The Chinese Puzzle Read online

  “She’s the diplomat of the two,” remarked Brabazon. “She can get women as well as men eating out of her hand. You must meet her as John Mannering before you go back, you might find she isn’t quite the same. How about a drink?”

  “I haven’t slept yet,” Mannering said drily.

  Brabazon, his poise regained and his humour good, grinned lazily at his wife.

  “You’ll have to work on Mr. Mason, I got on the wrong side of him, Dee. Persuade him that I’m really a reasonable and competent individual, will you? Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Mason, the Governor did want to talk to me about the exhibition which the Li Chens are staging next week. Three different plenipotentiaries have asked him whether it’s still on, they’ve heard rumours that it’s been cancelled.”

  “Has it?”

  “No,” answered Brabazon. “We’re going to make sure that nothing happens at the show, if we can’t do that then I might as well hand in my resignation.”

  “Don’t do that, dear,” said Dee Brabazon. “I want another winter here before going back to England. Why don’t you come and meet …” She seemed to know everybody at the reception, she kept up a running ripple of conversation, and there was a bright, almost mischievous twinkle in her eyes most of the time, as if she knew that her real job was to put her companion into a good humour, and did not mind if she had to be coquettish to succeed.

  Then Mannering saw the woman who had been at the shop that afternoon, wearing a high-necked Chinese gown of gold brocade; she looked like a queen. By her side was Charles Li Chen. Talking to another, tiny, woman, who did not look Chinese but was probably Vietnamese, was Raymond Li Chen. So he had not lost much time flying from Bombay. Paul Vansitter moved across to talk to Raymond. Mannering noticed that Brabazon was near him, then saw Lovelace and the shorter, plumper, darker policeman whom he had seen that afternoon. The truth was that the Li Chen family was under close surveillance, and that could only mean one thing.

  Brabazon half expected an attack on them now.

  The woman glanced up and saw Mannering. Immediately she moved towards him, saying something to the brothers, who turned with her.

  “Mr. Mason, I want to tell you again that we shall never be so grateful,” said the woman.

  “I am told of the great service you rendered to my brother and to my wife,” said Raymond Li Chen. “I am exceedingly grateful also, Mr. Mason.” Not by so much as a flicker did he show any sign of recognition. “It was a happy chance that you were in the shop at that particular time. I hope that you will command me and any of my family for any service we can render you, any service at all.”

  Mannering smiled.

  You exaggerate,” he said. “I simply pulled a gun and frightened the bandits off. Do you know Lady Brabazon?”

  “But of course …”

  A Chinese rating came up with a tray of smoked salmon on diamonds of brown bread and butter, and some anchovies on fingers of toast. Mannering took one; Lady Brabazon said: “I simply daren’t, I’m eating far too much.” Mrs. Raymond Li Chen refused almost impatiently, so did her husband, but Charles raised his hand to the tray; he chose anchovy.

  Mannering, his senses very alert, noticed two peculiar things. First, as Charles Li Chen stretched out his hand, the rating turned the silver tray at least three inches, so that the natural selection was different from what it would have been had he not done so; and as soon as Charles had the morsel in his hand, the rating turned away. The tray was three-quarters full, but he did not pause to offer it to anyone else. He threaded his way quickly through the crowd. Suspicion flared up in Mannering’s mind. He saw Lovelace move forward, speaking sharply to another man in a lounge suit, but Lovelace was too far away to stop Charles from eating the titbit. Mannering was not. He sprang forward, jolted the man’s arm, then bent down as if groping for something on the floor. The anchovy and the toast fell only a few inches away from him. He straightened up, as if in embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, I thought I saw an earring on the floor. I’d certainly hate it to be trodden on.”

  “An earring?” Lady Brabazon’s hands rose to her face, and every woman present touched her ears. Another rating came forward and picked up the anchovy and toast, holding it carefully in the palm of his hand. Lovelace beckoned a man with a tray. A young American came up, bright-faced, bright-eyed, to see that all was well. Charles Li Chen had an abundance of titbits thrust in front of him, and seemed to purr with satisfaction as he gobbled.

  “I think we ought to go and have a word with my husband,” Lady Brabazon said. “Have you had enough chaperoning, Mr. Mason?”

  “You’ve been very gracious, very tactful, and highly successful,” Mannering declared. “Will you tell Sir Hugh that I’ll be glad to talk to him again in the morning, and to do what I can to help.”

  “I’ll be very pleased to,” Lady Brabazon said. “Is there anyone else whom you’d like to meet?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mannering. “I guess I’ll pay my respects and go ashore.”

  The Li Chens were with another group of Americans, Paul Vansitter among them, and Mannering saw Christiansen bearing down. He did not ask himself how the ex-patriot Norwegian had managed to get invited to the reception, but after he had a word with the Consul and his wife, he saw the Hos from London moving forward, towards the group.

  It was not until he neared the accommodation ladder that he realised how warm he had been. Dozens of others obviously felt the same and yet were loth to leave; the perimeter of the vast deck was dotted with couples and little groups. Mannering did not linger, but went straight towards the ladder. An officer stood by.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” Mannering said.

