Chapter Thirteen

Kohari Questions

Mannering was used to the silences by now; used to the way this solid man, who seemed incapable of moving from his chair, stared at him as if trying to read his thoughts. The sadness and weariness remained but the dark eyes seemed much brighter.

Quietly, Kohari broke his silence.

“Who is this man who would buy the silver?”

“That’s my secret,” Mannering replied.

“I must know who he is,” protested Kohari.

“Yes, but not so fast,” replied Mannering. “I have been cheated out of my commission more than once.”

Kohari raised his right hand and let it fall, making no comment. Another of the long, uneasy silences fell, to be broken again in the same quiet, almost casual way.

“Is the man rich?”

“He’s very rich.”

“Is he English?”

Mannering said: “This one is English.”

“This one? I don’t understand you.”

“Sorry,” Mannering said. “It was a slip of the tongue. There is more than one big fish in the sea.”

Kohari pondered before he asked: “Use words and phrases so that I can understand you, please.”

“There are other men who would buy the silver but this man has a big collection of the stuff from all over the world – Italian, French, Oriental, even Aztec and North American Indian. He can’t resist it, and he won’t ask questions.”

“And there are—other such men.”

“Plenty of others.”

“Is Mannering one?” demanded Kohari.

“Mannering?” Mannering echoed, and he gave the half smile which gave his face an unpleasant cast, and then went on: “Mannering won’t play games. He’s got a big reputation and he isn’t going to take risks with it. No, Mannering’s no good for a job like this. But I like the big risk and the big money, Mr. Kohari, that’s why I’m sitting here.”

Kohari said with great deliberation: “This man, does he buy only silver?”

“The one I have in mind for the lot that lost its way the other night does, yes.”

“Not all of them?”

“Where were you brought up?” demanded Mannering, and he appeared to smother a laugh. “There’s a buyer for anything, no matter how hot it is.”

“Hot?”

“Recently stolen,” Mannering explained impatiently.

“So, there is a buyer for anything,” repeated Kohari, exuding a long, slow breath. “A secret buyer.”

“There’re the ones who interest me,” Mannering declared.

“And you could introduce me to such men?”

“For my twenty per cent of any money that changes hands, yes,” Mannering declared, as if nothing else in the world mattered. “What are you getting at, Mr. Kohari? Have you got other things to dispose of on the q.t.?”

He actually threw back his head, opened his mouth wide, and guffawed. He kept that up only for a few seconds, until he saw a frown gathering on Kohari’s face, broke off short, and leaned forward with evident eagerness.

“I don’t give a damn where the loot comes from,” he said. “Tell me what it is and I’ll find a buyer.” When Kohari did not answer at once he went on: “What kind of goods do you have?”

“That is not a matter I am prepared to discuss at this time,” replied Kohari. “Mr. Mayhew, I shall require your business name, your address, irrefutable evidence that you are what you say you are, and guarantees that you will not betray any information I may give you.”

Mannering said flatly: “Well, you can have my address when I’m ready to do business, but not the rest.”

“You cannot expect me to deal with you on those terms.”

“Mr. Kohari,” Mannering said, leaning forward earnestly, “I do business on trust. You could shop me, I could shop you – only we won’t because it won’t pay. You think it over. Here’s my address—” He dug into his pocket and took out a card which had both the name Mayhew and an address in the East End of London. The address was in fact that of a cousin of his ex-manager, Josh Larraby, and anyone who inquired there would be told Mayhew was away, but a message would be sent on. “I’ll be in touch in a couple of days.”

Kohari was looking down at the card.

“Good day to you,” Mannering said, and strode out of the room.

Rachel was sitting at the desk with a tape-recorder in front of her. Mannering leaned over and picked it up; it was a transistor-battery set and he had no difficulty in extracting what he wanted. He swung towards the door as she called out in a thin voice: “Give me that or I’ll—”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the pistol already in her hand but not yet levelled. He swung round again, grabbed her wrist and twisted; she gasped and dropped the weapon. He picked it up and covered her while he backed to the door.

He said softly: “You tell your boss he’s playing with fire.”

He went out, closing and locking the door. He tossed the key behind a waist-high vase, then, pistol in hand, turned to the room he had marked down as Prince Hamid’s.

The key was still in the lock. He turned it, and opened the door.

No one was in sight.

He pushed the door wide open.

Prince Hamid was sitting at a high desk on which were spread out maps and drawings, obviously of Taria and nearby islands. He spun round – and faced a man who to him was a stranger, and who was holding a gun.

“Come on – out,” Mannering said in the plummy voice.

“Who are you? What—?” Hamid demanded.

“Just come on!” Mannering thrust the pistol nearer and grabbed at his arm. “I thought you wanted to escape,” he whispered, and thrust the youth in front of him. “Keep close to me and you won’t get hurt.” He pushed Hamid towards the door and reached the landing as one of the smaller men came running up the stairs.

“Get back – slowly!” Mannering ordered. “Slowly.”

He heard Rachel talking in wildly excited tones as he followed Hamid, who, taking his cue, was acting as if he was being forced to go against his will. The man on the stairs reached the hall. Another man appeared at a doorway, and his right hand was behind him, as if to conceal a weapon. Mannering lowered his head and whispered to Hamid, then slipped the car keys into the lad’s pocket: “I’ll look after the men. You go out of the front door and get in the big black car – the old one. Hurry.”

