The Baron Goes East Page 5

  “How would you value it?” Mannering asked.

  “Value?” Gall gave a little laugh. “You know as well as I do, it is worth everything a man can be persuaded to pay for it. If it were mine, I should have to be hard up indeed if I sold it for less than ten thousand pounds. I might hold out for twenty. I think I would get it. More, even. To the collector who really wants it there is no price. You’re very wise to have a copy; you mustn’t take risks with it.”

  “No,” said Mannering solemnly. “When can I have a copy?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. If you’ll take the photo and measurements, I’ll take it away with me.”

  “Yes, please do that. Please. I would prefer not to have it here.” Gall busied himself with calipers, pencil and paper, and kept muttering to himself, occasionally stopping to look at the stone for its own sake.

  Mannering left just after eleven, with the diamond in his pocket. He wasn’t followed. He had seldom been more conscious of the possibility of being shadowed; he doubled on his own tracks, and was as thorough as if he were being trailed by the police.

  He saw no sign of trouble.

  He went to Whitehall, saw friends, made arrangements to take the stone out of the country, and went to the flat. It was then nearly one o’clock, but Lorna was still out. There was no other message, but “Don’t go” hammered against his mind. He telephoned Shani. She was in. She hadn’t been out that day; she didn’t think that she would be going out at all. She had to leave early tomorrow for the airport.

  Mannering followed her next morning to the airport. He was made-up and unrecognisable. She had two Indians with her, neither of the men he’d seen before. They had no difficulty with the Customs, and boarded the plane among the forty-odd passengers. The only really colourful note was Shani’s red sari; it gave her added gravity, put perfection to her beauty. She disappeared inside the aircraft, and Mannering waited until it taxied towards the runway and took off.

  At Quinns, Sylvester and Larraby were like two old cronies and almost impatient for Mannering to leave them in charge.

  Mannering, half-asleep, heard Lorna moving about, heard the bedroom door open and close, lay still until she came back. He watched her through his lashes. It was early – a little after six o’clock. She hadn’t made up, her hair was set, but she looked good as she put a tea tray on the bedside table. She wore a dressing-gown and nothing else.

  “Darling! Time to wake up.”

  Mannering kept his eyes closed.

  She touched his shoulder. “Wake up! Today’s the day, and we mustn’t be late.”

  Mannering opened one eye.

  “I’ve never known you so considerate,” he said. “Where’s my tea?”

  “Here. Don’t be too long, because—”

  “I know, I know. There isn’t time.” He sat up, and she drank one cup of tea hurriedly and went out; he heard the bath water running. He finished his tea leisurely, went into the bathroom and shaved while she bathed. He flung her a towel and watched her get out – and chuckled, from the joy of it.

  They were ready three-quarters of an hour before time.

  Lorna had been to her parents’ home in Hertfordshire the night before; there were no goodbyes today. She sat on the arm of a chair impatiently.

  “We could start walking,” said Mannering amiably.

  “Brute.”

  “Or go for half an hour’s drive through the country; you’ll probably long for green fields and leafy trees when you’re in India.”

  Lorna jumped up.

  “Let’s go, now!”

  Most of their luggage was at the airport. Mannering carried a pigskin bag which they would want on the journey, and a brief-case. There was a sealed packet in the brief-case; Lorna didn’t ask what was in it.

  Two Indians were at the airport when they arrived.

  They were in the Customs office, when Mannering talked earnestly to a clerk, opened the brief-case, handed over the package which had been officially sealed by the London office. The clerk marked it again and handed it back. Mannering stored it away in the brief-case and locked it, then, with Lorna holding his arm, walked to the waiting-room. Their plane, a Britannia, was warming up. Mechanics were standing about beneath the wings, near the fuel pump; chocks were in position. No one seemed to be in a hurry. It was a clear morning, with only a few high, fleecy clouds.

  The Indians stood by, apparently taking no special notice of the Mannerings.

