King Maker Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

By John Creasey

John Mannering (aka ‘The Baron’), now retired from being the country’s top jewel thief, receives a visitor in his Mayfair antique shop. It is Prince Taria, son of an old acquaintance of Mannering’s, the ruler of a small island off the coast of Malaysia. The Prince has embarked upon a desperate search for his dynastic treasures. He is also determined to give his small tropical island a true democracy, but his life is now threatened by the enemies of his people ....

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755137541

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Book preview

Chapter Two

Not Afraid to Die?

Mannering thought, he can’t be more than twenty.

It was not possible to be sure, of course; the sun and the heat played tricks with both men and women in the distant land where this youth came from. But usually it aged them, making a boy seem a man and a woman in her thirties old and haggard.

He looked so young to speak with such solemnity and to have such hidden fear.

It is not that I am afraid to die …

Why should you fear the possibility of dying? Mannering asked.

Quietly, the young man replied: My enemies will kill me.

Mannering stood by the open door of his office waiting for the young man to enter. The room was of medium size, and sparsely furnished, but each piece was a gem. In the far corner from the door was a Regency chair, behind the door a bow-shaped Queen Anne desk, with armchairs and upright chairs at hand. Bristow had vanished. Mannering pushed up a William and Mary chair, and said: Please sit down.

Thank you.

Your highness, Mannering said, with great precision, You have limited time and I could waste much of it by asking questions which are not important. Will you tell me why you came here and what you think I can do to help you?

The young man sat very erect; something in the set of his shoulders gave Mannering the impression that he felt as if he were sitting on a throne. If he told the truth he was a Prince; a ruler; and when his father died he would be the Sultan of Taria. Yes; that was the name of the island: TARIA.

Was the obese old Sultan still alive?

Mr. Mannering, Prince Hamid said, very quietly, how well do you remember my father?

Well enough to know there were few better judges of oriental jewellery and works of art.

So you have done business with him.

Some, but not very much.

Will you please tell me why?

How did one tell a young man of noble blood, who so obviously believed in and lived his position, that his father had been a rogue? Had been? Why was he thinking in terms of the old man’s death? This youth no doubt still believed in the divine right of Kings. His father had absolute control over three or four million people. His word was law. He could order a man to be beheaded; or have his life stamped out by an elephant from the jungle … How did one tell such a man that he, John Mannering of Quinns, had doubted the Sultan’s legal right to the treasures he had wanted to sell.

The dark eyes seemed to burn; to demand.

Please tell me why.

Mannering sitting down behind his desk, spread his hands and answered:

There was some doubt as to the legality of his regime.

His Kingship? The young man’s eyes stormed.

Malaysia was being formed, some of the states wanted to stay out of the Federation, but the people had to decide on the preliminary step towards union. That was the one issue they could decide because of the terms of membership; each state had to be guided by the will of the people. As Mannering talked memory became more vivid even to the angry eyes and empurpled face of the man with whom he had refused to negotiate. Abdul Hamid had been furious, only just able to control himself and to leave Quinns without making a scene. I have never wanted to be a pawn in any political game, Mannering went on gently. I am not a political animal.

So, the young Prince said in a tone of contempt. You are not a political animal but you dealt in these treasures of the dynasty of Hamid. No doubt there was a big profit for you.

That was the moment when Bristow returned with a tray on which was coffee, cream, biscuits, and a rich fruit cake. He placed the tray on a corner of Mannering’s desk, and paused; Mannering would flash a glance if he wanted him to go. But Mannering made no sign, simply returned the scornful gaze of the young man in front of him.

At last, Mannering said: Is that what your father told you? He raised a hand towards the tray, a signal for Bristow to pour out.

Yes, answered the Prince.

Then he must have had some reason for wanting you to believe what wasn’t true, Mannering declared.

The youth drew in his breath sharply. Rich brown coffee came smoothly from the spout of the coffee pot, making a faint sound. Mannering settled back in his chair, the need for giving time to Prince Hamid conflicting with the youth’s fear of staying too long.

You did not deal in the treasures?

With a few, before I understood what they were.

So, Hamid said again, and he exuded a long, slow breath. That is not my understanding.

Mannering made no comment. Bristow placed a cup of coffee in front of the Prince; placed another before Mannering. Seconds passed, and seemed to take up an age of time.

Abruptly, Hamid said: My father is dying.

I am sorry, murmured Mannering, with a little gesture of his hands.

There will be a new ruler.

Are you not the ruler to follow your father?

I will not rule, Prince Hamid stated sharply.

It is a decision for you, Mannering said. He picked up his coffee and sipped; took a biscuit and broke it. Before the interruption he had been hungry; now hunger was forgotten. He wanted to pour out question after question, longed to know the explanation of the trouble behind the Prince’s eyes; but he still did not believe that the way to find out was by question and answer.

The Prince leaned forward and held out a hand as if in appeal; a small, beautifully proportioned hand, smooth as a girl’s.

Mr. Mannering, do you know where the treasures of the dynasty of Hamid can be found?

No, Mannering replied promptly.

None of them?

Two rings and a necklace are at the British Museum, one neckband in the Mellon Gallery – now the National Gallery – in Washington. That’s all I know.

