Chapter Five

Coincidence?

Mannering’s hand tightened on Lorna’s arm as the police car pulled up. His heart was thumping uncomfortably because he was so sure this was news of Bristow.

“What is it?” he demanded tersely.

“A call from Information, sir. Your shop’s been raided!”

Mannering clenched his teeth. “And Bristow? What of him?”

The fair-haired, bright-faced policeman asked: “Who, sir?”

“Bristow.”

“I don’t know – oh, I remember – he used to be at the Yard. I’ve no idea, sir.”

Mannering said: “Is there any specific message for me?”

“Only that you’d better get to the shop as soon as possible, sir.”

Mannering released Lorna’s arm, and moved closer to the policeman. A big limousine squeezed past the police car, its driver glaring in resentment. Across the street, the small, dark man had left the porch of Number 40 and was walking towards the corner which would lead eventually to the river and the Embankment.

“I think my home is being watched by thieves,” he said. “Would you recognise a Malay when you saw one?”

Something happened to the policeman who had seemed so ingenuous. He seemed to grow older, or at least more worldly-wise. The eagerness vanished and wariness replaced it.

“Spent a year in Singapore with the army, sir!”

“Well, you sound just the chap. A Malay has been watching the flat,” Mannering declared. “Do you think you could keep an eye on the place?”

“Sure I could, sir – I’ll check with Division right away. Do you think this has anything to do with the raid on the shop?”

“More than likely,” Mannering replied, drily, “but I’d like to be sure.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Now I’d better get going,” Mannering said. He moved to the Bristol and opened the door for Lorna to get in. A car horn blared as Mannering went round to the driving side, and the driver of the police car said: “After our blood, aren’t they, sir!”

“Seems like it.” Mannering smiled mechanically. Soon he was on the move, Lorna beside him. No other police cars and no other Malays were in sight, and little traffic was heading towards the West End. The long dusk had ended and it was dark but for car and street lamps.

“It’s almost too much to believe,” Mannering said, explosively.

“That it’s coincidence, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose so.” Lorna sounded doubtful.

After a few moments Mannering said more quietly: “I hope Bill’s all right.”

“If he’d been seriously hurt surely they’d have known,” suggested Lorna.

“The chaps in the patrol car? I’m not so sure,” Mannering said. “It’s hard to realise there are policemen who have to think before they realise who Bristow is.”

“John,” Lorna broke off as a sports car passed in a scarlet flash and another, sky blue, passed with a roar which made drivers and pedestrians stare.

Mannering muttered what sounded like: “Young lunatics.”

“John,” repeated Lorna, “you were going to tell me more about what happened when Bristow came.”

As he sped along King’s Road, past Sloane Square and into Knightsbridge, Mannering gave her a more vivid picture of Prince Hamid, all he had seemed, how he had behaved; what had happened at the Tarian Consulate.

“Everything you say makes the story sound genuine,” Lorna remarked; but there was doubt in her voice.

“That’s how I feel.”

“What did you—do you—think of his father?”

“I thought he was a licentious old tyrant who indulged all the sins of the flesh.”

Lorna paused before saying quietly: “And?”

Mannering laughed, realising as he did so often how she could virtually read his thoughts; how well the years had taught her to know him! She knew perfectly well that he had answered superficially, that there was much more in his mind. The trouble was, he had not yet marshalled it. Quinns was now only three or four minutes away, and anxiety for Bristow was beginning to push all other thoughts out of his mind.

But he answered: “I had a feeling that the Sultan was getting everything he could of value out of his country and planning to build up a personal fortune here. I still think he was.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About five years.”

“Did you think he was likely to be deposed?”

“Either that or he read the signs of the times and knew the people would rebel if he didn’t get out. They can be ferocious with leaders they turn against.”

“So he might have feared assassination?”

“Yes,” Mannering said, and added almost sharply: “But I’m only guessing. I can’t be sure. I simply think he would be the type to get out, making sure his pockets were lined, before there was a bloody revolution.”

Now they were at the corner of Hart Row.

A police car was parked on one side of the road and two policemen wearing helmets were talking at another corner; everything else was normal. Mannering took the turning slowly, and immediately saw more police cars and an ambulance, which was backed towards the little yard behind Quinns. Four or five uniformed men and as many in plainclothes were there. One policeman came up and peered into the car.

“I’m afraid you can’t—” he began, and then his tone changed. “Oh – Mr. Mannering.” The man opened the door.

Mannering felt almost afraid to ask how Bristow was.

Then he saw two stretcher bearers approaching the ambulance, and the man on the stretcher suddenly sitting upright and calling out: or trying to call out, for his voice was so hoarse it only carried a few feet.

Mannering relaxed – and actually began to laugh.

“What—” began Lorna, whose view was blocked, but suddenly she was able to see, and on that instant Bristow’s voice took on a fog-horn loudness, the hoarseness momentarily gone. At the same moment the bearers stopped at the back of the ambulance, the doors of which stood wide open.

“… tell you I’m all right!” Bristow yelled. “I don’t want any bloody hospital, I want—”

His voice failed as suddenly as it had rasped out.

Mannering went through the little group of policemen, recognising Chief Inspector Gordon of the Yard, who was probably in charge of the investigation. He was so relieved to know that Bristow was not badly hurt that he gave hardly a thought to what had been stolen. Gordon, a bony-faced man with gingerish hair and a sandy complexion was staring at him as he reached Bristow’s side.

“So it could have been worse, Bill.”

Bristow, startled by his voice, looked round: and then in a croaking voice which Mannering could only just hear, he complained: “The idiots want to take me to hospital. All I’m suffering from is tear-gas and a bump on the head. Can you make them see sense?”