  The loudspeaker blared.

  “Passengers for Karachi and further east, please make your way towards the aircraft on your left. Please put out your cigarettes before leaving the building, and do not smoke again until you are advised by your stewardess. Passengers for Karachi and further east . . .”

  The Mannerings led the little crowd, people they didn’t know at all but some of whom they would know well before the next three days were out. There were more men than women. One couple was young; obvious honeymooners, delighted with each other. A middle-aged woman was dressed in the height of fashion, made up superbly; most of the men noticed her.

  The two Indians were last in the line.

  A messenger came hurrying as Mannering stepped on to the gangway leading into the aircraft.

  “Mr. Mannering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some telegrams, sir.”

  “Oh, thanks.” There were four. Mannering took them and went in. The stewardess looked at their tickets and led them to their seats; the wings didn’t hide the view. There were moments of bustle, then the doors were closed. Lighted signs over the pilot’s cabin read: Fasten belts. No smoking.

  Ten minutes of warming up and of taxi-ing, then a deep-throated roar from the four engines. They raced along the runway.

  They were airborne!

  The Mannerings watched the countryside first flashing then crawling by and the earth gradually getting further away. Two stewardesses stood together near the pilot’s cabin, with bundles of newspapers under their arms and a dish of barley sugar. They started to hand out papers and sweets.

  The ground seemed a long way off.

  The two Indians sat together at the back of the plane, six seats behind the Mannerings.

  “Nothing’s happened,” Lorna said.

  “Yet.” Mannering began to open the telegrams; one was from Lorna’s mother and father, one from Larraby and Sylvester, the third from Bristow. He chuckled. “Good old Bill.” Lorna was attracted by something she saw below, and he opened the fourth telegram. It read: “Don’t go.”

  Lorna didn’t see him screw it up and drop it under his seat. The engines throbbed the same grim warning note:

  “Don’t go, don’t go.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BOMBAY

  “Expectations fulfilled?” asked Mannering.

  There had been some running repairs to the aircraft, and they had been out into the streets of Karachi; into the heat, the colour and the filth, the squalor and the beauty. Mannering could see it all mirrored in Lorna’s eyes; a blurred picture, because neither eyes nor mind had been able to accept everything, and the conscious mind had rejected much.

  “Well?” asked Mannering as they climbed into the aircraft.

  “I suppose so.” Lorna sounded as confused and numbed as she looked. She looked out of the small, round window, as his gaze fell on the envelope tucked by the side of his seat. Sight of it would have burst the bubble of Lorna’s fascination.

  He sat down, slid it out, then went to the back of the plane, where the magazines were kept. He opened the envelope.

  There was a change of phrasing. This said: “Go back.”

  Lorna still did not know about the campaign of letters, but sooner or later she would have to. He joined her, and she turned to glance at him, then looked back at the
Indian mechanics moving towards the airport buildings. Europeans were out-numbered six or seven to one. Two or three white-faced people stood with a group of Indians, the women all dressed in gaily coloured saris, to watch the plane take off. Lorna waited until the figures were tiny dots against the brown earth, then turned to Mannering and rested her head against the back of the seat.

  “I keep seeing camels,” she said. “Chasing me.”

  “I keep seeing yashmaks.”

  “And wondering what’s beneath them,” said Lorna. “I’d heard so much about it, but the reality is—” She paused.

  “So much better and so much worse?”

  “Well, perhaps,” said Lorna.

  “And no robbers,” murmured Mannering.

  Lorna glanced down at the brief-case, which was against the wall, between her knees and the side. She laughed.

  “I think that was all a dream.”

  “And when we get to Bombay, we’ll find Phiroshah’s sons alive again and Shani just a vision! I’m going to sleep,” finished Mannering.

  When he opened his eyes, half an hour afterwards, they were flying through cloudless sky towards Bombay; and Lorna was sketching, with a pad on her knee, a far-away look in her eyes. She had put several sheets aside; on each was the head of a camel. Mannering grinned. She glanced sideways.

