Bombay Mail, page 13
Hawley swore.
“I’ll go!” he exclaimed. “That man stole the rubies. I’ll—”
“Careful, Sahib. Wait.” Yatim had opened the door a crack and was peering out. “You cannot go now, Sahib. Look.”
Hawley looked through the crack. There was a group of men standing outside the door. One of them appeared to be a British official. Inspector Prike came up and joined the group. Hawley closed the door. It would do him no good to walk right back into Prike’s arms. He swore again.
“I will watch, Sahib,” said Yatim. “When they go away, I will tell you.”
He cracked the door open again.
The train began to move. Hawley sprang to the door.
Yatim motioned him back.
“There are policemen walking along the platform, Sahib. It is too late.”
The Bombay Mail was gaining speed. Hawley swore for three minutes without stopping, while the betel-chewing Moslems stared at him. Then, whether because of the hot, foul air of the servants’ compartment, because he had not slept the night before, or from sheer exhaustion, he fell asleep sitting up.
He was awakened by Yatim shaking his arm. It was nearly dark. The train was standing in a station. Hawley rubbed his eyes.
“Quick, Sahib!” said the bearer. “The man with the fez has just gone by. He was carrying a black satchel.”
Hawley was instantly wide awake.
“Where?” he demanded.
“The next car,” said Yatim. “He got in the fourth compartment from this end. And Xavier Sahib was following him. Xavier Sahib got in too.”
Hawley jumped to the platform. The stationmaster’s shrill whistle sounded. The Bombay Mail was moving again. Hawley walked along the train. The next coach was passing him. He jumped on the step of the fourth compartment, pulled the door open, sprang inside.
VI. JUBBULPORE
(Arrive 4:49 p.m. Friday)
Chapter Eighteen: IN THE GLADSTONE BAG
Xavier had been sitting in his own compartment, smoking a Burma cheroot, wondering if he should get off the train at Jubbulpore and go back to Calcutta. His mission had apparently been accomplished. Hawley’s efforts to get his option renewed had been definitely spiked. There was really no need of seeing Martini again, of risking being identified with him. Let Martini keep the rubies. Xavier would get the ruby fields. Xavier would have millions a year!
Still— Xavier frowned at the ash on the end of his cheroot. Suppose Hawley should put up a howl? Suppose Martini should be caught and should accuse Xavier of being his employer? His leaving the train would then seem suspicious. It would be better to continue to Bombay and stand on his position as a legitimate business man. He could deny ever having seen Martini and he would be believed. He smiled. He had even a better idea. He would write a note to Inspector Prike, gratuitously offering information which would establish him as one wishing to see justice done, besides tending further to incriminate Hawley indirectly in the murder of the Governor of Bengal.
Xavier took a gold-mounted fountain pen from his pocket. Squinting through the smoke of his cheroot, he smiled with smug, hypocritical satisfaction as he began to write on a letterhead reading R. Xavier, Investments—3 Lal Bazaar, Calcutta. He penned several lines calling the Inspector’s attention to the suspicious relationship between Captain Worthing and Madame Smeganoff, then replaced the cap on his fountain pen. He folded the note and held it pensively between his thumb and forefingers as he pondered the possible consequences. He saw no way in which it could involve him, Xavier, in the Governor’s murder. Hawley certainly did not kill Sir Anthony; he hadn’t the guts. Yet the fact that Hawley and Madame Smeganoff seemed to be on such friendly terms in the restaurant car certainly indicated that Xavier’s note might raise fresh doubts in the Inspector’s mind. In addition, the note would put Xavier on record as wishing to aid the police. A man mixed up with the theft of rubies would not be likely to ally himself with the police voluntarily, Xavier argued. He unscrewed his pen again and wrote Inspector Prike’s name on the outside of the folded paper.
At the next stop he called a station coolie and gave him two copper pice to carry the note to the special car. The note would surely reach Inspector Prike. That was all Xavier wanted. For the next half hour he sat dreaming of the millions that would come to him from the Bengal ruby fields—
Suddenly he frowned. He lit a fresh cheroot and puffed at it nervously. He had overlooked an important point. He was not certain, after all, that Martini had actually taken Hawley’s rubies!