But there is—a great fortune!

I know nothing of it, Mannering insisted.

But my father— Prince Hamid began.

He stared into Mannering’s eyes for what seemed a long time, then turned abruptly away and as if for the sake of something to do, picked up his coffee and drank. He did not put his cup down until it was empty. Now was the moment for question and answer; the moment when the young man did not appear to know which way to turn.

Highness – what time must you be back?

By ten o’clock, at the very latest.

Where?

At the Tarian Consulate in St. John’s Wood.

Then you must leave here by half-past nine, Mannering said. How did you come?

By taxi.

I will take you back, if— He hesitated, and then repeated: If you are sure you must go?

It is most vital.

Very well. He did not ask the question he felt sure would not be answered but would close a door in this youth’s mind, but went on: How long have you been in England?

For one week, the Prince replied.

Did you come to look for the dynasty treasures?

Yes. But – not everyone is aware of that.

Did your father give you to understand that I would know where all of them were?

Yes, the Prince replied. He— This time he put out both hands; now it seemed like an attitude of prayer. His breathing became shorter and more shallow, his tension was increasing every moment, and he half-closed his eyes. Bristow moved towards him, as if thinking he would need physical support. Yes, repeated the Prince. He allowed it to be understood that they were in your custody.

Custody?

Some—some were sold. Some were held in trust for him.

And I was supposed to hold them in trust? Mannering could not keep the astonishment out of his voice.

That is so.

He told you this?

He told others this, and I was informed.

Could your informant have misled you? asked Mannering.

My informant is wholly trustworthy, the Prince declared, with a touch of hauteur in his voice. My father no doubt wished—to mislead.

Highness, Mannering asked, gently, why should he attempt to mislead you, or anyone in his confidence. Why should he want it believed that I had custody of the treasures when it is not true?

Very softly, the young Prince said: I do not know. He leaned back in his chair with a look of utter exhaustion.

Mannering put cream but no sugar in his coffee, and drank. In the fifteen minutes since the youth had been here, they had been transported to a different world; to a world of deceit and deception, halfway across the earth, where the Sultan’s rule was absolute, his power over the life and death of his subjects unquestioned. And this slim young man sat crumpled in his chair as if all hope had been drawn out of him. His eyes were closed, his lashes lay dark against the honey-coloured skin.

Mannering had another flash of memory, to the bejewelled death masks of the Hamid dynasty. In death a mask was taken, and then, encrusted with jewels of incalculable value, buried with the dead Sultan. Just as the tombs of ancient Egyptians were broken into for the treasures of the Pharaohs, so the burial places of the Sultans of Taria were the targets for vandalism and theft.

Slowly, the Prince’s eyes opened; at first he looked blankly at Mannering, as if he did not know where he was, but the vagueness faded. He sat upright.

Mr. Mannering, I am sorry I have troubled you.

It has been no trouble.

I came only because I believed you could help me find the treasures.

So I gathered, Mannering said.

They are so desperately needed, declared the Prince.

Mannering could ask ‘by whom’ and bring back silence; so he did not speak and did not look away from the burning, searching gaze of the young man.

Tension was back in the room; tension created by the fact that Prince Hamid was fighting some inner battle, in which neither Mannering nor Bristow could help him.

His lips parted with a hiss of breath.

For the people, he said.

Slowly, in comment not in question, Mannering remarked: The people of Taria?

The people of Taria.

Mannering allowed the silence which followed to go on until it was almost unbearable, and then said softly: Whom you serve?

Whom I serve.

Do enemies of the people wish to kill you?

Yes, answered the Prince, and fury joined the anguish in his eyes. Enemies of the people. He held his hands out again in that strange gesture of supplication, and went on in a voice which was barely audible: They have few friends. How much do you know of my country, Mr. Mannering?

That it has a long history, Mannering said.

No more than that?

That it has been ruled wisely by Sultans whom the West has called despots.

The Prince’s eyes flashed.

They have indeed been despots!

But the people have been well-governed, Mannering ventured.

Compared with some, the Prince agreed. Mr. Mannering – you have told me you are not a political animal.

And that is true, Mannering assured him.

Yet you know these things.

One can watch without taking sides, Mannering pointed out.

So. On whose side would you be in a struggle between despotism and democracy, Mr. Mannering?

Quietly, Mannering answered: In my own country, democracy’s.

Another silence fell, and during it those young eyes smouldered; remarkable eyes, seeming to reflect the emotions coursing through the young man’s heart. Suddenly he thrust his chair back, standing with his shoulders squared and his head held high.

If there is to be democracy in my country it must be soon. If there is to be freedom for the people it must be soon. If a blood-bath of unspeakable horror is to be stopped it must be soon. And if these things are to come about there must be money, and the only money which could be used comes from the treasures of the Hamid dynasty, which are believed to be here, in England. You say they are not in your custody, Mr. Mannering. Will you help me to find them, so that I can carry hope back to the people – the people who no longer need a ruler but leaders? Or— He drew in a deep breath and when he spoke again his voice was both powerful and vibrant, filled with a passion which also blazed from his eyes. "Or is this not your affair, Mr. Mannering. Is this too much to ask of a man who is not political? Is this a struggle you can watch dispassionately, without taking