  “Our pleasure, sir,” the officer said.

  Almost at once, Lovelace appeared, and led Mannering away.

  “There’s a police launch down there waiting. May I give you a lift?”

  “Why, thank you,” Mannering said. He walked down the gangway behind the tall detective and stepped into the smaller launch, which in the bright lights looked spick and span and newly painted. No one else seemed to be on board except two Chinese at the controls. The engine roared and they started across the harbour so fast that they seemed certain to ram a big, lighted ferry which was crossing the calm water like an enormous floating bus.

  “I’ve never seen anyone move quicker,” Lovelace said above the staccato beat of the engine. “I think we would have had a difficult job persuading old Li Chen to cough that lot up, but if he hadn’t he would have been in a bad way.”

  “So it was poisoned?”

  “Potently. With arsenic. The anchovy would have hidden the flavour, of course. If you hadn’t spotted it he would probably be writhing by now.”

  “Unless you’d made him cough it up,” Mannering said drily. But he felt very tense; if “they” could actually manage to poison their victims on board the aircraft-carrier, what else could they do, and where could anyone be safe? “Did you catch the waiter?”

  “Yes,” said Lovelace. “He’s busy swearing he didn’t know anything about it. He said he got a member of the crew from San Francisco to smuggle him on board so that he could get a good tuck-in. I don’t know how easy it will be to break him down. Care to come and see us try? He went ashore ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m quite sure you don’t need any help from me,” said Mannering. “And believe it or not, I’m tired.”

  “That’s a point. You’d be welcome, but please yourself. I think—” He broke off as they slewed round to go alongside the pier, then stared at several uniformed men lining the quayside, obviously waiting for him, as obviously all very much on edge. In a crumpled heap behind them, with one man on his knees beside it, was a white-clad, crumpled heap. “My God!” breathed Lovelace. “It looks as if he’s been killed.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Conference Of Experts

  The white-clad heap was the Chinese who had given the poisoned morsel to Charles Li Chen. The back of h
is head had been smashed in, and as he saw the blood-pinked water running from his head, Mannering had a mental image of the little beggar woman of Bombay, with just such a wound as this.

  Lovelace was talking in a harsh voice and in Chinese; Mannering did not understand a word he said, but knew that he was really letting himself go. A bell clanged and an ambulance drew up, bringing crowds flocking from the ferries and the main street to stare blankly at what was going on.

  Lovelace joined Mannering.

  “He jumped overboard as the launch touched the pier; the bloody fools hadn’t got him handcuffed. No one actually saw the attack, but he must have been killed while in the water. Swim like a fish, some of these chaps. The searchlights showed up his body, and they brought him ashore just before we arrived. I’ll have their bloody necks for this.” He was bitterly angry, and no doubt felt a sense of both guilt and shame. He could not have ordered the man to be handcuffed, and he was ashamed that this could happen to a prisoner. “Looks as if I’m going to be here for a long time yet. Can I get one of our chaps to drive you back?”

  “It’s only a step,” Mannering said. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

  “The two men standing under that lamp-post will follow you; you needn’t be afraid of them,” said Lovelace. “We mean to keep some of our witnesses alive.”

  Mannering said: “I know how you feel. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Telephone Bombay,” said Mannering. “A woman – a beggar – was murdered there three nights ago, and had the same kind of wound.’

  Lovelace’s expression seemed to ask: “Have you gone mad?”

  “She’d brought me a message from Li Chen,” Mannering said.

  Lovelace actually backed a pace, and then he said: “I’ll call Bombay tonight. Thanks.”

  Mannering walked across the road, at a spot where it opened out into the different carriageways of the Star Ferry bus station, and the two men followed him. Several shops on the other side, near the dock gates, were still open, one of them with its window filled with hideous curios; it was hard to realise that such junk could be sold so readily where there were so many works of art available. He walked slowly along an empty stretch of the road, with one or two closed shops on one side, the railway station on the other. Two rickshaw boys came pounding up, one from each direction.

  “You want ride, boss?”

  “Show you sights of Hong Kong, boss, night clubs, brothels, any place.”

  Mannering said: “No, thanks,” and went on. They followed him, insistent, strident, pleading, as if they depended entirely on him for their next day’s sustenance. There was no certainty that they were not following him because he was Mannering, that they were not hired, as the dead Chinaman had been hired. He saw the two policemen just behind and felt a sense of temporary security; twice in the past few days he had seen how quickly one could die. He shivered as he turned into the crescent-shaped carriageway of the hotel. Many of the windows had lights in them. The doorway was brightly lit, doormen and porters stood as if anxious for something to do. The rickshaw men gave up. Three men opened the doors for him. The big front hall was dimly lit, an orchestra was playing, many of the tables were occupied. Mannering made his way through to the lift. No one followed, but he saw the two policemen in the doorway. The same lift-man whom he had seen earlier was on duty, and he did not need telling which floor Mannering wanted.

  Mannering stepped out into the wide corridor.

  Different boys were on duty, two of them near the lift, two of them near his bedroom door. He wished he recognised them but he did not. One of them unlocked his door when he was only halfway along the passage, and stood bowing. Mannering turned in, and the man handed him a note.

