Bengal Fire, page 12
If the girl was dismayed by this announcement, she did not show it. She might not be able to control the situation but at least she had control of herself. Her smile matched the sarcasm of the Hindu’s.
“You are absent-minded,” she said. “However, I haven’t refused—yet. I understand there is an old Oriental custom never to close any deal without bargaining.”
Chitterji Rao’s silent laughter became faintly and disagreeably audible. “How much?” he asked.
The girl looked him squarely in the eyes. She was not afraid of them now. They were the eyes of a dead carp.
“Twenty thousand,” she said, without blinking.
“Shall we split the difference?”
“Very well—fifteen, then.” The girl stole a brief glance at the two native soldiers still making a steel barrier across the door. She was thinking fast. “And what about payment?”
“In currency—if you deliver the nao-ratna to me by tomorrow night.”
“As a matter of good faith—and to cover certain incidental expenses—I should expect a certain advance.” Evelyn held out her right hand, the better to display the significant gesture of thumb and forefinger. She was amazed at herself for incongruously remarking that she had neglected to renew her fingernail polish. She was amazed at herself, anyway—for her ability to simulate cool affrontery while, inside, her heart was being clutched and twisted by the icy grasp of dread.
“Certainly, certainly.” With a smirk, Chitterji Rao reached within his long black coat, withdrew a wad of currency and flicked off ten diploma-sized hundred-rupee notes. As he extended the money toward Evelyn Branch his face underwent an abrupt transfiguration.
From somewhere in the night came the muted blare of a copper trumpet, three short blasts and a long one, like the agonized bellowing of some animal in pain. Chitterji Rao stood with his lips parted, his patronizing expression frozen into a meaningless grimace. The girl’s newly won composure slipped from her as she watched his sinister, bulging eyes.
“What—what’s that?” she faltered.
“Nothing.” Chitterji Rao’s suave hands sketched an unconvincing pantomime of reassurance. “A religious ceremony. The Brahmin priests of His Highness are preparing to greet the dawn.”
“But it’s still dark.” Evelyn heard the mournful blare of the horn repeated. She heard many feet hurrying down distant stone corridors, the clink of metal, the staccato echo of Hindustani commands in an excited undertone. A green-coated A.D.C. burst into the room shouting, “Thanadar ata hai!”
Without replying, Chitterji. Rao seized Evelyn’s arm, pushed her past the bayonets of the guards into the blue gloom of the corridor where the man with the purple turban was waiting. “Come, please.”
Before she could catch her breath to protest, the girl was being half dragged, half pushed up a dark, musty-smelling marble stairway, one landing after another, upward, always upward.
A patch of star-pricked sky opened before her. Then the girl found herself being hurried along a parapet. She saw lights moving restlessly in a courtyard far below, smoky flares weaving, crossing, hurrying. In an angle of the parapet she saw the figure of a man crouching, a man in occidental clothes, who was peering over the parapet into the street. From the back, she did not recognize the man, but she thought he seemed vaguely familiar. Clutching at a straw, she called, “Colonel Linnet!”
The European turned his head with an abrupt, startled movement. Darkness still veiled his features, but the new angle on his crouching figure showed her she had been mistaken. This man was not the square-shouldered, square-jawed Linnet. He was scrawny, undernourished-looking. He glared at Evelyn in silent immobility.
“Come, please.”
The man in the purple turban tugged at Evelyn’s arm. She tried to hold back. She looked behind her. Over the parapet she caught a glimpse of a motorcar stopping in front of the Palace. Several men got out, crossed in front of the headlights. One of them was a bundle of dynamic energy in white trousers and alpaca coat, a man she had heard police officials address that afternoon as Inspector Prike.
“Come, please.”
Evelyn felt her arm wrenched painfully. She no longer resisted. In front of her a pointed dome raised its dark mass toward the stars like a huge inverted turnip. At the base of the dome was a bronze door. The man in the purple turban swung it open, dragged Evelyn into the gaping blackness.
Chapter Sixteen
A TRAIL OF BLOOD
“You should have stopped in front, where I left you, Robbins,” said Inspector Prike to his deputy in the compound behind the Anglo-Bengal Times composing-room. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t have lost both of them.”
