Chapter Three

Alarm!

Mannering saw Bristow move in his chair. Bristow was reacting normally, of course; in exasperation because what the youth said was in one way unreasonable. But Bristow settled, while Prince Hamid of Taria quivered as if an electric current were running through his body. Only acute fear and desperation would make such a young man behave so; Hamid was of a people who could withstand the most fiendish tortures without breaking down.

Quietly, Mannering replied: “I would need to know much more about the situation before making up my mind.”

“I have told you all there is to know!”

It was useless to argue; useless to try to make Hamid understand that because he knew and felt the situation so deeply, other people were not bound to do likewise. He lived with the problem; the dangers; the complexities; doubtless with the struggle for power now going on in Taria. It was virtually impossible for him to realise that to Mannering – as to most others – his country was a dot on a map of the world, its present political and social conditions hardly known.

“No,” Mannering said, “you’ve told me only enough to make me interested. There is a great deal of detail I need to know. Such as—”

His telephone bell rang, startling him nearly as much as the ring at the front door had done. Bristow, nearer the instrument, picked it up and looked at him inquiringly. Who would call this office so late, hours after normal closing? “See who it is,” Mannering signalled, aware of the fresh intensity in Hamid’s gaze.

“This is Quinns,” Bristow announced.

“You mean you will help?” breathed Hamid.

“Oh, yes, he’s here,” Bristow said in a relaxed voice and handed the instrument to Mannering, adding: “It’s Lorna.” He smiled at the Prince and went on: “Mrs. Mannering.”

Mannering took the receiver readily and said: “Hallo, darling! I thought you were going to be out late.”

“Everything ended sooner than I expected,” Lorna told him, and added in a curiously tense voice: “It’s a good thing it did. Have you had a visit from a young man named Hamid – Prince Hamid of Taria?”

Mannering replied quietly but with underlying tension: “Yes. Why?”

“I’ve just had a call from a very excited young woman who says that he must go back to his rooms at once, that”—she paused as if she didn’t quite understand but went on quickly—“that someone is going to arrive earlier than expected. I don’t understand, but—”

“I’ll explain as much as I can later,” Mannering interrupted. “I won’t be late.” He put down the receiver and said to Bristow: “We have to leave, Bill. You’ll follow me, will you?”

“But—” began Prince Hamid.

“You have to get back at once,” Mannering said. “My wife just had an urgent message from a girl, to that effect.”

For the second time he thought that Hamid would collapse. The young man appeared to sway on his feet, and his eyes seemed terror stricken. Mannering propelled him from the room, and while Bristow fastened the back door, led Hamid to a grey Bristol parked in a narrow courtyard. Squeezed alongside it was Bristow’s low-slung Morris 1800. Not until they were in the car and Mannering had started the engine, did Hamid say: “I am sorry.”

“The main thing is to get you back in time.”

“It is important, yes.”

“Exactly where is the house?” asked Mannering.

“It is close to Regent’s Park, and Marylebone Road. Hall Crescent.”

“I know it,” Mannering said, with relief. He swung the car out of Hart Row into Bond Street. Unless the traffic was very bad the whole journey should not take more than a quarter-of-an-hour. He saw Bristow in his driving mirror, as Hamid said: “It would be Rachel who telephoned.”

“Who is Rachel?”

“A friend.”

“Did she help you to get away tonight?”

“Yes, she—she made it possible. I am sorry but I have to return by the back door.”

“It makes no difference.” Mannering overtook a red sports car, and then two taxis. “How soon can you get out again?”

“I am not sure.”

“Can Rachel get out of the place without difficulty?”

“Yes,” the young man answered. “I think so.”

“Does she know what you are trying to do?”

“Yes,” Hamid said simply.

“Will you send her to me tomorrow morning?” asked Mannering.

Hamid did not answer.

“If you cannot come yourself, will you send Rachel?” demanded Mannering, his voice hardening.

The young man turned to look at him; he was aware of this even though he kept his eyes on the road. He had a vague, misty picture of the pale face and the bright eyes, but for a moment was exasperated, almost angry. If the boy would not trust the girl – and the myth of the superiority of man over woman died hard in the more remote parts of the world – it would make things that much more difficult.

Prince Hamid said: “I do not wish her to get hurt.”

“Oh,” said Mannering, feeling immediately deflated. He said in a subdued voice: “Can you worry about one individual if there is so much at stake?”

“It is very difficult,” declared Prince Hamid, with a curious mixture of courage and defiance: “The opportunity may not occur. If Kohari is back before me, then I do not expect to live.”

Mannering repeated the name over to himself, and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice: “Did you say Kohari?”

“Yes. Kam Kohari.”

“Who is Kam Kohari?”

“He is the Tarian consul in London, and serves my father.”

“Are you sure he will kill—” began Mannering.

“Mr. Mannering,” replied Prince Hamid with great dignity, “yes, I am sure beyond all doubt.”

Whether or no he was right, he most certainly seemed to believe it.

