The Chinese Puzzle Read online

  “Mr. Mannering?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a telephone call for you, sir. And also some reporters would very much like to have a word with you. I told them I wasn’t sure whether you were on board yet, not being sure you would want to be worried by them.”

  “If I know the Press, they’ll find a way to worry us,” said Mannering. “Aren’t the phones through in the room?”

  “Not for outside calls, sir.”

  “You stay here,” Mannering said to Lorna. “I’ll need some help when the newspaper-men arrive.”

  “You’ll need a lot of help!” She had forgotten his telegram, and started to open another addressed to Mr. and Mrs. He followed the steward, a grey-haired, mellow and quiet-voiced man, as far as the hall on ‘A’ deck. Three newspaper-men and two photographers were spilling down the stairs.

  “Mr. Mannering!”

  “Just the man we want!”

  “Can you spare us a few minutes, sir?”

  “As soon as I’ve taken a telephone call,” Mannering said. “My wife is in the cabin, and she’s much more photogenic than I.”

  They moved en masse along the passage, one man calling: “A31, isn’t it?”

  The stairs were crowded, and a voice was sounding over the ship’s broadcasting system: “All visitors ashore, please. The Orienta is due to sail in fifteen minutes. All visitors ashore, please.” There was a bustle and a flurry of goodbyes. Near the telephone booths a man stood grave-faced alongside a woman in tears. Mannering had to squeeze past them to get into the booth; he doubted whether either noticed him.

  “This is John Mannering,” he said to the operator.

  “Oh yes, sir, I have a call for you. Just one moment, please.”

  The most likely person to call was Bristow; almost certainly Larraby wouldn’t trouble him now, and he had tied up all the loose ends of routine at the shop. The moment became a minute, and he began to feel impatient. A smiling Chinese woman and a poker-faced Chinese man stood only a few yards away, talking to an Englishman who was big enough to be a policeman. Absurd thought, reflected Mannering; what was the matter with him today? Fact and fantasy were all mixed up in his mind.

  Why the blazes didn’t the caller …

  A man spoke in a soft voice:

  “Mr. Mannering?”

  “What is it?” said Mannering, brusquely.

  “Mr. Mannering,” the man said again, “that Ming vase was of very great value. You know that.”

  Mannering caught his breath. Only the people in the shop and the vandal who had smashed the vase knew what had happened.

  “You understand me, Mr. Mannering?” The hint of a lisp was more pronounced, Mister became almost Mithter.

  “I know how much that vase was worth,” Mannering said in a hard voice. “Between three and four thousand pounds. Did you break it?”

  After a hesitant pause the caller said, as if with quiet pride: “Yes, I did so, Mr. Mannering. At your very beautiful and venerable shop you have many other beautiful works of art, I am sure. If you do not go to Hong Kong, all will be well, no more will be damaged. But if you go …”

  The man broke off. Almost at once there was the click of the receiver being replaced.

  Outside, the poker-faced Chinaman was still talking to the big Englishman, but glancing at Mannering from time to time. People passed to and fro. There was a blast on the ship’s whistle, which sounded very loud. The operator said apologetically: “I’m afraid we’ve been disconnected, Mr. Mannering. We are about to sail.”

  “I know,” Mannering said. “I’ve finished, thanks. When do the newspaper-men leave the ship?”

  “They’ll be leaving in a launch when we enter the river at Tilbury, I expect, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Mannering stepped out of the booth, and brushed his hand across his forehead; it came away damp. His mind was seething with the inevitable questions. He had to get word to Bristow, and make sure that the Yard appreciated the seriousness of the threat.

  A young steward approached.

  “Mr. Mannering?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said bleakly.

  “A Chinese gentleman who went ashore asked me to give you this, sir.” He handed Mannering a sealed envelope, and went off. Mannering stood with the envelope in his hand, almost sure this would be another move in the attempt to make him turn back, but suddenly it occurred to him that whoever had sent the message knew that he was still on board. He ripped open the envelope, unfolded the heavy cream-laid paper inside, and read: “You may leave the ship at Bombay. No later.”

