CHAPTER ONE
THE BLUE DIAMOND
The diamond stood on a pad of black velvet, caught in the bright light which shone above the desk. John Mannering sat looking at it dreamily. He was alone in the small office at the rear of his shop – Quinns. Outside, the life of the West End of London throbbed with all its mid-week vigour, but hardly a sound reached Mannering’s ears. Inside, within a few paces of the office door, were treasures of the ages. Bejewelled caskets, daggers encrusted with fortunes in precious stones, miniatures painted by masters, pieces of furniture steeped in antiquity. Quinns was a treasure house to which lovers of precious things were drawn from all over the world.
Mannering was oblivious of everything else as he studied the diamond.
It wasn’t large. In his strong-room below the shop and approached by a trap-door in the floor, were a dozen larger. It was beautifully cut, but that did not make it exceptional. Yet he had never seen one like it before, and he sat in front of it as if he were worshipping its beauty.
From the centre of the diamond there came light, a blue light. It was as if a tiny blue fire blazed within the stone, yet was cold. This colour spread from the centre to the outer edges, making a cold star of blue fire.
A bell rang, not far off.
Mannering did not move or look away; his face seemed to be carved out of bronze.
There was a tap at the door.
Mannering drew in his breath. Forcing his attention from the diamond to the door seemed to demand a physical as well as mental effort. He called “Come in”, but glanced back at the diamond.
A small man with curly grey hair said: “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mannering.”
He stopped, as if silenced by Mannering’s expression. Mannering looked as if he were out of this world, living in some fabulous land of the mind. The grey-haired man drew back quickly.
Outside, someone said: “Isn’t he there?”
The door closed.
Mannering moved suddenly, pushing the case with the diamond away from him. He had heard the man say “Isn’t he there?” and had recognised the voice – that had broken the spell of the blue diamond. He stood up, took out cigarettes and lit one, then opened the door.
The man with the familiar voice spoke again.
“Don’t talk out of the back of your neck, Larraby. I’ll go in myself.”
Mannering stepped into the back of the shop as a man of medium height came towards him, smoking a cigarette. The newcomer was well-dressed in grey, his greying hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, his small moustache was stained yellow with nicotine. He wore a gardenia in his button-hole, and his movements had a nervous briskness.
“Good morning, Bill,” welcomed Mannering.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Superintendent Bristow of New Scotland Yard. “Larraby came out looking as if he’d seen a ghost. What have you got in the office?”
“Nothing that’s been stolen!”
“I wonder,” said Bristow gruffly.
He was serious enough to make Mannering frown. Larraby, further along the shop, raised his eyebrows, as if to show his despair of all policemen.
“Come and see for yourself,” invited Mannering.
Bristow went ahead. There was a small Queen Anne desk with a single chair behind it and room for a winged armchair facing it, with a third in the far corner. This chair was actually on the carpet covering the trap-door which led to the strong-room. The shelves were lined with books. There were a few old prints on the walls, and above the desk a portrait of Mannering. His wife Lorna had painted it.
It was a brilliant work, capturing more than Mannering’s good looks: his air of well-being, his natural confidence. It captured something which few people knew was there. A young niece, coming to Quinns for the first time and seeing the portrait, had squeezed Lorna Mannering’s hand and cried: “Lorna, darling, no wonder you married him! Why don’t you give him a cloak and sword? It would go perfectly with that glint in his eyes and the swagger. John, darling, don’t you sometimes want to be a pirate? A buccaneer? And go swashbuckling round the world? You’re exactly right for it.”
“Sit down, Bill.” Mannering offered cigarettes, went to the door and called: “Tea, Josh, please,” and returned to his chair behind the desk. Bristow was staring at the blue diamond. “No bad men about demanding your attention?” inquired Mannering. “No duty calling at police courts and the Old Bailey? No one stealing any jools?”
Bristow took his gaze from the diamond, as if reluctantly. A smile put vitality into his face, taking away the nervous tension. He had good, even features, but somehow missed being handsome.
“Have you lifted any lately?”
“Not for years and years!”
‘That’s the nearest you’ve ever got to admitting that you once lived by theft,” growled Bristow. As he drew at his cigarette his eyes challenged Mannering’s. “What were you up to just now? What made you drive Larraby out?”
