Chapter Six

Soft Answer

Mannering had a suspicion that Gordon was deliberately needling him, perhaps hoping for some such explosion and a careless word which would justify further questioning, possibly questioning at the Yard. He, Mannering, could in fact do this; or he could simply say no: could even demand an apology and try to force one. In a way that approach intrigued him; it would be fascinating to see how far Gordon would go.

There was a third form of response; the good humoured; the soft answer to turn away wrath.

For a few moments he returned Gordon’s accusing stare, then slowly he began to smile. He glanced at Lorna, and his smile widened.

“The Chief Inspector has strange ideas about me,” he remarked, and looked back at Gordon. “No, I don’t know where the treasure trove is, there is nothing I’d like to know more. I did not connive at the theft but I may have helped it.”

“What’s that?” Gordon barked.

“Well, you’re obviously right about one thing,” went on Mannering, “and it was silly of me to try to fool you. We – Bill Bristow and I – did leave here at a moment’s notice. We had a choice of two evils, and we thought we’d chosen the lesser.”

“You mean, someone lured you away?”

“’Lured’ implies intent and I don’t know whether it was planned,” said Mannering. “We heard that an old friend of mine was in some kind of trouble and went to see whether we could help.”

“What friend?”

“Now there I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You must name—”

“No,” interrupted Mannering. “I mustn’t name him. It was a confidential matter, as far as I yet know no crime involving him has been committed, and I’m not at liberty to talk about it, even to the police. If ever I can, I will. You’ll have to accept my assurance that as far as I know it has nothing at all to do with the silver.” He was very sober-faced for a moment, and then his voice grew light, even flippant. “You were certainly right about one thing. I don’t think anyone but the finder has any right to treasure trove.”

Lorna had moved as he talked and was now fingering the small salver, the sole remainder of the silver. Gordon looked from Mannering to her and then back again. Then slowly, and perhaps with some reluctance, he said: “The police are often right, Mr. Mannering. If you can tell us who this friend is and why he distracted you—” Gordon broke off, to add severely: “You may have been an unwitting tool. This man may have lured you in the true sense of the word.”

“It’s barely conceivable,” Mannering said. “If I find out what he did, I’ll tell you. After all,” he went on ingenuously, “he might then be able to lead us to the silver, mightn’t he?”

There was a glimmer of a smile in Gordon’s eyes, but he spoke formally.

“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Mannering.”

“You have never said a truer word,” Mannering assured him; then he went on more briskly and in a very different tone: “Will you want to keep men here all night?”

“Yes.”

“I shall leave the office locked,” said Mannering. “All control of the strongroom is from there. You can manage with the back door only, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you make sure that I am informed before you leave?”

“Yes, but it isn’t likely to be until morning,” Gordon replied.

Mannering did not think there was any need for the police to be in possession all night, but if he argued about it Gordon would assume that he had an ulterior motive, which wasn’t true. He was glad that Larraby was away visiting relatives. Larraby had for many years been the manager at Quinns and now lived in the small flat above the back entrance. He was not due back for several days.

“All right,” he said. “Do you want me anymore?”

“Are you sure nothing of value but the silver is missing?”

“Yes,” Mannering answered.

“Very well,” said Gordon. “Then there’s nothing I need keep you for, Mr. Mannering. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was a chorus of subdued ‘goodnights’ as Mannering and Lorna moved towards the back door. Immediately they emerged the press pounced, cameras flashed, questions were hurled. Mannering answered briefly but truthfully, posed five times for photographs with Lorna, and at last got free. There were so many cars and people in Hart Row that he had difficulty in turning the car, but he was away at last, heading towards Chelsea. Again, the start of the journey was very quiet, neither of them speaking. In fact they were in Knightsbridge, before Lorna vouchsafed: “I was afraid Gordon would upset you more.”

“I think he was fairly restrained,” Mannering said.

“Do you think he believed you?”

“With reservations – yes.”

“Can it all have been a coincidence?”

“The more I think about it the more I think it is,” Mannering confessed, “but I vacillate a lot – next time you ask me I shall probably say no, it can’t possibly be.” He gave a rather forced laugh. “It could have been a lot worse but, apart from the possibility of a coincidence there’s another very remarkable thing.”

Lorna pondered for a few moments, and then said: “I give up.”

“Why should anyone want that silver so much?”

“So much?”

“They had to know where it was, they had to know the reputation of Quinns, they had to keep a close watch, they had to be ready to pounce the moment Bristow appeared at the back door. I can’t believe they were amateurs, and I don’t understand why professionals would go for the silver and nothing else.”

“Time,” Lorna said.

Mannering glanced round at her.

“Eh?”

“If they were professionals they would know a police patrol would pass regularly, and they would know they couldn’t stay too long,” Lorna reasoned. “So they simply wouldn’t have time to collect all the silver and search the rest of the shop.” When Mannering did not answer at once she asked: “That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“Indisputable,” Mannering agreed. “And yet, if they knew what Quinns is they would have known they could be sure of rich pickings. They could have cleared the silver out, taken it away then come back for more loot between police patrols.”

“Doubling the risk of being caught each visit?”

“I suppose so,” Mannering said. He laughed and patted her knee. “You are more likely right than I, I’m being difficult. If they did make a dead set at the silver who and why?”

