by John Creasey
“That’s right,” said Mannering.
“Would you mind showing me that gun, sir, and your permit to carry it?”
The police station was like police stations the world over; this one was one of the old ones, with small barred windows and narrow passages. Most of the men on duty were Chinese, but two of the three in the room with Mannering were English, one of them in particular was the like of Bristow, but a taller, more massive man. The other was dark-haired and on the plump side; he looked as if he could find it easy to smile but wasn’t smiling at the moment.
“So you’ve no permit for a fire-arm, Mr. Mason?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you declare your gun at the customs house?”
“No, sir.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think I’d be allowed to retain it,” answered Mannering, frankly. “I always like to be able to protect myself. If I hadn’t used it in the shop there would be a lot of porcelain fragments instead of works of art.”
“That’s as may be, sir,” said the man who was like Bristow. “Nevertheless, it is a serious offence, and we shall have to confiscate the gun. Had you declared it openly you could no doubt have obtained a permit.”
“I’ve heard that story before,” said Mannering. “I don’t think it would have been so easy, either. Are you telling me I can’t have it back?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Where do I apply for a permit?”
The dark-haired man had rather small, speculative-looking green-grey eyes. The other’s eyes had a cold glint in them.
“How long do you expect to stay in Hong Kong, Mr. Mason?”
“Maybe a week or ten days.”
“Do you seriously expect to need a gun in that time?”
“I’ve needed it once already,” Mannering retorted. “What would be so surprising if I needed it again? I carry a lot of money around with me, and I might buy some valuables here, including jewels. Is that an offence in Hong Kong?”
“No, sir. If you will send a written request for a permit I’m sure the Superintendent will consider it quickly. You will hear about the offence already committed in due course.”
Mannering said: “I guess it’s no use arguing. I’m sorry about the offence, but I’m glad I had that gun. So is Mr. Li Chen.”
“No doubt at all about that, sir,” said the Bristow-like officer. “How well do you know Mr. Li Chen?”
“As well as you can get to know a man in ten minutes flat.” The time would come when he would have to tell the police who he was, but it might not be for days. He wondered whether a British licence for a gun was good in the Colony; he would soon find out.
Twenty minutes later he was entering the huge lounge of the Peninsular Hotel, no longer agog at everything he saw, but asking himself the question he could not answer. Had the raid on the shop been sheer coincidence, or had it anything to do with his visit? He could hardly believe it had; and when he thought back, it seemed to him that Charles Li Chen and the woman had been on the look-out for it. Before long he must talk to them, but that did not necessarily mean he would be told the truth.
He walked towards the lifts, and then missed a step, for Christiansen of London was sitting and drinking tea at a window table. He was alone. And he had said he was not coming to the exhibition.
Chapter Twelve
The Dealers Arrive
Mannering walked between the red-plush tables in the huge room, towards the window, to make sure that he was right. It was undoubtedly Christiansen, a blond Norwegian who had lived in London since the war, and was one of the most reputable as well as the most knowledgeable dealers, and yet a man whom Mannering had never really liked. For that matter, he had never really got to know him. He went on to the lift. There was no reason at all why Christiansen should not change his mind; in any case, there had been no obligation on him to tell Mannering whether he had intended to visit Hong Kong or not; he might have assumed that Mannering’s question was a feeler.
Mannering went up to his room. One of three floor boys on duty moved from a table, unlocked his door, and stood aside, half smiling, half bowing. Mannering stepped into a sunlit room. On the dressing-table was a small packet. He had ordered nothing and expected nothing, but it was addressed clearly to him. It was the size that his gun might make, if it were packed in a box. He chuckled at the thought; if he ever got that gun back it would almost certainly be on his way out of the country. The packet was firmly sealed with plastic tape. He weighed it up and down on his hand, and found it very light. Was there any reason at all to be suspicious of its contents? He decided that there was not, prised an edge of the tape up with a penknife, and tore the rest off. It was a box with a lid. He took the lid off and found cotton wool, like soft snow. He pulled the top layer off carefully, and stared down at a miniature model of a Buddha, beautifully carved in turquoise, eyes and nose, chins and folds of his gown, all exquisitely shown. He picked it up, slowly, responding to it as he did to all beautiful things. Then he saw the card in the lid of the box, picked that up, and read:
“Again, a thousand, thousand thanks.
Charles Li Chen.”
“Well, that didn’t take them long,” he reflected aloud. He carried the Buddha to the window, and the daylight gave the blue an even greater sheen; how Lorna would love this! The man or the woman in the shop had heard him telling the police where he was staying, of course. He seemed fated to be able to render the Li Chen family a service. He wondered again, uneasily, if the raid on the shop could have been coincidence; he simply did not know what to think of that, but was quite sure of one thing. The stock in that single showroom was enough to make the average dealer drool; it was impossible to imagine what the main galleries would be like when everything from the storerooms and warehouses was on show.
Would everything be brought out for display? After this desperate attempt to smash so much, would the Li Chens risk the rest? If the attack had been made by the hirelings of one government or another, though, would that prove to be anything more than a token act of vandalism? How would it serve either government if the treasures were destroyed?
