at last a car turned from the main road into this one, a car engine whined, and tyres rumbled over the cobbles. Headlights shone on Mannering and the dead woman and her children. No one else was in sight. A youthful man in uniform jumped out of the car, approached Mannering and saluted.

  “Did you call for assistance, sir?”

  “I certainly did,” said Mannering, in the accent which had fooled Li Chen.

  “I am sorry you have been inconvenienced in Bombay,” the police officer apologised with great precision. “We do not like such a thing to happen to guests in our country. Where are you staying, sir?”

  “At the Taj Mahal Hotel.”

  “If you will please be good enough to explain briefly what happened here, sir, I will take control of the situation and my superiors will call at your hotel for further formalities. What is your name, please?”

  “Mason, James C. Mason,” Mannering said. “You’re very helpful.” He had already made up his mind what to say. “I had been told there was an antique shop near here, do you know what I mean?”

  “Perfectly well, sir. There is such an establishment not far from here. No doubt you were misdirected. What then, sir?”

  Other policemen were bending over the body, and suddenly a light flashed vividly and a camera clicked. Above Mannering’s answer there was a strange sound, and suddenly the child by the wall screamed in terror. A woman appeared, old and crone-like, her heart touched and compassion overcoming her fear. The other policemen spoke to her, and she took the child. She pointed to the body which lay so still, and the policeman near the dead woman answered in Hindi; Mannering did not understand a word.

  “What was that?” he asked the officer.

  “The woman and the infant are dead,” the officer stated flatly. In the light from the car headlights he showed up clean-shaven, handsome, not so dark-skinned as many. His eyes were very dark and bright. “You were about to give me further information, sir.”

  “The woman approached me as I walked here, and I gave her five twenty-anna notes,” Mannering said. “About half an hour later I came back, heard the child crying, and found the mother dead.”

  “If she is the mother,” the police officer said sceptically. “We do everything we can to prevent it, but it is still possible to hire children, the better to solicit alms. What followed, Mr. Mason?”

  “I called for help but no one came, and then raised my voice and bellowed,” Mannering said. “No one answered. I was surprised to see you come.”

  “You were heard,” the officer told him. “A man telephoned to say that an American gentleman was in some difficulty. We were alarmed in case you had been attacked and robbed. Every city has districts where it is unwise for a stranger to travel alone by night.” There was no doubt of the note of reproof.

  “Sure they have. Who’d walk in Central Park, New York, after dark? It was my own fault, lootenant, and I’m sorry.”

  “I am also exceedingly sorry. In future you will please be more careful.”

  “You bet I will,” Mannering assured him fervently. “How can I pick up a cab?”

  “It will be my privilege to drive you back to the hotel,” the police officer said formally. “I will instruct my assistants to wait for me.”

  It had been a mistake to say where he was staying, Mannering realised, but he was not worried about that; he was troubled about the child who had been taken into one of those dark, mysterious houses.

  “What will happen to the kid?” he asked as he sat beside the police officer in the old Austin.

  “She will be cared for.” The man obviously had no desire to discuss the subject. “What is your room number at the hotel, please?”

  Almost mechanically, Mannering answered: “Eighty-one.” In fact his was 307. “Will you do me another service, lootenant?”

  “If it is in my power, sir.”

  “Drop me by the statue by the big arch. What do they call it?”

  “The statue of Lord Hardinge of Penshurst, sir, close to the edifice known as the Gateway of India. You prefer to go there instead of the hotel?”

  “Sure,” said Mannering, and added with a note almost of longing in his voice: “I guess that must be about the most romantic harbour scene in the world. I just love it.”

  “Truly it is a beautiful place,” the officer said with obvious pride. “It will be my pleasure to take you there.”

  Ten minutes later Mannering stood and watched the little car drive off from the shadow of the huge gateway. Almost as if by magic, two children and a woman with a babe in her arms approached him in silent supplication. He pictured the young-old face of the woman who was dead, and the bright dark eyes of the orphan, and for a moment he was nearly blinded with tears. He thrust money into the dirty palms, and turned and strode away, walking for ten minutes along the great promenade with its circle of lights until he was fully composed again.

  Then he went back to Lorna.