“I hardly knew he came in, but heard your dulcet tones and thought I’d better find out what you wanted.”
“Try telling the truth.”
“You’d never believe me, truth or lie.”
“What were you up to? Hiding something? These, for instance.” Bristow took an envelope from his pocket, extracted a dozen photographs and handed them across the desk. Mannering studied each, talking as he looked.
“All new to me, Bill. What are they?”
“Photographs of jewels.”
“You are in a pleasant mood this morning.” He paused. “Whose jewels?”
“The Rangipore Collection,” Bristow answered. “Now tell me you’ve never heard of them. They’re the Indian jewels Kallidon brought from New York to offer to old Morency, who is supposed to be interested in anything Indian. They were stolen from him two nights ago. The press gave it far more space than it deserved – but, of course, you never read about jewel robberies, do you?”
There had been headlines in most of the newspapers, for the jewels, worth a small fortune, had been sold in New York by an Indian prince who had clashed with his government.
“If you’re asking whether I’ve been offered them – no,” said Mannering.
“What were you hiding when Larraby looked in?”
“Have a look round while you’re here.”
“I may, at that,” said Bristow.
Larraby brought tea in a silver teapot on a silver tray. He then went out, looking at Mannering with eyes which asked: “Trouble?” He was given no answer. Mannering poured out.
Bristow seemed to relax. “Seriously, John, keep your eyes and ears open for the Rangipores. It’s not just another jewel robbery.”
“It looks like one to me.”
“They belonged to this wealthy prince. It’s said that a group of zealots in India hate the prince’s guts for getting out and living the life of luxury and ease in America on the proceeds of the jewels – which ought to go towards alleviating famine and poverty at home. It’s suggested that the zealots meant to get them back and turn them into cash. I don’t know if they took them. I do know that it was a good amateur job. Not in your class. They probably won’t be offered to Quinns direct, but you or Larraby may hear something.”
“Possibly.” Mannering was thinking of the zealots – and this blue stone.
“Thanks.” Bristow sipped tea, looking at the blue diamond. “Larraby’s looking very prosperous. Has he had a rise lately?”
“And promotion,” said Mannering. “He’s no longer the odd-job man about the place, he’s manager. Lorna says I need a holiday. We shall probably go away for a month or so, and Josh will look after things better than most.”
Bristow switched his gaze sharply from the diamond.
“I’ll never understand you,” he said. “Take an ex-convict into Quinns, then give him a golden chance to loot the shop. Don’t be surprised if he gets away with everything here.”
“Forget it,” said Mannering. “You’d trust him as far as I would.”
“What’s this about a holiday?”
“All inquiries to my wife, it’s her idea.”
“Abroad?”
“Probably.”
“Tell me where,’ said Bristow, “and I’ll cable the police of the unhappy country that they’re going to give hospitality to the cleverest safe-breaker who ever kept out of prison.”
Mannering didn’t smile; that seemed to surprise Bristow. Mannering offered cigarettes again and poured out another cup of tea. His expression was almost disagreeable.
“There are times when I could dislike you,” he said. “When are you going to stop making dark allusions to my imaginary past? You’re getting worse. We can’t meet in the street without you making a crack, and if someone else is with us it’s a cryptic comment that sets them wondering. I’m getting tired of it.”
Bristow listened and watched with rounded eyes.
“You think I was once the jewel-thief known as the Baron,” said Mannering in the same even voice. “You’ve never been able to prove it, and you never will. During the past ten years I’ve risked my neck a dozen times, and my freedom a dozen more, to help you put a criminal in dock and in jail. Let’s have a few more references to that and fewer allusions to the Baron.”
“My, my,” said Bristow. “What’s happened to your sense of humour?”
“You need a joke for a sense of humour.”
“Hm.” Bristow’s eyes were still questioning. “How old are you? Nearing middle-age? Lord save you from becoming as pompous as you sound now.” He finished his tea and stood up. “You’ll keep an eye open for this Indian stuff, won’t you?” He touched the photographs.
“I’ve already said I will.”
“Thanks.” Bristow turned towards the door, then looked back. His gaze fell on the blue diamond again. “What’s the blue stone?”
“A diamond,” said Mannering heavily. He leaned across the desk, picked up the case and handed it to Bristow. Outside the trade, few people knew so much as he about precious stones.
