by John Creasey
The room was large, and even in daylight it had been gloomy because of trees which grew close to two long windows. There was a faint scent of incense on the air, and stillness everywhere. Had he been ushered into the presence of a mandarin in the China of an earlier era, he might have seen a man like Dr. Hueng Hanno, a tall and gracious old man with grey hair and a silky grey beard, a magnificently embroidered mandarin’s costume, worn as if he knew no other. About the room were pieces of furniture which would not have been right in a museum; they had an old-worldliness and a shabbiness which suggested that they were part of this man’s home, a beloved and precious place which may well have been in his family for generations. Everything was slightly shabby, even the sleeves of the gown were worn.
“Do you mind telephoning me at Police Headquarters, in Sir Hugh Brabazon’s office?”
The doctor said softly: “So this is indeed an official request, Mr. Mannering.” He looked as old as time, as wrinkled as cracked parchment, as tough as the ages. No doubt out of courtesy to his visitor he sat at a small table on an upright chair, but lacquer stools and silken cushions dotted about the room were more fitting for him.
“There’s nothing official about it at all,” answered Mannering. “But unofficially I have Sir Hugh’s assurance that if he is offered help in security, he will be glad to accept it.”
“So he is indeed worried.”
“I think he is very anxious that nothing should go wrong with the collection,” Mannering said.
“You will tell him, please, that there is no doubt that the collection belongs to the true government of China, what you call the Nationalist government, and that as its representative I must ask for the return of these very valuable things to their rightful owners.”
“I’ll tell him,” Mannering said formally.
“And now, Mr. Mannering, I must give this my most earnest consideration.” The doctor’s hands appeared from the long sleeves of the gown, and he clapped them gently; he had long, beautifully rounded nails. Almost at once a servant appeared, dressed in the same kind of clothes but without the elaborate embroidery. “Please be assured of my gratitude for the trouble you have taken.”
He bowed.
Mannering inclined his head, and followed the servant out of the house and to the waiting car. It was still broad daylight; he had been with the doctor less than half an hour, and preconceived notions that the Chinese were long-winded and irresolute went completely by the board. He suspected that Hanno had already made up his mind what his answer would be, and feared that it would be “no”. He wondered if he had given any hint that Peking’s representatives had said “yes”; that in itself could be enough to make the Nationalists say “no”.
At a quarter to six he telephoned Brabazon and arranged to be at his office at a quarter to seven. He went to the Peninsular Hotel, and booked a room as Mannering. While he was at the desk he looked to see if there were any messages for Mason, but saw none. He registered, said that his baggage would follow, and went along to the telephones and called the letters office.
“No, sir, there are no messages for you,” answered the soft-voiced clerk. “Yes, sir, I will inform your floor manager that you require your room but you may not be back tonight … thank you, sir.”
Mannering went into the big lounge, but saw no sign of the other dealers; the very time when he would have been glad to talk to them, they weren’t here. He was followed at a discreet distance by Lovelace’s men, and that very fact gave him an uneasy kind of feeling; that every step he took might be nearer some unsuspected form of danger. He shrugged that feeling off, and went by foot towards the main shopping district of Kowloon. If all went well he would cross the harbour tonight; he hadn’t been on Hong Kong Island yet. Few people were about near the hotel, but the shopping streets were crowded, and he knew that the shops would be open until late, some of them until after midnight, all of them while they thought there might be some business, no matter how small. At every curio shop he paused, marvelling at the old ivory statuettes of emperors and queens, of fishermen and of women drawing water, of ox carts and of snakes. Hong Kong had been the storehouse of ivory and jade carvings for so long that it seemed impossible that the stores could still be so full. What treasures were across that border, only ten or twelve miles away from here?
He went back to Nathan Road; for the first time he would have been glad of a rickshaw, but none was in sight; nor was a taxi. If he wasn’t careful he would be late. He began to quicken his step, afraid that he might have to walk all the way, trying to remember how to get to Brabazon’s headquarters; he had not walked there before, and he knew that the shopping district was a maze of narrow streets.