  Chapter Six

  Ship At Sea

  Mannering was tempted to screw the note up and toss it aside, but he did not. It was typewritten, and typewriters could be traced. He looked about the nearly empty hall, seeing a crowd jostling at the ship’s rail only a few yards away. He and Lorna ought to be out there, seeing London for the last time for weeks. Well, they weren’t on deck, and Lorna was being kept busy by the men of the Press. He went downstairs and along the passage which passed his cabin; at least four men and two women were inside, and all of them seemed to be talking and laughing together. Lorna’s voice was easily distinguishable, high-pitched and gay.

  Mannering turned round and hurried to the writing-room; only one oldish man was there, reading. Mannering sat and wrote a letter so quickly that the pen seemed to fly over the paper; it told Bristow of the threat to the stock at Quinns, and the “Bombay or else” note. He folded that note inside the envelope in which it had been sent, addressed another to Bristow at the Yard, a third to Larraby at Quinns. He put the first two into Larraby’s envelope with a curt: “Deliver this personally to Bristow.” He slipped the letter into his pocket, and went out. People were drifting away from the ship’s rails, but there were still plenty on deck. The commotion in A31 was quite remarkable. Lorna talking about an exhibition at the Tate, goodness knows why. Mannering pushed his way towards her. No one wanted her to finish, and she was obviously on top form.

  “… and even if it is by Picasso it isn’t necessarily good; sometimes his virtuosity is simply for effect, tongue in cheek, probably.” That was one of her favourite themes. She looked up, saw Mannering, called: “Hallo, John!” To the others she said laughingly: “Here’s my husband. He’s really the one you want to see.”

  Mannering laughed in turn.

  “Don’t put them on the spot. None of them knows whether they dare agree with you, in case they affront you.” Someone laughed …

  Ten minutes or so later, the last of the men was about to leave the cabin; the two women were still talking to Lorna. If they were not careful they would be late for the launch at Tilbury.

  “See this gets to my man at Quinns, will you?” Mannering asked the reporter. “It’s something I’d forgotten. If you could get it to him today I’d be most grateful.”

  “It’s as good as there,” the reporter promised. “Have a good trip, Mr. Mannering. Your wife says it’s the first real holiday you’ve had in ten years.”

  The first real holiday …

  Mannering found himself chuckling, almost ruefully. The two reporters passed him, calling back to Lorna, and Mannering went farther into the cabin. Lorna, hat off, hair a little untidy, still flushed, looked almost like the blushing bride, and the cabin a bridal bower. She pushed her fingers lightly through her hair, glanced into the mirror, said: “At least I had my hat on when they took the photographs! Hallo, darling ! We’re alone!”

  “You’d be surprised how often we’re going to be alone on this trip,” Mannering said.

  Before Lorna could comment, before he could remind himself that at all costs he mustn’t spoil this send-off, the old steward came along, smiling self-deprecatingly, announcing himself with a gentle cough.

  “There are some flowers here for milady,” he said. “And more bon voyage messages, also.” He stood looking round, unable to find a space for anything more, even the one box of flowers and the smaller box, probably perfume, in his han
ds.

  Mannering took them, the steward went off, smiling to himself, and Mannering said: “Coming on deck? Or are you going to open these first?”

  “I think I’ll have a breath of air,” Lorna said. “It’s stifling in here.” She glanced at herself in the mirror again, and asked: “Will I do as I am?”

  “Don’t dare to alter a thing.”

  When they reached the deck, there was ample room at the rail. A gong was sounding, a little musical box tune.

  “Luncheon,” said Mannering. “We needn’t rush.”

  They sauntered round the ship watching as she manoeuvred out of the docks as neatly as if she were a tiny catamaran and not one of the most modern ocean liners afloat. Dockers and workers, at the wharves and warehouses, watched with idle curiosity not untouched with pride.

  “I don’t know about you,” said Lorna suddenly, “but I’m famished. Neither of us really had any breakfast. I hope the food’s going to be good.”

  “I’ll be surprised if it isn’t,” replied Mannering, hopefully.

