The Chinese Puzzle Read online

  They came to a gateway, on the right. By this were six men: a policeman, a British soldier, an American sailor, and two Chinese in unfamiliar uniforms. A British policeman came out of a small sentry box, saluted, and said: “Your passes, please.”

  Each man in the jeep had a pass, and each had to show it before they were allowed through. To Mannering it seemed as if the grounds were bristling with armed men, each bush and each tree seemed to conceal a gun. The drive through the trees was only about two hundred yards along, and they came out into open grassland, dotted here and there with trees and bushes, but none was enough to give cover. Beyond, on the side of the hill, were the Ho Sun Galleries, and had they been designed as a military defence post they could not have been better sited. Lining the road, and in different places about the parkland, were policemen and military in pairs; now and again Mannering noticed two more of the white-clad American sailors.

  They drew up outside the main doors.

  Mannering climbed down, as Lovelace himself approached, with another Army captain. There was a little flurry of saluting, before Captain Oliver said: “We’ve come to check the internal arrangements. Will you come with us, Superintendent?”

  “I’d like to,” Lovelace said. “Thanks.” The other guards drew aside, and Mannering was among the first of the group to step inside the galleries.

  As he did so, for the first time he began to appreciate the size and the scope of this exhibition. One long gallery, at least a hundred yards from this door to another at the far side, was huge and spacious, and in its way quite beautiful. Curved glass, some of it stained, some of it clear, rounded off the top corners of this gallery, so that everything on show was perfectly illuminated in daylight; and great lanterns of silk and precious metal hung from the ceiling, giving promise of ample light by night. Along each wall were alcoves, and in each alcove something of great beauty, and four wide arches were on either side, leading to other sections of the gallery.

  It was like stepping into a treasure house of the ages; into all the magnificence of the East.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Way Of Attack

  As he stood studying the arrangement of the long gallery while trying not to be side-tracked by the glittering beauty of the scene, Mannering realised that there were at least twenty guards on duty here, stationed at points of vantage, including every doorway and every archway. There was no doubt that this had been handled as a military operation, and no shadow of doubt that Brabazon feared that a raid would be attempted.

  As well as guards, there were workmen. Most of these were in shapeless cotton trousers and billowing jackets, two actually with pigtails. Two men, better dressed than the others, were polishing a statue of a Buddha made of gold and marble. Another was dusting a small pagoda standing about waist high; it looked as if it were of beaten gold, with clusters of precious stones as gables, and a door of diamonds. Mannering had seen pictures of it, and knew that it was nearly a thousand years old.

  He walked with the others in military precision along the main passage. It was like walking through a hall of ancient days, as if the craftsmen and the artists of all China had given of their heart and their minds to create such things. Even the archways had been used as part of the exhibition; each one was a carved gateway, a p’ai lou of marble, of silver, of lacquered wood or of gold.

  Mannering did not stop at any single exhibit, but appeared to study the guards, all of whom were standing at attention; even the policemen were affected by the military bearing of the others. The footsteps of the four men rang out sharply. They turned into the first gateway, and here they were in a hall of armour and of jewelled swords, of spears and knives, like an armoury of an age of emperors.

  One of the other officers said under his breath: “How long will you need on your own?” It was Oliver.

  “Probably an hour,” Mannering replied. “We’ll clear one of the side galleries when I’ve had a chance to look at them all.” It was strange to march along, as if the statues and the paintings, the vases and the sculptures of dragons and of gods were on parade, being inspected with the brisk, aloof appraisal of the four military men.

  The second side gallery, approached through a p’ai lou of black and vermilion lacquer, was filled with lacquered wood, the third with religious sculptures, the fourth with porcelain and enamelled vases, some of them of a shape and a beauty which seemed to affect even Mannering’s companions. No one spoke while they were on their rounds. The workmen, standing here and there and appraising, or else putting the finishing touches to the polish or the position of the exhibits, took little notice of them; everyone seemed absorbed in what he was doing.

  At the marble gateway of the last of the eight side galleries was a recess, and at the recess a table with small cabinets surrounding it. One of the cabinets was open, and Mannering saw that these were card indexes, listing the contents of the exhibition. He felt a little bemused by the prodigality of the treasures, and for a moment he did not recognise Charles Li Chen, who was sitting at the desk. When he did, he almost made the fatal mistake of acknowledging him; his lips actually parted.

  “What is this?” he asked in a voice no one who knew him would recognise.

  “This is the information desk,” Oliver stated. “I was there this morning.” Charles Li Chen was on his feet, smiling his mask of a smile. On the desk was a book, open at the middle, and Mannering saw a pile of similar books on the floor near him. He noticed a page-sized coloured print of one of the pagodas, and realised belatedly that these were catalogues. He nodded at Li Chen, and said to the lieutenant: “I would like one of the catalogues.” As he waited, he went on: “I’m satisfied that there is no hiding-place here which is not under surveillance.” And that was true. “But of course the galleries are vulnerable to two kinds of attack.”

  Oliver exclaimed: “Two?”

  “What’s that?” asked Lovelace.