  “By far the worst thing was that child, crying,” Mannering told Lorna, huskily. “I’ve never heard anything like it, and I hope I never will again. What I can’t understand is why? Who thought it worthwhile killing that harmless creature? Could it have been to frighten me? Who could think that it would be enough to frighten me away, anyhow?” He sat at the mirror, talking as he cleaned off the make-up; the real Mannering appeared, the man “Mason” vanished. “It was a damnable thing to do. A hideous thing. You can see that can’t you?”

  “Far too well,” Lorna agreed.

  Mannering half expected her to go on, but she did not. While he was applying solvent to the gum in the corners of his eyes, he continued: “Li Chen sent for the police, of course. He could hardly do less. My God, what a mess he’s in!”

  Lorna said in an even quieter voice: “Yes, isn’t he? And he wants you to stay away from Hong Kong.”

  “Only a fool would go there now,” Mannering growled.

  “Why didn’t you give him his answers on the spot if you feel so strongly?” Lorna asked, and there seemed an acid note in her voice.

  “I don’t know what I would do in his position,” Mannering said, gruffly. “Would you try to do a deal with both governments? Neither of them can have everything it wants, and one or the other probably won’t be satisfied with half. As for what to do with the goods he’s holding for the Americans …”

  Mannering had his eyes screwed up while the solvent gradually loosened the gum, and that way his face was twisted as if he were in pain. “What would I do in the same circumstances?”

  I know one thing,” said Lorna, and undoubtedly her voice was very sharp. “You wouldn’t have to ask a second opinion on that. You would protect them more than you would if they were your own, you would have only one meaning for ‘in trust’.”

  “I’m not so sure,” objected Mannering. “Any American who buys goods made in Communist China knows he is taking a risk, and pays Li Chen a storage charge to take the worst of the risk. No, I’m not at all sure that I know what I’d do.”

  “Let’s have a drink, and think about it,” Lorna suggested, more mildly. “You’re not seeing it clearly yet, you’re too upset by the woman’s death. Shall I order a snack, too?”

  “Good idea,” agreed Mannering. “And we’ll put a call into Bristow’s office. It’s not much after six o’clock in London, he’ll probably be there.”

  They were subdued for the next half-hour, and whisky and soda, with some wafer-thin sandwiches, didn’t help. Mannering kept on recalling aspects of the talk with Raymond Li Chen, trying to put himself into the other man’s shoes, but it did not make the issue any clearer to him. He was soon on edge for the call to London to come through. It was nearly a quarter past twelve when the bell rang, and he jumped up so quickly that he nearly spilled his coffee. A girl said: �
�Your call to Superintendent Bristow in London, England, sir.” Almost at once Bristow’s voice sounded, crisp and clear.

  “Now what’s your trouble, John?”

  “No trouble yet,” Mannering answered, “but there could be plenty. Bill, why did you ask me to have a look at this case?”

  “You know very well why,” replied Bristow.

  “I’ve reason to doubt, as I always had,” declared Mannering. “Why wasn’t it easier for the Yard to deal direct with the Hong Kong police? Had you – or had they – any reason to pull punches?”

  Lorna was watching Mannering very closely. After a long pause, Bristow spoke in a less assured voice: “Now what kind of reason would you think we might have for pulling punches?”

  Lorna looked almost as if she understood what Bristow was saying, and all the implications of question and answer. Mannering looked straight into her eyes as he answered: “There could be several reasons. Political go-slow methods, for instance, a delicate situation in which officialdom must sit on the fence but plain John Citizen may jump down on either side, if he’s fool enough. Perhaps he’d never get up again. Give it to me straight, Bill. Lorna’s with me, remember. I don’t want to risk her neck even if I risk my own.”

  “I should think not,” said Bristow. “Give me a moment to think.”

  It grew into a long moment, and during it Mannering told Lorna what he had said; she needed no telling that if Bristow needed time to think, it was tantamount to admitting Mannering was right.

  Finally Bristow said: “John, you could be doing us a very great service by finding out the truth. You can’t find it out without risk. That’s as far as I can go, but if you do get to Hong Kong, Police Commissioner Brabazon will tell you more. If you don’t go, you won’t need to know more. Understood?”

  Slowly, Mannering answered: “Yes, I think so. Thanks.”

  “Any time,” said Bristow. Then he appeared to regret the flippancy, for he added in a more serious voice: “Give my love to Lorna.”