Chapter Eight

Hugo Blount

Mannering stood up from his desk as Blount was ushered in.

Inside four walls, he looked even more enormous than he had done before, and he had to lower his head to get into the office. Bristow looked at him coldly and went out, closing the door; but he did not set the lock, and a microphone was on so that he could follow the conversation word by word from a muted speaker on the partition dresser.

Blount was looking more than a little the worse for wear, yet he looked at Mannering boldly. He thrust his right hand, huge and work-roughened, forward.

Mannering took it.

“Sit down,” he said pleasantly. He waited for the man to adjust his long legs to a chair not primarily designed for giants, then went on: “I couldn’t be more sorry about the silver, Mr. Blount.”

“You can’t be as sorry as I am,” Blount retorted, gruffly.

“I don’t understand you,” Mannering said.

“It’s easy enough,” declared Blount. “I don’t know how much that silver’s worth but I do know it’s either mine by treasure trove or – if it’s stolen stuff – I should get a decent reward. And I need the money for my farm. That,” he added with great precision, “means for my son, Mr. Mannering. And now it appears to have been stolen I’m going to have a hell of a job to stake a claim.”

Mannering pursed his lips. “It will take more time if the silver isn’t found quickly, but—”

“Don’t give me that,” interrupted Blount. “You know it won’t be found.”

Mannering felt the stirring of anger. Blount’s previous words, ‘you practically made the thieves a gift’ could carry an implication of carelessness but hardly of connivance: this ‘you know it won’t be found’ was tantamount to an accusation, almost as positive as Gordon’s had been the night before.

Quietly, he said: “I know nothing of the kind. They could be found this morning, if the police have any luck.”

Mannering endured Blount’s intensive gaze without moving. He half-expected another accusation, direct or by innuendo, but it did not come.

Suddenly, Blount gave a broad, boyish grin, and said: “So you didn’t fix it.”

Mannering smiled very faintly, and said: “For that, I ought to throw you out.”

“And you might even manage it,” boomed Blount. “But it would certainly wreck your office. Mr. Mannering, I’m sorry, I got it into my head that you were trying to do me out of the treasure trove, and when anyone tries to put one over on me I get mad.”

“Sometimes, too mad,” Mannering murmured.

“What do you mean by that? Hey? Oh – that photographer fellow. That’s over and done with, and so I’m a quick tempered cuss. Everyone knows that. Even my Robin, and he’s the apple of my eye, gets the flat of my hand on his little backside when he makes me mad.” Blount shrugged, as if to say he had finished with that subject, and went on in a more restrained tone: “Do you think the police will find that silver?”

“There’s a good chance.”

“You’re supposed to be a detective. Can you find it?”

“Possibly,” Mannering conceded.

“How come if the police can’t, you can?”

“I didn’t say that the police can’t and I didn’t say that I can. But I’m more likely than the police to hear if the collection is offered for sale. I’ve runners out all over London and most of the big cities who would bring me the information.”

Blount folded his great arms across his chest. He appeared to be deliberating. Then he spoke.

“Would half interest you?”

“Half of what?”

“Don’t give me that,” jeered Blount.

Mannering said coldly, forcing down the anger which threatened to get out of control: “If you mean will I try to find the silver and go fifty-fifty with you on whatever you get out of it – no, I will not. If I can find it or help to find it I shall tell the police. I shall probably waive the valuation fee in view of what happened here last night. As for what you get out of it – you have to establish that you found it, the authorities have to agree that it is treasure trove, and that you’re entitled to a reward, and then you can start spending. Good morning, Mr. Blount.”

“Now, calm down, I didn’t mean any offence!”

“Nevertheless you caused it,” Mannering said, standing up with slow deliberation.

The door opened and Bristow appeared, while one of the young men hovered near. Blount blundered to his feet, looking rather like a frustrated bull. He glared at Mannering, then turned round and strode out of the office.

The assistant opened the front door. Blount stormed out. Several of the newspapermen approached him but he shouldered them aside. One man, with a lively memory of what had gone before, jumped nimbly out of his way. Blount turned right, towards Bond Street, and vanished from sight of anyone at Quinns; all they saw were newspapermen levelling their cameras, presumably at the farmer’s back.

“I’d like to know what he’s got on his conscience,” Bristow said balefully.

“Could be,” Mannering mused. “But he’s worth some attention, Bill. Do you know anyone in the Hertfordshire police who might keep an eye on him?”

“That’s Gordon’s business,” Bristow said.

“Gordon?”

“John, we ought to give Gordon a verbatim account of what happened and leave Blount to the police,” declared Bristow, in a voice that was both serious and stern. “You’ve plenty to do with that young Prince, and if I know you, you won’t want the police involved in that case for a while.”

“No,” agreed Mannering thoughtfully. “No, I won’t. But as for telling Gordon about Blount—”

“If you don’t, the press will give him half the story,” Bristow interrupted, “and that will only make him wonder why you didn’t tell him the lot from the start. I don’t want to rub it in but you aren’t really the world’s expert on dealing with policemen, John! There isn’t the slightest reason to get under Gordon’s skin because of Blount.”

Mannering stared at him, and then laughed. “All right, we’ll do it your way,” he conceded. “Let’s see if Gordon is in.”

The Chief Inspector was at his desk, and noncommittal in both greeting and comment. He listened intently, asked one or two pertinent questions, and thanked Mannering politely.

“Have you any trace of the vehicle in which the silver was taken away?” asked Mannering.

“None,” Gordon said shortly. “All we know is that the silver has vanished.”

He rang off.

