Bombay Mail, page 11
“The bore has been newly fouled and there is an empty cartridge in the chamber. I haven’t- the slightest doubt that the bullet could be found by probing the body of a Prince of India who lies dead at Satna.”
There was no comment. Prike had not expected any. He looked straight at Captain Worthing, and said, “This is the model revolver regularly issued to officers of the British Army. Is it yours, Captain Worthing?”
Captain Worthing was standing on the opposite side of the table. His face was waxen, as he stared at the gun.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said.
“Will you come here and have a look at it, or shall I identify the ownership by its serial number, Captain?” Prike demanded.
Captain Worthing walked around the table as stiffly as though his legs were partially paralyzed. He nervously fingered his blond mustache as he continued to stare at the gun.
“It—I believe the revolver is mine, sir,” he said at last.
“There’s no use asking you, Captain, if you are the one who placed this revolver behind the fan after the Maharajah was killed. You would deny it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You would also deny that you had this revolver on your person when the train reached Satna.”
“I haven’t seen that pistol since we left Calcutta last night,” said Captain Worthing. “It was in my kit.”
“Naturally you would like me to believe that someone stole the revolver from your kit,” said Inspector Prike. “Have you any idea who it might be?”
Captain Worthing did not reply.
“Hey, Inspector, why don’t you ask the Captain’s Russian lady friend about it?” volunteered Cootie Neal.
The Inspector’s eyebrows raised a trifle.
“Russian lady friend?” He looked at Captain Worthing. Two tiny spots of color suddenly appeared in the Captain’s pale cheeks. He said nothing.
“Sure,” continued Neal. “Smeganoff. The little blonde. You got her aboard the car. Maybe she could tell you a thing or two. Anyhow, I’d like to get a picture of you talking to her.”
“Smeganoff?” Prike continued to look at Captain Worthing. “The blond lady in the end compartment is Canadian. Her name is Beatrice Jones.”
“Canadian, me eye!” exclaimed Neal. “She’s Smeganoff or I’m the Viceroy of India. She’s as Russian as ten gallons of vodka. Can’t you tell by her accent?”
“She speaks perfect English,” said Prike, without taking his eyes from Captain Worthing. “What do you know about her, Captain?”
Captain Worthing seemed to have difficulty an opening his lips.
“You’ve seen her passport, Inspector, which tells more than I can,” he said.
Inspector Prike nodded slowly. Then he gave a curt order to the guard at the end of the corridor.
“Bring Miss Jones in here,” he called.
Prike stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and paced up and down thoughtfully. Unconsciously, his fingers had been toying with a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. He withdrew the paper, saw that it was a note written on a letterhead of R. Xavier, and he remembered that he had not had time to read it at Satna. It said:
Does Inspector Prike know that the blond Madame Smeganoff who recently incurred the suspicions of Calcutta with her relations with Captain Worthing, the Governor’s military secretary, is a passenger on the Mail? R. Xavier.
Prike folded the note carefully and replaced it in his pocket, just as the door opened. He saw Captain Worthing whirl to face the corridor. But the guard was alone and frightened.
“That chap Hawley’s gone, Inspector!” the guard cried. “’E’s got away. Broke out through the window. I don’t know how—”
“Imbecile!” Inspector Prike was on his feet. For a moment his usual unruffled calm seemed to desert him. Then with quiet sarcasm he said to the dismayed guard, “I am stepping into the corridor for a moment. I suppose I had better remind you that there are six persons in this dining-saloon and that I expect to find six when I get back, windows or no windows.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Inspector. I—”
Inspector Prike strode down the corridor, threw open the door of the last compartment. Pundit Garnath Chundra was sitting in the corner near the door. Beatrice Jones was smoking a cigarette by the wide-open window. The scorching wind was blowing through her blond hair. The Inspector stood in the doorway for a moment without speaking. The girl turned toward him with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
“Looking for Mr. Hawley, Inspector?” she asked. “He just stepped out to get some tobacco. Is there any message?”