  “Thanks.”

  He went inside and closed and bolted the door; he was in that kind of mood. He checked every corner of the room and the bathroom, including the wardrobes and underneath the beds to make sure no one was hiding here. He went to the window, pulled back the heavy curtains, and looked up and down towards each side; no one was lurking on any of the sills, and the danger was only imagined. He closed the window, and then stood very still, watching the scintillating beauty of the harbour. Suddenly he laughed.

  “What an incredible place! Lorna simply won’t believe it.”

  He opened the note, a little uneasy, saw that it was on Police Headquarters notepaper and signed by Lovelace; it must have been here for some time.

  “The two men on night duty are our chaps” Lovelace had written. “Sleep well.”

  Mannering put the note on the dressing-table. He had eaten reasonably well at the reception, even though he had missed dinner; there was nothing he wanted unless it was a cup of tea or coffee, preferably tea. He went to the door, and opened it.

  “I bring it at once, sir.” One of the boys turned away as if he could not carry out the order quickly enough. By the time Mannering had brushed his teeth and got into pyjamas, the tea was on the bedside table, with some wafer-thin ham sandwiches and some biscuits. He looked at the sandwiches thoughtfully, thinking of the arsenic in the anchovy titbits, but remembering that the flavour of ham was not strong enough to conceal any unpleasant taste. These were all right, he needn’t be edgy, and yet he was.

  All the same, he ate them.

  When he switched off the light, the glow from the harbour and from neon signs at nearby buildings made the room almost as bright as day; he should have drawn the curtains. He lay trying to make up his mind whether to get up or not, while the events of the crowded day passed through his mind. It was impossible to sleep like this, he would have to get up, have to get up, have to get up …

  A sound of knocking pierced the clouds of sleep, a long, long time later. He heard and resented it, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He half opened his eyes. It was broad daylight. He had dropped off and must have slept for seven hours or more! The knocking continued; it was at the door. He hitched himself up, and looked at his watch: twenty-five minutes to nine was an hour and a half later than he usually slept. He put a hand at the top of the bedclothes, to push them back, and the telephone bell began to ring, a harsh and insistent note. Exasperated, he said aloud: “Why don’t you shut up?” But he hitched himself farther up on the pillows and then stretched out for the instrument. As he drew the mouthpiece to his lips he was on the point of saying “Mannering,” and did not quite know how he managed to change the name to “Mason”. Undoubtedly the “a” had the short sound, as in Mannering.

  “So you were just asleep,” said Lovelace.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it? What else did you think I would be?”

  “There was always a risk that you might be dead,” Lovelace said. “They’ve been knocking at your door for the past twenty minutes, and when they couldn’t get any reply and couldn’t get the door open they telephoned me.”

  “Why were they so anxious to wake me?” demanded Mannering, wide awake now. His exasperation was quite gone; there was a lot to be said for having the police keep so careful a watch on him. Now he realised that he had dreamed of two battered heads, and he shuddered, as if someone had walked over his grave.

  “I asked them to,” said Lovelace. “The Commissioner’s compliments, and could you possibly join him at a conference at half past nine? We can have a car there for you at a quarter past, and it wouldn’t matter a great deal if you were five minutes or so late.”

  “Considerate of him,” said Mannering. “Yes, I’ll be glad to see him. How can I be sure that the car is the right one?”

  “You’ll recognise the driver,” Lovelace assured him.

  “Thanks. Have there been any developments?”

  “Since last night’s attempt to poison Charles Li Chen, there is a last-minute panic about opening the exhibition,” Lovelace told him. “That’s what part of the session will be about. I’ll be seeing you.” He rang off.

  Mannering replaced the receiver slowly, then leaned back on his pillows. He could understand the new d
oubts, and could not even make up his own mind whether it would be wise to stage the exhibition or not. Most of the exhibits must be in position already, it could not be arranged in twenty-four hours. He wondered whether the Li Chens knew what had so nearly happened to one of the family last night, and then the tapping started afresh at his door.

  “Coming!” he called.

  In a way that was little short of miraculous, the moment he unbolted the door and they entered, the room boys had boiling hot tea with them. As he drank, they busied themselves about the room, the policemen tidying up, Wang Lu in the bathroom, then collecting Mannering’s clothes and hanging them up, next laying out the only other suit he had with him, the striped seersucker. When he stepped out of the bathroom, dressing-gown loose about him, a breakfast tray was brought in with bacon, eggs, and coffee, all piping hot, marmalade and butter and even croissants which might have been made in any French country kitchen. At twelve minutes past nine he was escorted to the lift, and at nine-fifteen exactly he stepped into a car driven by a young Englishman who had been at the party.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Dowl, sir. Thank you for being so prompt.”

  “Don’t thank me; thank the best gentleman’s gentleman in the world.”

  The young man laughed. “They’re pretty good, aren’t they?” He started off, slid into thick traffic, and drove as if he was part of the mechanism of the car. “These meetings usually take place on the island, but this morning it’s at one of the administration buildings near the car ferry.”