“It must have been just a warning,” Mannering said aloud, and the telephone bell rang on his words. The instrument was on the table between the two beds, and he moved across, putting the little Buddha on the pillow of the bed nearer the wall, where Lorna would sleep when she arrived in two days’ time. A lot could happen in those two days. “Hallo. Who’s that?”
“There is a cablegram for you, sir. I am checking to see if you are in.”
“A cable for me?” He was surprised. “For James C. Mason?”
“Yes, sir, that is the name.”
“Send it up to me, will you?” Mannering rang off, frowning. Larraby did not know the name he was using here; as far as he was aware, no one did. He waited impatiently until there was a light tap at the door, and when he opened it one of the room boys was holding out an envelope. “Thanks.” Mannering took it, closed the door, and opened it. A single glance at the signature told him what he wanted to know: Lorna. But it was not really from her, for all she said was: “This just arrived quote ‘Ho partners flying to exhibition. You contact Commissioner Brabazon in emergency, Bill B.’ end quote Love Lorna.” Mannering’s thoughts carried him back to the luncheon meeting with Bristow and the curio and antique shop on the corner of that old London street. There was nothing really surprising in the fact that the Ho partners were on their way, but Bristow obviously thought he should know, so there might be grounds to suspect them of complicity.
He put the cable on the dressing-table, and looked out of the window. The sun was setting and there was a grey-blue haze over the harbour waters and the craggy island with its mass of buildings. A row of lights leading to the top of the island showed faintly against the glow, like a lighted stairway to the sky. He felt the fascination of the island taking fresh hold of him, and when he heard a tap at the door he thought impatiently: why don�
��t they stop pestering me? Then he realised how unjust that was; he hadn’t known service like this anywhere for a long time. He called: “Come in,” and moved towards the door. This time a white-suited boy he did not remember came in, smiling very broadly, almost nervously; a second boy followed, bowing so low his face was hidden.
“Water on now, we run bath,” the first man said, and made a beeline for the bathroom, with the other trotting on his heels. This was certainly service in the old tradition.
The first man suddenly spun round. Mannering saw his right hand move, a moment later his wrist was gripped so tightly that pain shot through his arm. He felt himself thrust back against the second man, whose hands were suddenly clapped over his mouth, warm, clammy hands which seemed to choke the breath out of him. It had happened so quickly Mannering hardly had time to feel fear, but fear rose in him. The hands were taken away, and sticking plaster was slapped over his mouth and nose; he could not breathe properly, he could not call out. He kicked at the Chinaman in front of him, but his ankle was grabbed and he was pitched backwards. Breathing was so difficult that he began to fear that he would not be able to draw enough air in, that the plaster would suffocate him. He tried to breathe gently, but his body was subject to such convulsive exertions that he could not. He could not even gasp. His lungs seemed to become full and tight, and to swell up so that the pressure against his ribs brought a new agony. This was how it would come, this was the approach of death. In those few seconds he actually believed it, but he still tried desperately to breathe through his one clear nostril, which the plaster did not cover.
He felt himself lifted by the shoulders and by the ankles, and carried off quickly, but he did not know where they were taking him until they lowered and then dropped him, and water surged all about him.
This was the bath, half filled with water which lapped about his body and his face, and trickled into the nostril which was his lifeline. He must struggle, must kick out, must free himself. But if he struggled, he might drown himself; he must keep still. He felt hands at his wrists and feet, and realised that they were being tied together, but still he dared not resist. He saw the close-cropped hair of one of the men close to his face very thin, nut-brown hair; he could not see the other man. He felt the water trickling down his throat, and swallowed with painful care. Then the man straightened up, the yellowish face was very close to his, a round face, a short nose with wide nostrils, narrowed eyes, the face of a million Chinamen. Suddenly this man picked at the plaster and cleared the other nostril, and for the first time since the attack he felt the fear of death recede. They left him.
It was a long, narrow bath. The back of his head rested on the slope at one end, and the soles of his feet at the other, keeping only his face clear of the water. He dare not even move enough to look down at his body and his legs, if he did he would disturb the water, and the danger was already too acute. He lay absolutely still. There were sounds of traffic outside; and there were closer sounds, in the bedroom. He had no idea what the men were doing, and did not greatly care. All that mattered was that they should not come back in here. For a while there was quiet, and he thought that they had gone, but suddenly he saw the top of the door moving.
The two men came in together, both smiling, as if they were really amused. One of them came forward very quickly, stared down at him, and then slowly stretched out his hand and nipped his nostrils together.
The fear of death flared up again as Mannering’s body heaved. The pain at his lungs became almost unbearable. The dark eyes were close to him, the expression on the yellow face made it look as if he were relishing every moment of this; as if he were gloating over his victim.
