Wives to Burn, page 10
“There’s a letter for you, Gabriel,” she said, every inch the grand duchess in Act III. She looked at the detective as through a lorgnette, and the gesture with which she handed him the bulky envelope suggested a silver tray.
“Thanks,” said Gabriel, “I didn’t know there was a midnight delivery by the Shakkarpur post office.”
“The letter didn’t come by post,” said Miss Small.
Gabriel glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to Wm. S. Gabriel, Esquire, Shakkarpur. It bore no stamps. Down in one corner were the words By Hand.
“Who brought this?” Gabriel demanded.
“Some chokra. A ragamuffin from the bazaar.”
“Why did he bring it to you instead of to me?”
“I intercepted him. I happened to be on the veranda for a breath of air. I frequently suffer from insomnia. Oh, you needn’t act so surprised, Gabriel. You knew it was coming.”
“Did I?”
“I told you. My cards told you. A letter in the night. Blood—or a red-headed woman. Trouble. Aren’t you going to open it, Gabriel?”
“Seems sort of superfluous,” the detective said. “We both know what’s in it—from the cards. Thanks for bringing it, Miss Small. Good night.”
Miss Small did not go. She said quickly:
“You mentioned the cards, Mr. Gabriel—you remember Mr. Hatton laughed when I told him the cards could find the murderer for him? He was wrong to laugh, because the cards could tell him.”
“I’m sure they could, Miss Small, but—”
“Won’t you let them tell you?”
“Not tonight, Gwendolyn.”
“In the morning, then.”
“That’s right. In the morning. Good night, Miss Small;”
He closed the door in the face of Gwendolyn Small, turned the key. He looked at the envelope closely. He wondered if the flap hadn’t been steamed open. Maybe not. Everything you touched in Shakkarpur was warm. Warm at night and hot in the daytime. And that dampness could have come from perspiration on the hands of the person who brought the envelope. He tore it open, shook out a sheaf of typewritten pages. A handwritten note fluttered to the floor. He picked it up, read:
Delhi, Saturday.
My Dear Mr. Gabriel:
Inspector Dumbarton has asked me to send you the enclosed copy of our dossier on Lucy Steel, alias Lucy Oaks, alias Lucile Stepton, alias Luella Stoll. The information is from our own C.I.D. files, supplemented by reports from London, from the Deuxième Bureau of the French Sureté, and from the Federal Bureau of Investigation at Washington. I trust you will find it useful.
Very truly yours
D. D. Smith, Deputy Inspector.
Gabriel sat down, began reading the typewritten sheets:
Lucy Steel, born August 19, 1898, at Pueblo, Colorado, U.S.A. Height 5 ft. 5 in weight, circa 8 stone 10. Believed to be natural brunette, although hair is variously blond or red; artificially wavy. Gray eyes, small pointed nose, full lips.
Arrested in Bombay, Nov. 22, 1928, on suspicion of extortion; charges dropped; insufficient evidence.
Arrested in London, July 1, 1929, on charge of extortion and attempted blackmail; released when complaining witness refused to prosecute.
Investigated by U. S. Department of Justice Agents in New Orleans, Louisiana, in October, 1932, following information from Mexican Government indicating implication in gun-running plot for abortive revolution at Tampico. No arrest. Evidence incomplete.
No record 1933-6, but believed involved in smuggling and revolutionary activity in Central and South America.
Watched by French agents in Spanish Morocco and Tangiers in 1936-7. Believed in communication with General Franco in the early months of the Spanish civil war. Escaped to Algeciras just before apprehension by the French Deuxième Bureau at Algerian border. Sailed for New York from Gibraltar.
Spent 1938 in California as scandal reporter for West Coast Tattler, scurrilous Hollywood publication which thrives on blackmail of film stars and other prominent persons with more money than discretion. Believed to maintain contacts with Franco agents on Pacific Coast.
Gabriel put down the pages thoughtfully, chewed the end of his fountain pen for a moment, then resumed his letter to Inspector Dumbarton.