A rickshaw boy who looked in his sixties appeared out of a doorway.
“Like nice long ride, gentleman?”
“I’d like a quick ride,” said Mannering. “How much to the Police Headquarters in Chatham Road?”
“Five Hong Kong dollars, sir.”
“Ten if you get me there in ten minutes.”
Within two minutes Mannering almost regretted the offer; he had not realised that a rickshaw could be so uncomfortable, or could be drawn so fast by an old man. No one appeared to take any notice of them, and the police watch was out of sight; he sat holding on, half afraid of being thrown out, half afraid that this man had been trailing him and would take him to the wrong place.
In seven minutes exactly they pulled up outside Police Headquarters. The rickshaw boy was gasping for breath, sweat was pouring down his face. Mannering felt a sharp twinge of compunction, took out a twenty-dollar note and handed it to him, and then went into headquarters. He was five minutes early, but Brabazon and Lovelace were waiting in Brabazon’s office. The whisky and the gin and the beer were already going the rounds, and Brabazon gave him the impression that he was desperately on edge. After Mannering reported in detail, the policeman said: “The truth is if we get them both to agree we’ll have them talking, and it hardly ever happens,” he said. “What impression did Hanno give you? He’s a crafty old devil, and—”
His telephone bell rang.
“Can’t be him,” he exclaimed. “He wouldn’t be early.” He watched as Lovelace plucked up the telephone, and a moment later the Superintendent held the instrument out to him.
“Dooley,” he announced.
“Ah, yes, he’s anxious too … Hallo, Sam … No, not yet, but don’t expect miracles, will you? … Yes, he’s here … my dear chap, you can be sure we’ll look after him, last man in the world we want to lose … I’ll call you.” He rang off, and gave a curious kind of barking laugh. “He told me to look after you! Apparently he doesn’t know how good you are at looking after yourself. I—”
The bell rang again.
A moment later, Lovelace said: “For you, Mr. Mannering.” As he handed over the instrument, he nodded to Brabazon, who moved his position a little and then stood with his whisky glass in his hand.
“Mr. Mannering,” said Dr. Hanno, in his most courteous voice, “I have now been able to discuss this matter with my colleagues and I am happy to tell you that they agree with me, that in these special circumstances we should assist in the most difficult and delicate task of protecting this precious heritage. If you will be good enough to ask Sir Hugh to get in touch with me, I will be glad to arrange the details.”
“Would you like to talk to him now, sir?” Mannering suggested.
“If he is available, then yes, by all means.”
Lovelace was grinning broadly. Brabazon raised both hands above his head, clasped and shook them like a boxer acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd, then snatched up the receiver. “Dr. Hanno,” he said, in a voice that Mannering hardly recognised, “I am very glad to talk to you again … Yes, the utmost security … Yes, I suppose so, in the circumstances.” He frowned, and sat on a corner of his desk, looking for a moment as if he had come upon some snag, and anxiety began to flood back into Mannering’s mind. “I understand,” Brabazon said. “But not
officially, you understand … Yes … I see no objection to that … How many men? … Forty should be ample, we shall then have two hundred men on guard … Yes, tomorrow morning, I’ll arrange for everyone to have a briefing session together … Yes, everyone … Yes.” He grinned. “I’ll make sure of that. Yes, sir … Good night.”
He rang off, brushed his hands over his hair and then pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead; Mannering had come to recognise that as a characteristic gesture. Half chuckling, he said: “He wants us to make sure that we don’t let his group get at the other Chinese group. The old devil actually has a sense of humour!” The smile gradually faded. He frowned, beat his forehead for a few seconds so heavily that Mannering heard the thuds, then he dropped his hands to his sides and went on in a deep, more authoritative voice: “He also says that he wants the Press to say that all the security men will shoot to kill.” Brabazon frowned at Mannering. “Hope we haven’t done something we’ll regret,” he added. “Well, no use anticipating trouble. I’d better have a talk to the General.”
