Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 14
At eight o’clock that evening Woodring was at the Grand, talking to Inspector Prike.
“I can’t give you the information,” Woodring was saying, “until you first accept my conditions.”
“I’m not in the habit of bargaining with suspected murderers,” Prike replied.
“Am I a suspected murderer?”
“Until I have made an arrest,” said Prike, “I suspect every one.”
“Then I can’t give you the information,” said Woodring. “Good-night.”
“Robbins!” Prike sprang to his feet. “Arrest Mr. Woodring.”
“Yes, sir. For murder?”
“For obstructing justice,” said Prike crisply. “He came here to divulge something. Unless he decides to do so, he’ll spend the night in custody.”
“But inspector, you can’t—”
“The conditions,” Prike declared, “will be dictated by me, not you, Mr. Woodring.”
“But dammit, inspector. I came here voluntarily,” protested Woodring. “I came out of purely patriotic motives. All I want from you is your word that you won’t jeopardise the life of an innocent person.”
“That,” said Prike, “is a simple matter—if you allow me to be the sole judge of the person’s innocence. Who is it?”
“Ruth Ingram.”
“I see.” Prike sat down. “Kidnapping?”
“Yes.”
“And you no doubt want my word that you won’t be followed when you leave here, that I do nothing to interfere with the payment of the ransom or to apprehend the kidnappers until Miss Ingram is safely released. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I can give you my word. Now, what have you come to tell me?”
Woodring drew a deep breath. He said, “The Nawab of Shimalghar is negotiating—or has negotiated—foreign alliances in violation of his treaty with Britain.”
Inspector Prike took the news with remarkable lack of surprise. “How do you know?” he asked.
“A photograph was taken of the Nawab on his visit to Bangkok last month. It shows him in conference with foreign diplomats.”
“And where is the negative of this photograph?”
“I can’t tell you that, inspector. I can only tell you that I’ve seen it, and will make an affidavit, swearing to its existence, in case—something should happen to me to-night. I came here solely because I didn’t want to risk obliteration unless you knew of the situation in Shimalghar.”
Prike’s fingers were again drumming on the table-top. “I presume, then,” he said, “that the photograph is the ransom demanded for Miss Ingram.”
Woodring did not reply.
“So you are ready to betray the Blenn empire for a woman?” Prike added.
Woodring coloured. “Dammit, the Blenn organisation doesn’t really need anything from a two-by-four state like Shimalghar!” he blurted. “It’s only Alexander Blenn’s personal vanity that’s behind this deal. He doesn’t care how many people are killed in putting it over—as long as he can realise his private ambitions. All he wants is a handle on Whitehall—so they’ll make him a peer on the next honours list!”
He stopped, suddenly aware that his pent-up indignation had caused him to talk too much.
“Nevertheless,” Prike commented in his suave, even tone, “you are taking Mr. Blenn’s money for your part in this, are you not?”
“I was, yes. But I’m not now.” Woodring reached into his pocket for Blenn’s cheque. “See this? This was to be my bonus for getting the new concession. Well, watch!”
Savagely he tore the check into small pieces, let the scraps flutter to the floor.
Prike’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Quitting?”
“Quitting? Dammit, no! As soon as Ruth Ingram is safe, I’ll raise all Hell in six languages to get the photograph back from the man I’m going to give it to. But in the mean time, I won’t be indebted to Blenn or any one else.”
Prike cast a quizzical glance at Robbins who was staring at the torn fragments of paper on the carpet. Then he nodded to Woodring.
“Thank you for coming in,” he said. “I promise you that you won’t be followed. But you will notify me the moment Miss Ingram is returned, won’t you?”
Inspector Prike was almost smiling when Woodring shut the door.
Once outside, Woodring hesitated. He was tempted to return, ask for his .32 automatic which Robbins had confiscated. On second thoughts he decided not to risk further delay. He hurried to the clump of rhododendrons near the Woodlands, under which he had hidden the other revolver.