Another interruption, Aubrey, he wrote. I have just received your dossier on Lucy Steol, delivered by your mysterious but efficient stooge in Shakkarpur—whoever he is. It looks like I might have to change my whole angle. I thought this case was a simple matter of stopping blackmail, but it seems to have political angles, too. That means I will have to check on the native politicians that Oaks has been playing with—Shivaji Lal, the Brahman, and his lawyer son, Ganeshi Lal. Also Hajji Ahmed, the local Mohammedan big shot. I think—
Again Gabriel paused. There was another sound at his door. Gwendolyn Small was no doubt still outside, eavesdropping.
Again he went to the door, listened, opened suddenly. As the door swung in, something heavy fell against the detective. He staggered back, recovered his balance, flung his arms around the tall, inert figure which slid clumsily off the door, toppled into the room.
Gabriel drew the sagging body further into the room, let it slump gently to the floor. He glanced quickly into the corridor, came back, closed the door and locked it.
Then he bent over the unconscious form of Fred Oaks, his plump fingers groping for a pulse, his ear pressed against Fred’s chest, listening for a heart beat.
Chapter Fourteen
A Body for Safekeeping
When Virginia Hatton left the watchman’s hut, Fred Oaks put out the lantern and groped his way to the string bed to sit down. After a moment his olfactory nerves became dulled to the Oriental odors the chokidar had left behind and he found he could think in terms other than those of smells.
He wondered how long he would have to wait before Virginia came back with food. That she would come back, he had no doubt, yet he found himself thinking of her without a sense of triumph. This fact surprised him. He was certainly not developing a conscience at this late date. He had never before hesitated to use women as best suited his convenience because they had never hesitated to take advantage of him in the past and would continue to do so in the future—if he let them. Even Virginia, with all her innocent altruism, would use him for her own ends if she got a chance. She had already started. She would try to make an honest man of him, an instrument of social welfare and decency—her instrument, to bolster her own ego. No, it could not be Virginia who was responsible for this unprecedented feeling of emptiness.
He was not ashamed of his job, either. He was just helping out Providence. It was Providence, not Fred Oaks, which had made Hindus and Moslems hate each other. That abetting this enmity to the point of violence might give comfort to European or Asiatic enemies of Great Britain was merely incidental and no concern of his. That people would probably be killed by the firearms and explosives that he was bringing to Shakkarpur was of no importance either. They’d be killed anyway, very likely, and bullets were more merciful than being beaten to death with lathis, or battered by stones. Moreover, death meant nothing in India. It meant nothing to a country that already had so many mouths to feed that nine-tenths of its population could find only one meal a day. It meant nothing to a Moslem, except direct ascent to a Paradise peopled with beautiful women and flowing with wine that did not intoxicate. And it meant nothing to a Hindu except the breaking of one more link in the chain of karma which bound his soul to the unpleasant series of terrestial incarnations separating him from blissful union with the Infinite. Virginia, of course, would disagree with his attitude, would call it cold-blooded, but then Virginia was a sentimentalist. He had no business thinking of Virginia now, anyhow. Damn it, she—
Someone was at the door. Fred stood up, listened. He heard the chokidar announcing himself in Urdu, holding forth at length on the impossibility of enjoying a holiday without one’s favorite hookah. After a while the chokidar gave up trying to get in and debated with himself for a moment as to the best way of getting his hookah. He was bound to get that hookah, even if he had to get the District Officer to unlock the lodge for him. He was so insistent, that Fred decided he was full of palm toddy. Either that, or—
Fred swore under his breath. He swore in Spanish, for no particular reason except that he had learned a lot of virulent Spanish cuss words during the Asturian campaign and he was in a virulent mood. Then, suddenly, he was no longer in a virulent mood. There was cold perspiration beading his forehead and he had a heavy lump at the pit of his stomach. He had made a bad mistake, probably two bad mistakes. He had not taken precautions enough so that the watchman would not come back, and he had been counting too much on Virginia. The watchman had apparently gone away, but he may have just gone to some toddy shop for another drink. Or he may have gone to the District Officer. Quite possibly it was not the watchman at all, but someone Virginia had paid to stand outside the door and recite a monologue calculated to scare Fred out, to get him out of the compound. That was quite possible—Virginia paying him back in his own coin. Whatever it was, one thing was certain: he could not stay here.
