by John Creasey
“Take it easy for the rest of the day,” urged Mannering. “Were you coming on deck?”
“I thought I would like to see the Canal, yes.”
“Come on, then.” They went out, and Pearl linked her arm in Mannering’s. There was something curiously trusting about the way she did it; almost as a daughter would. Mannering found himself contrasting such simplicity with the sophistication of Naomi. They stood by the ship’s rail and two or three workers by the side of the Canal waved. Just ahead was a patch of dark green, and some buildings: it looked well-kept, and like a lakeside resort. Beyond, the Canal flowed into a wide lake, where half-a-dozen ships were steaming.
“Is that what they call Bitter Lake?” Pearl asked.
“I think it’s the smaller one we go through first,” Mannering said. “Pearl, would you recognise the man who tried to sell you the cotton?”
“He seemed like so many others at Port Said.”
“Did you speak to Kassim?”
“To whom?”
“Colonel Akbar Kassim, the man who planned your disappearance.”
Pearl turned to face him.
“If I talked to him or to anyone else I simply don’t remember it,” she said simply. “I cannot be sure that I didn’t and cannot be sure that I did. If I talked it was under the influence of the drug.” She gave a strange little laugh. “I still feel under some influence – as if all my worries and anxieties have been smoothed away.”
Mannering said softly: “Do you, Pearl.”
She frowned: “Why do you speak like that?”
“Because some drugs create an ecstatic state of mind, which make one feel that all in the world is wonderful.”
“But surely that is when you are dreaming.”
“Dreaming, sleeping, or waking,” Mannering said. “Aren’t you anxious any more about the jewels?”
Slowly, she shook her head.
“I know I ought to be,” she said, “but it no longer worries me. Nor does—anything.”
“Such as avenging your father’s death.”
“He seemed to die so long ago.”
“A week ago,” Mannering said.
“A week? It seems an age.”
Mannering said softly: “When did you first begin to feel like this, Pearl?”
“When?” she echoed.
He felt almost impatient with her.
“Exactly when?”
“A day or two ago, I think.”
“Not only today?”
“Before today I am certain. John—” For the first time she seemed touched with anxiety. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Hashish creates a dream-world,” Mannering said flatly.
“John! No!”
“I want you to be very careful what you eat and drink and what cigarettes you smoke,” Mannering said. “And I want you to make a careful record whenever you feel periods of extreme happiness and light-heartedness. Will you do that?”
He felt almost guilty because she looked so scared.
“Yes, of course.” She clutched his hand. “John, do you know anything about the thief yet?”
“A little,” Mannering told her. “Just a little.” He shook himself free, clutched her arms near the shoulders, and said fiercely: “Don’t take any chances. Never go anywhere without someone you know you can trust!”
Pearl asked simply: “How do I know whom I can trust?”
The odd thing was that in spite of everything he had said, she did not seem really troubled; it was as if something had indeed smoothed away her fears and her anxieties.
He left her, seeing the man in the other cabin, who simply raised his right hand in salute. He was one of Thomas’s men. How trustworthy was Thomas? Remember Thomas’s men had been watching when Pearl had disappeared.
Young Joslyn called: “John!”
Mannering stopped on the stairs and looked round. Joslyn looked hot and damp, as if the heat worried him.
“Hallo,” Mannering said.
“We’ve been looking for you all over the place.”
Mannering felt a twinge of alarm.
“Why? Do you know?”
“The deck tennis finals, I think,” Joslyn said. “Mick is up on the boat deck. Gosh! It’s too hot to think about games. I’m going to have a shower.”
Mannering went up, was told by several people that he was being sought, and found Thomas by the swimming pool. He was burned almost black all over, and looked like a modern Tarzan.
“Ready to play?” he asked.
“Who am I due to play?”
“You’re not on the ball,” Thomas said. “Corrison. He’s up there having a warm up.”
Corrison looked in the peak of condition as if impervious to the heat. He had slightly rounded shoulders and a very deep chest. Mannering took over from a long legged girl, and a small crowd gathered. Mannering already felt too hot, but there was a slight breeze. He realised in a moment that Corrison was a “win at all costs” player, and the man bounded and jumped like a kangaroo.
Mannering began to warm up.
Soon, Lloyd called: “First game Corrison 6-3.”
Mannering put everything but the game out of his mind.
“Second game Mannering, 6-4.”
Mannering saw Pearl and Naomi perched on a hatch, watching. He thought of Pearl’s story, then of Naomi’s. When he went to retrieve the ring someone said in his ear: “There’s a cable for you, Mr. Mannering.”
That would be the reply from Larraby. He tried to thrust the thought of it out of his mind.
“3-1 to Corrison.”
“1-4 to Corrison.”
“5-1 to Corrison.”
What would the cable say?
Where were those jewels?
Corrison, over-eager, double faulted on his service.
“2-5 – Corrison’s favour.”
“5-3 – Corrison’s favour.”