“How long has he been gone?”
The girl blew a cloud of smoke toward the Inspector.
“I forgot to notice the time,” said the girl. “I didn’t realize that I was supposed to act as warden, as well as prisoner.”
“Did Hawley get out that window while the train was standing in the last station?” Inspector Prike pursued.
“Of course not,” said the girl. “He jumped out while the train was speeding along at sixty miles an hour. He was dashed to pieces—very small pieces, by the way.”
“Did he make his escape before or after the stop at Satna?”
“I don’t see how it could matter, Inspector. We have all afternoon. When Mr. Hawley asked to speak to you on urgent business a little while ago, you acted as if time were of no account whatever.”
“It matters considerably!” snapped Inspector Prike. He was evidently becoming annoyed by the girl’s facetious answers. This saucy blonde, mischievously bent on being irritating, did not seem the same person as the girl who had wilted piteously on being accused of inhabiting Karaiya Road. “It matters,” Prike continued, “because if Hawley went out the window at Satna station or before, he could have come back into the car through the outside door of the bathroom adjoining this compartment; he could have fired a shot from the other side of the car, placed the revolver behind the fan near the end of the corridor, and escaped again through the bathroom.”
“Where would he get the revolver, Inspector? You searched him.”
“Unfortunately,” replied Inspector Prike, “I neglected to search you—Madame Smeganoff.”
With a quick motion of her wrist, the girl tossed her cigarette out the window.
“My name is Beatrice Jones,” she said.
“It is. But it was Madame Smeganoff in Calcutta, was it not?”
“You have my passport,” replied the girl. “Can’t you find out if it’s forged?”
“I dare say. But in the meantime, I should like you to meet a friend of mine. A very charming young army officer. Or perhaps you know him already? Captain Gerald Worthing?”
“As a rule I find army officers rather boring,” said the girl, suppressing a yawn.
“I insist that you meet Captain Worthing,” said Inspector Prike coldly. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, waiting for a reply.
“Very well,” said Beatrice Jones after a moment. She deliberately opened a small vanity case and took her time about powdering her nose. Then she got up and preceded Inspector Prike down the corridor.
The Bombay Mail was roaring across a bridge. Shadows of steel girders fell upon the windows like the revolving spokes of a great wheel. The roar subsided into the monotonous clicking of the rails.
Captain Worthing and Beatrice Jones faced each other in the dining-saloon. The Captain’s face had not lost the waxen pallor that had come over him after the discovery of the revolver. He said nothing. The girl lowered her eyes.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Inspector?” asked Beatrice Jones. She had meant to be flippant, but her tone was breathless.
There was a puff of blinding light.
“Thanks, Cap’n. Nice pose,” said Cootie Neal. He dropped his flashlight gun to the floor and was backing away rapidly to keep his camera out of range of Captain Worthing, who had turned on him furiously, advancing with clenched fists.
“What does this mean?” demanded the Captain. “Inspector, why do you let this man—?”
“Surely you don’t mind being photographed with a pretty girl, Captain,” said Inspector Prike. “Besides, I thought you knew Madame Smeganoff. Don’t you?”
“I knew a Madame Smeganoff in Calcutta, certainly. What has that to do with Miss Jones?”
“Then you don’t know Beatrice Jones?”
“Why should he know me?” asked Beatrice Jones petulantly. “What reason—?”
“A very good reason,” said Inspector Prike, taking a telegraph blank from his pocket and unfolding it as he spoke. “I telegraphed the Calcutta office of the East Indian Railway, inquiring about the source of the railway pass you are using. The reply was delivered to me a short time ago. Would you care to see it?”