He opened the door a crack, peered out. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped outside, locked the door, and threw the key away. Then he started walking to the rear of the compound, toward the mildewed wall that separated the D.O.’s domain from that of the Alvin Brinkers. He had gone about fifty yards when he realized that there was a man walking along beside him. The man was a Hindu and his bare feet made no sound as he fell into step with Fred.
“Salaam, Sahib,” he said.
Fred did not reply. He looked at his uninvited companion. In the dark he could tell nothing about him except that he was as tall as Fred himself, that he wore a white turban and dhoti, that his torso was bare, that he had a large mustache, and that he smelled strongly of cocoanut oil. He seemed to have an enormous scar on one cheek. On this basis Fred could not decide whether to sock him and run or merely to ignore him.
“I come from Ganeshi Lal,” murmured the Hindu. “Will you come with me to meet him?”
“No,” said Fred.
“Ganeshi Lal wishes to see you. Will you go alone, if you do not trust me? He is waiting at Chunder Bose’s godown.”
Fred continued to walk. He said nothing. The godown of Chunder Bose was the place to which the rifles were to be sent ultimately, and its mention seemed to establish the Hindu as an authentic messenger of Ganeshi Lal. But Fred had told the lawyer he would get in touch with him if necessary; there was no reason for Lal to send word to Oaks.
“Shall I tell Ganeshi Lal you will come?” the Hindu persisted.
“No.”
Fred felt a sudden grip on his right wrist. His arm was twisted brutally behind him. He squirmed, trying to work around to an angle from which he could swing on the Hindu, but his man was standing behind him, clung to him tenaciously. There was a sharp jab of pain in Fred’s forearm. He swung wildly, kicked backward, at last landed a glancing blow on his adversary’s shoulder. The Hindu ran.
Fred ran after him. He felt a strange constriction about his chest, as though his lungs would burst with each short, difficult breath. His legs, too, were giving him trouble; they began to grow numb after the first few steps. A great, warm drowsiness took possession of him. He made a conscious effort to force his legs to work, to make them work faster. That was it—faster, faster. He had overcome that numb drowsiness. He was running, racing along so rapidly that the wind roared in his ears. He was fairly flying through the night, flying, and the night was suffused with a queer, rose-colored glow. The night—
Fred had fallen face downward in a clump of bamboo. After a moment the tall Hindu with the walrus mustache came back, prodded him with his bare toes, picked him up, carried him to the wall, boosted him over. On the other side the Hindu retrieved a large chaddar from under a hedge of stunted pomegranate, unfolded it, wrapped it loosely around the inert form of Fred Oaks. He hoisted Fred to his shoulder like a roll of carpet, started with him through the back streets of the bazaar.
When he came within sight of Seaside House, the Hindu parked his burden under a gold-mohur tree, went off to reconnoiter. Gwendolyn Small was pacing the veranda in her red dressing gown, making peculiar sweeping gestures with her arms with each slow, stately step. The Hindu came back to the gold-mohur tree, pulled the chaddar from Fred Oaks’s face, examined him closely, felt his pulse. Then he squatted beside him to wait.
From under the tree he watched until he saw Gwendolyn Small go into the hotel. He waited another ten minutes, then picked up his burden, shouldered it, and went in himself. In front of William Gabriel’s room, he unwound the chaddar from around Oaks and propped him against the door, wedging him into the shallow angle made by the frame. Then he took a folded bit of paper from the voluminous folds of his dhoti, slipped it into the pocket of the senseless man, rapped lightly at the door, and ran silently away.
For what seemed a long time; Bill Gabriel remained bent over the torso of Fred Oaks, listening for a heart beat, hearing nothing but the excited rush of blood in his own ears. At last he caught the rhythm of a faint throb, very slow, very faint, but steady. Oaks was still alive. In fact, at that moment he snored.