Bristow studied and admired.
“Perfect. I can’t say that I’ve heard about blue diamonds.”
“I hadn’t either, until this turned up. It’s Indian. Old Aly Phiroshah sent it and said that he would write and tell me what it was all about. I haven’t heard from him yet.” The gleam made a brief return to Mannering’s eyes as suspicion leapt into Bristow’s. “Legal cargo, by air – on the manifest and checked by Customs.”
“Who suggested it wasn’t?” Bristow hedged. “Isn’t Phiroshah dead yet? When he was in London ten years ago he looked as if he were dying on his feet.”
“He’s still alive,” Mannering said and took the diamond back. “India’s very busy in the jewel trade.”
“It’s an odd coincidence,” Bristow said, and didn’t add: “If it is a coincidence.” “Do you think Phiroshah is honest?”
“As the day.”
Mannering saw Bristow to the door and watched him go along Hart Row, the narrow turning off Bond Street where Quinns and a few other small, narrow-fronted shops were situated. Quinns was the narrowest and probably the most exclusive; most of the atmosphere of Hart Row came from it. It was Elizabethan, with nothing built on. The roof was of red tiles, to which lichen gave a softening green. There were gables and old oak, and on the fascia board the single word Quinns painted in gilt in Old English lettering.
The window held a single jewelled dagger. This rested on black velvet, and the jewels in the hilt seemed to give life and light to the blackness. Mannering saw this out of the corner of his eye as he turned and walked back along the narrow shop. On either side of the passage antiques stood in gloom, but lights could be switched on to show each piece to advantage. Prints, miniatures, Dutch panels and some framed Chinese embroideries were on the walls. Mannering walked past all these and turned into the office.
Larraby stood contemplating the blue diamond; his love for precious stones was like a man’s love for a woman. He turned his gentle face to Mannering, but didn’t speak. They smiled with complete understanding. Then the bell of the shop door rang.
“I’ll see who it is.” Larraby turned, then stopped in the passage, narrow just outside the door. “Mr. Mannering,” he said softly, “I think Phiroshah’s messenger has arrived.”
Mannering picked up the jewel-case, snapped it shut, and slipped it into his pocket before following Larraby.
At the far end of the shop stood a young woman dressed in a dark red sari; it was as if she had been transported from India and dropped into Quinns. She made no move as Mannering passed Larraby and approached her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MESSENGER
As Mannering smiled at the girl, Larraby switched on a lamp concealed in the ceiling and giving just sufficient light to show the visitor more clearly, without being harsh. But no light could be harsh enough to harm her. She was young. Her complexion was perfect, and she was beautiful; that was the only word, none other was needed. She had large dark-brown eyes, raven-black hair drawn straight back from her forehead with a centre parting. She wore nothing over the sari, which swept almost to her small feet, which were criss-crossed by the straps of open sandals. On her forehead was a single scarlet spot, her caste mark.
“Good morning,” Mannering said.
“Good morning.” Her voice was soft and her English good, almost without accent; that didn’t surprise him. “Are you Mr. John Mannering?”
“Yes.”
“I have a message for you from Aly Phiroshah.”
“I’ve been expecting it.”
“You have the diamond?”
“Yes.” It was easy to smile at her. “Come with me.” He led her to the office. Larraby wasn’t in sight, but was undoubtedly watching.
The girl did not look about the office, but her gaze went straight to the blue diamond as Mannering took it out again. She sat down, murmuring “Thank you” and still looking at the stone. In the brighter light here, no flaw showed in her beauty.
In the same way as Bristow, Mannering and Larraby, she had to force herself to look away from the diamond. She took a small handbag from beneath the folds of her sari. Her fingernails were painted the same colour as the spot on her forehead.
She took out a letter, which was sealed with a red wax and with some Hindi lettering. Mannering recognised it as Phiroshah’s seal. It was familiar to dealers in precious stones and to collectors all over the world.
“Thank you.” Mannering took and opened it. He wasn’t completely at his ease, partly because of the girl’s gaze, which had a candour that seemed very youthful yet – sad? It might be partly due to the fact that precious stones from India were in the news.
He wasn’t surprised to find the letter written by hand. Phiroshah’s writing was copper-plate and his English good if a little precise.