He spread the telegram on the table. It read:
INSPECTOR L M PRIKE
IMPERIAL INDIAN MAIL
MANIKPUR JUNCTION
SECOND CLASS RAILWAY PASS NO 56899 FOR BOMBAY ISSUED
AT REQUEST OF CAPTAIN GERALD WORTHING
CALCUTTA OFFICE E I R
Chapter Sixteen: MORE GUESTS FOR MISS KLINK
As the train pulled into Manipur, Miss Ursula Klink leaned out the window. She was looking for another bearded Sikh policeman with a red turban, so that she might complete the water-color study she had started at Chheoki. All Hindus looked alike to Miss Klink, anyhow, particularly when they had beards. Incidentally, Miss Klink was looking for Doctor Lenoir. He said he would return “at intervals” to make sure she had not been inconvenienced by her guardianship of his Gladstone bag. She saw neither Doctor Lenoir nor a Sikh policeman. The only policemen she saw were Eurasians with sun helmets or Rajputs with khaki turbans. Consequently Miss Klink started a study of a thin, half-naked bheesty who squatted outside her window with his goatskin water bag slung across his back. Miss Klink had scarcely finished blocking in her sketch when the train was moving again.
Suddenly Miss Ursula Klink screamed. She sprang up, upsetting her patent artist’s stool and her paints. A man had just pulled open her door, jumped into her compartment, and closed the door after him!
He was a small man, with trousers so tight that they outlined his bowed legs. He was dark, had a beaked nose, and wore a red fez. He grinned—and Miss Ursula Klink screamed again. She recognized the grin. She had seen it at Chheoki, when Doctor Lenoir left her compartment.
Actually the man in the fez was grinning at the general aspect of an oldish maiden lady in tropical clothes made to her order by a Keokuk tailor, who got his ideas of what ladies wore in India from an early illustrated edition of the works of Rudyard Kipling. To Miss Ursula Klink, however, the grin was sinister.
“Get out!” she screamed.
The man in the fez continued to grin. The Bombay Mail drove forward at full speed.
“Get out of here!” screeched Miss Ursula Klink. “Can’t you understand English?”
“Who? Me? Whadya tink!” said the man in the fez. “Sure, I onnerstand English.”
“Then why don’t you get out?”
“Can’t, lady. Train going. Giovanni Martini going too.”
“Martini?” For a moment Miss Ursula Klink’s curiosity got the better of her nervousness. “Then you’re not a native?”
“No, lady. I’m an acrobat,” said Martini.
“But you can’t stay in my compartment!” insisted Miss Klink.
“Sure, lady. Whadya tink! I got ticket,” said Martini.
“But you can’t!” repeated Miss Klink. “It’s not proper.”
“I got proper ticket,” said Martini. “I stay.”
At this, Miss Ursula Klink began to scream in earnest. Above the noise of the train, her best effort was but a thin, if piercing, wail. Besides, the occupants of the compartments on each side of Miss Klink were in the private car at the far end of the train, being questioned by Inspector Prike. Martini, however, did not know this. He was taking no chances. He put his hand over Miss Klink’s mouth to stifle her cries. Miss Klink bit his finger.
“Don’t sing, Lady,” said Martini. “Paint.”
Martini tentatively removed his hand. Miss Klink did riot resume her screaming.
“Paint,” repeated Martini. “You make nice picture.”
Miss Klink looked more closely at the funny little man in the fez. She resented his familiarity in placing his hand over her mouth. Still, he could not be altogether bad if he appreciated her water colors.
“Do you like art?” she asked timorously, a little ashamed at having spoken to this man other than to resent his intrusion.
“Art? Sure, whadya tink!” said Martini. “I am born from Roma, where is lotsa art pictures. You know Roma?”
“Ah, Rome!” said Miss Klink. “Of course. Michael Angelo. The Sistine Chapel. Glorious—”
“Sure,” said Martini, picking up the patent artist’s stool that Miss Klink had upset in her terror. “You sit down and paint. Martini watch.”
