The Mask of Sumi (3 page)

“I wish I knew how she made him believe I would be at the Compton Hotel to meet him,” Mannering said. “Toji wasn't a gullible old man. She must have had a very good reason.”

“I suppose so.”

“I'd also like to know who telephoned Lorna to say Toji was at the hotel,” said Mannering.

“I can answer that one,” Bristow said. “It was Smith, at the hotel. He found Toji semi-conscious and asking for ‘Mis' Mannering'. A slurred Mister can sound like Mrs.”

“How did he get my flat number?” asked Mannering. “Mannering isn't an unusual name.”

“Toji had it written on a slip of paper. Here it is.” Bristow passed over a sheet of airmail paper which had two telephone numbers on it – Quinns as well as that of the Chelsea flat. “Smith tried the first number and it was engaged. So he tried the other. John, someone has stolen that mask, and it's in England somewhere. Have you any idea where?”

 

 

“No,” Mannering answered. “I've no idea where the mask is or who has taken it. I'm not really convinced it was the real one, and I'm not convinced that Toji killed himself.”

“I'm satisfied that he did,” Bristow declared. “If you want to waste time on some cock-eyed theory there's nothing I can do about it. How much was the mask worth?”

“Didn't Customs agree a value?”

“Intrinsically, twenty-five thousand pounds,” said Bristow. “But to a collector – twice as much, say?”

“At least,” Mannering agreed. “Probably nearer a hundred thousand.” He slid his hand inside his pocket, feeling his wallet, thinking of that B.I. label. This was a moment of real decision – whether to make inquiries himself or leave it to the police. If the label had come off a bag belonging to the blonde who had fooled Toji it might be of vital importance. The police might be able to find out and quickly, for the woman called Yates would have left other prints and the police would have photographs of these by now. It might only need a moment's comparison.

If the prints on the label were not the blonde's, no harm would be done. If they were then the police would have to be told at once and there would be little scope for private investigation.

Bristow's telephone bell rang.

“Excuse me.” He lifted the receiver. “Yes, sir,” he said, so this was the Assistant Commissioner. “He's with me now – yes, I'm sure he will.” Bristow rang off, pondered as if not sure of Mannering's reaction, and then said quietly: “The Assistant Commissioner is worried about international complications over the death of Toji. He wants you to have a word with the Thai Consul. For some odd reason they seem to think highly of you.”

Mannering smiled, feeling a deep sense of relief.

“Why don't you take a leaf out of their book, Bill?”

“I'll go and get the Consul,” Bristow said.

He went out, leaving Mannering alone in the office with all the files and the reports on the case.

Mannering knew Bristow too well to believe that he would be slipshod or careless in any way. This looked almost as if he
wanted
Mannering to have access to those files. Mannering stretched across the desk, turned the file round, and flipped it open. Below some written notes were photographs of fingerprints, two of them marked
female
and one
male.
There were several copies of each. Mannering slipped one print of each into his pocket, as he scanned Bristow's handwritten notes.

These were in the form of questions.

 

1. Did Toji have more than the mask with him?

2. Did M. tell anyone Toji was coming?

3. If not, how did anyone know enough to make the interception at the airport possible?

4. Is Mannering keeping anything back?

5. Total value (
a
) mask (
b
) all jewels?

6. Where to get history of jewels?

 

Beneath this list was a kind of
postscript:

 

M. might have told a collector or some other dealer.

 

Well, he hadn't.

As he finished reading Mannering heard footsteps outside, much heavier than Bristow usually made; Bristow was giving warning of his approach. Mannering closed the file and twisted it round. The door opened and Bristow ushered in an Oriental who stood barely as high as his shoulder. He was dressed immaculately in dark grey. He smiled. He shook hands. He said he had heard of Mr. Mannering and also that Mr. Toji had planned to come to see Mr. Mannering. He, the Thai Consul, had known Mr. Toji well. He, the Consul, as well as Mr. Toji and all Thais of any standing, felt the loss of such a venerable relic as the Mask of Sumi a great blow to the integrity and to the reputation of Thailand. If Mr. Mannering could do anything at all to assist the police to recover this priceless treasure, which had been entrusted to Mr. Toji by Prince Asri, then he, the Consul, would be forever grateful. Mr. Mannering might not be aware that Prince Asri had in fact been acting on behalf of the Sumi Government, who had wished the sale of the crown jewels to be kept secret. Otherwise it would be suggested that the Government was in a desperately bad economic plight. In fact, the Consul understood, the sale was to remove all danger of an attempt to restore the Sumi Dynasty.

