The Mask of Sumi

by John Creasey

  Nor had his marriage to a girl from a good but not blood royal Thai family. Princess Kana was a courtesy title.

  There was no doubt that the mask and the jewels had great cash value, probably well over two million pounds. But was that sufficient to affect the economy even of a tiny state? Or were political strings being pulled?

  Lorna obviously thought so.

  Bristow may have thought so, too.

  These were not the only reasons for disquiet. Mannering had planned to find and to follow Melody Yesling, but if she was picked up by the police it would certainly be better to keep out of the way. It was defeat, of a kind. He knew Chief Inspector Gordon, a man who had very little time or liking for him, and it would be wise if not palatable to avoid an encounter. Yet to fly back tamely to London wasn’t at all the way he wanted to meet his obligation to the dead man.

  Mannering checked the aircraft time tables and was about to call the booking agency when there was a tap at his door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door opened on Dottie Mills, taking him completely by surprise.

  “Why Mr. Mannering, what a surprise to find you here!” she exclaimed. She strode towards him, right hand outstretched. “How do you do? And what a wonderful view. Superb. Can you see the East Africa Star from here?”

  “I’m told that you can’t,” Mannering replied, heavily.

  Dottie pressed close to the window.

  “Oh, what a shame!” She swung round on him, face thrust forward. “When my editor heard you had flown here, he told me to hurry in your wake. Do you really think those diamonds will be brought off at Gib?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So many things are possible, aren’t they?” said Dottie. “Even the most unlikely coincidences! Such as Nikko Toji wanting to see you, and a darling little Thai girl visiting you in London, and the disappearance of that ridiculous mask, too. Masks always remind me of Hallowe’en. Don’t they you?” She beamed into Mannering’s face. “Are you after this Melody Yesling, Mr. Mannering? The news broke early this morning and my editor thought it worth sending me here on a charter aircraft, knowing how well-disposed you are towards me.”

  Mannering laughed, suddenly in a better mood.

  “I should have known better than to try to fool you.”

  “Yes, you should, shouldn’t you?” Dottie said sweetly. “But I’ll forgive you if you promise not to do it again. John dear, couldn’t we work together on this. I promise you nothing would be published until it was all over bar the shouting. My editor has given me instructions to be very discreet.”

  Her big mouth gaped.

  “Let’s decide whether to work together when we know what’s happening,” Mannering said. “There may be nothing to work on.

  “Oh, but there’s bound to be,” cried Dottie. “Haven’t you heard? All the Asri Dynasty crown jewels have been stolen. That’s what all the fuss is about. In fact that’s almost certainly why Toji killed himself – to escape from the shame of dealing with stolen jewels. And think of all the political repercussions, absolutely thrilling, darling. Did you know they were stolen?”

  “No,” lied Mannering. He did not think she believed him, and wondered what the police were thinking of him then.

  It was almost a relief when his telephone rang.

  “Mannering,” he said.

  “I thought you would like to know that the East Africa Star has dropped anchor,” the receptionist told him.

  Chapter Six

  ROCKS

  It was pointless to try to pretend to Dottie or anyone that he wasn’t here because of the Mask of Sumi, Mannering realised. It would be better to show himself at the jetty, and get the first encounter with Gordon over. He turned round to Dottie.

  “The police are going to board the East Africa Star,” he told her. “There’s your story for you. But if you let them know how you found out, that will be the last piece of inside information you’ll ever get from me.”

  “Bless you, John!” cried Dottie Mills. “You’re a doll!”

  She was out of the room before he could reach the door.

  Half-an-hour later he was at the quayside, standing beneath a sign reading Welcome to Gibraltar. The roof of the shed gave shade and coolness; two steps away in the blazing, blinding sunlight, the heat was almost unbearable. A couple of hundred yards out the big tender was approaching, packed with passengers and looking rather like the Bournemouth Belle on its way to the Isle of Wight. The sun burnished the white sides of the East Africa Star, which was a quarter of a mile further away.

  At another spot further along the quayside were a dozen Gibraltarian policemen, for all the world like London bobbies allowed to dispense with their tunics because of the heat. In a patch of dark shade were two officers of the force, two Customs men, and tall, dark, aloof-looking Chief Inspector Gordon of New Scotland Yard.

  None of these appeared to have noticed Mannering, who was standing in the shade. There was no sign of Dottie. Two or three Gibraltarians, brown, hardy-looking men, waited for the tender to come alongside, one of them holding a rope as thick as his wrist. Beyond, the sea was like blue glass.

  Soon, the tender bumped against the quay; within seconds, a gangway had been pushed across. The police lined up on either side and a man called out on a loud-speaker fastened just above Mannering’s head: “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret any inconvenience caused, but the Gibraltarian Police need to examine any luggage, packets or parcels which visitors may be carrying. The examination for each person need take only a second. We will be grateful for your co-operation.”