“Both, inspector?”
“Mr. Marvin was calling on Rufus Dormer when I arrived.”
“That redhead again?” The Deputy Inspector’s waxed mustaches worked like the feelers of a nervous beetle. “And you thought he’d mind you like a good boy, and go home to sleep!”
“Doubtless he’s a somnambulist, Robbins,” said Prike. “At any rate, your abandoning your post has allowed him to make a leisurely exit by the front door.”
“I’ll get right after him, inspector.”
“I’d suggest you look for him in Alipore—or Guru’s Lane.”
“Why Guru’s Lane, inspector?” Robbins asked.
“For the same reason, Robbins,” said Prike, “that you or I, were we twenty years younger and knew that a fascinating and somewhat mysterious young woman with hair the color of ripe jute was stopping at Mrs. Pereira’s boarding-house, might go to Guru’s Lane.”
“Cherchez la femme, eh, inspector? So you think that American girl is at the bottom of all this homicide?”
“I can’t say—yet,” Prike answered. “However, as far as I have been able to determine, Lee Marvin was not one of the late Mr. Hoyt’s blackmail victims. All his actions for the past thirty-six hours are apparently motivated by one of two things: an understandable interest in Miss Evelyn Branch, and a desire to increase his prestige with his firm by securing the Bosa pearl for Orfèvre, Ltd. I suggest you drop around at Guru’s Lane, Robbins. I’m going to Alipore, myself.”
“To the Maharajah of Jharnpur’s palace?”
“Right.”
“Still think the Maharajah’s nao-ratna is a missing clue, inspector?”
“Practically certain of it. But I don’t expect to find the nao-ratna at Alipore, Robbins. If one of the Maharajah’s men had taken it from Marvin, I hardly think I would have found Chitterji Rao going through Hoyt’s safe this afternoon. But I think, Robbins, that I might find Rufus Dormer at Alipore!”
“Dormer? How’s that, inspector?”
“Rufus Dormer is after money,” said Prike. “He told me this evening he needed cash. Since he’s been associated with Hoyt, he would normally try to squeeze out a few rupees from the ex-victims of Hoyt’s extortion industry. That would explain his return to the Grand Hotel this evening, to see Julius. Putting myself in his place, I go further down the list of Hoyt’s clients, and come first to the name of the Maharajah of Jharnpur. I assume, for the moment, that Dormer has done the same. So I’m going to Alipore.”
Inspector Prike had been to the Alipore Palace before, both socially and professionally. He knew the Maharajah of Jharnpur to be a very dark, very tall, very conceited Hindu who spoke English fluently, as a result of three years at Cambridge perfecting his cricket, voice modulation, tea-table etiquette and other branches of Western culture essential to an Oriental potentate. Prike also knew that His Highness was wealthy enough to maintain, in addition to his winter palace in Alipore, three palaces in his own state of Jharnpur some miles up the Hooghly from Chandernagore; a summer palace in Darjeeling; a string of racehorses; one of the largest elephant stables outside of Hyderabad. The Maharajah, Prike also surmised, would not be directly involved in the present case; he was too smart for that. But Prike was equally sure that somewhere in the course of his investigation he would find prints of the long, intriguing fingers of Chitterji Rao.
The inspector was not greatly surprised, therefore, to be greeted at the entrance to the palace by the suave Household Officer himself, bubbling with amiability that was too enthusiastic to be sincere.
“You keep late hours in Alipore,” said Prike, surveying the armed guards drawn up in close ranks behind the Household Officer. Prike considered the Jharnpur state troops to be well trained—exceptionally good soldiers for natives of the Ganges delta—but he saw no personal menace in the present martial display. The Maharajah would not dare assail British authority outside the borders of his own state.
“We were expecting you, inspector.”
“And arranged this military display to intimidate me?”
“To honor you, inspector,” purred Chitterji Rao.
If Inspector Prike found it odd that military courtesies should be accorded a police official on an unexpected visit in the middle of the night, his gravely enigmatic face gave no indication. “As you probably know, Chitterji Rao, this is not a social call,” he said. “I have come here to make an arrest.”