Ursula Klink sat down, but did not resume her painting. She picked up her brushes and dabbed nervously at her paints. She was thinking. And as she thought, panic surged anew within her. She blushed furiously. Her situation was impossibly shameful. In a few hours the Bombay Mail would reach Jubbulpore. Miss Klink had letters of introduction to some missionaries in Jubbulpore. She had sent them ahead, saying that she was very sorry she would not be able to stay in Jubbulpore, but that she would be very happy to convey the greetings of friends in Keokuk, if the missionaries could find it convenient to be at the station during the few minutes the Bombay Mail stopped there. What if the missionaries came to the station and found her traveling with a man in her compartment? With a distinguished gentleman like Doctor Lenoir, it would not have been quite so bad, but with this disreputable-looking
Martini person! What would the missionaries think? And what would happen if they wrote indignantly to Keokuk of their shameful discovery? Miss Ursula Klink would certainly be asked to resign from the Tuesday Morning Ladies’ Culture Club. There would certainly be no exhibition of water colors. And there would certainly be a scandal. It must be avoided at all cost. How was she to get rid of this Martini person? Force, of course, was out of the question, for he was a man, even if a rather small one, and therefore strong. Moreover, he said he was an acrobat. No, she must use her wits. She must think of a ruse.
She looked at Martini. He was peering into a tobacco pouch, which he closed and quickly put into his pocket when he saw Miss Klink staring at him. Miss Klink gave him a toothy smile.
“Would you be so good, Mr. Martini,” she said, blushing again at her own boldness, “as to get me some clean water in this?”
She held out a small porcelain cup.
“Sure, lady,” said Martini. He took the cup and disappeared into the tiny lavatory.
Instantly Miss Klink got up, tiptoed across the compartment, tried to push the lavatory door closed.
Martini caught sight of her reflection in a mirror, guessed her intentions, whirled, dropped the cup, and seized the edge of the door to prevent its closing.
Miss Klink jabbed fiercely at his eyes with a paint brush.
Martini raised his hands to protect his face against Miss Klink’s continued attack.
Miss Klink slammed the door shut and locked it. She sat down, weak and trembling with excitement. She could hear her captive kicking at the door and shouting. She smiled to herself in triumph. She had saved herself from possible scandal. At the next station she would have Mr. Martini decently removed by train officials.
At approximately the same moment that Ursula Klink was locking up Martini, Jack Hawley was making his escape from the private car.
Hawley had been planning to get out ever since he recovered from the mental numbness that followed the shock of losing his rubies and Inspector Prike’s refusal to hear his story. He was standing in his prison compartment, leaning his hands against the hot pane, looking out the window, weighing the dangers that must accompany any expedition to recover the rubies, trying to decide on the best course. Behind him, Pundit Garnath Chundra was eating boiled rice that had been wrapped in a banana leaf. Beatrice Jones was watching Hawley with more than casual interest.
“Going to fight, aren’t you, Jack Hawley?” she asked, after a long silence.
Hawley nodded, but did not seem disposed to enter into any conversation with her. She watched him for quite a while, a look of sympathy and understanding in her eyes.
She asked, rather hesitantly, “What was in the pouch besides tobacco? Money?”
Hawley turned his head and looked at her, not without suspicion. She smiled.
“No cash,” he informed her gruffly, “but there was my future—and my partner’s future.”
“Diamonds?”
“Look here—!” he began, but suddenly thought better of throwing himself into an open argument and finished cautiously: “That’s close enough.”
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” said Beatrice Jones. “Do you know the short, bowlegged fellow in the red fez?”
“Never saw him before,” said Hawley. Then, eyeing her questioningly, added, “But I’ll bet Xavier has.”
Beatrice Jones elected to ignore his lead and asked, “What happens if you don’t get your pouch back?”
Hawley gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Nothing much,” he said. “Just two fellows who discovered a pretty big thing will find themselves stranded on the other side of the world from home, with nothing to their names but a lot of debts.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” said the girl. “It’s tough. But you’re not going to take it lying down, are you, Jack Hawley?”
He warmed to the obvious interest in her tone.
“No,” he said determinedly.
“You remember the compartment I pointed out to you that I saw the man with the fez getting into?”
“Yes. The third compartment of the second car from here.”