Mannering felt suffocatingly hot. Even Corrison’s face was scarlet with the heat.
“4-5 – Corrison’s favour.”
Mannering had to retrieve the ring again. A young officer bent down at the same moment, and said: “Captain Cross would like to see you as soon as you’ve finished this game, sir.”
“Thanks,” Mannering said.
He could not keep the case at bay any longer. As the rubber ring flew to and fro over the net, mental pictures flashed into his mind. Of Nikko Toji – of Pearl – the chair falling at Gibraltar – of the man throwing stones.
“Game and set to Corrison!”
There was a round of applause, a handshake, some back slapping. Pearl and Naomi came up and commiserated. Corrison said: “We must have a drink on that, John.”
“Seven o’clock, smoking-room,” Mannering suggested. “I must go and have a shower now.”
“You won’t forget Captain Cross, sir, will you?”
“The cable is in your cabin, sir.”
Mannering went down to the cabin to shower, locked the door, showered in tepid water, wrapped a towel round his middle and dabbed his face and hands dry.
He opened the cable and the Antiquarians’ Cable Code.
He began to get the drift of Larraby’s reply.
“Australian Corrison wealthy sheep farmer reputed millionaire, no grounds for suspicion stop Indian Mehta school-teacher in Aden. Been to England on refresher course no grounds for suspicion stop Naomi Ransom once employed by UNESCO to uncover sources of drug supplies vouched for by Bristow believed also to be a freelance reporter who supplies the Globe group with stories. O’Keefe suspected currency trafficking and known to take drugs. No known association with jewels stop Akbar Kassim notorious for traffic in women possibly also jewellery has financial interests s
everal nightclubs in Soho, Paris, New York and Milan stop All photographs airmailed to Aden stop No positive assurances Michael Thomas believed to be soldier of fortune purpose of present journey unknown he booked passage same day as Harding disappeared stop Harding (the Chelsea antique dealer) still missing some reason to believe he is aboard East Africa Star under different name reason to believe Harding Kassim and O’Keefe all associated in gun-running and currency smuggling immediately after war stop.”
Mannering finished decoding, and read the long cable through. Soon he heard footsteps outside. There was a thump on the door.
“Hallo?”
“Mr. Mannering?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Cross’s compliments and will you please visit him in his cabin at once.”
“Yes, all right.”
“I’ll wait to take you up, sir.”
“Two jiffs,” Mannering called.
“As soon as you can, sir, please.”
Mannering’s body was sticky but his mouth was bone dry in the heat of the cabin. He slipped on shorts, a shirt and sandals and went out. Lister was now waiting for him.
“Matter of some importance, eh?” Mannering said.
“Yes,” said Lister.
“Know what it’s about?”
“The man who stayed aboard at Port Said.”
“Found him?” asked Mannering eagerly.
“No, sir. But we’ve had a cable from Port Said police. They believe he’s after you, Mr. Mannering.”
“Oh,” said Mannering heavily.
The stowaway stirred.
The knife which was tucked inside his waist was warm to his skin. He wore a blue overall with a red sash, like the Indian crew. He looked like one of the crew, who had Arab blood in him. He moved away from his hiding place towards the deck. Most of the passengers were changing for dinner. A few still splashed about in the pool, a few sat drinking. The man from Port Said began to stack chairs.
He looked closely if furtively at every male passenger who passed.
Chapter Eighteen
SUSPECTS
“Sorry I’m late,” Mannering said.
“I haven’t any doubt you wanted to decode your cable first,” said Cross drily. “Will you have a drink?”
“A whisky and soda will be just right.”
Cross poured out for them both; there was no steward present. Lister had gone, too.
“Thanks,” said Mannering gratefully. “What about this plot to murder me?”
Cross said: “It looks like another one.”
“It isn’t exactly a surprise, but what’s made you think the stowaway is part of the plot?”
Cross said: “These.” He turned to his desk, picked up two passport-sized photographs, and handed them to Mannering. “These were found in a hold where he’s been hiding.”
Mannering looked down at his own face – and at O’Keefe’s.
“Both of us,” he said drily.
“It looks like it.” Mannering vividly remembered the ruthlessness of the attacks – and the way Naomi had been attacked, too.
“But there’s no immediate danger is there?”
“What makes you say that?”
“If he commits murder now the odds are that he’ll be caught before we get to Aden. That’s not for three days.”
Cross finished his drink.
“That’s where you’ve slipped up,” he said drily. “He’ll make his attempt in the Canal. He can jump overboard, reach the bank and be safely lost in the desert in ten minutes.”
Mannering caught his breath.
“Yes, of course.” He felt as if the air had suddenly gone cold, although it was very hot up here in spite of fans and blowers. “When do we go out of the Canal?”
“About ten o’clock in the morning.”
“So tonight’s the night. Have you warned O’Keefe?”
“Yes. He’s shut himself in his cabin, and intends to stay there.”
“I can see his point of view.”
