Chapter Sixteen

Side Track

The Bitterness in Gordon’s voice, the feverish light that gleamed in his eyes, the way the veins stood out on his neck and forehead and the way he clenched and unclenched his hands, made Mannering feel absolutely certain that the man was sick: at a breaking point of nervous tension. He had no shadow of a doubt that Gordon meant exactly what he said, and even if one single accusation were made against him, Mannering, out of the Baron’s past then it could damn him.

Other things were equally certain.

He must see Hamid and Rachel; must find out what was really going on; and he wasn’t prepared simply to hand Hamid over.

But a direct conflict was impossible now; at least he had to appear to give way.

He spread his hands in a gesture of hopeless resignation and said: “So I can’t win.”

“No you bloody well can’t!”

Mannering forced a laugh, and said: “What’s the phrase you use? How are you going to take me in?”

“What?”

“I have to come with you to the Yard or tell you where the Prince is – isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are we waiting?” Mannering asked. “And don’t you need one of your men present when you charge me?” At Gordon’s blank look of complete surprise he gave a grin of amusement. “Do you really think I would give that boy up, so that he could get a knife in his back the moment he got back to Taria?” He held his hands out with an air of capitulation which had in it more than a touch of derision. “Shouldn’t you put handcuffs on a dangerous criminal like me?”

“You must be mad,” breathed Gordon. “You’ve no idea what I’ve got on you as the Baron.”

“Then the sooner I find out the better,” Mannering said pleasantly.

Gordon did not move, did not look away from him. His breath was coming harshly through clenched teeth. Suddenly he rasped: “I tell you I’ll fix you if it’s the last—”

On the word ‘last’ he swayed, and his eyes rolled. Mannering thought he was going to have a fit, but he recovered sufficiently to stagger to the door. One of the waiting detectives hurried forward to open it, and Gordon was helped out. The detective shot Mannering a startled glance, then pulled the door to. He heard Gordon bark an order as he got into the police car. Doors slammed, and the engine roared. Very slowly, Mannering walked towards the street. He saw that the plainclothes men were still there; so Gordon hadn’t removed the watch.

As slowly, Mannering locked the door, switched on the electronic control, and went to the back of the shop. Gordon’s voice seemed to echo, Gordon’s presence to hover.

What was the matter with the man?

He was acting so much out of character – he must be ill.

There couldn’t be any doubt that he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown; and had been from the start of this affair.

How did he know so much about the Prince? The political situation in Taria? Who had talked?

That question was vital enough, but above all others the question that worried him was: why was he so affected by the situation?

Even giving it the widest interpretation Gordon’s behaviour wasn’t normal; was he under too great a strain? Was he suffering from some illness? Or could he be under the influence of drugs?

He was a good policeman, and perhaps because of it not a man of quick sympathy; a cold fish, in fact, unlikely, one would have thought, to burn emotionally as he was burning now. He was going much too far, behaving so much out of character that the explanation of simple illness or extreme nervous tension hardly explained it.

But there must be an explanation.

Mannering locked up; his office, the back door leading to Hart Row beyond the small yard; the electronic control came on automatically when the door was locked. No one was about. No one was in Hart Row, except the two plainclothes men. One of them nodded affably enough as Mannering went to the Bristol, and opened the driving door for him.

“Thanks,” Mannering said. “How long has Mr. Gordon been sick?”

“Sick, sir?” the man asked, blankly, and he gave a pleasant smile. “All of us get a bit touchy sometimes, sir. Overwork, I daresay.”

Mannering nodded. “You may be right.”

He drove off, frowning in concentration. Hovering at the back of his mind was a fact he couldn’t quite assess. A bit touchy. Overwork. Hypertension – extreme nervous tension.

He turned into Oxford Street and on through Green Park to Knightsbridge. He parked the car outside Number 7 Garley Place, the home of the High Commissioner for Singapore, then walked briskly up the whitened steps of the house and rang the bell. A middle-aged Chinese answered the door.

“I would like to see Mr. Sing Lee,” Mannering said.

“What name, sir, please.” The man’s English had no noticeable accent.

“John Mannering.”

“One moment, if you please.”

In this hall, not unlike the one at Hall Crescent, there was some lovely Chinese furniture. But there, however, the likeness ended, for there was not the slightest indication of the sinister as there had been at the Tarian Consulate.

The man returned very quickly.

“If you will come this way, sir.”

At the back of the stairs was a lift, just large enough for two people. At the second floor it stopped, and the door of a room opposite the gates opened, and Sing Lee stood there.

He looked as if he could be a thousand years old, he was so wizened, brown, lined. Yet his eyes were bright and the grip of his hand was firm.

“Come in, Mr. Mannering,” he said. “I have been expecting you.”

He stood aside for Mannering to enter a large room with two big windows; a room which mixed East and West much more effectively than Kohari’s. Most of the pictures and the objets d’art were Chinese, while dominating the room was a display stand of bamboo with joints of silver. In itself, it was beautiful. With its contents it was superb …

The whole of the silver taken from Quinns was displayed on the stand. It gave off a lambent glow as if the light playing on each piece came from within the silver itself.

Sing Lee moved from Mannering to a small table, and began pouring out tea. He handed Mannering a cup as thin as a flower petal; an aroma as of roses came upwards with the steam.

Mannering sipped.

“Why?” he asked. “Why?”

“You do not know?”

“Not yet,” Mannering said. “I came to ask a question.”

“One question?” The frail voice carried a tremor of mirth.

“One may be enough,” Mannering said. “The late Sultan was the most irascible man I know. With few exceptions I have found Tarians and others who have lived on Taria highly emotional, dramatic, and highly-strung. Kam Kohari was one of these exceptions.”