The gun was still there. He examined it the best he could in the darkness, broke it, removed the cartridges, pulled the trigger six times. The hammer clicked obediently, the cylinder spun. Apparently rust had not yet paralyzed the mechanism. He could only hope that the damp had not got into the cartridges to render the powder useless. He dried them carefully with his handkerchief, replaced them. Then he went to the Woodlands to get from the hotel safe the tiny rectangle of celluloid which had the power to change the lives of so many people.
At nine o’clock he was astride a sturdy Himalayan pony, riding out Lebong Road.
A fine, penetrating rain began to fall as he was passing the Birch Hill Park. He looked up at the shrubbery, blurred by mist and darkness, beyond which was Government House, hot-weather retreat for Bengal officialdom. In a few hundred yards he would have left behind the cricket ground, the lawntennis courts—British symbols of a continent tamed. Tamed! Woodring smiled ironically into the night….
He cantered ahead for ten minutes, then slowed his horse to a trot as he began scanning the right side of the road for the openings of bridle paths. It was twenty minutes more before he saw a strip of cloth swinging from a tree, twisting and swooping uncannily in the rain-laden wind.
Woodring’s mount slowed to a walk as the mountain trail climbed steeply from the road. The hollow beat of the hoofs plunking into the soft earth seemed scarcely louder than the pounding of Woodring’s arteries in his own ears. Giant tree-ferns overhanging the path brushed their wet fronds against his cheeks.
Suddenly Woodring reined in sharply. Fifty feet ahead of him the luminous eye of a flashlight was gleaming in the night.
Woodring reached into his pocket for the envelope that held the fateful piece of film.
When the door had closed after Woodring, Inspector Prike nodded to his subordinate and asked, “What do you think of the young man now, Robbins?”
“Still the same,” said Robbins. “He ought to be locked up.”
“Perhaps he should,” said Prike absently. He pushed aside a sheaf of papers to disclose a small ledger which he opened. “I’ve been checking over the ordnance list of the Blenn organisation, Robbins,” he resumed. “And I find a rather curious entry.”
“What’s that, inspector?”
“This,” said Prike, handing over the open book. “You’ll note there are two entries for Alexander Blenn. The day after he signed for the .32 automatic, which fired the empty shell we found in Stiller’s flat, he was issued a .38 automatic.”
“There’s nothing strange about that, inspector,” Robbins said, “If he was giving the .32 to young Woodring, naturally he’d want a gun for himself.”
“Naturally,” Prike admitted. “Nevertheless, there’s something vaguely disturbing about that second signature. It’s not quite like the first.”
“There’s nothing unusual about that, inspector,” Robbins declared. “A man’s handwriting is often changed by what he’s been eating—or drinking.”
“That’s true,” said Prike. “Any man—particularly a man with an ambivalent personality—is apt to show differences in any two specimens of handwriting. Still …” He took a long, final drag on his cheroot, ground it out in an ashtray. Then he closed the Blenn arms ledger with a snap. “Robbins,” he added, “I forgot to tell you that I had a cablegram from London this afternoon.”
“About Christopher Jericho?”
“About Christopher Jericho,” Prike echoed. “It occurred to me that the transfer of Mr. Jericho from an asylum to a private nursing-home last year might have entailed the outlay of money. I cabled Scotland Yard to determine, if possible, who was paying the bills at Thornton Heath. The answer came to-day. Jericho’s transfer to the nursing-home was arranged by a London firm of solicitors.”
“Blenn’s solicitors?” Robbins asked.
“No,” Prike replied. “Stanley Hubertson’s solicitors.”
“Hubertson?” Robbins rose like a jack-in-the-box. “What’s that mean, inspector?”
“I don’t know,’ Prike shook his head. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps—but remember, Robbins, this is pure hypothesis—that Hubertson was aware of some irregularity in the original commitment of Christopher Jericho as a mad man. And that, after all these years, the weight of his guilty secret finally began to wear on Hubertson to such an extent that he felt he might ease his conscience by making the old inventor’s life more comfortable in a nursing-home…. By the way, Robbins, you’re having Hubertson watched?”
