2

JOHN MANNERING

 

Mannering saw Josh and the Japanese, and even before Josh spoke, guessed that he would be consulted, but he was too preoccupied and too intent at that moment to stop. The strange conversation he had had on the telephone had troubled him, and before he did anything else he wanted to put notes of it on paper.

Taking the key to his office, he opened the door and stepped inside. The room, to which he was almost blinded by familiarity, was not large, but it was beautifully proportioned. A Queen Anne desk held a place of prominence, flanked by two William and Mary chairs, their leather seats and backs polished by centuries of use. There were shelves, and built-in cupboards, and a portrait of himself dressed in all the elegance of a cavalier. Mannering spared no glance for any of these things. Moving swiftly to the desk, he pulled a notebook towards him, and began to write:

Belle Danizon . . .

Veiled threats . . .

He paused, then put his pencil aside, half-laughing at himself for having written down something which he could so easily have remembered. What on earth had possessed him to write ‘veiled threats’? But all at once his smile faded. There had been something in the way the girl had talked . . .

There was a tap at the door, and he glanced up.

“Come in.”

Josh Larraby’s face appeared.

“I’m sorry to worry you, sir, but—”

“It’s all right, Josh. I wanted to jot something down before I forgot it. Who is the man in the shop?”

“Mr. Hirioto Tiro.” Josh handed Mannering a card on which the name was inscribed in English, and also, if Mannering guessed rightly, in Japanese. There was a New York address and, written in precise handwriting: ‘At Claridges’. “He is interested in the Rapui Crown, sir.”

Mannering’s head jolted up.

“Seriously?” Then he almost withdrew the word, for Larraby would not have troubled him had the interest been less than serious. “Have you told him the price?”

“Yes – forty-eight thousand pounds.”

“And?”

“He asked whether forty thousand would be considered.”

“Did he, by Jove,” said Mannering. “Did he say anything else?”

“He is flying to New York tomorrow and would like to know before he leaves London. He . . .” Larraby hesitated, and then went on: “I really feel it would be wise for you to see him, sir.”

“Yes,” Mannering agreed. “Yes. Josh . . .”

“Sir?”

“Did you speak to the young woman who called herself Belle Danizon?”

“I did indeed.”

“Did she make any threats?”

“No threats, sir, but . . .” Larraby hesitated before going on: “She was very self-willed, sir.”

“Did you hear her talking to me?”

Larraby nodded.

“Was she—did she sound—odd in any way?”

“There was a strangeness in her manner,” Larraby conceded. “And just before her visit a man . . . “ He broke off, spreading pale hands which were mottled a faint brown and on which the veins showed blue. “But you really should see—”

“Mr. Hirioto,” Mannering remembered.

“Tiro, sir. He has very limited time.”

“Ah, yes. I’m being rude. Ask him in, will you?”

Mannering frowned as Larraby left, looked down at his notes, saw ‘veiled threats’ and wondered whether he was deceiving himself, then looked up to see the Japanese entering, a faint smile giving a hint of the enigmatic to a face of honey-brown.

“Mr. Tiro – please come in.”

“You are very good to make time to see me,” Tiro said in a soft voice. “Your manager has given me much instruction already.” There were a few seconds spent in formalities, in sitting down, offering cigarettes – and Mannering gave the faint nod which told Larraby he wanted tea brought in. The door closed on Larraby as Mannering said: “I understand that your time in London is limited.”

“That is so, Mr. Mannering, to my deep regret. London is such a remarkable city – a city with warmth and heart, and with so many beautiful stores, such as Quinns. I have never enough time to spend in it.”

“How serious are you about the Rapui Crown?” asked Mannering. He settled back, giving the man his full attention. “Are you a collector?”

“In a small way, yes. But the Crown would not be for my humble collection, Mr. Mannering. It would be for the Eastern and Oriental Museum of New York. You have heard of it, no doubt.”

“Yes, of course,” Mannering said, and after a pause he went on: “But I understood that it is short of funds.”

“Recently there has been a great benefactor,” stated Tiro. “I am on the board of the museum and I am authorised to make inquiries and to make offers which have to be confirmed. I am offering forty thousand pounds for the Rapui Crown, and I can confirm the offer in seventy-two hours. Would you hold it for me on those terms, Mr. Mannering?”

After only a moment of hesitation, Mannering agreed.

For the first time, a hint of animation broke through Tiro’s oriental passivity.

“You will hold it for three days – and if you have a larger offer meanwhile you will give the museum a chance to bid against that offer?”

“No,” Mannering said. “It is the museum’s for forty thousand pounds, if they formally accept within seventy-two hours.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Mannering. I offer my grateful thanks.”

Half-an-hour later. Tiro’s offer made in writing, Mannering saw him to the door. The Japanese, so short and yet so sturdy, walked briskly towards Bond Street. Mannering went back to his office, beckoning Larraby as he entered.

“Was it a satisfactory discussion?” Larraby asked.

“I think so,” Mannering said. “Josh, telephone Mr. Rennie in New York and ask if the Eastern and Oriental Museum on Central Park East and 91st Street has recently come into money and whether there is a Mr. Hirioto Tiro on the board of directors.”

“At once, sir.”

“Thanks. And Josh—”

“Sir.”

“Had you ever seen Belle Danizon before?”

“I had not, sir.”

“Neither had I.”