“Ah,” said Sing Lee. “This you have noticed.”

“Is there a reason for it?”

“Yes,” answered Sing Lee. “It is because they take the drug neri – or most of them do. Do you know of this drug?”

“Isn’t it a kind of opium?” asked Mannering.

“It comes from the seeds of a poppy, yes – but opium soothes and neri distresses and agitates. It creates hallucinations and gives periods of great pleasure, fantasies at least as wonderful as the fantasies of the opium-smoker. But these are shortlived, and most of the time the addict is highly emotional, and will become angry and excitable at the slightest excuse. In some, it is an illness acute enough for them to have to go away for treatment.”

“What happens to those who are suddenly introduced to it?” asked Mannering.

“It magnifies all the emotions. It takes away calmness and replaces it with anger and unreason. Men can be changed almost overnight, Mr. Mannering.”

Mannering turned away and approached the silver. “Why, Sing Lee?”

“Why am I harbouring stolen goods?”

“You, the most honest man alive.”

“Is there such a thing as an entirely honest man?” Sing Lee asked, spreading his hands self-deprecatingly. “Some years ago I bought some porcelain figures knowing them to be stolen. Our mutual friend Kam Kohari knew this, and from time to time has asked favours for his silence. He has great treasures in the cellar at the Consulate, of vast value, but the Consulate has diplomatic privilege and the authorities cannot search. But he does not like to take risks and prefers things of value to cool, until he takes them into his storehouse. This time, the favour was that I should hold this silver. So, I agreed. But—“again the old man spread his hands, “the circumstances were different. I knew the silver had been taken from Quinns and that this was causing you difficulties. I could not refuse Kohari – nor could I guarantee that the silver would not be found here. When you telephoned and asked for information about Prince Hamid I realised that you had already discovered that I am in the confidence of Kohari – so, I thought you would soon be here.”

Mannering said: “You knew what would happen if the police found the silver.”

“It would be for me and for those I serve a very great shame,” replied Sing Lee. “A shame for which I could atone only with death. But I am an old man and few pleasures remain for me. I do not fear death. Rather, I would welcome a way of atonement.”

“By being discovered and committing suicide?” Mannering almost barked. “Don’t be absurd.”

“There is another way?” the old man asked.

“There has to be another way,” Mannering said. “Sing Lee …”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Is there a cure for neri addiction?”

“A long-term cure.”

“And for individuals who have only recently started to take the drug?”

“A painful one,” replied Sing Lee, “but short.”

“How painful and what is it?”

“Simply by having the supplies withdrawn,” said Sing Lee.

“Ah,” breathed Mannering. “So first one has to find the source of the supply.”

“There can surely be but one,” Sing Lee said.

“Kohari?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he was giving some to a police officer?”

“No,” said Sing Lee, showing his feelings for the first time. “I can hardly believe it. Who?”

“Chief Inspector Gordon.”

“The man involved in the inquiry into the silver? But why? And how—”

“That is what I want you to find out,” Mannering said. He was eyeing the silver, aware of the new life he had contrived to put into Sing Lee, but – that silver had to be removed from here. Save this man’s pride, save him from shame, and he would have a tremendous ally. How? Suddenly, he thought of the old Austin, the need to change his identity so that he could move about London without being seen. The old Austin, the apartment in the house in Filbert Street, the long-haired youths and their guitars.

“Sing Lee,” he said. “Is there a service entrance here?”

“Yes, there is.”

“If I bring three or four men to take away the silver can they move freely?”

“No one will admit having seen them,” Sing Lee said, excitement croaking in his voice. “But is there a way—”

“May I telephone?” Mannering saw the instrument in a corner and moved towards it. He could almost hear Brian Wilberforce’s voice. “You’d better have the number – Hampstead 21315.”

He dialled, standing very still. Brrrh-brrrh. Brrrh-brrrh. He did not believe they were both out, one would stay with Hamid.

Then, a voice. Rupert speaking.

A surge of thankfulness swept over Mannering. He said quickly: “Rupert, I’ve found the silver and want to get it away from its hiding place. Can you and Brian come and get it? There’s an old car in the grounds at—”

“Leave it to us,” Rupert said with obvious satisfaction. “We may use a van. Where?”

“The service road behind Garley Place. You may have to pack the silver – can you bring cartons?”

“Yes,” Rupert promised.

“In that old Austin there is a small attaché case. Will you bring it along—”

“Yes, Mr. Mannering. Is there anything else?”

“Could you get hold of some hippy clothes which might fit me?” asked Mannering.

This time he reduced Rupert to silence; then heard a chuckle followed by a hearty laugh.

“Yes, sir!” declared Rupert. “We can fix you up.”

“Good. Come to Garley Place first, then take the clothes and the case to Green Street.”

“Give me an hour,” Rupert said delightedly, and rang off.

The old man’s eyes were brimming; he had heard and understood all that Mannering had said. For a few minutes he could not find words, then, as Mannering turned, he stretched out a detaining hand.

“There is one thing you must know. It was in order to conceal the truth from his enemies and from the rebels that the Sultan spread the story that you had bought the crown jewels and the other treasures. In point of fact he brought them to the Consulate. They are in the cellars there now.”

“Sing Lee,” Mannering said quietly, “I shall never be able to thank you enough for telling me that. I will try, one day. Now, if you will permit me, I must call my wife.” He depressed the telephone platform and dialled his own number.

Almost at once Lorna’s voice came to him, strained and on edge.

“John! Can you possibly come? Rachel’s still here, and I can’t do anything with her.”