  Mannering moved out of Charles Li Chen’s earshot, and said grimly: “I hope it hasn’t been overlooked. No, it can’t have been.”

  “If you’d tell me what you’re talking about, I could tell you,” said Oliver. Underneath his calm exterior there was evidence of strain, and the sarcasm was clear in his voice.

  “One well-aimed bomb,” Mannering said. “A dozen well-aimed fire-bombs. From the air, of course.”

  “We don’t believe that an air attack is practicable,” said Oliver. He was small, dark-haired, precise, a little overconfident, almost arrogant. “The only places it can come from are the Colony itself, and every spot from which a plane could take off is watched, every plane is spotted, anyhow; or the Chinese mainland, and that’s hardly likely, because if one came from there we would know that it was with the authority of Peking, and they don’t want to cause an incident any more than we do; there’s Macao, the Portuguese Colony, but we are in close liaison with the Portuguese commander in charge of military forces, and will be advised of all aircraft leaving the territory; or from a vessel at sea. Which one do you think is more likely?”

  “I’d say Macao,” said Mannering, ignoring the sarcasm. “There are regular air services to and from the Colony, aren’t there? Only one aircraft with one bomb would be necessary.” He felt as if the years had dropped away and he was discussing military dangers when in a bridgehead in Normandy after D-Day. “A plane could get through, and even if it were reported flying off course there wouldn’t be any time to stop it.”

  “There would be plenty of time to make sure it couldn’t be flown away,” said Oliver, and Lovelace looked his agreement.

  “I doubt if they will take that risk.”

  Mannering said: “They’ve taken a lot of risks already.” There was no point in arguing with the man, and at heart he doubted the probability of such an attack; he simply felt oppressed by a menace he could not identify. “The only other way of causing serious damage would be from a time-bomb hidden in or beneath the galleries.”

  “Every square inch has been searched by our sappers a
nd a bomb-disposal unit, using mine detectors,” Captain Oliver said. “I really think you can take it for granted that all the normal precautions have been taken.”

  “I can vouch for the fact that every vase, everything which could be used to hide incendiary material has been searched,” put in Lovelace. “We have done this kind of thing before, you know.”

  “I should have thought that was obvious,” said Oliver, acidly. “I had not realised that you were coming here to overlook the security arrangements.”

  “Just the outsider with the fresh approach,” Mannering replied equably. “And also with a lifetime of experience with this kind of art, which should help to find out whether it’s genuine or not. Some of it is, undoubtedly,” he went on in a subdued voice. “No one could copy those p’ai lou, or gateways, some of the carving certainly goes back to the twelfth or thirteenth century. But they go with the galleries, I presume, and no one is likely to want to take them away, although they might like to claim insurance if they were damaged. I’d very much like to spend half an hour in the fourth gallery annexe on the right. Could we have a special search there so that no one knows what I’m after?”

  Oliver, a little taken aback, said: “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Did you see something there?” asked Lovelace.

  “It’s the one place where I can examine a dozen or more small things and check their genuineness,” said Mannering. “The jewels on the seated Bodhisattva, for instance: if they’re genuine they’re beyond price. It’s T’ang dynasty, and only two were jewelled – in India, I was told – and brought back by missionary priests in about a.d. 800. It’s impossible to tell at a cursory glance. And there’s a Sung dynasty vase with a tiny chip on the neck which should enable me to see how deep and approximately how old the glazing is. If genuine, it’s about a.d. 1000.”

  Oliver moistened his lips. Lovelace said: “I’ll tell Charles Li Chen what we’re going to do.” He moved towards the information desk and as he reached it, a door behind the man opened and Raymond Li Chen came in, dressed exactly as Mannering had last seen him. Two of their assistants were within earshot, and Lovelace talked in Chinese. The Li Chens raised no objections. The little group of officers walked towards the fourth annexe, with Raymond Li Chen ahead, calling out to the workmen who stopped what they were doing at the word of command. The annexe was completely empty of people when Mannering and the others reached there. Raymond Li Chen stood beneath a magnificent silver, gold, and lacquer gateway, holding three of the catalogues in his hand.

  “Will you be good enough to place these on the tables,” he said to Lovelace. “We are getting very near to the official opening time.”

  Lovelace took them. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. May I ask what special reason you have for examining this gallery, Superintendent?”

  “We think that some of the floor mosaic has been disturbed lately, and we want to check,” said Lovelace.

  “I cannot believe—” Raymond began, but he broke off before saying more quietly: “You are right to take every precaution. If you are also right about the floor, then the staff of the museum must surely be involved. Gentlemen, the guests for the opening will soon be leaving their homes. I hope it will not be necessary to keep them waiting outside.”

  “So do I,” said Lovelace non-committally.

  “One other thing—”

  “We must get busy,” Oliver interrupted sharply.

  “You are indeed right,” said Raymond, “but allow me just one other question, Superintendent. Do you know if Mr. Mannering is coming?”

  “Not if we can keep him away,” Lovelace said harshly. Raymond looked astonished, and for once his face showed exactly what he thought.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was attacked and nearly killed by a sharp-shooter from the roof of the new Island View Hotel,” Lovelace answered. “He wants to come, but the Commissioner has so far refused to allow it. I doubt whether he will be here. We don’t want a prominent British citizen murdered in Hong Kong.”