“Was that why Prince Asri was used as the agent?” asked Mannering.

“The Prince is well known for his democratic principles,” the Consul said. “He could safely be entrusted with such a delicate mission. However, his wife, Princess Kana, persuaded him to work through Mr. Toji, whose reputation for integrity is rivalled only by his knowledge. The Princess had worked with Mr. Toji before and knew how fully he could be trusted. Now my Government feels that it owes the Government of Sumi a great debt. We wish to repay it by finding the crown jewels.”

Mannering said sharply: “Don't you mean the Mask of Sumi?”

The Consul said gravely: “It is now known that all the jewels are missing, not only the mask. You see how great is our moral obligation?”

After a long pause, Mannering said: “I do indeed.”

“And you will help?”

“In every way I can,” promised Mannering.

“I am most grateful.” The Consul shook hands again, bowed, and allowed Bristow to usher him into the arms of a detective inspector, who took him away.

Mannering looked at Bristow and said flatly: “Did you know about the rest of the jewels?”

“Only from the Consulate,” said Bristow. “That's what makes the problem so acute. It's a lot of money for a tiny independent country, and it could make the difference between economic prosperity and disaster. You know what the Consul thinks, don't you?”

“What?”

“That Toji knew where the jewels were, and told you before he killed himself out of shame at being robbed of the mask.”

“It's possible,” Mannering conceded. “But it isn't right, Bill. I know exactly what I've told you and no more. Have you any clues at all?”

“No.”

“No known fingerprints?”

“Nothing. The blonde who called herself Yates has vanished. She might now be a red-head, a brunette, or an ash-blonde, and be anywhere in London. Have you any ideas?” Bristow asked, in turn.

“Not yet,” Mannering said, grimly.

That was really the moment when he decided to keep the matter of the British India Line label to himself. Bristow hadn't specifically warned him not to investigate on his own. There was little doubt that the Yard man expected him to. Probably Bristow felt that it would be virtually impossible for Mannering to resist the temptation of going after the missing jewels himself. Certainly he would know that if any of them came on the market, Mannering was likely to find out, for the trade had a remarkable information system.

“If you hear anything at all about it, let me know at once, won't you?” Bristow said. “Whether you hear of anyone who wants to sell it, or to buy it?”

“I will,” promised Mannering.

He left the Yard about half past four, and took a taxi straight to Quinns. Two people were standing admiring the beautiful wrought silver table in the window. They gazed with rapt attention, without saying a word. Mannering went in. Larraby stood at one side of the long, narrow shop, with a brilliant light shining on a piece of early Babylonian corsage jewellery. A bald-headed man was studying this through a watchmaker's glass.

There were several messages in the office, but none about the Thai affair. One note was from the dealer who wanted the Genoese table.

 

“I will meet your price subject to a discount of five per cent.”

 

Mannering scribbled over this: “Settle for three and three quarters per cent” and put the papers aside. He picked up
The Times
and scanned the
Shipping arrivals and departures
column.

He read:

 

S.S. East Africa, London to Durban, 12 noon.

 

He ran his finger down the list of “British” in the telephone directory, found British India Steam Navigation Company Limited, and dialled the number at its offices in Aldgate. A girl answered.

“I think the
East Africa Star
sailed on time, sir. Hold on and I'll make sure.”

Mannering held on for a few seconds until a man spoke.

“What was your enquiry about the
East Africa Star,
sir?”

“Did she leave on time?”

“She left at one o'clock.”

“Do you know if any intending passengers missed the ship?”

“No, sir, not to my knowledge. I think I would have known by now if anyone had.”

“Where's the first port of call?” asked Mannering.

“Gibraltar, at ten o'clock on Monday – four days from now.”

“Thank you very much,” Mannering said.