He released Mannering’s nose, but kept his hand hovering above him, then began to lower his hand very slowly. Mannering clenched his teeth and drew in all the breath he could before he felt the fingers pinch as if they were made of steel. No Chinese torture could be more refined than this. Could he hold his breath long enough? Did they mean to kill him? There were the two of them, staring down at him. The grip was tighter, painful in itself, and there was no way in which he could stop himself from heaving; the top half of his body was out of the water. His lungs began to pulsate as the breath in them rushed to his mouth and tried to find an outlet; his body heaved and heaved again. There was a reddish mist in front of his eyes, and through the mist he could see Lorna’s face, as clear and life-like as if she were in the room with him. That was when he was sure that he was going to die.
He felt his senses fading as his body convulsed.
Then he was jerked out of the swoon by a sharp pain at his mouth. He did not know what it was, only that there was a tearing sound. All at once his lips were open, air rushed into them and seemed to burn his throat. Now his heart began to beat with a furious throbbing, and that in turn threatened to choke him. He felt his legs churning the water, and his head bumping against the enamel of the bath. His eyes were open all this time, but the figures looming over him were blurred, the round faces were shapeless, the teeth seemed to be chattering, big and simian.
Gradually his vision cleared and his heart steadied and his body relaxed. He was alive, not even badly hurt. The faces above him became those of men, and now he remembered he had seen one of them before, at Li Chen’s shop. This was one of the two raiders. If it were necessary to use the same man for two attacks, increasing the risk tenfold, then it surely meant that the other side was short of manpower. That was his first coherent and logical thought since the attack. He mustn’t forget it, the significance might be vital.
The man he recognised was squatting on the edge of the bath; he was the one who had pinched his nose. His lips were parted, and he looked rather as if he were smiling, but there was nothing to suggest amusement in his berry-brown eyes. He appeared about to speak, but stayed silent for so long that Mannering wondered if he were thinking up some new form of torture. Then in a voice with a curious clacking note in it, he said:
“Mr. Mason, where you come from?”
“The hell with you,” Mannering made himself say.
He did not really want to; he hated to risk another ordeal. But if he gave in too easily it would probably seem unconvincing. He had to steel himself to hold the other’s gaze.
“I ask once more, Mr. Mason. Where you come from?”
“And I’ll tell you once more, the hell with you!”
The questioner did not move. The other man did, shifting slowly towards the foot of the bath. Each of them took his time, whatever he did, as if the slowness of their actions was part of the means of persuasion; and so it was. The man put his hands on Mannering’s ankles, and without a sound he began to pull Mannering forward. As his ankles and feet rose out of the bath at the foot, so his head began to sink, until water lapped over his face, his lips, his nose. He kept his body rigid. If he struggled it would be too ready a sign of defeat, but …
His resolve broke.
Why was he tormenting himself? Why didn’t he give them some answers to their questions? Any answers, anything which would make sure that this torment stopped. He managed to raise his head out of the water, and to gasp: “All right, all right, I’ll tell you!”
The man at the head of the bath pulled him back into position, and as he did so, Mannering went on chokily: “I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. That’s in the United States, I’m a United States citizen.”
“Very interesting,” the spokesman said. “You are a friend of Li Chen?”
“I’ve never seen Li Chen, never been in that shop before, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then why you act so quick?”
“That’s the way I do act, that’s me all over. I’m used to looking after myself, I could see you were going to smash that Ming vase. That would have been a crime, you understand? One hell of a crime, I had to stop it. You—” He stopped short, realising too late what he had done: he had told this man that he had recognised him from the raid at the shop, and therefore would have no difficulty in recognisin
g him again. “I came here to see the exhibition, I was told it would be just great, and if the goods in that shop window are typical it will be the greatest.”
“Are you a collector of such things, Mr. Mason?”
“Collector? I’m a dealer. I run my own little business, buying and selling. I came here to look over what Li Chen’s got to offer, and I know what my customers want. If that stuff didn’t come from Red China I could sell most of it back home. There are some collectors in Boston who are crazy about Chinese works of art. Now you tell me something: why did you try to smash that vase? What has Li Chen done to annoy you? It’s a crime, and I don’t just mean it’s against the law, I mean those things are unique, it’s a crime against society, against art, against—”
“Mr. Mason,” the man interrupted, “are you a friend of Mr. John Mannering, from London?”
The question came without any warning, so phrased and so unexpected that Mannering was tricked into showing astonishment. He covered that quickly; astonishment could be caused by more than one thing, even the change of subject might explain it. But if this little devil of a man forced the question it might be difficult to convince him that he was telling the truth.
“No,” he muttered. “I’m not a friend of Mannering. I’ve seen him once, as a matter of fact, when he came to Boston. He’s got a branch there. He—”
“Mr. Mason,” the little Chinaman interrupted again, “it would not take long to drown you, you understand; not very long at all. Tell the truth, please, quickly. Are you a friend of Mr. John Mannering?”
The man at the foot of the bath gripped Mannering’s ankles again, and exerted enough pressure to give menace to the threat. Now Mannering began to wonder if they had discovered anything in the bedroom which might have given him away, whether there was any point at all in lying. Almost at once another thought brought an even greater flare of alarm: whatever he told them, would they leave him here alive?