Chapter Eighteen

Treasure Trove?

The two policemen were watching Blount; one of them picked up the radiophone, obviously to send in a report. Neither of them could have seen Mannering. He backed into the hall as the lift doors opened, and a prim man and primmer-looking woman came out; tenants whom he knew slightly. They looked at and past him with obvious disapproval as he stepped into the lift. He pressed for the top floor, his mind on wings to get back over the roof to his own flat. Achieved at last, he was in time to hear the front door bell ring.

Lorna was walking across the hall as he slipped down the loft ladder; he heard the door open and then Blount’s voice.

“Is Mr. Mannering in?”

“No, he—”

“Mrs. Mannering?”

“Yes. Who—”

There was a gasp, of pain, or alarm, and then the door banged to and Blount’s voice came again: “Don’t make a fuss and you won’t get hurt. Where’s the girl?”

There came a muttering sound, as if Lorna were trying to speak. Mannering ventured as far as he dared, saw the man’s great hand clasped over Lorna’s mouth. Both were sideways on to Mannering, who stood motionless. If Lorna tried to help herself, if he struck her, then Mannering would go forward. But surely she would have the sense not to attempt to outwit this giant.

Blount moved his hand half-an-inch from her lips.

“No tricks, mind. Where is she?”

“In—in the study.” Lorna pointed – and at the same time bent her right knee, as if she were getting ready to back-heel.

“Don’t,” Mannering prayed silently.

She lowered her foot.

“Lead the way – and remember no tricks.” Blount kept very close as she led the way to the study, the door of which stood open. He peered in, and his tone changed to one of elation. “There you are, my beauty!”

“What—what do you want with her?” Lorna managed to say.

“What do I want with treacherous, lecherous Rachel – that’s a good one! I’ll soon show you. Wake her up.”

“She’s unconscious.”

“Don’t give me that – wake her up!”

Lorna said with the calmness of desperation: “She went out like a light.”

“She made you think she went out like a light!” Blount pushed Lorna forward. Mannering, now behind them and in full view should either turn round, almost gave himself away, but he gritted his teeth.

Blount disappeared into the room after Lorna, and there was a slap, a growl of: “Wake up, you bitch,” and another resounding slap.

“Don’t!” gasped Lorna.

“You keep quiet, or you’ll get worse.”

“I tell you she’s unconscious,” Lorna insisted. “She was almost hysterical when she arrived and grew worse until she suddenly flopped out.”

“Well, she’d better suddenly flop in again, or—”

Blount broke off, moved forward and slapped Rachel with greater force, sending her head lolling from side to side. But that was the only effect. The truth seemed to dawn on Blount at last. He stared down at the girl as if he were puzzled, and then said thoughtfully: “Then I’ll have to take her with me.”

“No, you can’t—” Lorna began.

Blount raised his great right fist and drew his arm back, growling: “I told you to keep quiet.” But before the blow fell, Mannering leapt forward. Blount half-turned in an attempt to see who was behind him, but Mannering seized his right arm, swinging it up in a hammerlock.

At that moment, there was a sharp ring and a loud bang on the front door.

The police had arrived.

Mannering ran Blount to the bathroom, pushed him in and slammed the door. Thankful that there was an outer bolt, he flicked it into position and leapt for the loft ladder. The ringing and the banging grew louder and a man shouted: “Open in the name of the law!” Mannering reached the roof and scrambled across it, still incensed by the way Blount had attacked Lorna and struck the girl.

The police would take care of him now.

Lorna would simply say she hadn’t seen the man who had attacked him.

He reached the street and turned towards the Embankment as a police car swung in from King’s Road, its siren blaring. He made himself walk sedately, despite the impulse to break into a run. Two long-haired youths in brightly-coloured clothes were talking earnestly near the corner, and as he approached one asked: “Want a ride, brother?”

Just round the corner was the gayest looking van Mannering had ever seen; a vivid splash of a dozen colours. Another long-haired young man was at the wheel.

It was Brian Wilberforce!

“Do I!” Mannering exclaimed.

“Jump in,” urged the man who had spoken first, and soon Mannering was sitting next to Wilberforce in the cabin of the van, every inch of which was painted in vivid colours, except the glass. The steering wheel looked like a rainbow.

“Anywhere in particular?” Wilberforce asked.

Mannering countered: “Did you get the T.T.?”

“It’s in the back.”

Mannering snorted, and it was several moments before he could ask: “How many of your friends are available?”

“Tonight’s kind of friend? A dozen I should say – and they are tougher than they look. Why, sir?”

“I’d like you to drop me at the Tarian Consulate in Hall Crescent, Regent’s Park, then collect Rupert and as many others as you can and surround the Consulate.”

“Making sure no one can get out?”

“Making sure those who get out are caught,” Mannering corrected. “There may—” He was about to remind Brian that there might be considerable risk involved, but as if he sensed such a warning, Brian suddenly became absorbed in the nearby traffic. He was driving steadily, making sure the police had no cause to stop him. Young children pointed at the van, a Volkswagen almost as liberally hued blew them a gay blast on its horn. Now and again when they stopped at lights, guitar music sounded from the back of the van, and it was when they were at the lights outside the gates at Regent’s Park that Mannering burst out laughing.