  “I am shocked, deeply shocked,” said Raymond. He bowed, and moved away.

  The group of officers went forward. Oliver gave a word of command and six of his men formed a cordon across the gateway which led to the annexe, two of Lovelace’s men moved some museum assistants who could see what was going on. Mannering took out a watchmaker’s glass and a diamond cutter, went straight to the statue of the Bodhisattva and knelt in front of it as if he were paying homage. The statue was about two feet high, beautifully sculptured, with a necklace of diamonds inlaid in the stone. If these were faked, then he would make a mark on them with just a touch of the cutter.

  The sun, reflecting from several panes of glass, fell upon the side of the statue and the necklace, and as Mannering knelt beside it, a thousand scintillas of brilliant light seemed to stab out from the diamonds, quite dazzling him. He felt a strange attraction, almost as if the breath was being drawn out of him. Precious stones had this physical effect on him, as if he were allergic to them. He had never felt like this with false jewels. He saw the absolute perfection of the setting, and he knew that it must have taken months for these jewels to be set, whether they were real or fake. And who would spend so much time on paste diamonds?

  He was aware of Oliver almost breathing down his neck and Lovelace approaching from the far end of the annexe, where he had put one of the catalogues. Mannering found himself breathing in short, sharp gasps. He knew that Oliver was aware of this and would wonder what was the matter with him, and why he did not move. He made himself raise his right hand, steady the statue with his left hand, and place the diamond cutter on a diamond at the top of the neck, only just below the ear. He slashed it, twice. He knew that if these were paste then a tiny trail of powder would show; no fake diamond was proof against this particular edge.

  There was no sign of powder; no mark at all.

  Oliver exclaimed: “Well?”

  “They’re real,” said Mannering unsteadily. The flashes of light caught in the sun, the sheer brilliance of the necklace, the knowledge that these diamonds were genuine, affected him almost too much. He made himself test two more, with the same result, then stood up and said gruffly: “I’ll look at that Sung vase.” He crossed to it, a deep red-coloured vase standing three feet high, taking out the watchmaker’s glass. Again the sun helped, shining directly on to the neck of the vase, where that tiny chip was open to view. The chip itself was an old one, and had never been repaired. He saw the depths of the glazing, knew that no modern imitation could approach the colour and the texture and the sheen of the vase; it was almost a sacrilege to suspect that it was false.

  He drew back. “It’s real,” he said, more firmly. “I’ll have a quick look at a few other things, but I think we’ll find they’re all genuine.” He moved to a set of old ivories, also inlaid with jewels; the diamonds and the rubies were real, beyond doubt. He went to another statue, this time of a woman playing a lute. The pearls in the crown, which was taller than the head itself, had the unmistakable warm lustre of the very real and the very old. He was now as sure as he could be that all the exhibits here were genuine, that whatever reason there had been for keeping the dealers away, it was not to prevent them from discovering that the exhibition was filled with fakes.

  Lovelace said in a dry voice: “So that’s another notion knocked on the head. How much are these things worth, Captain?”

  Mannering said slowly, effortfully: “I can’t pretend to guess, but I know that I’ve seen ten million pounds’ worth of jewels and carvings, paintings and sculptures. There must be at least twice as much as that here, and everything is unique. It’s the most magnificent collection I’ve ever seen, it’s beyond any single collector’s dream, and, it’s a crime to break it up. It’s more than a cultural treasure house, it’s a cultural miracle. And it isn’t all Chinese. Some of these came from Bangkok, some from Vietnam, some from Cambodia—”

  Across his words, in that moment while everyone near
was staring at him, when no one dreamed of danger close by, there was a sharp explosion, loud and clear. Mannering swung round, the others darted their gaze away from him.

  Fire was raging at the far end of the annexe, and a dozen, a hundred little fires were dotted about the treasures in this annexe room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Pencil Of Fire

  Before Mannering fully realised what had happened, before the full horror of the danger came to him, Oliver snapped out words of command. Men cordoning the annexe swung round, three of them unslinging what looked like guns from their shoulders, but these were fire-extinguishers. The men worked as if they had been expecting some such thing, moving with speed and precision, touching nothing but squirting the foamy chemical over the fires, putting out one after another. The stink of the chemicals, the smoke from the flames, the stabbing flashes of red where fires still burned, brought men rushing from all over the gallery, some shouting, most open-mouthed in silence. Of the group of officers, only Mannering and Lovelace were by the tiny gold-topped temple which Mannering had last examined.

  “How the hell did that start?” Lovelace demanded. “The windows aren’t broken, the roof’s whole, no one threw anything—”

  He broke off.

  “It started by that table,” Mannering said. A small lacquer table still stood at the far end of the annexe, legs buckled, surface almost burnt away. As they stared at it, a soldier squirted foam on it, and hid the top from sight, but not until both men realised the significance. “Those catalogues,” breathed Mannering. He stared at one, and saw what he had noticed only subconsciously before: a pencil fitted to each catalogue, as to a pocket diary. “The pencils could—”