  The passengers began to chatter among themselves as they came off. Most were empty-handed, and were passed through without comment. Most wore lightweight clothes, many only shirts and shorts, or cotton dresses, and none of these could be hiding anything as large as the Mask of Sumi. Two or three with shopping bags were called aside, others with big cameras inside cases opened them unprotestingly. As the flow passed the inspection they climbed into taxis and little horses and carts, and were hustled towards the town or the Rock itself.

  A short, dark man, empty-handed, appeared at the end of the line of policemen. He wore a dark suit, and a packet might be hidden under it. One of the policemen called him aside. For the first time, Mannering noticed a man who looked scared. He wondered if the police realised that. Gordon and the senior officers were busy with a couple who had two valises and were arguing volubly.

  The little man took off his coat. He watched the men search it and there was no doubt at all that he was very much on edge. Mannering watched him. The police gave him back his coat, and one of them helped him to put it on. He hurried off.

  Mannering saw a blonde woman, and stepped forward to see better. The little man saw him, and gasped: “No!”

  He was so near that only Mannering heard him clearly. Mannering switched his gaze from the blonde, who had a child clutching her skirts. He saw the terror on the little man’s face.

  Terror – at sight of him.

  Mannering stood squarely in front of the man, who hesitated for a split second then turned and began to hurry towards the row of taxis. Mannering was caught between the desire to follow him and eagerness to see whether the police found the woman they were looking for.

  The little man reached the nearest taxi, looked over his shoulder, and jumped into the back. His expression was still so full of terror that Mannering made a decision on the instant. He noted the number of the taxi, with its GBZ sign, and strode to his own, which was parked a few yards off.

  “Follow that pale blue Austin Cambridge,” he said.

  “At once, sir. You wish to go to the Cave?”

  “Just follow the Austin Cambridge.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The taxi was soon in an area where new buildings were springing
up everywhere. It turned at a roundabout with a fountain in the middle, and quickly reached a place called Ragged Hill. The Austin turned left, past some military. Mannering’s driver glanced over his shoulder and beamed.

  “St. Michael’s Cave!” he called in jubilation.

  The road was narrow and steep. At sharp turnings signs pointed to The Cave and to The Apes. Dust rose on either side, covering the bushes and the hedges. A cloud of dust ahead showed where the Austin was. The taxi slowed down at a corner on a steep gradient, the driver hooted his horn violently, and rasped his gears as he took the bend.

  A long way ahead on another gradient, the blue car stood stationary. A man jumped out of it and leapt up the hillside, disappearing almost at once. A second later and Mannering would have missed him. Mannering’s driver raised one hand in despair, but set the car against the gradient. The engine roared.

  The blue car went on. Mannering caught a glimpse of a No Entry sign. He judged the place where the man had jumped from the taxi and tapped his driver on the shoulder.

  “Stop, please.”

  The man half-turned.

  “Stop?” Amazement made his voice shrill.

  “Stop, now,” ordered Mannering.

  “But the Cave—”

  “Damn the Cave!” Mannering pulled a pound note out of his pocket, and thrust it into the man’s lap. The car was now moving very slowly. He opened the door and jumped out.

  “Wait where you can,” he called.

  He espied a gap in the hedge and hoped that was where the man from the East Africa Star had gone. Some broken twigs showed on either side of a narrow path. Branches caught at his clothes as he pushed on. The hillside was very steep, and clumps of shrubs and coarse grass dotted it. The sun burned down. Mannering narrowed his eyes and peered about the hillside.

  Fifty yards or so ahead, to his right, he saw a little haze of dust as if someone had been there recently. He climbed towards it, half crouching, occasionally touching the hot, sandy soil with his hands.

  He saw something rise in the air, twenty yards away. It came from behind a bush, and he saw a movement half hidden by the bush. A rock, the size of a man’s clenched hand, struck the earth close by him. Another whistled close to his head, a third hit him on the shoulder with staggering force. He backed, missed a step, recovered, and saw the terrified man standing in the open in the act of hurling another stone. It came straight at Mannering, who ducked hurriedly. He felt it touch his hair.

  This man’s throwing was almost deadly, and one of those stones could do a lot of damage. Three came in quick succession. He flung up his arm to cover his face. Off balance, he began to stagger backwards. A stone struck his wrist painfully, another smacked against his thigh.

  He tripped and fell.

  Something like panic seized him as he hit the ground; for that moment he was a sitting bird. Unable to see clearly because dust got into his eyes, he covered his head with his arms and looked round for cover, body hunched up to meet another blow.

  None came.

  He heard a kind of scrambling sound. He was on one knee, facing outwards towards the calm blue sea, and the only sound in the stillness was that scrambling. He twisted round. The little man was hurtling towards him, and the sunlight glinted on a knife in his hand.

  In this moment of acute danger the panic died away. Tensely, Mannering waited in a crouching position, the sheer drop only a few yards behind him. The man’s swarthy face looked pale in the bright light, and his eyes glittered like crystals. The knife was held ready for thrust or throw.