A shadow crossed the face of Chitterji Rao so rapidly that it was almost immediately erased by a bland smile.
“I shall be glad to be of any assistance,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Prike. “You might save trouble for me and embarrassment for His Highness if you could arrange for the person I’m seeking to give himself up-outside the palace.”
Chitterji Rao bowed. “If only I knew the name of the person—”
“I fancy you know it. The person came here within the hour—on a matter involving a sum of money.”
Chitterji Rao stiffened. His heavy eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure I know of no one—”
“Come, come,” Prike interrupted. “You may not remember him because he tried to blackmail you out of only five hundred rupees.”
“Him? Then it’s a man?”
“Named Rufus Dormer.”
Chitterji Rao relaxed. “I have not seen him,” he said, “but if you would like to search the palace—”
“I was about to suggest that.”
“With the exception, naturally, of His Highness’s apartments.”
“Naturally.”
“Shall we start with the quarters of the A.D.C.’s?”
“If you like.” Prike nodded affably but the tenseness about the muscles of Jais jaw denoted anything but passive acquiescence.
The investigation of Inspector Prike appeared on the surface to be no more than a leisurely stroll through the palace. The A.D.C. quarters, the rooms of the munshis, the servants’ quarters, the separate kitchens for the various castes of Hindus, the military headquarters, the apartments of the court musicians—all underwent an apparently casual inspection. In the guest wing the inspector’s interest seemed to grow more alert. He paused in from of a locked door.
“I suppose this is Mr. Linnet’s apartment?” he inquired.
“Colonel Linnet,” the Household Officer corrected. “He is a guest of His Highness. I doubt the advisability of awakening him.”
“A military man will understand the exigencies of duty,” said Prike, beating a tattoo on the door-panel with his knuckles.
The door was opened almost immediately by George Linnet, fully dressed in khaki shorts and shirt. The inspector’s quick glance in detailing his attire seemed to call for a reply, for he was immediately on the defensive.
“Hello,” he said. “I heard the racket in the courtyard so I jumped into some clothes. What the hell’s going on?”
“Colonel Linnet,” interposed Chitterji Rao suavely, “this is Inspector Prike.”
“I believe we have met,” said Prike quickly. “We were both wedding guests—of a sort.”
Linnet burst into a hearty guffaw. “Say, that’s right,” he laughed. “You’re the bird that kept me waiting at the church this morning—or would you call it yesterday morning.”
“I was rather busy trying to reconcile the nuptials with the funeral,” said Prike, “so that I didn’t have a chance to talk to you at length, Colonel—or is it Lieutenant?”
Linnet laughed again, but less heartily. He made a careless gesture with the gray glove that covered his rigid-fingered left hand. “Well, they call me colonel,” he replied. “And I am, too. A triple-threat man, I guess, if you want to count the Kentucky commission, which I don’t. I was a colonel down in Nicaragua in the old Sandino days until the Marines made me quit; I wouldn’t shoot one of my own buddies, after all. Then I was a Bolivian colonel in the Gran Chaco fuss. I’ve just come from there.”
“You like fighting, don’t you, lieutenant?—or rather colonel.” Prike seemed genuinely embarrassed at having confused the titles.
“A damn sight better than eating,” Linnet exclaimed.
“Even fighting with your superiors?”
Linnet laughed again, with even less enthusiasm. “I see you heard about that little trouble I had back in the States after the war,” he said. “It’s a long story but it really wasn’t my fault. You see this cocky medico major used to—”
“I am very much more interested,” Prike broke in, “in knowing what your exact relations were with Harrison Hoyt. You were a bit vague this morning—not unnaturally so in view of the shock of seeing an old friend tumble out of a ghari dead.”
“Hell, he wasn’t an old friend,” said Linnet. “I hadn’t seen him for three or four years. I met him in a New York speakeasy. He was handing out the manure for some Broadway leg show and I was resting up from Nicaragua. Some spig clipped me in the bosque down there and the slug of lead never did work out. It used to hurt like hell on rainy days, so I’d been hitting the bottle a little. Hoyt and I used to raise elbows together, that’s all.”
The gun-metal eyes of Inspector Prike showed not the slightest flicker of amusement at Linnet’s breezy chatter. “You came to India to—raise elbows with Mr. Hoyt?”