“Dear John Mannering,
The bearer of this letter is my daughter, Shani. She will tell you everything that I would like to tell you myself. I ask only that you pay as much attention to her as you would to me and, if you can respond favourably to her request, that you lose little time.
“With felicitations, my friend,
“Aly Phiroshah.”
Shani watched Mannering gravely as he read, and was intent as he looked up. He tried to see some likeness to her father in her. The old man was in his eighties. He had seemed ancient ten years ago, when Mannering had met him. Mannering recalled a wizened face, bony, gaunt; a Ghandi of a man, bald-headed, with wrinkled flesh at his eyes, much more beneath his chin. Shani waited for Mannering to speak. “Why did he send you and not one of his sons?” Mannering asked.
Phiroshah had been proud of his sons.
Shani raised her hands a little, drawing attention to their olive colour, their smallness and exquisite shape.
“They are dead,” she announced.
“All of them?” Shocked surprise sharpened his voice. He had known of at least two sons, and had believed that the old Hindu had several others by his three wives.
“Those who matter,” Shani said.
She did not elaborate; he was sure that she wouldn’t, as sure that if he asked a question she would answer truthfully. Her father had commanded it, and her father’s word was law. The difficulty was to overcome surprise, choose the questions wisely, to find out all he could. Phiroshah had sent her with a message about the blue diamond, not about his personal affairs.
He could ask her what she meant by “those who matter”, but would it really help him? He pulled the case towards him and picked it up; it seemed a sacrilege to hold the diamond between his fingers. He began to speak, when the telephone bell rang – a short ring, meaning that Larraby wanted to speak to him. He put down the case, frowning; he frowned too easily these days. He lifted the receiver, said “Hallo”, and remembered constraint had fallen between him and Bristow, because he was touchy and scowled too much.
“What is it?” His voice was gruff.
“Mrs. Mannering has just arrived,” Larraby said. “She is paying off her taxi.”
“Oh. All right, thanks.” Mannering rang off. He wished Lorna hadn’t chosen this moment to come. “I’m sorry, Miss Phiroshah, but my wife has just arrived. I won’t keep you a minute.” He stepped towards the door, leaving the diamond on the desk. There was only one way out of the office – by the door. There were ventilators and air-conditioning, but no windows. In any case, wasn’t she Phiroshah’s daughter?
Lorna was halfway along the shop, smiling at Larraby.
Lorna, smiling, was something to see. Her dark-grey eyes sparkled, her teeth showed, she looked young. She was young. There was only two years’ difference in their ages and Mannering was nearing forty – but there were times when she seemed ten years younger. She had seen him and glanced his way, but still spoke to Larraby.
“Yes, Josh, I agree with you. We’ll see what we can do.” Larraby stood aside, and Lorna approached. She moved gracefully. She was stylishly dressed in a tailored suit and a wide mink collar. Her small hat concealed only a little of her glossy, wavy hair – hair as dark as Shani’s. “Hallo, darling.” She said “darling” as if she meant it. “Am I butting in? Josh says that Phiro’s messenger has turned up.”
“You’re just in time to hear the story.” He pressed her hand. “Congratulations.”
She laughed. “On what?”
“I don’t know, but you couldn’t look as happy as you do if you hadn’t good news.”
“Oh, nothing,” she said and laughed again. “I’ve just sold a picture to a collector from Paris. Ridiculous, isn’t it?” She stripped off her gloves. “Coals to Newcastle.”
“Hideous simile.” Mannering shuddered. He was delighted, and knew that she was. His spirits rose. “Tell me about it after we’ve heard what Shani has to say.”
“Shani?”
“The old chap’s daughter.”
“Daughter?”
“He may be an old Hindu and a stickler for convention, but he’s moved with the times and believes in the emancipation of women,” said Mannering. “He’s much more like a Parsee than a Hindu in some ways.” He pressed her hand. “We’ll celebrate tonight.” He opened the office door and ushered Lorna in.
Shani stood up.
Mannering watched the two women; Lorna completely at ease, Shani – embarrassed? It was hard to say. She was still grave. They sat down, Lorna in an old William and Mary slung chair in the far corner. Mannering picked up the diamond and seemed to forget Lorna. She would expect that.
“Why did he send this by one plane and you by another?” asked Mannering. “You must have left Bombay almost at the same time. This didn’t arrive until this morning.”
