Chapter Twelve

Kohari

For a split second Mannering almost panicked.

He stiffened in his chair and his muscles flexed; he wanted to be anywhere but in this young woman’s presence. The impulse to fly faded almost as soon as it had come, however. He was not used to wearing the disguise, hadn’t got under the skin of it, and he needed just such a shock as this to make him realise how careful he had to be, how absolutely he must live the part.

For that moment he had been John Mannering, dealer and collector as well as lover of treasures such as these.

Now, his name was Mayhew: Joseph Mayhew. It was on documents in his pocket, sewn into some of his clothes. Mayhew, Joseph Mayhew. And although the girl was looking straight at him from the foot of the stairs, there wasn’t the slightest chance that she would recognise him.

At all events, this was the moment of great testing.

She approached him, unsmiling. From this angle and in this light her features seemed thin, perhaps too thin, and her eyes glinted.

“You want to see Mr. Kohari?” The question was a challenge.

“Yes,” Mannering said in his thick, plummy new voice; and he did not get up.

“What do you want to see him about?”

“That’s confidential,” Mannering retorted.

“I am his confidential secretary,” the girl replied.

She had said she worked for Kohari, not that she was his secretary or in his confidence.

“I don’t intend to tell anyone but him,” Mannering replied.

“But you can’t see him,” she retorted. “So don’t waste anyone’s time.”

Mannering sat farther back in the uncomfortable seat. A tiger’s head in carved wood pressed into his spine, but he showed no sign of discomfort. The girl’s eyes did glint, coldly. She obviously had no time for him – as obviously, had not the faintest idea of his real identity. He felt an even deeper confidence in his disguise, and that gave him added certainty in dealing with her.

“I want to see him at half-past three,” Mannering said. “He’ll be a lot worse off if he doesn’t see me.

For the first time, she hesitated, and then demanded: “What’s your name?”

“Mayhew – Joe Mayhew.”

“What is your business—” she began.

“I told you I won’t talk about that to anyone but Kohari – and I meant it.” He gave a smile which showed the discoloured teeth and gave an unpleasant cast to his countenance.

“I mean, what is your occupation?” Rachel demanded.

It was Mannering’s turn to hesitate, before he answered: “I’m a runner.”

“What is a runner?”

“I’m a contact man – for picture galleries and antique shops, that kind of thing.” He glanced ostentatiously down at his watch. “I haven’t much time.”

Obviously she was now in two minds; his definition of a ‘runner’ had made her pause. Yet he sensed a strength in the girl which was partly obstinacy. She would hate backing down from any position she took up, unless she had a good reason. So he leaned forward, lowered his voice and actually glanced towards the stairs, as if afraid that someone else might overhear.

“I was in Hart Row, Tuesday night,” he stated.

She said in a sharp tone: “Hart Row. Near—”

“Quinns.”

“Wait,” she ordered, and turned and hurried up the stairs.

She moved beautifully, whether naturally, or by training or design, Mannering could only guess. But there was speculation in his glance. Kohari’s confidential secretary – and unless she was a liar she had come to him as a confidential emissary from Prince Hamid.

She disappeared into a room on the right at the top of the stairs. Now that he was alone Mannering had a sense of being watched. He was quite sure there was a man at the nearest door, another at the doorway through which the one who had admitted him had gone – and presumably telephoned Rachel.

He saw a shadow against the wall of the staircase thrown by the head of a man on the landing. Man? Or statue?

He was in a mood to laugh at himself because he was so much on edge.

He made himself study the various treasures about the hall. There was a pair of hawks at least ten inches high and undoubtedly Ch’ien Lung, jade carvings of superb craftsmanship, ivory and mother of pearl inlaid tables and stools, two goddesses or priestesses which he did not recognise. A Cheng Te owl in pale blue and pink enamel, carvings encrusted with precious stones, lanterns of intricate pattern in rose quartz and in jade, and a set of ivory figures browned with the centuries, carved for the pleasure of some warlord or mandarin.

The man who had admitted Mannering was slowly approaching. He bowed slightly from the waist and gave an inclination of the head as if in concession to some new status the caller had acquired.

“Mr. Kohari will see you,” he said. “Come. Please.”

Mannering got up and followed the man who was so much smaller than he. Now he concentrated on the layout of the house, recalling what he had seen from the outside and merging it with the diagram which Rachel had given him. The landing was square, three doors led off it, one on the right, two on the other side. A passage which ran immediately above the one by the side of the stairs led to the front of the house.

If he had everything clear in his mind, Prince Hamid’s apartment was approached by the door in the left-hand corner. A window on the landing overlooked the back garden and the park. The balcony would be across the suite, also in the left-hand corner. If this came to action, his main task would be to get into the suite. Ah!

The key was in the lock.

The man led the way into the room on the right, and Mannering was not surprised to find this was little more than an anteroom, with heavy curtains hanging in an arched doorway behind a lacquered desk, where Rachel Guise sat. On the desk a portable typewriter seemed out of place, but everything else except the girl fitted in perfectly. The stationery, as far as he could see, was contained in the drawers of an eleventh-century cabinet, of pale green decorated with enchanting pictures of the Tarian countryside.