Mannering slowed down a fraction, the sense of urgency fading. If this were true, should he take this youth to his death? If he, Mannering, took him somewhere else – to Quinns, perhaps, or his flat, it would be his and not Prince Hamid’s responsibility. And he could make the youth talk, could ask pertinent questions which would soon lead to the truth. How much was at stake? If he actually abducted the Prince, what of the girl, Rachel?

He saw the railings of Regent’s Park and the hedge beyond it; in two minutes he would be within sight of Hall Crescent. He stole a glance at the youth, and asked: “Why go back, if you are so sure you will be killed?”

“I will be killed only if it is known that I have been out.”

“Will Rachel be in danger?”

“Of course,” the young man said. “Only Rachel could allow me to come out. There is a small room with a balcony where I am kept prisoner, and where she is allowed to come sometimes. We are supposed to be there together now.” The youth was leaning forward and peering along Hall Crescent as they turned into it – and suddenly he exclaimed: “It is well! Kohari’s car is not there.”

“If you are sure—”

“Please, go round to the back, it is the end house,” urged Prince Hamid. “Hurry, please!”

Mannering drove past Number 27, the end house, then turned on to a narrow road which served the back of the Crescent. Before the car had stopped Hamid pushed the door open and sprang out, keeping his balance without apparent effort. He ducked behind a high hedge, looking upwards. Mannering caught a glimpse of a face at a long, narrow window, a young woman’s face, and next moment saw the railing of a balcony. Prince Hamid climbed up a supporting ledge, so quickly it was almost unbelievable. Next moment he was over the balcony and disappearing through the open window.

Mannering, with the car at a standstill, went into reverse. Bristow passed along the Crescent. Mannering backed on to the Crescent itself, and followed Bristow who turned into the park road, in the opposite direction from which they had come. As they neared the gates which led out of the park, a big, old-fashioned Rolls Royce turned into it.

A man, obviously a Malay, was at the wheel.

Mannering pulled into a space just large enough to park, manoeuvring so that he could see Number 27 Hall Crescent in his driving mirror, and watched. The big car pulled up outside Number 27. Almost at once the driver climbed out and opened the door for his passenger.

A tall, heavy man got out with some difficulty, and leaning heavily on a walking stick went towards Number 27. The driver stayed with the car. The big man, presumably Kam Kohari, disappeared inside the house. Mannering did not move his car and Bristow, rather surreptitiously, came on foot between the parked vehicles and the fence. He drew level with Mannering.

“Hungry?” Mannering asked.

“Famished!”

“Then nip back to Quinns, double-check all the locks, ask the Yard to keep a very close watch because of some unpacked goods,” Mannering said, “and I’ll call Lorna and warn her that she’ll have two hungry men on her hands in about an hour. That way, we can talk this business out together without going over the same ground twice.”

“Splendid idea,” approved Bristow. “I’ll call my wife, too. Do you want the flat watched?”

“By the police you mean?” Mannering shook his head. “Not yet, at all events.”

“I may try to make you change your mind,” Bristow warned him, then made his way back, still carefully, to his car.

Mannering waited for several minutes after Bristow had driven off. No one came into the Crescent although there was constant movement of traffic through the gates. He drove out, in by another park entrance, and then past Number 27, Hall Crescent, taking advantage of cars being parked to slow down and read the highly polished brass plate fastened to the wall of Number 27. This read:

Consulate of Taria

He saw no one at the windows and no one appeared to show any interest in him. He left the park and pulled into a garage for petrol, using a prepayment call-box on the forecourt of the garage. Lorna answered so quickly she must have been by the telephone.

“Lorna Mannering.”

“Hallo, darling,” Mannering said. “Would you like a good reason to hate me?”

“What, another one?” she said laughing, then caught her breath. “You aren’t coming home.”

“Oh, but I am. And ravenous—”

“That’s easily satisfied.”

“Bill Bristow will be ravenous, too,” Mannering went on, apologetically.

“You wouldn’t be bringing in an attractive young woman who is also ravenous, would you, darling?”

“Not unless I can find one on the way home,” Mannering replied. “Just Bill and me and a lot to talk about.”

“And you want me to hear?” asked Lorna.

“Someone has to make some sense of this business,” Mannering said. “I’ll be about half-an-hour.” He rang off, and then made his way to the garage pumps, where three mechanics and the redheaded driver of a sports car were admiring the Bristol. They eyed its owner with deep respect.

Mannering watched closely but apart from these four no one appeared to take any interest in him. He drove into a stream of traffic, taking narrow side streets until he reached Bayswater Road. It was getting dark. The lights were on in the streets and shop windows. He felt reasonably sure he had not been followed.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from here to Green Street, Chelsea, and the traffic was light. It was nine-twenty when he turned off the King’s Road and towards the house where he lived. This was one of a block of three Regency houses, all that was left of a whole terrace. Smaller, modern houses in neo-Georgian style stood where the rest had been, and there were two small blocks of flats. Little of the Georgian atmosphere was left, yet there was charm here, and the new merged surprisingly well with the old.

Mannering slowed down, looking for a parking space – and was suddenly shaken out of a relaxed mood by the sight of a man in the doorway of one of the smaller houses.

The man was small and dark-skinned; a Malay, if ever he had seen one.