“To raise hell more likely,” Linnet answered. “You see, when this Gran Chaco war petered out on me, I was sort of at loose ends for excitement. This fuss down in Ethiopia looked too one-sided to be much fun for Linnet. Then I got a post card from Hoyt with a picture of the Taj Mahal at moonlight and I got the idea I’d like to do a little big-game hunting, so I wrote to Hoyt, and he wrote back that he’s got a friend who’s a Maharajah with a private jungle full of tigers just crying to be shot; and to come on out. So here I am.”
“Your interest in tigers must have given you much in common with Kurt Julius.”
“Julius?” Linnet frowned. “Oh, sure. That’s the fat elephant broker. Yes, I met him at Hoyt’s dinner. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but a hell of a liar. I caught him in a couple of big ones.”
“You haven’t seen Julius since the dinner?” Prike demanded.
“Sure,” Linnet admitted. “I ran into him early this evening in the Grand Hotel bar. We lifted a couple of quick ones together.”
“And discussed the death of Harrison Hoyt?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t? That’s the big topic of all the gin-mill debating societies. The boys seem to think there was some skullduggery about Hoyt’s kicking off. What do you think, inspector?”
Prike ignored the question. He was casually strolling about the room, seemingly preoccupied. “Did Julius show you his tigers in Dumdum Road?” he asked.
“Dumdum Road?” Linnet chuckled. “Say, that’s a hot one. Any relation to dumdum bullets? Nasty soft-nosed babies. Tear a man’s guts out.”
“Kurt Julius had a transient menagerie in Dumdum Road,” said Prike.
“Had?” The past tense seemed to surprise Chitterji Rao.
“Had,” Prike repeated. He came up to the two men and stopped. “Julius was found dead there tonight.”
The inspector’s features remained expressionless as he made this announcement, but his glance shifted quickly from Linnet to Chitterji Rao and back to Linnet. He was looking for reactions—and he got them.
“Dead?” exclaimed Chitterji Rao.
Linnet’s angular jaw dropped. “The Hell you say!”
The faces of both the Hindu and the American registered heavily. But the emotions defied the efforts of Prike’s nimble mind to classify them. Both men obviously sought to give the impression of amazement and both were obviously acting. Neither, Prike was convinced, was in the least surprised. What did they feel? Relief? Triumph? Annoyance? Malicious amusement?
“What caused the poor chap’s death?” asked Chitterji Rao, with great concern.
“For the moment, gentlemen,” said Prike, “I am afraid you can answer that question as well as I can.” He paused, glancing from one face to the other. “Perhaps better. Good night, Lieutenant—pardon me—Colonel Linnet. Shall we go on, Chitterji Rao?”
Linnet’s door closed, but the catch did not click. Prike knew instinctively that Linnet was still standing with his hand on the knob, listening.
“I hardly suppose you want to visit the zenana, inspector,” purred Chitterji Rao as they started down the gloomily lit corridor. “Or is this chap Dormer a lady’s man?”
“Let’s not beat about the bush,” Prike countered. “Dormer is carrying on Hoyt’s business on a small scale. He has come to ask for money in return for not divulging certain information—information, I fancy, concerning the loss of the Maharajah’s nao-ratna.”
“But there is nothing to divulge, inspector—”
“You’ve been negotiating with Hoyt to get the nao-ratna back from someone. Who is it? A woman?”
“Really, inspector, His Highness has been too much engrossed in affairs of state to dream of love these days—”
“Nonsense,” snapped Inspector Prike. “You forgot that my previous visits to the palace have given me a rather clear insight into the economic phases of the Maharajah’s emotional life. There was the matter of the plump Viennese tight-rope walker and the emerald bracelet. Remember? Then there was the Viceregal inquiry into the disappearance of that Nautch girl from the zenana of the Rajah of Tuak. Naturally, my dear Chitterji Rao, when the Maharajah’s Household Officer employs a man like Harrison Hoyt to recover missing jewelry, I must presume that His Highness has had another unfortunate experience with the shrewder sex— which he prefers to liquidate without publicity. Otherwise, why didn’t you come to us?”