  “I can’t help it,” she said defensively. “They fascinated me. It isn’t as if I hadn’t seen them before, but they’re like big overgrown horses with a hump and a sneer.”

  “I didn’t mind bringing you to paint the Taj Mahal, but when it comes to camels—. You’ll change. Cigarette?”

  “Not now.”

  “Wait until you see Phiroshah,” Mannering said. “You’ll find your fingers itching for a pencil.”

  None of this was quite real. The flight, the smoothness, the bright sun, the blue sky, the dry, yellowy land beneath; the distant sea. Life had changed. All pressure, all fears, all sense of urgency had gone – but for that curt: “Go back”. Even the brief-case was part of a dream, a faint reminder of what might come and what had been. Reality was within the aircraft; the stewardesses, now in their white uniforms; the crew, also in white – seven altogether – the passengers. They knew all the passengers except three, who had kept themselves very much to themselves. The Indians were boys – happy boys who had been educated in England and were anxious to get home. They spoke excellent English, much more pure than most of the passengers. Everyone liked them. No one could be less sinister.

  But someone had put that note there.

  The stewardess brought round tea . . . dinner. It grew dark. Because of the delay, they were to land by night. Now and again they looked out of the windows and saw lights below; seldom many lights. Two or three large cities spread the radiance out for some distance. Mostly they were villages and lights were yellow glimmers. They flew over the unknown which tomorrow would become reality.

  They dozed.

  Mannering felt the stewardess touch his shoulder.

  “Better wake up, Mr. Mannering, we’re nearly there.”

  Lorna started up. “There?”

  “In about twenty minutes.” The stewardess went on to the passengers behind them. Lorna began to pack their oddments in the pigskin bag. Mannering filled his pockets, slipped some books into the brief-case. Soon, the lights appeared; a myriad of lights, shining on – what?

  The signs flashed on. Fasten belts. No smoking.

  “Now I’m really beginning to believe it,” said Lorna.

  The aircraft tipped to one side and shuddered once or twice; gave passengers the queasy uneasiness which came with landing and taking off. Only the drone of the engines sounded. They were curving round. The Mannerings’ window overlooked the city and the lights – lights of all colours. There was one great arc of them, with blackness in the middle. The man behind said:

  “That’s the Queen’s Necklace.”

  “Queen’s Necklace?”

  “The lights round the Marine Drive,” the passenger said. “You’ll see. Beautiful. Deceptively beautiful.” He was a cynical English globe-trotter and an engineer. “I hate the place.”

  An American alongside them called: “Don’t put them off, they’ll just love it.”

  The flares of the airport showed up; they were flying inland. Again, the only sound was of the droning engines; these seemed louder. Go back, go back. Flares were a long way off one moment, then seemed alongside. They felt the wheels touch ground. A woman at the back laughed, to relieve her own and others’ tension. Lorna squeezed Mannering’s hand.

  Shadowy figures appeared, the passengers stood up, laughing and talking. They began to file off the aircraft. The American joined them as they reached the ground.

  “You’re the Mannering, aren’t you? John Mannering.”

  Mannering laughed. “Jewels.”

  “That’s right. On business?”

  “Lord, no. Hol—I mean, vacation!”

  “Have a good time.” The American went swinging off into the darkness and the airport buildings. They knew he was on some kind of special mission, and would be hustled through Customs. They had been warned that Indian Customs were thorough. They were philosophic. Two other passengers joined them; somehow Mannering and Lorna were parted. Dark-faced men were on either side – porters, coolies. Mannering carried his brief-case, Lorna the pigskin. He could hear Lorna laughingly promising to give a French passenger a sketch which she had made of her.

  There was a smell; not offensive, but different, spicy.