“That was what he intended – that the diamond should arrive first and I should follow it.” Shani didn’t smile. “He did not wish me to carry it.”
“Why not?”
“He is frightened of it.”
Lack of emphasis made the words very effective. Lorna watched Shani, and Mannering could imagine how she would react to the word frightened. Soon she would be saying: “John, keep out of this.” He tried to be casual.
“Of course, it’s a valuable jewel to travel with; it’s always safer to rely on the usual channels.” Bristow had hoped that he wasn’t going to become pompous. He sounded too pompous now, and it irritated him. He was falling short in concentration. Of late he’d been uncertain in temper, unpredictable in mood – as Bristow knew.
“It wasn’t that,” Shani said. “It is thought that there will be another attempt to steal the diamond.”
Lorna was as grave as the Indian girl, and as intent. She must know about the zealots and their “war” against a prince, and the theft of Indian jewels here in London.
“Another?” he asked.
“It has happened twice. Two of my brothers died defending it.”
Again she spoke without emphasis, but the words had the force of a bullet. Mannering sensed danger, as if it were an aura surrounding the girl. He fought to keep his tone and manner matter-of-fact.
“When?” he asked.
“Yusuf died two months ago,” said Shani. “Ali only two weeks ago. It was then that my father decided to write to you. He attempted to explain what had happened and what he hoped you would do by letter.” She raised her hands slightly and made the crimson folds of the sari move, like rippling red water. “It was so difficult, so he decided to send me to explain, and the diamond to show you that he was in earnest.”
Phiroshah knew his love of precious stones, knew how the blue diamond would affect him, so he had sent the diamond first, making sure of his interest.
Mannering didn’t look at Lorna.
“How did your father get the stone?” he asked Shani.
“You will understand much,” she said slowly. “Since the self-government of India and the weakening of the power and the authority of the princes, many of them are selling jewels. It is not dishonest. The Government does not object. Sometimes the princes must sell in order to find the money for taxes or to put in hand the works which the Government demands. Sometimes they sell and live abroad. So my father has been very busy. For fifty years, now, he has sold more precious stones to the princes than any other man in India. Many have bought from him rather than from agents and dealers in England and America and elsewhere. All that you know.” Her story wasn’t simply a recitation of simple facts; there was feeling in her voice. She disapproved of what was happening in India, as her father disapproved; Phiroshah had never been a politician, but had loved the old order and the old ways – perhaps partly because he had become a millionaire through them.
“Yes,” said Mannering.
“Four months ago the Maharajah of Ganpore visited my father secretly. That had happened before. The Maharajah has never boasted of his riches, never flaunted them. He prefers to buy and to sell quietly. He brought this blue diamond and other jewels. The others he sold. He told my father that he had a collection of the blue diamonds known to few. He wanted to find out what each stone was worth. He left the blue diamond with my father, and—my father sent Yusuf, his younger and well-trusted son, to America with it. In many ways, he would have liked to offer these diamonds to an English buyer, but—” She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture that was almost European. “In New York, the market is so much better, and so many more can afford to buy.”
“Yes,” said Mannering.
“Yusuf flew to New York, saw several of the big dealers, and met some principals who might be interested in buying. The negotiations were prolonged. He flew back to Bombay for further instructions from my father, and all the time he kept the jewel with him. There was an understanding with the Maharajah that only my father or one of the family should have charge of it. Then Yusuf flew back to New York. Within two days he had been murdered.
“He had known of the danger, for he sent the diamond back through a trusted agent, the day before he died. The news of his death made my father ill. Ali, my older brother, was in charge in Bombay. He received the stone. He was unhappy about what had happened and reluctant to go further. He took it himself to the Maharajah, to say that now that my father was ill and Yusuf dead it was impossible to continue with the negotiations. He reached the Maharajah with the diamond, but not before he was severely injured. He went by train; the train was held up by dacoits. He was searched and tortured, but saved the diamond. He died within an hour of returning it to the Maharajah.” She looked away from Mannering for the first time and glanced at the stone, and there was bitterness in her voice. “You understand now why my father is frightened.”
Into the hush which followed Mannering said: “Yes, but I can’t understand why he is still handling the diamond. Are you going to tell me that?”
