The Baron Goes East by John Creasey Page A

about the campaign of letters, but sooner or later she would have to. He joined her, and she turned to glance at him, then looked back at the Indian mechanics moving towards the airport buildings. Europeans were out-numbered six or seven to one. Two or three white-faced people stood with a group of Indians, the women all dressed in gaily coloured saris, to watch the plane take off. Lorna waited until the figures were tiny dots against the brown earth, then turned to Mannering and rested her head against the back of the seat.
    â€œI keep seeing camels,” she said. “Chasing me.”
    â€œI keep seeing yashmaks.”
    â€œAnd wondering what’s beneath them,” said Lorna. “I’d heard so much about it, but the reality is—” She paused.
    â€œSo much better and so much worse?”
    â€œWell, perhaps,” said Lorna.
    â€œAnd no robbers,” murmured Mannering.
    Lorna glanced down at the brief-case, which was against the wall, between her knees and the side. She laughed.
    â€œI think that was all a dream.”
    â€œAnd when we get to Bombay, we’ll find Phiroshah’s sons alive again and Shani just a vision! I’m going to sleep,” finished Mannering.
    When he opened his eyes, half an hour afterwards, they were flying through cloudless sky towards Bombay; and Lorna was sketching, with a pad on her knee, a far-away look in her eyes. She had put several sheets aside; on each was the head of a camel. Mannering grinned. She glanced sideways.
    â€œI can’t help it,” she said defensively. “They fascinated me. It isn’t as if I hadn’t seen them before, but they’re like big overgrown horses with a hump and a sneer.”
    â€œI didn’t mind bringing you to paint the Taj Mahal, but when it comes to camels—. You’ll change. Cigarette?”
    â€œNot now.”
    â€œWait until you see Phiroshah,” Mannering said. “You’ll find your fingers itching for a pencil.”
    None of this was quite real. The flight, the smoothness, the bright sun, the blue sky, the dry, yellowy land beneath; the distant sea. Life had changed. All pressure, all fears, all sense of urgency had gone – but for that curt: “Go back”. Even the brief-case was part of a dream, a faint reminder of what might come and what had been. Reality was within the aircraft; the stewardesses, now in their white uniforms; the crew, also in white – seven altogether – the passengers. They knew all the passengers except three, who had kept themselves very much to themselves. The Indians were boys – happy boys who had been educated in England and were anxious to get home. They spoke excellent English, much more pure than most of the passengers. Everyone liked them. No one could be less sinister.
    But someone had put that note there.
    The stewardess brought round tea . . . dinner. It grew dark. Because of the delay, they were to land by night. Now and again they looked out of the windows and saw lights below; seldom many lights. Two or three large cities spread the radiance out for some distance. Mostly they were villages and lights were yellow glimmers. They flew over the unknown which tomorrow would become reality.
    They dozed.
    Mannering felt the stewardess touch his shoulder.
    â€œBetter wake up, Mr. Mannering, we’re nearly there.”
    Lorna started up.“ There ?”
    â€œIn about twenty minutes.” The stewardess went on to the passengers behind them. Lorna began to pack their oddments in the pigskin bag. Mannering filled his pockets, slipped some books into the brief-case. Soon, the lights appeared; a myriad of lights, shining on – what?
    The signs flashed on. Fasten belts. No smoking.
    â€œ Now I’m really beginning to believe it,” said Lorna.
    The aircraft tipped to one side and shuddered once or twice; gave passengers the queasy uneasiness which came with landing and taking off. Only the