  “It’s a great country,” a man said. “You’ll love it or you’ll hate it. I hate it!” He offered Mannering a cigarette as they neared the door. Lights glowed from the waiting-room and the other buildings. White-clad Indians were waiting for their employers. People bustled. A little gang of small children had found their way on to the airfield and gathered round, begging. Officials cuffed and cursed them. Mannering’s hand went to his pocket.

  “I shouldn’t,” a passenger said. “If you start that, you’ll be at it all the time.”

  “Sahib, ver’ ‘ongry, ver’ ‘ongry.” A little chap, coming hardly up to Mannering’s waist, stood in front of him. Light fell on a pale, coffee-coloured face; on curly hair that looked verminous; on a plump chest and overblown stomach; the lad wore only a loincloth. He rubbed his stomach swiftly, mechanically. “Sahib, ver’ ‘ongry.”

  “I shouldn’t,” the passenger began.

  The boy jumped at Mannering and punched him in the stomach viciously; there was more strength in the punch than in most men’s. Mannering staggered back, gasping with pain. He felt a clutching hand at his right wrist, then more pain as his wrist was wrenched. His fingers released the brief-case. He felt it go, saw the boy race into the darkness of the aerodrome. Officials gave chase, passengers shouted, Mannering regained his balance and pressed a hand against his stomach. Officials surrounded him, all talking at once; only one had any English. Lorna was suddenly at his side.

  “Damned thieving scoundrels!” one passenger was shouting. Go get them—don’t stand round here.”

  “Anything valuable, Mannering?” asked another.

  Mannering felt physically sick enough to be silent. Lorna answered for him – yes. In fact, there was the replica of the blue diamond and some books. Two men helped Mannering into the waiting-room. He didn’t really need help. He felt sick and it was hot – and he could no longer escape reality. There was turmoil as he went through the Customs, picked out ahead of the others. Only by being imperious did Lorna manage to keep him company. An official who spoke good English questioned him with almost suspicious closeness. What had been in the brief-case ? A complete list of the contents, please. He handed over sheets of paper, as well as long, printed questionnaires. He ignored Lorna; he would ignore all women. It was fiercely hot in here, and the odour w
as more pronounced.

  Mannering filled in his forms and signed them; Lorna did the same. They were asked to wait, while the official disappeared, darkly suspicious. Mannering sat in an easy chair, with two khaki-clad officials who might be soldiers or police by the door; guards. Mannering lit a cigarette.

  “Nice start,” he said.

  “What on earth does the fellow think you did?”

  “He suspects the worst. Neat way to smuggle, having someone laid on to steal your bag.”

  “The fool!”

  “No respect for women,” grinned Mannering. “No equality here, my sweet. I wonder—”

  The door opened. The suspicious official, a stern and severe figure until then, came in first. He was all smiles. He was fat and looked ridiculous in his uniform, and his teeth were stained red. Behind him came a little wizened figure, a Gandhi of a figure, dressed in a white wrap and white dhoti. His skinny legs were nut-brown. His feet were big, and he wore open sandals. There was a smile on his face which touched his eyes, and made one forget how old he looked.

  “My dear friend Mannering!” He held out a hand, European fashion. “And your wife. We are honoured—greatly honoured.” He smiled at Lorna and bowed. “I am Aly Phiroshah, Mrs. Mannering.”

  He looked a saint.

  Lorna said: “How do you do,” and felt foolish.

  Mannering said: “Is it good to see you!”

  “I am sorry you have had such an unfortunate start. You will tell me about it afterwards – I have a car waiting outside.” Phiroshah smiled at the official, who snatched up Lorna’s pigskin bag and carried it for her to the door, into the warmth of the evening. The stars were shining and there was crystal beauty in the heavens.

  A Daimler with a chauffeur standing by the door was near the Customs building.

  “Mrs. Mannering first, please.” Phiroshah climbed in after her, Mannering followed. The official, still all smiles, handed in the bag, bowed, closed the door. The chauffeur opened the door and closed it again to his own satisfaction.