True, he had seen Martini steal Hawley’s tobacco pouch. He had seen him slip into a first-class compartment to get out of sight as the train was about to leave Manikpur Station. But he had no positive assurance that the rubies were really in the tobacco pouch. They probably were; Xavier had great confidence in himself as a psychologist. Hawley’s actions had practically admitted that the gems were in the pouch. Yet there was one chance in a hundred that they were not.
Great beads of perspiration broke out on Xavier’s sallow forehead. He must make sure. He must see Martini at the next station. There must be no possible chance that the rubies were still in Hawley’s possession.
The Bombay Mail rolled on as though it would never stop again. Xavier smoked five cheroots, chewed the butts to a pulp. It was late afternoon before the train finally steamed into a station. A scarlet line of Gold Mohur trees cast long shadows across the railway tracks. Xavier got out and walked rapidly up and down the platform.
When he finally spotted the red fez, he did not recognize Martini at first, his whites were so covered with grime. He had to look twice to convince himself that the wiry, bowlegged little man was the person he sought. And why was he carrying a black Gladstone bag? Xavier followed him into Doctor Lenoir’s compartment.
As Xavier opened the door, Martini was depositing the black bag on the floor. At the click of the door latch, he whirled to face Xavier.
“Doing a little thieving on your own account, I see,” said Xavier.
The stationmaster’s whistle sounded outside.
“Sure,” said Martini. “Whadya tink!”
The train started to move. Again the door of the compartment opened. Jack Hawley leaped in. He nodded briefly.
“Evening, gents,” he said. “Nice to find you both together.”
Xavier and Martini stared at him in silence. The Bombay Mail drove on into the flaming glow of the sunset.
Meanwhile Doctor Lenoir, in whose compartment Hawley was confronting his silent adversaries, was again trying to gain an audience with Inspector Prike.
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, I beseech you to permit me to leave this car at the next station,” the doctor pleaded.
The Inspector turned impatiently on the toxicologist. “Please sit down, Doctor,” he said testily. “Don’t you see that I’m busy?”
“Yes, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, but—” Doctor Lenoir began, but stopped with a shrug when he saw that Prike was not listening. The Inspector had turned back to the business of questioning Captain Worthing and Beatrice Jones. The Captain continued to insist, despite all contradicting evidence, not the least of which was his own pale, worried face, that he did not know Beatrice Jones. The Inspector tried once more to break through the girl’s denials.
“And where did you say you got this railway pass that was issued at Captain Worthing’s request?” asked the Inspector for the tenth time.
“I told you. I stole it,” said Beatrice Jones. “Some man I don’t know had been displaying it in the bar at the Great Eastern Hotel. He was drunk. It was an easy matter to strike up an acquaintance with him and even easier to get the pass.”
Inspector Prike stared at the girl coldly without replying. Her statement was a palpable lie. Before they reached Bombay, he would prove it was a lie. But in the meantime, he would give up this fruitless exchange of questions and false denials which was getting nowhere. He had plenty to do, classifying the increasing and somewhat confusing number of clues that had turned up during the afternoon.
For instance, the Inspector showed more than casual interest in a note that had been delivered to the car, addressed to him and signed Xavier. He had been comparing the handwriting of the note with that of the few words written on the scrap of paper which had fluttered from a second-class car window early that morning. Remarkably interesting, the resemblance of the rounded R’s and the long-looped P’s of the two specimens of handwriting. Still, that, too, would have to wait. The Inspector had received a telegram from the C.I.D. agent at Gaya, saying that a dozen scraps of a torn letter had been picked up, scattered over half a mile along the railway line east of Gaya. The letter was by no means complete, but since further search would probably reveal nothing more, the handful of torn bits would be flown across India by a plane ordered from Calcutta. The plane would probably not overtake the Bombay Mail before Khandwa. That meant after midnight.
