Chapter Nine

Rachel

“I am John Mannering,” Mannering said. “Come with me.”

As he led the way to the back of the shop he knew that he could be wrong in taking it for granted that this was Rachel; wrong in trusting her at all. So he was on the alert for any trick as he opened the door of his office and stood aside to let her in. She turned her head as she entered, her blue eyes startlingly beautiful.

“Mr. Mannering,” she exclaimed. “Hamid is in terrible danger.”

“Where is he?” Mannering asked, closing the door.

“He’s at the Consulate but they’re going to take him away tonight and I don’t think he will ever come back. Please—please can you help him? He hasn’t any friends. Both sides distrust him. The Sultan’s people know he’s against the present system, and the rebels don’t believe a son of the Sultan could possibly be on their side. If only they had the sense to realise it, he’s the only hope of pulling both sides together.”

Her first words had spilled out but now she was speaking more slowly.

“Sit down,” Mannering said, “and—”

“There isn’t time to sit down!” She actually stamped her foot, then moved towards him with both hands outstretched, startlingly similar to the gesture of Prince Hamid. “Oh, I’m sorry, I hardly know what I’m saying, but you must take it from me that they’ll kill him.”

“Who will?”

“Kohari and his men.”

“Why should they kill him?”

“Because he can tell the world the truth about his father – that the Sultan’s an old lecher who’s never done any real good for his people. He just lives off them, he’s been sending money and jewels out of Taria for years, bleeding the country to death. And Hamid can prove it.”

“Then why don’t the rebels—” Mannering began.

“They don’t trust Hamid! Can’t you understand?” She was near screaming pitch.

“Only partly,” Mannering said. “But I’m really not deaf, Rachel. The Prince came to me last night and asked for help to find what he called Tarian treasures. Tonight—”

“That was last night! All that matters now is saving his fife. Oh, God help me, you don’t even begin to understand!” She moved forward, seizing his hand. “He is a prisoner at the Consulate and if we can’t get him away he’ll be killed.”

Mannering said mildly: “Then go to the police.”

“Oh, you fool! The police wouldn’t believe me. You can’t save Hamid with the police, only—only someone with guts can do it. Someone who’ll take a chance and go and fetch him away.”

Mannering said: “Kidnap?”

“All right, kidnap if you like. But he’s there, he’s being kept a prisoner, and they’ll never, never let him go. If he has a chance at all, it’s through you. For God’s sake, help him.”

She gripped Mannering’s hands so tightly that his fingers hurt. She looked up into his face, her own despairing; and then very slowly and yet as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she went on her knees before him. Her hands slid out of his. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but did not fall.

“Please,” she begged. “Please help him.”

Mannering could be gentle with her, but was not sure it would help. He could be cold, and was sure that would not help at all. He did not know what to do, but certainly he could not stand there looking down at her.

Suddenly, he realised what he must try to do.

“Rachel,” he said. “Do you really want to help him?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes. That’s all I want to do.”

“Do you love him?” Mannering asked, more sharply.

She caught her breath, and then said slowly and distinctly: “Yes, I do.”

“Does he love you?”

“He is—a Prince,” she said, as if that were answer enough; and in a way, it was.

“All right,” he said. “Now get up—” He put his hands down and took hers firmly, drawing her to her feet. “And tell me everything you can about Prince Hamid, what led up to this situation, what—”

“There isn’t time!” she cried.

“I won’t lift a finger to help until I know all there is to know,” said Mannering bluntly. “No lies, no evasions, just the simple truth.” He half pushed her towards the chair where Hamid had sat the previous night as he went on: “When did you first meet him?”

She was the daughter of the Australian High Commissioner in Taria.

She had met Hamid on official visits to the palace, and been attracted to him.

He had always been surrounded by servants and guards and policemen, they had seldom had a chance to talk without being overheard, and her father had warned her: “Don’t get involved in Tarian politics, Rachel – don’t let the Prince or any of them charm you into an affaire.”

A year ago, her father had been taken ill. She had nursed him until he died, and then had the choice of going back to Australia and distant, unknown relatives, or staying in Taria. Her father had left her enough money to live in comfort, and she had stayed.

“I hated the thought of leaving Hamid. I knew it was madness, I knew that he had as many concubines as he wanted, and had had since he was a slip of a boy. I knew that the Sultan was reputed to like white women.

“One day, Prince Hamid sent his personal servant to me. He said that Hamid had sent for me. I thought—well, what else could I think?”

Mannering made no comment, simply waited for her to go on.