The plump little detective picked up the unconscious man and staggered with him to the bed. He loosened Fred’s clothes, began examining his head for the wound that had knocked him out. Snoring, he remembered, was a symptom of brain concussion. His fingers explored the scalp, seeking a bruise or the telltale feel of a skull fracture. There was none.
He carried his examination further, noticed dried blood on the right hand. There was a smear of blood on the right forearm, too, and a small, jagged wound above the swollen veins of the wrist. In the midst of the clotted blood of the wound, there was a tiny metallic gleam. With his finger tips, Gabriel pulled out the broken end of a hypodermic needle. He sniffed.
Putting the piece of fine hollow steel carefully away in his wallet, the detective started to go through the pockets of the senseless Oaks. The contents were not particularly revealing—until the side coat pocket produced a grimy piece of paper on which was printed in crude, pencil-drawn block letters:
This man will sleep until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. He has taken a barbituric acid derivative and needs no attention unless his face begins to discolor within an hour. If bluish tinge appears in face, he should be treated for shock of respiratory centers immediately. Picro-toxin is an antidote. Dr. Forsythe has some.
The note, of course, bore no signature. Gabriel filed it in his wallet. He glanced at Fred Oaks’s face. The color seemed normal. He continued to look at Fred as though he expected his parted, motionless lips to utter some clue to this new snarl in a growing tangle.
Who had given Fred Oaks a shot of one of these new barbituric compounds? (What were they now? Probably evipal or pentathal.) And, particularly, why? Whoever had done it did not mean Fred permanent harm, or the syringe would have contained poison. And there would have been no instructions regarding the antidote. Someone, apparently, strongly desired to see Fred Oaks out of commission for one night only, and had delivered him to Gabriel for safekeeping. For his own good—to keep him out of danger? To keep him from meddling in some event scheduled to take place before dawn and which he might have stopped? To establish an alibi for him, in spite of himself, for some crime which would be committed while he was unconscious?
Well, whatever it was, here was something to write to Inspector Dumbarton about—but not tonight. Tonight there was work to do, plenty of work before Fred woke up.
Gabriel rearranged the sleeping man in what seemed to be a comfortable position, turned his head to one side on his pillow so that he would not swallow his tongue—and, incidentally, so that his face could not be seen from the entrance to the room. To obscure the man’s identity further, Gabriel let down the mosquito netting and tucked it in. He took another look at the color of Fred’s face. Then he turned out the lamp, and left, locking the door after him.
Chapter Fifteen
The Missing Husband
As Gabriel passed the hedge of thorny babul that surrounded the Curring bungalow, a blinding light burst silently in his face. He sidestepped nimbly out of the glare. His arm shot out. His fingers seized the flashlight. His wrist swiveled. Rhoda Curring now stood blinking in the cone of brightness.
“What are you doing out here, Mrs. Curring?”
“Waiting for you,” Rhoda said. She moistened her lips.
“Out here?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you wait in the house?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Afraid to wait in your own house?”
“Yes.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know. I’m just—terribly frightened.”
Gabriel made an incredulous clucking sound with the back of his tongue and his palate. The aroma of alcohol was strong on Rhoda’s breath, but she wasn’t drunk. At least she didn’t sway as she stood in the searching glare of the flashlight, a slight but shapely figure in lounging pajamas of green transparent velvet. She did have a wild, drunken look in her green eyes, but fear could do that as well as whisky.
“Let’s go in,” Gabriel said. He prodded her gently with the flashlight.
Rhoda stood her ground. “You go first,” she said.
The detective hesitated. He tapped her well-molded hips, felt her armpits—although he knew she had no gun. Those thin, snug-fitting pajamas wouldn’t hide a gun; they didn’t hide anything. He turned her around. Between her shoulders the velvet was dark with perspiration.
“All right,” he said. “Come on.”
He led the way into the bungalow, walked through the darkened rooms, spraying the walls with light. Rhoda followed him so closely that he could feel the flutter of her wide sleeves against him.
“There’s nobody here,” he said. “Are you still afraid?”
Rhoda made no reply. She took the light from Gabriel, opened a door, beckoned him with her head. The detective followed into the bedroom. Rhoda locked the door.