Now he would soon know whether Hamid really wanted to escape, or whether both he and Rachel Guise had set out to fool him.

Hamid went off like a bolt from the blue.

The man in the passage flung a knife at Mannering; and Mannering swayed to one side as he saw the glint of steel and heard the sharp crack as it struck the wall.

Another man leapt for the door in an effort to stop Hamid.

Mannering fired a shot at him, and he drew back, terrified.

Hamid opened the front door and rushed outside as Mannering went briskly down the stairs. People were passing in the Crescent, staring at the running youth; cars were passing, too. Mannering reached the foot of the stairs as there came a thud of sound from the landing; the door leading to Rachel’s office had opened.

From the end of the passage alongside the stairs, Mannering saw another man with a knife in his hand.

“Let him go!” Rachel screamed. “Let him go!”

The cry was too late to stop the man from throwing the knife. Mannering felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder as he raced for the open door.

“Let him go! Kam Kohari says let him go!”

Mannering reached the porch.

Across the road the engine of the Austin roared, and the car moved forward, Prince Hamid at the wheel. Mannering ran in front of a green mini, saw the alarm on the driver’s face, felt the wind behind him as the car scraped past. He wrenched open the back door of the big Austin and scrambled in, the knife, still caught in the shoulder padding of his coat.

The car jolted violently as Hamid put too much pressure on the accelerator, but it did not stall. Soon it was moving along the park road. Mannering said tersely: “Take the next right turning.” Hamid, getting more used to the car, took the turning well. “Now, first left.” Again the lad obeyed.

“At the end of this road, turn right, and then left when you have gone through the gates.”

In less than three minutes they were in the traffic near Great Portland Street, in ten they were at Swiss Cottage. A small group of long-haired youths carrying guitars were meandering across one side of the road, and the sound of music came floating back as the big car passed.

“Turn right,” Mannering said, “and then pull off the road and stop.”

He looked out of the rear window but no one was following; he had seen no one since they had left the Consulate. He waited until they had come to a stop, and then closed his eyes. He heard the youth get out and heard his door open; a moment later Hamid said: “Turn your back to me, please.”

Gently, the youth pulled out the dagger, and then asked: “I would like to see if you have a bad wound.”

“It isn’t serious,” Mannering said. “I’ll have it seen to later.” He turned round and looked into the face of Prince Hamid for the second time. Every feature was as he remembered and he looked incredibly young; but he had behaved like a veteran, showing not the slightest fear.

He looked intently into Mannering’s eyes, and asked: “Are you from Mannering?”

“You can say that I’m from Mannering,” Mannering said, gruffly. “Do you know him well?”

“I know him,” replied Hamid simply.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“There is a house in Chelsea – yes?”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “I think you’d better go there. Or have you anywhere else to go?”

“I have nowhere,” the Prince told him. “But I cannot go to the home of Mr. Mannering.”

“Why not?”

“It would bring danger to him and to his family.”

Mannering said quietly: “It might, yes. But I think Mannering will take the risk.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I think there is a telephone kiosk a little farther along. Will you take me to it?”

“But of course,” Prince Hamid said.

Soon he was sitting at the wheel of the old car while Mannering put a call in to Quinns. First, he needed a word with Bristow, who would arrange for someone to be at Green Street. Lorna would be out – he, Mannering, would be at the flat before she returned. He dialled, expecting to hear Bristow’s voice. Instead he heard the carefully modulated voice of young Rupert, saying: “This is Quinns of Hart Row.”

“Rupert,” Mannering said in his natural voice. “Interrupt Mr. Bristow whoever he’s with and ask him to come to the telephone.”

He expected: “One moment, sir,” and a brief pause; he did not expect Rupert to catch his breath as if taken by surprise, or the half-stammered: “Mr.—Mr. Mannering.” Mannering sensed something was wrong but had no idea what. His shoulder was beginning to ache as well as his head, and he wanted quick action above all else.

“What is it?” he asked testily.

“I’m—I’m sorry, sir,” Rupert said, “but Mr. Bristow isn’t here. He—ah—he—”

“For heaven’s sake, out with it!”

There was another brief pause before Rupert answered.

“Mr. Bristow went with Chief Inspector Gordon, sir, who had charged him with assault and with attempting to obstruct the police.” When Mannering did not comment, too shocked by the news, Rupert went on: “He instructed me to close the shop for business and to allow no one in or out without your express permission.”

Mannering made himself say: “Quite right.”

“Also, he asked me to get in touch with Mr. Pendleton, your solicitor, sir, should any attempt be made by the police to enter the strongroom. Further, not to advise Mrs. Mannering of this until after five-thirty. Except that I thought I should talk to Mr. Pendleton, sir, which I have already done, I have carried out Mr. Bristow’s instructions in all respects.”

Mannering was breathing heavily, when he asked: “Are the police still there?”

“Two are in the street, sir. Wilberforce and I are alone in the shop.” There was a break in the tone of the young man’s voice, and he asked as if in desperation: “Is there anything at all we can do, sir? Anything! Be absolutely sure there is nothing we will not do.”

That was the first moment of brightness Mannering had known since Rupert had answered the telephone, but—what could the young man do? The loss of Bristow was a disaster, for apart from his help being needed in a dozen ways, there must be a deep significance behind his arrest.

Gordon had declared war not only on Bristow but on him, Mannering.