“Bill,” Lorna said from Mannering’s side, “can I make you see sense?”

“Now don’t you start,” groaned Bristow.

“You can have your face and eyes washed clean at the hospital,”

Lorna pointed out, “and that is a very nasty bump on the head. Do be sensible.”

Bristow looked at Mannering in mute appeal.

“She’s right,” Mannering said, unrelenting, “you really need some first aid.”

“Oh—hell” breathed Bristow.

“Can you tell me what happened in two minutes?” asked Mannering.

“I was coming out of the back door when they tossed the gas at me,” Bristow said. “They didn’t give me a chance, and I didn’t really see a thing. But John”—anxiety showed in his swollen eyes—“the silver’s gone.”

“Only the silver?” Mannering asked sharply.

“That’s what we want you to tell us, Mr. Mannering,” said Chief Inspector Gordon. “And the quicker we know, the better.”

Bristow had gone, recognising that further protest was useless.

A number of newspapermen had appeared, including photographers, and were waiting for Mannering to finish his check of the goods at Quinns.

Lorna was in Mannering’s office, reading what there was about Taria in Chambers Encyclopaedia; it was not a great deal, but there was a photograph of the Sultan in ceremonial robes.

Mannering, with Gordon and two other plainclothes men, went through the old newspapers and found one small salver, the only piece remaining. The crates were still there, and the two which had remained to be emptied had been opened and all the contents taken.

A few small pieces of porcelain and others of bronze had also been taken but no attempt had been made to force any of the drawers or cabinets, while no one had touched the office or opened the strongroom. Mannering convinced Gordon that if the strongroom had been attempted several alarm and warning signals would now be showing; and convinced himself that the one real purpose of the raid had been to get the collection of silver.

“And you haven’t the faintest idea why?” asked Gordon.

“Not the remotest,” Mannering assured him. “It was worth a lot, but its main value was in the workmanship and rare design. As silver, melted down, I doubt if it would fetch two thousand pounds.” He was leaning against the dresser, looking as baffled as he felt. “Have your chaps found anything?”

“Not a fingerprint, nothing but some broken glass phials and some cartridges of tear-gas,” Gordon answered. “We may get a lead from the cartridges.” He paused, before asking heavily: “Mr. Mannering, I must ask you some questions.”

“Of course.” Mannering said.

“First – why did you leave this silver out in the shop? You have safes back here, you could have put it away without having to open your strongroom. What on earth possessed you to take such a chance?”

It was a fair question.

Further, it was one which could not easily be answered unless he told the truth; and he was less inclined than ever to alert the police about Prince Hamid’s problems. He had first to find out whether there was any connection, and then decide how much to tell the police.

Gordon was staring at him intently.

Suspiciously? wondered Mannering.

“There must be a reason,” Gordon said brusquely.

“I’m afraid it was simple folly,” Mannering answered at last. “It took much longer than we anticipated, so we decided to have a break for a meal, I—”

He almost said that he had planned to meet Bristow back here after the break but it would not be convincing. Moreover the police, perhaps Gordon himself, would go and talk to Bristow, who might easily be tricked into making a statement which would differ materially from Mannering’s. The only sensible course was silence, but silence would neither please nor satisfy the earnest-looking detective who was now looking at him with open suspicion.

“Well?” Gordon barked the word.

“It’s as simple as that,” Mannering insisted.

“Mr. Mannering, do you seriously expect me to believe that two responsible individuals of the calibre of you and Mr. Bristow would leave this place unguarded, and—”

“Oh, come,” interjected Mannering. “Unguarded isn’t the word. The anti-burglar precautions here are second to none. We are linked with the alarm system at Hart House, the only weak link in the precautions is the one they found – the moment when the door is opened from the inside.”

“You mean that like all burglar-proof systems this one had a flaw.” Gordon’s voice held a sneer. “In this case they waited for the moment when the door was open and the shop virtually unprotected. Mr. Mannering, I don’t believe you and Mr. Bristow would take such a risk simply for the sake of a meal. You must have had some very compelling reason. Moreover, it is known that you both left here about eight o’clock, you in your car and Mr. Bristow following in his. Our patrol car saw and reported this. Further, your car was seen in Regent’s Park, at half-past eight. Just what did make you leave the shop so vulnerable, Mr. Mannering?” When Mannering did not answer at once, he went on in a sharp, accusing voice: “The silver was treasure trove. It was entrusted to you by the authorities because they were confident that you would not take the slightest risks with it. Why did you take a risk, Mr. Mannering?”

There was a hard, challenging note in the detective’s voice: an accusing note. He moved a few inches farther away from Mannering as if to be able to appraise him more thoroughly. Two other men were within earshot; it was something, Mannering told himself, that they were not taking notes.

He said: “Inspector, I had not the slightest reason to suspect that the silver was in danger.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Gordon rasped. “I’m not even sure it’s the truth.”

The other men stopped moving. The door of the office opened and Lorna appeared but did not come forward. Gordon’s eyes held a brilliant sheen and his face looked very pale as he uttered the challenge, which was tantamount to calling Mannering a liar.

After a long pause, Mannering asked with great restraint: “What do you think is the truth, Chief Inspector?”

There was a pause; long and pregnant. Mannering knew others were present and yet was acutely aware only of Gordon’s now near-basilisk expression. Gordon wanted to say more but was not sure whether he should. As they stood in the back of the shop, unmoving, he was fighting a battle within himself.

At last he drew in a deep breath, and replied with great deliberation: “I think you may have connived at the disappearance of the silver, Mr. Mannering, believing it to be treasure trove, and, though theoretically the property of the Queen, in fact without any legal owner. Do you know where it is?”