In the meantime there was a significant piece of evidence that the Inspector had picked up while searching the compartment formerly occupied by the dead Maharajah of Zunjore. It was a square of yellow wrapping-paper that had been wadded into a ball and tossed into a corner of the compartment. Someone had scribbled in pencil on the square of paper. There were three words, written in the odd, curling characters of Hindi script: Khamoshi, ya maut! (Silence or Death!) These were undoubtedly the warning words that had caused the Maharajah’s “illness” in the morning, his death in the afternoon. That the Maharajah had been killed because he was about to disclose something he had seen or heard which would identify the murderer of the Governor of Bengal was a foregone conclusion. Inspector Prike did not need to find the written warning to tell him that. But that the warning was written in Hindi script was puzzling. The Inspector wondered if he had not better question Pundit Garnath Chundra again. He looked out the window. With the sound of prolonged thunder, the train was rumbling over a bridge across the Nerbudda River. Below, near the bank, Hindus were bathing in the sacred stream.
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur!”
Doctor Lenoir again. The Frenchman was persistent. Well, Prike would find out what was bothering him.
“Sit down, Doctor.” Prike poured himself some brandy, offered the bottle to Doctor Lenoir. The doctor refused.
“I must return to my compartment at the next station, Inspector.”
“Why, Doctor?”
“I must look after my luggage.”
“I can send a servant—”
“No, Inspector. It is a personal matter. See, the train is now about to stop. I have just a small errand to look after and I’ll return immediately.”
Inspector Prike pushed back his chair, got up, and walked to the door leading to the station platform. A slight shiver ran through the train as brakes were applied. Prike opened the door, but blocked the opening. Doctor Lenoir was at his shoulder. The Inspector debated with himself over accompanying the Frenchman on this mission which seemed so important. He intended questioning the doctor at length, largely on technical matters regarding the action of cyanides, but was postponing his cross-examination until other, more intriguing points had been cleared up. The Inspector was about to grant the doctor’s request when a thin, angular lady, carrying a white cotton parasol against the insidious rays of the Indian sun, came running along the platform with stiff, mincing steps and stood panting before him.
“Is Doctor Lenoir in this car?” she gasped.
Inspector Prike frowned at the obvious excitement of the maiden lady from Iowa. He remembered her, of course. It would be difficult even for a less skilled observer to forget Miss Ursula Klink.
“What do you want with the doctor?” asked the Inspector. “Are you ill, Miss Klink?”
“I must see Doctor Lenoir,” panted Miss Klink. “I must see—”
“Please step inside,” said the Inspector, leaning forward to take Miss Klink’s sharp elbow. He helped her into the car and closed the door.
A tiny smile of pleasure crossed Miss Klink’s pinched features as she found herself face to face with Doctor Lenoir.
“Doctor,” she gasped.
Doctor Lenoir bowed but did not speak. His lips remained tightly compressed. They were nearly white, Inspector Prike noted. The doctor was evidently not altogether pleased to see Miss Klink. Before either of them had a chance to speak further, the Inspector gently led the flustered Miss Klink to a chair.
“I was about to send for you, Miss Klink,” he said, taking her white parasol and closing it before one of the ribs put out his eye as he stood over her. “I’ve been wanting to question you.”
“Question me?”
“Regarding the murder of the Governor of Bengal,” said Inspector Prike.
Again Miss Klink gasped. She smiled faintly as though she might have been previously a little disappointed at being the only passenger aboard the Mail who had not been even vaguely suspected. After all, wasn’t she somehow involved through Doctor Lenoir’s black bag and the procession of men through her compartment after it?
“Before you start, Inspector, I have a message for Doctor Lenoir,” she said.
Inspector Prike looked from one face to the other. The doctor’s lips were still white. He did not speak. Outside, the stationmaster’s whistle signaled the departure. The train began to crawl out of the station.
“I think I had better speak to the doctor in private,” Miss Klink continued. She was toying nervously with a thin gold chain by which a small watch was suspended from her neck.
“I am sure the doctor does not object to my presence,” said Inspector Prike. “Do you, Doctor?”
