The Mask of Sumi by John Creasey Page A

alimony to your ex-wife, and unless you find a substantial sum shortly you will be put into the bankruptcy court by your tailors and your shoemakers.
    You must get a job, and I strongly advise you to try to get one out of England. Carole won’t be patient forever.”
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    Mannering folded the letter and put it back.
    As he always did in such moments he felt as if he were a heel to invade another man’s privacy in such a way – even a man like Nares. Then he reminded himself that Nares might easily have been approached to carry that mask, yet there was no sign of it here.
    Mannering went back to his cabin and changed. There was the usual flurry of young and old in the passages. He went up to the smoking-room, and the Indian Mehta came across and said: ”Oh, Mr. Mannering.”
    â€Hallo.” Mannering smiled.
    â€œI believe we have to do battle together.”
    â€œHave we?” Mannering didn’t know what the man meant: it was almost as if Mehta was challenging him before he, Mannering, searched his room.
    â€œI have just won my round of deck quoits. We are in the semi-finals.”
    â€œOh,” said Mannering. “Congratulations. Shall we play tomorrow?”
    â€œAny time you wish.”
    They settled for ten o’clock. Mannering walked on. A few people, also changed for dinner, were in the smoking-room, but there was no sign of Naomi Ransom. Nares was in the smoking-room, changed, a drink in front of him. He waved.
    â€œCome and have one.”
    â€œAnother time, thanks,” Mannering said.
    Then he saw Naomi Ransom.
    She was stunningly beautiful in a short cocktail dress, high on one shoulder, off the other. Her hair was beautifully done, and she wore a single camellia in it, the same red as her dress. She looked as sleek and faultlessly turned out as if she had come from a Paris or Mayfair salon. Every man in sight turned his head. One, a deep-tanned, handsome man was approaching Mannering; he stopped.
    Naomi drew near Mannering and touched his hand lightly.
    â€œHallo.”
    â€œYou look ravishing.”
    â€œAlways the gallant.”
    â€œNot always, but certainly now.”
    â€œMr. Mannering—” The deep-tanned man was Major Mick Thomas, the chairman of the Sports Committee; young Joslyn was his chief aide.
    â€œHallo, Mick,” Naomi said.
    â€œBeautiful as ever, sweetheart,” Thomas said. “Come and join my party.”
    â€œI think John has designs on me,” Naomi said. Her eyes seemed to laugh at Mannering; honey-coloured eyes with beautiful lashes.
    â€œCan’t say I blame him,” said Thomas. “Er—Mr.—John—would you do me a very great favour?”
    â€œBe careful of him,” said Naomi. “He probably wants you to judge the fancy dress competition.”
    â€œDon’t spike my guns,” Thomas protested.
    â€œNo, what I would like is you to be the announcer and auctioneer at the race meeting tomorrow night,” he went on. “The man who was to do it has got laryngitis. It isn’t very much, really.”
    â€œIt’s a hard evening’s work,” said Naomi. “I’ve heard all about it.”
    â€œYou’re such a help,” said Thomas, reproachfully.
    â€œI’ll be glad to,” Mannering said.
    Thomas’s face lit up.
    â€œThat’s jolly decent of you. Everyone will be delighted. Glad to see Naomi hasn’t much influence over you.”
    He hurried off.
    â€œWhere shall we go?” asked Mannering. “This is too public.”
    â€œThe quietest place is the drawing-room,” Naomi said.
    â€œAnd we must be quiet for blackmail.”
    â€œYes, mustn’t we,” she said sweetly. They went along, talking idly, to the almost empty drawing-room, took seats out of earshot of anyone else, and ordered gin and French.
    â€œNow to business,” said Mannering. “You think you saw me go into O’Keefe’s