Mannering put his receiver down slowly, knowing that Bristow had been listening in on an extension telephone. Was Bristow right about his comparative failure in dealing with the police at Scotland Yard? Mannering tried to put the thought out of his mind, but it persisted. He used a dictaphone for some letters, one ear cocked all the time for the telephone, for superimposed on all that had happened was anxiety for Prince Hamid, and eagerness to hear from the girl Rachel.

The girl with the pronounced accent: Cockney, or Australian, according to Lorna. Lorna was a genius for colours and could match one against another with subtle artistry, but she did not carry voices in her head. He, Mannering, could tell almost instantly whether a voice came from London, no matter how broad or how faint the Cockney intonation; and he could be equally sure about Australians and New Zealanders. If this girl Rachel telephoned, he was sure he would be able to place her country of origin.

There were many Australians in the Malaysian, Singapore and Hong Kong areas; in fact, in the whole of the Southern Seas. It would not be at all surprising if one of them worked for the Tarian High Commission.

The telephone rang half-a-dozen times; never for him, never from Rachel.

He was tempted to call Sing Lee again but fought against the impulse. Instead, he went through a list of friends and acquaintances who might have special knowledge of Taria, and the Sultan and his son. By twelve noon, when there was still no news, he began to telephone contact after contact. First, a rubber planter who had big plantations in the main island of Taria.

“I did hear a rumour that the Sultan was ill, John, but it was only a rumour. I don’t interest myself in politics you know.”

That could mean that he knew nothing; or it could mean that he did not intend to admit to any knowledge. Next, he talked to a one time British Resident in Sarawak.

“I was told that Prince Hamid was in disgrace – apparently he has advanced ideas which his father doesn’t like. But whether he’s in England, I don’t know.”

The third attempt was through a friend in the Commonwealth Office.

“John, there are always rumours of trouble in Taria. How the Sultan holds on to his power is a miracle … Kam Kohari? … He’s very loyal to the Sultan as far as I know.”

Next, he telephoned a correspondent on The Times who specialised in Far Eastern affairs.

“If you’re thinking of going there for a holiday, Mr. Mannering, I would leave your wife behind … There could be a bloody revolt at any time … I wasn’t able to find out very much but there are said to be strong anti-Sultan forces in the mountains to the north … Armed to the teeth, it’s said … Where do they get their arms? I wouldn’t like to say: some say China, some Russia, some America, the nearly certain thing is that they have them. Of course the Chinese want the oil and rubber potential, and collectors in America are said to be mad keen to get the Chinese and oriental treasures now in the palaces and temples. And they probably all want supplies of neri, a drug found nowhere else. There’s an increasing market for hard wood, of which there are several forests, and the mineral wealth has so far only been touched on the surface. So to keep in favour with the Sultan, it’s said, all nations contribute to Taria’s funds.”

“How strong is the Sultan’s army?” asked Mannering.

“It’s more of an outsize bodyguard,” the Times man told him. “Perhaps two thousand men, heavily armed and trained. And there is a very big police force, almost an army in itself.”

“Do you know anything about Prince Hamid?” asked Mannering.

“I know that he’s said to have rebel sympathies. Which means—” The correspondent broke off, and added almost with embarrassment: “You really mustn’t lure me into saying too much.”

“Won’t you finish what you were going to say?” Mannering urged.

“In strict confidence.”

“Completely off the record,” Mannering promised, earnestly; and the newspaperman had the grace to laugh.

“Very well. If the Prince really sides with the rebels, he’ll be assassinated. His father will blame the rebels, of course. Mannering, why are you so interested in Taria?”

“I’ve been asked to handle some of the state regalia,” Mannering replied.

“The devil you have! For the old man?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“I don’t blame you for being careful,” said the Times correspondent, and there was a note of excitement in his voice. “If the Sultan is trying to sell the state treasures then he wants the money for more arms or else for a nest-egg when the time comes for him to leave Taria. Mannering, have you any inside information at all?”

Mannering didn’t answer.

“I shall treat it with the utmost discretion,” the other assured him.

“I’ve heard a rumour that Prince Hamid is in England,” Mannering said, and then ventured: “Also that he’s interested in finding out what’s happened to the treasures. Did you know?”

“I knew that the rebel group in England was expecting a V.I.P. from home,” answered the Times correspondent. “The Prince would fit that category perfectly.”

“Can you find out from the group?” asked Mannering.

“I can try.”

“I’ll be very grateful if you will,” Mannering said.

He rang off, and glanced at his watch; he had talked for over twenty minutes, and it was now nearly one o’clock. He had breakfasted too well to want much lunch, but it was useless to telephone anywhere between one o’clock and two-thirty; practically all of the people he wanted to talk to would be out.

The one inescapable conclusion he had come to was that trouble was brewing in Taria.

The next: that there was trouble between the Sultan and his son.

Mannering pushed his chair back and went into the shop, as much to stretch his legs as for anything else. Bristow was in deep discussion with an American and his wife, and the assistants were busy with other customers. It was now a completely normal day. It remained normal even when a taxi drew up outside and a woman got out, paid the driver and turned towards Quinns. She was dressed in a grey suit that had long been outmoded, but Mannering knew better than to think her appearance was any guide to her potential as a customer, and he went towards the door as she opened it.

A moment later, he was quite sure she was much younger than her apparel suggested, and the youthfulness was enhanced when she took off her glasses to show vivid blue eyes.

“I must see Mr. Mannering,” she said in tones of urgency. “I must see him right away, I haven’t a minute to waste.”

He was sure that she meant what she said; equally sure that her accent was Australian.