He rang off and took out the B.I. label, fingering it very carefully. He put a book along one side and a heavy ruler on the other to hold it straight, and then took a tin of powder from the bottom drawer of his desk. It was a grey dusting powder. He sprinkled some of this over the yellow label, and blew gently. Most of the powder disappeared, but in several places it clung, until well-defined fingerprints showed up. Mannering took out a magnifying glass, and the photographs of the prints filched from Bristow's office.

His heart began to beat very fast.

The loops and whorls of two sets of prints were identical. The two marked
female
were absolutely identical with two of the prints on the label.

“That might mean that our blonde is on that boat,” Mannering said aloud. “I wish I knew how to be sure.” He lifted the telephone again and dialled the British India Line.

“I want to find out if a friend of mine caught the
East Africa Star
today,” he said. “Is it possible to see a copy of the sailing list?”

“If you care to give us the name of the passenger and which class, sir, I can tell you.”

“Yates, Miss,” replied Mannering promptly. “And I imagine first class.”

There was a pause.

“No, sir, we've no passenger named Yates about. There's a Mr. and Mrs. Gates and three children, and Sir Archibald Bates, but no Yates. Are you sure it was the
East Africa Star?''

“Yes,” said Mannering. “Thank you for your trouble.”

He was annoyed with himself because he had given the passenger's name. This affair had caught him on the wrong foot. He pondered for five minutes, then called the
Daily Globe
and asked for the Reporters' Room.

“Mr. Chittering, please.”

“Hold on.” There was a clatter of typewriters and a chatter of voices which seemed to last for a long time before a man said briskly: “Who is it?”

“Mannering,” announced Mannering.

“
What?
” Chittering's tone changed. “The great John himself?”

“Just John,” said Mannering drily.

“What can I do for you?” Chittering, an able man, was invariably affable with Mannering.

“Get me a list of passengers on the
East Africa Star
, which left London for Durban this morning.”

“That's easy,” said Chittering. “A couple of sheiks from the Aden Protectorate were on board. There was quite a party. What do you want the list for?”

“I'm looking for a certain party.”

“I don't mind a joke but I can't stand a pun,” said Chittering. “I'll get the list for you and put it in the post.”

“Can I collect it?” asked Mannering.

“So it's urgent,” said Chittering slyly. “Who are you looking for?”

“A blonde beauty.”

“You'll have me believing you in a minute. Is there a story in this?”

“There could be,” said Mannering. “Who covered the sheiks for you?”

“Reggie Frost and Dottie Mills,” said Chittering. “Reggie's gone up to Scotland but Dottie is around. Shall I ask her to bring you the passenger list? Then she can worm the whole story out of you.”

“If she'll come to my flat about half past six she can worm a drink out of me,” Mannering said. “Thanks, Chitty.” He rang off, and pondered for a few minutes; he would have to have some kind of story for Dottie Mills, preferably one which would make her remember any blonde whom she might have noticed on board. As Bristow had said, the blonde who had lured Toji to his death might have dyed her hair by now; but Dottie had a remarkable nose for news, and would have noticed anyone the slightest degree out of the ordinary.

He sent for Larraby, and told him what had happened. Then: “The police want to know if there could have been a leakage of information about what Toji had with him. A leakage from us, I mean.”

“I don't think there is the slightest possibility,” Larraby said. He looked rather like the grandfather of all cherubs, although just now there was nothing seraphic about his expression; obviously he was troubled. “Certainly I told no one.”

“Could anyone have overheard us talking?”

“Do you mean among the staff?”

“Anyone at all.”

“I feel quite sure that the staff is utterly discreet,” said Larraby. “Paterson is quite new, of course, but I should think irreproachable. The story is bound to appear in the evening newspapers,” went on Larraby. “I should be able to find out from their comments if any of the staff had any idea that Toji was on his way to see us.”

“Let me know as soon as you can,” urged Mannering. “And try to find out from the Far Eastern News Agency what you can about the Asri Dynasty and the political situation in Sumi.”

“Very good,” said Larraby.

Mannering signed some letters, telephoned to close the deal for the Genoese table, and stepped to the door as his telephone bell rang. Almost simultaneously the office door opened on Larraby. Mannering went to the telephone, watching his man, who carried a copy of the
Evening News.
Larraby pointed to a headline which Mannering could not read, and shook his head. Mannering nodded, and lifted the telephone.