The deputy-inspector’s nod was almost reproachful. “Of course,” he said. “One of the commissioner’s men is in the room just across the hall from Hubertson’s.”
“Good,” said Prike. “Then I wish you’d get Hubertson for me. I shall want him later this evening to make an identification for me.”
Robbins blinked. “Identification, inspector?”
“Yes,” said Prike. “Perhaps I neglected to tell you that I’ve had several telephone conversations with Jenkins. He’s on his way up from Calcutta. I told him to charter a motor at Silliguri and come on up by the cart road. He’s bringing a man with him … a material witness, I rather fancy.”
“Material witness?” A broad smile split the deputy-inspector’s round, ruddy face. “Christopher Jericho?” Inspector Prike did not smile. He was busy lighting a fresh cheroot. And before he could reply, the door from the corridor flew open.
Two British constables stood on the threshold, each holding the arm of a tall, dark, exotically beautiful woman in a purple dress. A small beret of Parma violets was perched jauntily on one side of her head.
“Good-evening, Miss Carmaine,” Prike’s expression did not change as he came forward to greet the shapely brunette. “I’m glad you came in. I was just about to send for you.”
“We caught her in the lobby, inspector,” said one of the constables.
“Caught me?” Leda Carmaine gave a brief, sarcastic laugh. “I came here under my own power. Let go my arms. I want to see Inspector Prike.”
“You’ve come, I suppose,” said Prike quietly, “to ask a favour.”
“Just one,” said Leda Carmaine. “I’ve got a motorcar waiting for me outside. When I finish telling you what I’ve come to tell you, I want you to give me a note or something so I can get through to Silliguri. Or any place else I can get by motor. I’ve got to get out of Darjeeling in half an hour.”
Prike’s cold stare seemed to bore right through Leda’s dark eyes. “You’re rather presumptuous, Miss Carmaine,” he said, “to think I would consent to let you leave Darjeeling—in view of the fact that I have a witness who saw you in Room 329 at the time Dr. Feurmann was murdered.”
Leda Carmaine returned the inspector’s stare for a full ten seconds. Then her long eye-lashes drooped. She seemed to pale slightly. “All right,” she said. “Lock me up, then. All I want is protection.”
“Protection from whom?” Prike demanded.
Leda did not reply.
“Count Vaznilko, perhaps,” Prike suggested.
Leda caught her breath. “What do you know about Vaznilko?”
“Enough to occupy you for some time,” said Prike. “So you might be seated. In the first place, Vaznilko carries an Albanian passport—chiefly, I believe, because of the paucity of Albanian consuls in the East who might question its authenticity. Second, he wears among his many decorations the red-white-and-blue cross, with rampant lions, of the Order of Montenegro. I happen to know that this Order was given only to members of ruling families—and Vaznilko’s name is not listed in the Almanach de Gotha. Third, his loyalty and allegiance are for sale to the highest bidder. For instance, he was a counter-revolutionist for the White Russians in Harbin ten years ago and an agent for the Red Russians in Mukden when the Japanese took over. Fourth, he has been posing as your husband—”
“I didn’t come here to talk about Vaznilko!” Leda broke in fiercely.
“Perhaps,” said Prike quietly, “you came to talk about the candid photograph you took in Bangkok.”
Leda moistened her lips. She stared at Prike.
“How long have you been working for Alexander Blenn?” Prike pursued.
“I’ve never worked for Alexander Blenn!”
“No, of course not,” Prike agreed. “I’d forgotten for the moment that Blenn has a prejudice against employing women. Therefore you must have peddled the photo to him—with the intention of stealing it back before it could be put to use. Rather neat.”
“Who told you this?” Leda’s mouth tightened.
“No one,” said Prike. “It’s rather obvious. Your camera and a most interesting photo taken with it was in Blenn’s possession, and Blenn is too wealthy to stoop to stealing something which was patently for sale. The fact that you and Vaznilko have tailed young Woodring to Darjeeling convinces me that you expected your enterprise to pay double. You—”
“Talk!” shouted Leda. “Must you go on talking, talking? Can’t you act? Can’t you stop a murder?”