  Mannering thought: he’ll throw.

  He remembered the accuracy of that stone-throwing, saw the arm flex, and dodged to the right. The knife passed within inches of his face, at eye level. The attacker was trying to stop himself from coming so fast, but could not.

  Mannering dodged again, and shot out a leg.

  His assailant kicked against it, pitched forward and disappeared over the edge of that steep cliff.

  Gasping for breath, Mannering straightened up. Dust rose above the cliff and a rustling sound came, too, somehow ominous and menacing. It stopped, and the dust began to settle. Then came the clatter of footsteps, and men’s voices. Mannering peered over the edge. On the road some fifty or sixty feet below him the body of his assailant was spreadeagled. A British soldier and the taxi driver were running down towards him.

  Two hours later, his left wrist bandaged where the stone had cut and bruised him, Mannering sat in a small room near the entrance to St. Michael’s Cave. Two Gibraltarian policemen in plainclothes and Chief Inspector Gordon were in the room with him. Mannering had answered all Gordon’s questions, and made a comprehensive statement. Gordon’s manner was aloof but not actually hostile.

  Now, he said: “Why didn’t you ask for help at the quay? There were plenty of policemen about.”

  “Police would hardly have jumped to it if I’d told them I thought the chap had a guilty look, would they?”

  “I suppose not,” Gordon conceded. “Did the man see or speak to anyone?”

  “Not as far as I could tell, but he was out of my sight for a few minutes. He didn’t have that mask with him – the police searched him too thoroughly.”

  “Glad you noticed that,” said a big, smiling Gibraltarian. “I think Inspector Gordon believes we let him go through with it.”

  “If he didn’t have the mask, or something he shouldn’t have with him, why should he be so scared of Mannering?” asked Gordon logically. He waved a hand. “Oh, I know you chaps made sure he didn’t have the mask, but there is another possibility, isn’t there?”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re slipping,” Gordon said, with obvious relish. “The man could have taken the jewels out of their setting – the mask – and carried them in a much smaller container, possibly loose in his pockets.”

  The Gibraltarian said flatly: “Well, he didn’t have them, and he’ll never tell us why he behaved like he did.”

  “So he’s dead,” Mannering said heavily.

  “Landed head first,” announced the local policeman, with welcome brevity. “No name, no address, only a little money in his pocket. He was booked for Port Said. His name was Yiman Ali. He’d booked a week before the East Africa Star sailed, through a Thomas Cook’s office. Cook’s say he was a chance customer.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Mannering said thoughtfully.

  “By telephone we’re as near London as Brighton is,” the Gibraltarian declared.

  “Is there any trace of jewellery in his pockets?” asked Mannering.

  “Could you tell?” Gordon demanded.

  “If there were small gems one might have fallen out,” Mannering answered. “And some stones will make cuts on certain material. It ought to be possible to see if he had loose stones in his pockets. Apart from the stones he threw at me. I felt as if I was at the wrong end of an anti-tank gun.”

  “Let’s have his clothes in,” said Gordon.

  They turned the pockets of the dead man’s clothes inside out, and found nothing to suggest he had carried gems. By that time Mannering felt sure that they had not found Melody Yesling alias Mary Yates but he hadn’t inquired: with a man like Gordon, almost saturnine in appearance and still very aloof in manner, asking the obvious was asking for a rebuff.

  Gordon turned to him, half-smiling.

  “Are you fully recovered now, Mr. Mannering?”

  “I’m all right,” Mannering said. “Is there any need to stay here any longer?”

  “No. I would like you to come and view the other body.”

  “Other body?” Mannering was startled.

  “So you didn’t know that when we failed to find Melody Yesling among the passengers who came ashore, we went on board the East Africa Star and found her dead in her cabin. She’d killed her
self by taking poison, just as Nikko Toji did.”

  Chapter Seven

  SECOND VICTIM

  Mannering stared down on the blonde girl’s body.

  She looked quite lovely, as if in sleep. Nothing suggested fear or anxiety or greed; hers was the peace of death. Her blonde hair framed her head like a golden halo.

  “Have you ever seen her before?” asked Gordon.

  “No.”

  “She works for a competitor of yours.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Harding, James Harding.”

  “Of Chelsea? Fulham Road somewhere.”

  “Do you know him?” Gordon said heavily.

  “I’ve bought a few pieces from him occasionally, but I never feel I can rely on the quality of his goods,” Mannering said. In fact he knew that Harding sometimes bought stolen jewels and tried to pass them off in the trade but that was a matter between the dealer and the police.

  “Have you done any business with him lately?”

  “Not for a year or more.”

  “Do you know if he specialises?”

  “No,” said Mannering. “I don’t particularly like him.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Gordon. “Nor do we.” He obviously meant that the police had their suspicions of Harding, but he did not commit himself any further. “Well, we’d better get the body ashore and flown back to England. I’ll see the Captain of the East Africa Star. He’s being most co-operative, but he wants to sail on time.”