Brian looked delighted, but Mannering knew only too well that in fact there was nothing to laugh about.

For the second time that day a small man opened the door to Mannering and told him that Kam Kohari was not in. And as he stood with a hand at the door Mannering was aware that he was being closely watched.

“Tell him I have come to discuss the contents of this house,” Mannering said.

The man hesitated.

“And tell him if he does not hurry the house will be raided by the police.”

Another man called from inside the hall, using a language which Mannering did not understand, but he recognised the voice: Kam Kohari was downstairs, listening. Immediately the door was opened wider and the little man stepped back.

Kam Kohari stood at one side, with at least six men grouped behind him; Mannering saw a long-bladed knife in the hand of one of them, and had no doubt that all were armed and ready to attack at a signal from their leader.

There was a great sadness in the older man’s face, and signs of pain as he leaned heavily on a stick; but his dark eyes were alert enough, as if he realised that this caller was disguised and he was trying to discern the real face beneath the make-up.

He bowed.

“I am Kam Kohari,” he said, “the Consul for Taria. Who are you, please?”

“That is not important,” Mannering said. “I have come to warn you.”

“Why should you warn me?” demanded Kohari.

“For rewards that will come later,” Mannering said. “At nightfall this house will be raided by the police. You have very little time.”

“This is the Tarian Consulate,” replied Kohari. “The house and grounds are Tarian, while all those present have full diplomatic privilege.”

Mannering said evenly: “Nevertheless the Sultan of Taria has asked the British authorities to search the Consulate.”

Kohari’s eyes flashed.

“I do not believe it! The Sultan trusts me absolutely. Who are you? How dare you come with these lies?” He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, and three men sprang towards Mannering, one at each side, gripping his wrists, the third holding a knife an inch away from Mannering’s chest. “Now, tell me!” rasped Kohari. “Who are you?”

“The old Sultan is dead, the new Sultan reigns,” Mannering stated. “It is he who has given the order to the police. And the police told me, demanding my help to find the treasures. If I were not a friend, I would have brought them with me.”

A man across the hall gasped: the grip of one of the Tarians slackened as with shock, but only for a moment. Kohari’s eyes lost their anger and he too looked shocked.

“The old Sultan lives,” he said with obvious effort. “Who are you?”

They might kill him. He did not think they would, but they might.

And they would claim that he had broken in; or attempted to use force; and they would claim diplomatic immunity.

He saw the blade move.

He felt the point touch him just below the breast bone.

If they killed him, would they try to remove the disguise?

Would they send for the police?

Would that greatly matter if he were dead?

What would happen if he told the truth?

What effect would it have if he said: “I am John Mannering.”

Would Kohari hand him over to the police?

Kohari said in a thin voice: “I give you one more chance to tell me who you are and why you have come. If you do not, I shall have you killed, and I shall tell the police you were attempting to rob the Consulate. No one will know my statement is not true.” Kohari drew a deep breath, and then spoke in Tarian, and it seemed obvious to Mannering that he was giving the man with the knife instructions.

“Who—are—you?” demanded Kam Kohari.

Mannering looked away from the knife and into the now smouldering eyes. He shrugged, and each hand gripping him tightened. He forced a smile he was a million miles from feeling, and asked:

“Does it help you to know that I am John Mannering?”

He had never caused a greater sensation.

Kohari actually backed, and would have fallen but for two men who rushed to support him. Others exclaimed aloud, those who understood English and also recognised the name of Mannering. After this there was silence which seemed to last for a long, long time, until Mannering broke it.

“Well, does it help you?”

Kohari’s voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper.

“It will explain one thing: how you know what the police are going to do, but—”

“I know,” Mannering said, as if indifferently. “You have an hour or two to get the cellars cleared.”

“How do I know you are not lying?”

“You don’t know,” Mannering said. “But there are some things you do know. My voice, for instance.” On that instant his voice changed back, and Kohari must surely recognise it. He went on: “If that isn’t enough, ask yourself who else would come here and try to save those treasures?”

“You refused to help!” cried Kohari.

“As John Mannering of Quinns, of course I refused to help! But I can find buyers who will pay fortunes for the treasures, if they are free. If the police come they will be sequestered, and once proved to belong to Taria will be returned to whoever rules – the new Sultan, Hamid, or a rebel leader. If you want to save them you must get them away from here.”

“But where could I take them?” Kohari demanded. There was a touch of helplessness in his words, and for the first time Mannering’s heart began to beat fast in hope.

“I have friends waiting outside,” he said. “Young men, dressed like me. They have one van, and can obtain others. Help them load, and get the treasures away.”

Now he saw the anguish in this man’s eyes. Filled with doubts and uncertainties, feeling trapped and helpless and at bay, he was a man in the purgatory of despair.