“Another murder?” Prike inquired casually. “You and Vaznilko must be quite busy these days.”
“You are an idiot, aren’t you?” Leda stalked indignantly across the room until she stood above Prike. She glowered at him. Her arms were raised rigidly a few inches away from her sides, her fingers bent like claws. “Don’t you want to save a man’s life?”
“A man?” Prike leaned back in his chair. “I thought it was Ruth Ingram you people kidnapped?”
“What do I care about Ruth Ingram?” Leda screamed. “They’re going to kill Paul Woodring!”
“Sit down, please,” said Prike coldly. “Be logical. Woodring is going to be a good boy and hand over the photograph, so that you can sell it a second time. Why should Vaznilko want to kill him?”
Leda hesitated an instant. Then:
“Because of me,” she replied. “Vaznilko thinks I’m crazy about Woodring.”
“I see. And are you?”
“What difference does that make? Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. Maybe I just want to do something decent for once in my life. Maybe I’m sick of being a professional double-crosser.”
“And what do you expect me to do?” Prike yawned.
“Stop Paul Woodring!” Leda declared. “They’re going to ambush him in a bridle path just off the Lebong Road. They’re going to shoot him in cold blood. You can stop them, inspector. You’ve got to!”
“Sorry,” said Prike, “but I can’t. I’ve given Woodring my word that I wouldn’t follow him.”
“But you must, inspector! You can’t let him walk into a trap like this! You—”
“Where is Ruth Ingram being held?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I can’t help you. Unless you tell where this girl is, so that I can safeguard—”
“But I don’t know where she is, I tell you! I swear it! I don’t know where they’ve taken her. All I know is they’re going to kill Woodring. And you’ve got to stop them! You’ve got to!”
Leda’s voice rose to a shrill crescendo. She had seized Prike’s shoulders in both hands, was emphasising her words by frantic, jerking gestures. In spite of the mild mauling he was getting, Prike maintained an air of complete nonchalance, and even managed to light a fresh cheroot, as his steady piercing gaze bored deep into the great dark eyes of Leda Carmaine.
“Here, here! Stop that!” Deputy-Inspector Robbins came striding to the rescue of his superior, but halted and doubled back when he heard a knock outside. He opened the door a crack. There was an exchange in undertones. When he closed the door again there was a peculiar blank look on his face.
“It’s the commissioner’s man, inspector,” he said. “The ruddy jangli-walla’s gone and lost Hubertson.”
“Lost him?” Prike stood up.
“Says he went down the hall for half a minute, about an hour ago,” Robbins explained, “and that Hubertson must have gone out while he was away. When he looked in just now, Hubertson was gone.
“Robbins!” With one brisk movement Prike flung aside Leda Carmaine, stalked across the room to snatch up his raincoat. “What was your last report on Quombi La?”
“At seven o’clock this evening, sir,” Robbins replied, “he went to the Lamasery of the Red Monks on the Lebong Road.”
“Lebong Road. Good!” Prike had drawn his automatic, made a brief examination to satisfy himself the magazine was loaded. “Robbins, tell the commissioner’s man to come here. No, get me three Darjeeling men, so they can keep each other alert. I want them to stay here with Miss Carmaine. You and I are going places, Robbins.”
The inspector holstered his gun, started for the door.
Paul Woodring raised himself in the stirrups as the luminous eye in the darkness winked out. It flashed a second time—the portentous signal he was awaiting.
For an instant his fingers clung to the envelope, as though reluctant to part with an object which enfolded so much destiny—the ambitions of Alexander Blenn, the fate of the Nawab of Shimalghar, the security of a frontier, the life of Ruth Ingram, his own life, perhaps…. The light continued to glare at him. He dropped the envelope.
He drew rein to turn his horse in the narrow path. The horse backed a dozen feet. Then Woodring saw a man spring from the undergrowth. His lips formed a silent exclamation as he recognised the plump figure of Henry Emmet-Tansley!
Metal gleamed in Emmet-Tansley’s right hand. His left was extended as he pounced upon the envelope.