“What’s your reaction?” Cross asked as if genuinely curious.
Mannering said: “It gives me the shivers, but I think I ought to stay around. Forewarned being forearmed I ought to be able to fix the chap.”
Cross said: “Another drink?” He took Mannering’s glass and refilled it. “You’ve forgotten something else.”
“What is it?”
“These people can throw knives as accurately as you can fire a revolver.”
“Ah,” Mannering said slowly. “Life is full of the joys. Any idea where he’s tucked himself away?”
“He’s probably wearing a seaman’s dress, and lurking near a place where there are always a lot of the crew,” Cross said. “There’s another possibility.”
“Yes?”
“That he’s been hidden in someone’s cabin.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“What was in your cable?” Cross asked abruptly.
Mannering took the deciphered message out of his pocket and handed it over. Cross held it at arm’s length and then went to the desk for a pair of glasses. He read it, nodded, and said: “Thomas.”
“Surprised?”
“Very.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t strike me as the type,” Cross said. “Not this kind of dirty game. But I’ll have his cabin searched.” He flicked the paper with his forefinger. “Satisfied about the others?”
“I’ve reservations about Naomi Ransom,” Mannering said.
“I know what you mean.” Cross re-read the cable and then took off his glasses. “Do you know this man Harding?”
“Not by sight, only by reputation.”
“Pity,” said Cross. “We won’t get the photographs until Aden, we’ve got to be damned careful until then. I’ve detailed one of my junior officers to be with Miss Toji, and I’ve two stewardesses always on duty near her cabin. She seems a little strange since Port Said.”
“So you’ve noticed it.”
“As if all her worries have been taken away.”
“You certainly don’t miss much,” Mannering said appreciatively. “Yes. What’s your guess?”
“I hate to say hashish,” said Captain Cross. He looked and sounded forthright and determined. “The effect is different on different people but the mood of the young woman certainly makes me wonder. I’ve been talking to Dr. Roughead. He agrees that the signs are indicative of heroin poisoning. Will she allow herself to be examined?”
“How would that help?”
“Roughead says he only needs a blood test to be sure.”
“I’ll fix that somehow without alarming Pearl,” promised Mannering. “The doctor only wants a smear of blood, doesn’t he?”
“That’s all. Sure you can do it?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” Cross waved his hands in dismissal. “Thanks for coming up, Mannering.”
Mannering went down to the promenade deck. A plump woman was hurrying round, holding her swim suit up above her breasts; sweat ran in rivulets deep down that cleavage.
“Oh, there you are!”
“I can’t wait now. I—”
“But you’re needed,” the woman wailed. “They want to get the deck quoits semi-finals finished and you’ve been asked to play at 9.30 in the morning.”
“9.30 it is,” promised Mannering.
“Thanks ever so,” she said. “Oh, I knew there was another thing. Are you going to enter for the fancy dress competition?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then would you be the M.C. for that night? Everybody would love it, and we want someone really distinguished, we really do.”
“Then that rules me out,” Mannering said ea
rnestly, and was away before the woman realised what he meant. Her “Oh you are a one” followed him down the stairs. It should not take long to get that blood smear from Pearl, but he did not want her to know what he was doing.
He passed one of the bathrooms. A man called in a gentle voice: “Please, Misteh, is this your soap?”
He turned.
A little dark-skinned man wearing a washed-out blue shirt and faded denims rolled up to the knees was holding out a pink flannel with some white soap on it.
“No, thanks,” Mannering said.
As he half-turned, out of the corners of his eyes he saw the man’s other hand move. He darted to one side. The bath-boy leapt at him, knife flashing. A woman along the passage screamed: “Eeech!”
Mannering saw the knife pass within an inch of his stomach. He slammed his left hand down like a chopper on the dark wrist. He felt the blow jolt his hand and arm. He heard the knife fall, clattering, and the woman shout: “Help! Help!”
Men appeared – another bath-boy, one of Thomas’s he-men, Corrison, two strangers to Mannering. The eel-like body of his assailant wriggled and kicked until Mannering grabbed his wrist and twisted him round, then held his arm behind him in a hammer lock.
“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Corrison.
The dark-skinned assailant was back-heeling in another futile effort to free himself.
Thomas’s man bent down and picked up the knife. As Mannering saw the red smear along the cutting edge, the man said grimly: “This has been used already. You all right, Mannering?”
Mannering said bleakly: “I’m all right. Hold him, will you?” He let the assailant go and strode along towards the next deck and O’Keefe’s cabin. He banged on the door; there was no answer. In full view of a dozen people he put his shoulder to the door and exerted all his strength. The door creaked, and then gave way.
O’Keefe lay on the bed with his throat a crimson mess.
“Oh, my God!” gasped a man looking over Mannering’s shoulder.
Mannering said bleakly: “We’ve got this killer but we still haven’t got the man we want most. O’Keefe wouldn’t have opened his door or his window except to someone he trusted. Do you yet know which way the murderer got in?”