As he picked up the telephone again, Lovelace said in a hard voice: “Everyone will shoot to kill all right. I wouldn’t like to be the one to try to break into the Ho Sun Gallery.”
Chapter Twenty
Full Security
Mannering stepped out of the police car outside the Peninsular Hotel just before midnight. He had been with the Brabazons for dinner, and he had learned that Lady Brabazon was fully aware of what was going on. Brabazon was jumping up and down for the telephone all the evening, but his wife kept up a running fire of comment and conversation, mostly about contrasts between here and London.
“And the moment Mrs. Mannering arrives you are to get in touch with me,” she once said. “I can give her a dozen wrinkles about the best way to shop, and where to go without spending a fortune. I’d love to show her round, too. I don’t do a lot of shopping myself but it’s always a thrill to help someone else spend their money.”
Or: “Did you see last Tuesday’s London Times? It gets here only two days late, one day sometimes, but I get lazier and lazier, and I only looked through it this afternoon. I’d no idea that Mrs. Mannering had such a reputation. Fancy her having twelve of her paintings in the London Gallery, and being an R.A. Do you think she would be prepared to paint Hugh? I’ve always wanted a good portrait of him, a photograph somehow never catches the real man. It makes him too handsome.” She smiled up at her husband as he came from the telephone for what must have been the sixth time. “Doesn’t it, dear?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Brabazon gruffly. He dropped into his chair, and a Chinese man-servant brought more roast beef from the hot plate, and placed it beside him. “John, everyone thought yours was a damned good idea when it was an idea, but now it’s all practical politics they’re chasing each other in circles, scared of what will happen if anything goes wrong.”
“By ‘going wrong’ you mean a clash between the two Chinese security guards, dear, don’t you?” Lady Brabazon sounded as if honey wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“You know what I mean. That was the Governor, wanting to make sure that I’ve taken all possible security measures! Ought to have banned the show, that’s the truth of it, then there wouldn’t be all this fuss. Mind you, I’m not blaming you,” he added to Mannering.
“Nice of you,” murmured Mannering.
“Hugh, I think John is the most patient and long-suffering man alive. I really do. Ever since he’s been here you’ve made it clear that you are blaming him, whereas it’s nothing to do with him. After all, you asked him to help. It’s a good thing someone managed to prod you into doing something, too, because you’ve been saying for months, in fact for years, that the things stored in Hong Kong for Americans who can’t take them home have been like a powder-keg. Your do-nothing policy hasn’t made it any less dangerous, now at least there’s a chance of preventing it from blowing up. Don’t take any notice of him, John.” She was the merriest and most chubby little thing, round-faced, looking ten years younger than her forty-three years, fluffy-haired, pink-cheeked; she wore a peach-coloured dress which didn’t really suit her and yet in a way was exactly right.
“Even my wife joins forces against me,” Brabazon complained. “The worst of it is, she’s right. Not often she is, but this time she’s bang on the nose. We’ve dithered about this business, not wanting to offend anybody. Our cardinal sin is being frightened it might upset one of the Chinas, or the U.S.A., or some tinpot little Eastern potentate who—oh, hell, no!”
The telephone bell was ringing again in a small ante-room. He pushed his chair back and stamped out. Lady Brabazon watched him, showing more concern now than she had all the evening.
“I’m afraid he is worried,” she reflected. “But this has simply brought it to a head, and when it’s over he’ll thank you.”
Mannering laughed.
“Or hate the sight of me, but that won’t matter much. I shan’t be here for long!”
Brabazon came back almost at once, grinning.
“Someone’s happy,” he announced. “That was Dooley, to say he’s had a reply from Washington telling him to use his own judgment. No one said anything about the Yanks shooting to kill, I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies.”