  They sat at a table for six, with companions for that meal only, and during it some of Lorna’s high spirits left her. She looked tired, Mannering thought, and that wasn’t surprising; she had hardly stopped working from the time they had decided to make the trip.

  “You take a nap,” he urged her. “I’ll have a stroll round and find my way about.” “Don’t leave me too long,” pleaded Lorna.

  He would leave her for hours, if need be, and she would probably drop off to sleep. Before he was out of the cabin she was lying on her side, the bedspread over her, completely relaxed.

  Mannering went up to the sun deck. Above everything he needed a little time to think; even to rest. He began to try to see the events of the morning in perspective; it wasn’t easy. Larraby’s call, the shock of seeing the broken vase, the astonishing appearance and behaviour of the two Chinese, the scene in the shop, the way Winchester had flung himself into the tackle, and there was so much more. The telephone calls, the note “You may leave the ship at Bombay. No later”, the implied threat to smash up his antiques and the other things of great beauty at Quinns.

  “We can do with a few days’ quiet, and I suppose we ought to get it,” he soliloquised to himself, and as he did so he heard footsteps.

  They were familiar, and he had no doubt whose they were.

  He turned to look along the great stretch of almost white boards, so scrubbed were they, and saw Lorna bearing down on him. Her coat was flying open and she walked so purposefully that he felt sure that this was not simply because she could not rest. As she drew near she took a small box out of her pocket and he recognised the bon voyage packet which he had thought contained perfume.

  “Now what?” he asked, and tried to hide the flare of alarm that went through him.

  “Now this,” said Lorna. She handed him the box, and pulled him beneath the davits of the lifeboat, obviously so that no one else could get too close. They were in mid-river, and a long way from either bank.

  Mannering opened the box.

  A single ruby seemed to look balefully up at him from a bed of pale green velvet. It caught the sun and glowed, and it was almost true blood red. It was round in shape, so perfect that it seemed hardly real. Mannering had handled countless rubies in his time, but could not recall having seen one as lustrous, as red and as large as this.

  “Some going-away present,” he said, with feeling.

  “It isn’t a going-away present,” said Lorna. All her high spirits and excitement had faded, and Mannering knew that his hopes of keeping her in ignorance of what had happened had been killed stone dead. “It’s a welcome-home gift,” she went on, articulating the “welcome home” very carefully. “Look.”

  She handed Mannering a card. It was plain white on one side, but on the other were typewritten words. Mannering felt sure they had been written on the same machine as the note to him. The wording read: “Isn’t it beautiful, Mrs. Mannering? This, and another like it, will be yours if you return to London within two weeks.”

  After that, Mannering had to tell Lorna everything.

  He told her as she sat on the bed in their cabin and he sat on a chair with his feet resting close to hers. He left nothing out, and had no difficulty in recalling everything, so deeply had it impressed itself on his mind. Loma did not once look away from him, and it was hard to guess what was passing through her mind. He still could not guess when he had finished. There was so little noise anywhere, and no movement of the ship. Suddenly, he was aware of tears filming her eyes, and he was deeply cast down, for he could imagine how acutely disappointed she was that those ghosts had visited them so swiftly, spoiling so much that was good.

  “John,” she said, in a choky voice, “why didn’t you tell me?” When he made no attempt to answer, for there seemed so little to say, she went on: “Ask a silly question, deserve a silly answer. And you were right, my darling, I’ve had a wonderful day, a wonderful day. A whisper of this would have spoiled it, but, don’t carry so much worry on your own. Whatever happens from now on, I must know. You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

  Mannering answered very gently: “I’ll tell you. Be sure of that.”

  Soon she was on her side facing him, knees drawn up, hair spread over the pillow. She wanted to talk, to speculate, to know everything he thought. She was determined to make him talk, to bring everything out into the open, so that it was less likely to worry and preoccupy him. And inevitably she had to ask: “John, what do you think we ought to do? Go back?” He didn’t answer.

  “It’s obviously the sensible thing to do, isn’t it?” she persisted. “They’ve been good enough to let us go as far as Bombay, so we’ve nothing to worry about until then.”

