The Baron Goes East by John Creasey Page B

drone of the engines sounded. They were curving round. The Mannerings’ window overlooked the city and the lights – lights of all colours. There was one great arc of them, with blackness in the middle. The man behind said:
    â€œThat’s the Queen’s Necklace.”
    â€œQueen’s Necklace?”
    â€œThe lights round the Marine Drive,” the passenger said. “You’ll see. Beautiful. Deceptively beautiful.” He was a cynical English globe-trotter and an engineer. “I hate the place.”
    An American alongside them called: “Don’t put them off, they’ll just love it.”
    The flares of the airport showed up; they were flying inland. Again, the only sound was of the droning engines; these seemed louder. Go back, go back. Flares were a long way off one moment, then seemed alongside. They felt the wheels touch ground. A woman at the back laughed, to relieve her own and others’ tension. Lorna squeezed Mannering’s hand.
    Shadowy figures appeared, the passengers stood up, laughing and talking. They began to file off the aircraft. The American joined them as they reached the ground.
    â€œYou’re the Mannering, aren’t you? John Mannering.”
    Mannering laughed. “Jewels.”
    â€œThat’s right. On business?”
    â€œLord, no. Hol—I mean, vacation!”
    â€œHave a good time.” The American went swinging off into the darkness and the airport buildings. They knew he was on some kind of special mission, and would be hustled through Customs. They had been warned that Indian Customs were thorough. They were philosophic. Two other passengers joined them; somehow Mannering and Lorna were parted. Dark-faced men were on either side – porters, coolies. Mannering carried his brief-case, Lorna the pigskin. He could hear Lorna laughingly promising to give a French passenger a sketch which she had made of her.
    There was a smell; not offensive, but different, spicy.
    â€œIt’s a great country,” a man said. “You’ll love it or you’ll hate it. I hate it!” He offered Mannering a cigarette as they neared the door. Lights glowed from the waiting-room and the other buildings. White-clad Indians were waiting for their employers. People bustled. A little gang of small children had found their way on to the airfield and gathered round, begging. Officials cuffed and cursed them. Mannering’s hand went to his pocket.
    â€œI shouldn’t,” a passenger said. “If you start that, you’ll be at it all the time.”
    â€œSahib, ver’ ‘ongry, ver’ ‘ongry.” A little chap, coming hardly up to Mannering’s waist, stood in front of him. Light fell on a pale, coffee-coloured face; on curly hair that looked verminous; on a plump chest and overblown stomach; the lad wore only a loincloth. He rubbed his stomach swiftly, mechanically. “Sahib, ver’ ‘ongry.”
    â€œI shouldn’t ,” the passenger began.
    The boy jumped at Mannering and punched him in the stomach viciously; there was more strength in the punch than in most men’s. Mannering staggered back, gasping with pain. He felt a clutching hand at his right wrist, then more pain as his wrist was wrenched. His fingers released the brief-case. He felt it go, saw the boy race into the darkness of the aerodrome. Officials gave chase, passengers shouted, Mannering regained his balance and pressed a hand against his stomach. Officials surrounded him, all talking at once; only one had any English. Lorna was suddenly at his side.
    â€œDamned thieving scoundrels!” one passenger was shouting. Go get them—don’t stand round here .”
    â€œAnything valuable, Mannering?” asked another.
    Mannering felt physically sick enough to be silent. Lorna answered for him – yes. In fact, there was the replica of the blue diamond and some books. Two men helped Mannering into the