“I told myself I was a fool. I told myself that once I started an affaire with him I would be no better and no worse than the other girls – well, maybe in one way, for I loved him. But it was a hell of a decision to make. I’d stayed near the fire and here it was, getting hotter, and if I went any nearer I was going to get burnt.”

For the first time since she had begun her story, she paused. Mannering seemed to be drawn into the land she had created for him; a land of heat, of tradition, a life which had not changed for thousands of years.

“So I decided to get burnt,” she added, sharply, “and I went along with the Prince’s man, Abdul.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then went on: “So, I can make a mistake, can’t I? Hamid didn’t want fun and games with me, that wasn’t the idea at all. He wanted help with capital letters. H-E-L-P. No one in his entourage could be trusted, not even Abdul when it came to politics. There were some things he needed me to find out. What his father had done with all the jewels and suchlike which he’d smuggled out of Taria. Hamid said he knew they’d gone, but he wanted to get them back. You want to know why?”

“Yes,” Mannering said.

“So I’ll tell you! He wanted to find out where they were so that he could get them back and give them to the rebels. He reasoned that if he did that, they would at last believe he was on their side.”

For a moment desolation overcame her, her eyes brimmed with tears, and her voice became husky. “So there’s the yarn, Mr. Mannering. He didn’t want me for my feminine charms, he wanted me for my mind, whatever that’s worth.” She brushed a hand across her eyes as she went on: “He knew I could go to a lot of places where he couldn’t. I was a friend of some of his father’s favourites, all I had to do was keep my eyes and ears open. I did, and I learned a lot. The old man had brought the goods to England, and some people knew he’d asked you to get the best price for him. I told Hamid this, and Hamid persuaded the old man to let him come over here for a few weeks, and I’m my own boss, aren’t I? Why shouldn’t I come, too? I volunteered for a job at the Tarian Consulate, that’s what I’m doing there. I know the language like a native, I’m a good interpreter. And even Kam Kohari didn’t mind me keeping Hamid company. I have an idea he thought it would keep him quiet. Their ideas are very single-minded.”

She paused again, while Mannering, taken by the vividness of the story and absolutely convinced of its genuineness, still waited for her to finish.

“So that’s it,” she said abruptly. “Hamid has a pal on the Consulate staff, who hears nearly everything that goes on. The Sultan realised at last why Hamid is in England and told Kohari to stop him making inquiries. If necessary, to kill him. And Kohari—” she caught her breath. “Kohari found out that he’d been out last night. They had a row this morning. Kohari told him he would have to renounce the rebels, or else he would be killed. Just like that. And you can take it from me, he meant it.”

She shrugged, but more in rage than resignation.

“Kohari got his orders this morning,” she said. “He sent a courier back to Taria last week with the whole story and the Sultan telephoned a few hours ago. And”—she forced a smile—“don’t tell me a father won’t kill his son. The Sultan will kill anyone who might be a threat. Why, he—he killed his own brothers when he was made Sultan, to make sure they could not take the throne away. You can’t begin to understand the way they think, Mr. Mannering. To them murder’s not crime, it’s entirely justified self-preservation.”

Slowly, she stretched out her hands, and in a broken voice, she pleaded: “Help Hamid. Please help him.

Mannering heard his own voice yet hardly recognised it as his, could hardly believe that he was saying: “All right, Rachel. I’ll try to help.”

Rachel had gone.

In Mannering’s pocket was a key of the back door to the Consulate and a diagram of the inside of the house. Hamid’s door, Rachel had said, was always locked from the outside, the key left in it.

“Tell Hamid but tell no one else,” Mannering had warned her.

“Just tell me how—”

“The less you know the better.” Mannering had been adamant.

Now he was alone in the office, puzzled because Bristow had not been at the partition when he had taken Rachel to the door.

Was she right?

Could she have fooled him?

He heard a tap at the door and called “Come in.” It was Bristow, brisk as always, carrying a small tape-recorder in his left hand. “I had to take a call from the Yard and couldn’t stay near the loudspeaker,” he explained. “May I listen?” He switched on the tape at the moment Rachel was saying: “Kohari got his orders this morning …” and listened intently until Mannering’s voice came clearly: “All right, Rachel, I’ll try to help.” He switched the recorder off, and looked very hard into Mannering’s eyes and then said the last thing Mannering had expected: “I talked to Gordon. They have found two people who saw a van being driven out of Hart Row last night.” Bristow paused and Mannering knew that the real climax was coming, Bristow was working up to it most effectively. “The two people, who were not together and could not have compared notes, described the driver of the van and his two companions – as small and dark. One said Chinese, the other thought they might be Japanese. I’m prepared to settle for Tarian. Don’t you think the Prince was almost certainly a decoy, John?”