The girl’s pale face and sharp features were utterly out of place, but at least this time she had the grace to smile.

“Mr. Kohari can spare you a little time.” She stood up, pulling aside the heavy curtains.

Mannering passed her into a long room, and had a strange impression that he was entering the inner sanctum of some exotic sheik’s palace. Except in one corner everything Western had been banished. Here were cushions, low couches, rich carpets, superb oriental paintings. A heavy perfume hung on the air; he had a feeling that Kohari had dismissed his concubines, snatching time out of his fleshly pleasures for this man who had crashed so crudely into his haven.

But no one was here except himself – and Rachel, behind him.

She said: “He has been resting.”

Mannering made himself say: “Looks as if I came at a bad time.”

Rachel made no comment, and in fact there was hardly time for any, for a door in the far end of the room opened and Kohari entered. It was the man who had gone from the Rolls Royce into the house last night. Wearing a pale grey European suit, and bearing heavily on a carved walking stick, he came forward.

“Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “It is good of you to come.”

“Good of you to see me,” Mannering said, as a man might who was overwhelmed by the opulence and the oriental beauty of the furnishings.

“Will you have tea?” Kohari waved to Rachel, who went out, and led the way to the one corner where some kind of concession had been made to a Western style of furnishing. A long Chesterfield and two Victorian sofa chairs with button backs, were grouped about a coffee table. A telephone stood on one of three small tables, lamps with parchment shades delicately decorated were on the others.

Kohari, motioning Mannering to a chair, slowly sat down; every movement seemed not only difficult but painful. The chair he chose had evidently been made especially for him, for at a touch it moved downwards slowly, much as a barber’s would. He sat on a level with Mannering, the left leg raised and forward, the heavy body relaxed at last.

Mannering looked at his face; until then he had been so fascinated by the chair and its gadgets that he had watched each movement with rapt interest.

It was a big face, lined with pain and perhaps with sadness. The same basic good looks of his race were there, but there was some distortion, as of a past injury skilfully treated by surgery.

For the rest, Kohari was too heavy: solid rather than fat, but too heavy.

Mannering waited for him to speak.

He had a sense that the man was in pain and fighting it back before being able to talk, and this, as well as the sadness of his expression, made Mannering feel the last thing he had expected: sympathy.

“My secretary informs me you were in Hart Row last night,” Kohari said at last. “Am I to understand that you saw what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, please.”

“I saw men from this Consulate attack the manager of Quinns and go into the shop,” Mannering declared. “I saw them come away, carrying boxes. And I saw them drive away.”

“So,” said Kohari. “And you say they were from here?”

“Yes.”

“What is it; please, that makes you think this?”

“I saw them come back here,” stated Mannering flatly; and no one would have dreamt that it was a lie.

He knew one great weakness, however: Kohari might know it to be false.

This was a climacteric, a moment when a whole new world of danger could open in front of him; or when he would feel that he was more scared than he had been since the theft of the silver. He had to judge from Kohari’s expression whether he was right and the silver had been brought here – and the expression on that sad face was hard to read. The word so often applied to orientals was exactly right for him: inscrutable.

There might have been a slight change in the dark eyes; the merest tensing of those strange lips, but he could not be sure.

“What is it you want?” Kohari asked. “Money?”

So the silver had been brought here; and this man felt the danger so acutely that he did not pretend, did not evade the issues, simply asked that simple question: “What is it you want? Money?” He shifted his bulk a little as he spoke. “If so, you come to the wrong place. I am a poor man. Taria is a small and poor country.” He smiled, spreading his hands. “It would be easier to kill you than to pay you.”

Mannering said: “But not so wise.”

“Speak plainly, please.”

“I knew there would be danger when I came here,” Mannering told him. “I left behind information saying where I am and why I am here. It would not be so good for you to have the police here, would it.”

“We are not criminals,” declared Kohari.

“When the police discovered that you were watching Mannering’s flat you took your men away. When the police learned what happened at Quinns, you again withdrew your men. That’s true, isn’t it?”

Kohari looked at him steadily for what seemed a very long time. It was as if he were contemplating doing what he had said it would be easy to do: kill him. Mannering did not move, hoped his expression did not betray the way his heart was pounding. He could not be sure that Kohari believed he had left that information behind; could not be sure that the man would not take a chance.

At last Kohari said wearily: “What is it you want?”

“I know a buyer for that silver,” Mannering answered. “I could put you in touch. I’d want twenty per cent of the money that changed hands.” When Kohari did not speak he leaned forward as if nervous for the first time, and said in a more urgent way: “Twenty per cent is cheap. You’d be rid of the silver and you’d have some cash. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, to raise the ready for Taria?”

Kohari did not move.

Kohari could give a signal which would mean his death.

On the other hand, Mannering might have done what he had set out to do in the beginning: find out whether Prince Hamid was right, whether Kohari was carrying out the Sultan’s orders.

For he had little doubt that many of the precious things around him were part of the treasures of the royal house of Taria. And he was equally sure that it would be impossible to break in and search the place; there would be men everywhere, on guard; men who would kill without a qualm.