Dr. Lenoir stood rigidly opposite Miss Klink. He raised one hand in a noncommittal gesture. Still he did not speak. Miss Klink eyed him fearfully. Suddenly she blurted, “It’s gone, Doctor!”
Doctor Lenoir started suddenly as from a deep trance. Color rushed back to his lips. A wild light came into his eyes as he sprang toward the door. Inspector Prike stepped into his path.
“You’ll hurt yourself, Doctor,” said Prike calmly, as his outstretched hand against the doctor’s chest brought him to a halt. “The train is running at full speed. Please sit down.”
“I couldn’t help it, Doctor,” Miss Klink continued shrilly. “A strange man took it from my compartment. I never saw him before. He broke in. He wore a fez.”
“What did this man take, Miss Klink?” interrupted Inspector Prike.
Miss Klink’s voluble outburst ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Her eyes sought Doctor Lenoir’s permission to answer the question. The doctor himself answered. He regained his urbane composure as he settled himself in a chair.
“It was my bag, Inspector,” he said. “I forgot it in Miss Klink’s compartment after I had attended her for a minor indisposition a few hours ago.”
Prike studied the Frenchman’s close-cropped beard, his steady, piercing eyes. Apparently he accepted the doctor’s explanation.
“You are on your way to Europe, Doctor?” he asked.
“I am returning to Paris.”
“But you were stationed in Southern India, Doctor. Why did you not sail from Madras? Or by Messageries Maritimes from Colombo? You could have saved yourself many days of discomfort. Overland travel is not pleasant in India at this time of year.”
“I had to meet someone in Calcutta,” said Doctor Lenoir.
“Who?”
“A colleague. His name is unimportant.”
Inspector Prike took a long drink of brandy.
“Doctor Lenoir,” he said suddenly, “when I first saw you this morning, you closed a black Gladstone bag with some haste and embarrassment. Was it this bag you left in Miss Klink’s compartment?”
“I do not recall exactly, but possibly it was the same bag.”
“What would you say, Doctor,” pursued Prike, as he put down his glass, “if I told you I knew where this bag was?”
There was just a hint of hesitation in Doctor Lenoir’s manner as he replied, “I should be very grateful, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, if you could help me recover it.”
“Suppose I bring that bag into this car and have ft opened here?”
“No. Do not!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Why not?”
Doctor Lenoir spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. He drew a deep breath. He said, “I will explain everything, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. I have not done so before because—well, I realize that I am traveling in a somewhat irregular manner. It is for that reason that I asked Miss Klink to keep my bag. I may as well tell you I made this request of Miss Klink. It is not true that I forgot it.”
“What’s in that Gladstone bag?”
“I am a toxicologist, as Monsieur l’Inspecteur no doubt knows,” continued Doctor Lenoir, refusing to be interrupted. “At the Pasteur Institute my work is the study and preparation of anti-venom—serums to counteract the bite of poisonous snakes. I am returning to Paris for good. My health will not permit me to come back to India. Yet I wish to continue my study of venomous—”
“You mean you have poisonous snakes in that black bag?” exclaimed Prike.
“Only two, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” said Doctor Lenoir apologetically. “Two king cobras—a male and a female. I got them in Calcutta. I wish to continue my studies—”
With a shriek that ended in a wail, Miss Klink carried her hands to her face and collapsed limply against the back of the chair.
“Damn it, Doctorl” Prike was standing up. “How can you endanger the lives of other passengers by keeping deadly snakes in—”
“There is no danger, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. The fangs of no snake can pierce the heavy leather of my bag. Besides, the snakes are tied in a canvas sack. There is prejudice against it, I know, but the American naturalist Doctor Ditmars uses this method of—”
“Why couldn’t you put the snakes in a box in the luggage van?”
“Ah, no, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. The king cobra is a fragile snake in traveling. He must be cared for like a small child. I cannot afford to lose my two cobras.”
Inspector Prike nodded his bald head energetically. “And I cannot afford to lose any more witnesses, Doctor,” he declared. “The mortality rate is already too high. We’ll find your bag at the very next station and your cobras go into the isolation ward.”