These things were passing through Mannering’s mind as he went into the hotel. Several suitcases were standing by the front door, bearing B.O.A.C. labels, but he did not give them a second thought. He looked around, half hoping that Christiansen or Vansitter would be in the lounge, but neither was. He saw a dealer from Sydney whom he knew slightly, and another from Paris, but both were with youngish-looking women and he did not let them see him.
It was nearly one o’clock when he went to bed in a room on the seventh floor, immediately below the one he had had upstairs, and identical except for the pattern of the tapestry covering of the settee and two chairs. He did not waste time getting into bed; Hong Kong seemed to have an enervating effect on him, and he had been yawning all the way home in the car. He knew that the window was being watched from the street, and that there was a police guard at the door. There was no need to fear another raid.
He woke a little after seven o’clock, of his own accord. No one was knocking, the telephone was silent; the only sound was from the railway station opposite the hotel. He rang for tea, decided to breakfast in the dining-room, wondered whether Brabazon had had an undisturbed night, and then opened the door to his room boy. On the tea tray was a copy of the South China Post, and the front page headline screamed:
GUARDS TO SHOOT TO KILL
Fantastic Security Plans for
Fabulous Collection
There wasn’t much more to the story than the headline, although it gave some details of the treasures, and a potted history of the Ho Sun Gallery. When Mannering went down to breakfast he looked about for one of the other dealers; none was in sight. He took his time over the meal and relished the service, then strolled downstairs, a little at a loose end. There were no messages, presumably it had been a quiet night; certainly he would have heard had there been a raid on the gallery. He went downstairs to see if there was any post; there was none. He moved to the next desk, and asked: “Can you give me Mr. Christiansen’s room number?”
A rather earnest, shiny-faced young man with huge horn-rimmed glasses looked apologetically, and said: “Mr. Christiansen is no longer with us, sir. He left last night.”
Mannering could hardly believe his hears.
“He took one o’clock aeroplane. It was delayed because of some engine trouble,” went on the clerk. “I am very sorry, sir.”
“Is Mr. Vansitter still here?” Mannering inquired, but he felt that he already knew the answer.
“No, sir, Mr. Vansitter left also on the same aeroplane,” the clerk said. “Both had telegrams, recalling them.”
“Yes, we knew they’d both left,” Lovelace told Mannering on the telephone. “Each man had a cable just before he took off. There
was a fire at one man’s home or shop, and a robbery at the other.”
“I’d like to know if they were summoned from home, or whether something which happened here scared them off,” said Mannering, and added almost to himself: “And I’d like to know what it’s all about.” When Lovelace made no reply, Mannering went on in the same thoughtful tone: “Who wants to make sure that no experts see that collection?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Lovelace gave a brusque little laugh.
“Yes. Just. I should have thought it was obvious.”
“What’s so obvious?” asked Mannering.
“Someone wants to make sure that there are no dealers here to buy any of the goods in the exhibition. If there is no show of outside interest and the things are left in Hong Kong, it will quicken the competition between the two governments.”
“Hm.” Mannering was non-committal. “I’m not sure I follow that argument, but I would still like to know what was in the cables those men received, and also whether any of the other dealers who were here yesterday have returned.”
“Give me an hour,” pleaded Lovelace. “It’s a hell of a morning. We wanted to concentrate everything we could on the Ho Sun Gallery, but every kind of bad man is busy in Hong Kong today. We raided a junk which had come down from Singapore. The hull was choc-a-bloc with crude opium.” He paused. “They refine it, and it’s worth a pound an ounce. They ship it across to the West coast of America where it becomes worth anything up to a thousand dollars an ounce. We’ve had a sudden burst of activity on the New Territory frontier post, too, another flood of refugees are coming in from Red China. This could be a deliberate diversion to prevent us from giving Ho Sun’s gallery full security, but we’ve plenty of military, once we’re organised. Supposing I give you a chit, and you go along to the cable office and find out what was in those cables.”
“I’d like that,” said Mannering.