“But—” Larraby looked astonished. “I quite got the impression that she knew you.”

“She gave me that impression, too,” Mannering said drily. “I wonder what she was up to.” He shrugged, glanced at his notes again, and then saw Larraby’s expression – one almost of bewilderment. “So you’ve remembered her,” he remarked.

“Indeed I haven’t, sir,” said Larraby. “But just before she arrived there was another remarkable incident. And . . .” he glanced towards the door – “I quite expected Smith back by now.” He told the story of the telephone call, and as he drew towards the end, he hesitated for so long that Mannering prompted him.

“What was so worrying, Josh?”

“It will sound quite ridiculous, sir, I’m sure,” Larraby said. “There was a laugh.”

“A laugh?”

“Yes, sir. A deep, very amused laugh which . . .” Again Larraby hesitated, but this time Mannering made no attempt to prompt him. “It—ah—drew nearer, sir. I had a feeling that someone had opened a door and entered the room, laughing, and continued to laugh until he took the receiver from the man who had called me, and hung up. He—ah—he did not appear to stop laughing at all.”

“And the caller?”

“He gave one stifled—frightened—gasp, sir, that was all. I had the impression that he was terrified, but he might well have been putting on an act.” After another pause, Larraby went on in a puzzled voice: “Could there have been a connection between the two, I wonder? The call itself was most unsettling, and the laugh made it quite—quite macabre, sir. Miss Danizon’s behaviour was unsettling, too. Could there—?” He broke off.

“Be a deliberate attempt, to unsettle me,” suggested Mannering.

“I did wonder, sir.”

“And I’m wondering, too,” said Mannering. “There isn’t much we can do about it except keep our ears and eyes open. Talk to Mr. Rennie, Josh, will you?”

“At once,” promised Larraby, again.

For twenty minutes, Mannering sat looking through files of inquiries for certain kinds and periods of old jewellery, and objets d’art. He liked to do this every day; it was a kind of therapy – and always, if he were ruffled, it had a soothing effect on him. For here were letters and telegrams from every part of the globe; from individual collectors, curators of museums, libraries and universities, all vying, in their deep desire, for the rare treasures of the ancient world. There was no end to their variety, nor to the prices offered. In one section of the file, inside an envelope, was a list of buyers who preferred to remain anonymous; even some who offered for stolen pieces, as well as some who simply preferred to gloat, like Croesus over his gold, over the rare pieces that they bought.

Today there was only one letter of immediate interest, and that was from the Royal Household of Allodia, offering twenty thousand pounds for the Crown. But this was barely half its value.

Mannering had left his door ajar and had heard Larraby talking. Now he heard the ting of the receiver and the creak of Larraby’s chair.

“Come in, Josh,” Mannering called.

Larraby appeared.

“Mr. Tiro is authorised to bid, sir, and the Museum of Eastern and Oriental Art has recently received a bequest of some half-a-million dollars.”

“Not pounds?”

“No, sir.”

“I can’t see them spending nearly a quarter of the bequest on the Rapui Crown,” Mannering said. “We’ll soon know. Is Aristide back yet?”

“No, he isn’t, sir,” Larraby answered uneasily. “I really do hope—” He broke off, apologetically. “I really shouldn’t have sent him, sir.”

“Nonsense,” said Mannering. “It was exactly what I would have done myself. He’ll turn up.”

It was then nearly a quarter to five.

At half-past five, the normal closing hour, Aristide Smith still hadn’t returned; nor had he telephoned. Larraby, obviously very uneasy, found some slight easement from the fact that he lived in the small flat above the shop.

“I will be here whatever time he comes back, sir, or if he telephones. Will you be at home this evening?”

“Not after seven-thirty,” Mannering said. “I have the Charity Ball.”

“Oh, of course, sir. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. Smith is sure to be back before long.”

But he was not back, nor had the telephone rung, by seven o’clock. Larraby, preparing a simple supper of scrambled eggs and mushrooms, with strawberries and cream to follow, wondered whether to telephone Mannering.

Mannering, quite startlingly handsome, in tails and wearing decorations won in war as well as in peace, was waiting for his wife just before half-past seven. And while he waited, he telephoned Larraby. He heard the lack of news, put down the receiver and turned to see Lorna coming out of her bedroom.

Mannering’s eyes lit up and his heart contracted.

She wore dark red velvet, high at the neck but with her shoulders bare, a single diamond clip at her waist; she was as slender now as when she and Mannering had married, over twenty years before. The dress, snug at bosom, waist and knees, ballooned out about her ankles. Her black hair, only slightly flecked with grey, was high-swept, held by a single diamond-studded comb.

Mannering stepped towards her.

“Darling,” he said quietly, “you look magnificent.”

Pleased, she put her cheek forward to be kissed. Then, almost at once, they went out of this top floor flat in an old house in Chelsea, to the small lift and down to the waiting, chauffeur-driven hired car.

Mannering, proud of his wife, sat back and watched her, completely forgetting Aristide Smith.

But Larraby did not forget him.

Mannering would not have given Smith another thought that evening, but three hours after the ball had begun, when the great Albert Hall was a blaze of lights and a place of music and beauty and elegance, he came face to face with Belle Danizon.

She looked at him, haughtily, as she swept past on the arm of a middle-aged, grey-haired man. As they passed, the man chuckled. It was a deep, infectious chuckle and it made many revellers turn and stare.