“How much is it worth?”

“Sweetheart, before I know more about it and can check its weight, approximate age, and compare it with other sets I don’t know and would hate to guess. I would also hate to sell it for less than a hundred thousand pounds if it were mine.”

“So it would be well worth stealing for itself alone?”

“Lord, yes! Especially if you had a buyer lined up. But who would buy? I’ve been trying to recall everything said in the newspapers, and I don’t think anyone guessed more than ten thousand pounds.”

“Possibly someone recognised it from the description.”

“If they did, they’re the people we want,” Mannering responded.

He turned the car into Green Street, and this time no one lurked either in the porch of Number 40 or any other house. There was room for Mannering to park the Bristol. As they got out, a police car turned into the road from the far end, and the policeman who had spent a year in Singapore leaned out of his window, bright-eyed as any schoolboy.

“No trouble, Mr. Mannering!”

“Did that chap come back?”

“No, sir – but I can tell you where he went,” the officer replied with deep satisfaction. “Had him trailed by radio car – he got on a motor-cycle round the corner, and the motor-cycle is now parked behind the Tarian Consulate in Regent’s Park.”

“Is it, by George!” exclaiming Mannering. “Very many thanks.”

“Any time.” The policeman waved and drew back into the car, which moved on.

The Mannerings went to the street door, waited for the lift, then went up together in another of the familiar silences. This time they were inside the flat, Mannering making a quick trip into every room, before Lorna said: “No one here.”

“Did you want me to find someone?” he asked lightly.

“No, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. John, what are you going to do?”

Mannering contemplated her for what, in the circumstances, was a long time. Then his eyes creased at the corners, and he put an arm through hers and led her into the study where the laden tray still stood.

“You get whatever we need out of the fridge,” he said. “I’m going to eat. Even you must be hungry by now!”

He sliced the cold beef expertly; ate more heartily even than he had expected, sat in an easy chair with Lorna on a pouffe at his knees, a position she had always loved. Slowly they drank their coffee, while the relief they had felt at Bristow’s near-escape from serious injury began to fade in the weight of other anxieties.

For young Hamid.

For the girl, Rachel.

Why had a man from the Tarian Consulate been watching this house and, even more important, how long had he been doing it?

Was there any way of finding out?

Was it possible that his, Mannering’s apartment had been watched before Hamid had come to see him? If so, had anyone at the Consulate – Kam Kohari, for instance – had reason to suspect that the young Prince was going to visit Mannering?

The questions poured thick and fast, and most of them centred about Prince Hamid.

Suddenly Mannering said: “I have to find out whether the boy is safe.”

Lorna did not ask which boy, she simply said: “How will you do that, without alarming Kohari?”

“There must be a way,” Mannering insisted. He saw the expression in Lorna’s eyes, and gave a wry chuckle. “No, darling, I am not planning to go and climb on to that balcony. Not tonight, at all events! I suppose there was a time when I would have gone there without a second thought. I—” He broke off, his eyes suddenly shining. “I’ve got it! I’ll get Sing Lee to telephone.”

He leaned across to a telephone on a nearby table, and flipped over the pages of a telephone directory. Lee Anne, Lee James, Lee Mark, Lee Sing. He dialled a number, knowing that the bell was ringing in a pleasant room in the home of the High Commissioner for Singapore. Sing Lee was a permanent civil servant at the Commission, and a collector of rare oriental semi-precious stones and pottery of the Ming dynasty.

A man answered almost at once.

“This is Sing Lee, of the Singapore High Commission.”

“And always on duty,” Mannering said, gently.

“But of course. Who—ah!” There was only a suspicion of an accent in the other’s voice. “But that is Mr. John Mannering, is that not so?”

“Yes,” Mannering confirmed.

“And at such an hour you have a request to make,” hazarded Sing Lee. “It is too late for you to take the trouble to tell me that you can offer for my inspection something I would treasure.”

“You’re quite right, I do need help, Mr. Lee. And it’s possible that someone else needs it even more.”

“You are very mysterious,” Sing Lee declared.

“I will try to explain,” Mannering said, and when the other waited, he went on: “I believe that the young Prince Hamid of Taria is in London. I’m told he is at the Tarian Consulate in Hall Crescent, Regents Park. Do you know if that is so?”

Silence followed; silence so intense that it was as if the other man had been cut off; it was unthinkable that he would have hung up on Mannering and hard to believe that he had been shocked into silence. Mannering held on. Lorna stood up, a single graceful movement, and collected the coffee cups and glasses; it was as if she could not keep still.

Then, when Mannering was on the point of speaking, Sing Lee said in a voice devoid of all expression: “I believe it to be so, yes.”

“Is there a way of making sure?” asked Mannering.

Again there was silence, although this time it was not so prolonged. When the voice came at last, it held the same even, unreadable tone.

“I can try, Mr. Mannering, but I cannot promise you any results. And please, I beg of you, do not explain why you wish to know. Many strange rumours have come out of Taria in recent weeks, and men live longest who know the least about plots and counterplots. If you will replace your receiver, I will see what I can do to find out.”

“You’re very kind,” said Mannering, and slowly and deliberately put down the receiver. The silence which followed was empty and somehow filled with foreboding.