  He still didn’t answer.

  “What good do you think it will do if we go on?” Lorna asked. “Any good at all?”

  At last, Mannering said: “I don’t know what good it will do, but I’m sure what harm it will do if I go back.” He said ‘I’ deliberately, and with sufficient emphasis for her to notice.

  “But darling!” she protested, almost hotly. “You’ve no obligation to anybody over this, not to Raymond Li Chen, or to Bristow, or to anybody. You’ll be able to live with yourself, even if you do go back.”

  She knew exactly what was passing through his mind, and awareness of that forced a laugh from him.

  “Let’s not decide for a few days,” he said. “If they really leave us alone until we reach Bombay at least we’ll know there’s a fifty-fifty chance of believing what they say. Think you can put it behind you for a few days?”

  It was her time to laugh.

  “I’ve been doing that for so long that it’s almost second nature. How long have we got? A week?”

  “A little more than a week, I’d say,” said Mannering. As he spoke he heard the now familiar footsteps of the steward, and he looked at the notice behind the door: Your steward’s name is Wallace. There was a pause but no tap; a little envelope was pushed beneath the door, and their name was facing upwards. The footsteps faded, while they stared down. Then without a word, Mannering moved across, stooped, and picked the message up. He opened it. There was a card about the same size as the one which had come with the ruby. He turned it over, and a moment later threw his head back and laughed, from sheer relief.

  Lorna looked at him as if he had gone mad.

  “Captain Cosford’s compliments,” he read, “and he hopes that we will grace his table for dinner tonight and throughout the voyage. Who said it had been a dull day?”

  There was no message by radio-telephone that afternoon, and nothing happened to cause a moment’s alarm. Much happened to cheer them up. Captain Eric Cosford, Commodore of the line, was a youthful-seeming middle-aged man, burly as a seaman’s image, but with a ready wit, a gourmet’s palate, and a genius for selecting the seven passengers to share his table. There were Sir George and Lady Wilde, both a few years younger than the Mannerings, going on to Australia for some dip
lomatic post that would doubtless soon be common knowledge; there were Mr. and Mrs. James Pargetter, Pargetter an American, and his wife Australian, who were in a big way in cattle and as big a way, if the first night was any guide, in fashion; and there was a rather older woman, the very gracious Miss Tenterden, beautifully gowned and beautifully groomed, obviously an old friend of the Captain.

  “It’s going to be a good voyage,” Mannering said when they went to bed that night.

  “It had better be,” said Lorna.

  In fact it was so good a voyage for the next few days that it was possible almost to forget the overhanging shadow. The sea was summer calm, the Suez Canal quiet and clear and strangely beautiful, the Red Sea not only bearable but pleasant with a gentle, cooling wind coming off the distant desert as they sailed past the land of Cleopatra, the land of frankincense and myrrh.

  When they tied alongside at Karachi, all the camels and all the sorry-looking horses pulling their dilapidated gharries seemed to gather at the quayside. There was a great fuss about checking passports, but the formality took surprisingly little time. The captain’s table group, without the captain, wandered through the bazaars and the streets of shops, where voluble Pakistanis waited with patient hopefulness for trade. They finished the day at the sandy golf course for ice-cold beer, and reached the Orienta cheerful, content, and laden with mementoes, a dozen of them pencil sketches which Lorna had made and would treasure over the years.

  There was a cable waiting in Mannering’s cabin; from Bristow. It read: “Nothing to report. Chinese prisoner has not said a word. Quinns flourishing.”

  “Only two days out of Bombay,” said Mannering. “We can rely on another carefree twenty-four hours, anyhow.”

  But in twelve hours, when they were beside the swimming-pool, browned as only the Eastern sun can brown the European skin, clear-eyed, bodily as fit as could be, the carefree days came to a sudden end. A bar steward came up to Mannering with a marconigram on a silver salver. He caught a glimpse of Lorna, suddenly stilled in the middle of a smile, surprising Gillian Wilde. He opened it, and read: