Bengal Fire, page 18
“His Highness is no longer interested.”
“Granted. I am quite ready to believe—at least for the sake of courtesy—that your arrival in Chandernagore is pure coincidence. It is entirely possible that you did not know that the nao-ratna was taken from Mr. Marvin’s apartment yesterday by Jacques Vrai. Nevertheless, with the Diwali Festival starting tonight—”
“You asked me last night, inspector, to prepare a written memorandum to the effect that His Highness has already recovered the nao-ratna containing the Bosa pearl, and therefore gratefully dispenses with all police investigation. I sent such a memorandum to your office this morning.”
“Thank you,” said Prike. “In that case, my intervention is quite gratuitous. As a matter of fact, I am not sure where the nao-ratna is at this moment. I do think, however, that tonight, at about—” Inspector Prike walked to the wall to study the sheaf of sailing announcements from shipping companies posted there. His thumb flicked over the sheets. “I should say that the nao-ratna, despite its recovery, will make an appearance shortly before midnight tonight. Will you return to Calcutta, gentlemen, so that I may reach you at the Alipore Palace at my convenience?”
“Say, what about my tiger hunt?” George Linnet protested.
“Tiger hunting will not be at its best for another month at least,” said Prike. “You’ve come a little early, Linnet. I’m surprised that Chitterji Rao would let you go into the mofussil so soon after the rains.”
“Do you mean to imply—?”
“Nothing. I am merely suggesting—that you return to Calcutta.” Prike’s voice was quiet, even soft, but his eyes were hard.
“Very well.” Chitterji Rao bowed, but not submissively. “We shall return at once.”
“You will wait,” Prike replied, “until I ask the French authorities to reopen the frontiers of the town. In the meantime, if you would like to accompany me on a little underground exploring expedition, I’m sure I can find something that will amuse you.”
“Thank you. We will stop on here.”
Prike nodded. Without another word he returned to the cellar. His flashlight found the opening in the wall back of the wine casks, where apparently Dormer had been stabbed. The beam of light bored seventy or eighty feet back from the opening. Prike stepped into the mouth of the tunnel.
There was not room enough in the tunnel for a man to stand upright, and Prike was bent nearly double as he crept forward. He scanned the ground for some indication as to whether Dormer had been stabbed in the tunnel or had crept in with the knife already in his back and had lost consciousness trying to move the barrel away from the entrance. It was futile; the water seeping in from the walls of the tunnel covered the floor with slime that was too liquid to retain any sort of impression. The slush was alive with some sort of amphibian insects that squirmed out from underfoot and scuttled up the walls. Soft, wet earth showered down on the inspector’s shoulders whenever his head brushed the crumbly ceiling.
Prike followed the low tunnel for about thirty yards in what seemed to be a southerly direction from the hotel wine cellar. Then the tunnel shot off diagonally to the left, continued for twenty paces, and ended abruptly at a muddy wooden ladder. At the foot of the ladder Prike swung his light upward, saw a square of unpainted wood a dozen feet above him. He climbed the ladder, pushed aside the wooden square—which proved to be the bottom of an empty packing-case—and stepped out on the floor of an immense godown.
There were no windows in the warehouse, but a long line of ventilators under the eaves let a diffused twilight into the vast interior. Prike snapped out his flash-lamp. All about, piled almost to the ceiling, were stacks and pyramids of boxes and packing-cases. On the floor were two sets of muddy footprints—one, leading toward the ladder to the tunnel, was outlined in the yellowish silt of the river—Rufus Dormer’s feet; the other set, less distinct as they led away from the ladder, were marked by smears of brown mud from the floor of the tunnel-in all probability Jacques Vrai’s footprints. Here and there Prike thought he saw indications of a third set of prints, made by someone who had carefully walked in the tracks made by Vrai, but the marks were so faint that Prike thought they might be the result of his imagination. At any rate, they were so well concealed that attempts at identification would be useless. He followed the outgoing prints as far as the door, noted that the door had been left open, looked out casually, came back.
Then he stalked between towering aisles of packing-cases, noting without surprise that they were stenciled with Japanese ideographs and occasionally with the English legend: Osaka Cotton Spinners’ Mutual Export Association. He was a trifle puzzled, however, by the odors permeating the godown, odors more characteristic of an armory than a warehouse for cotton goods: the greasy smell of cosmolene and of whale oil. That he had discovered the cache in which the late Harrison Hoyt had been storing the Japanese arms he had been smuggling into India in the guise of cotton goods was no surprise to Prike; he had expected that, sooner or later. But the evidence that came to his nose that this huge contraband armory was being taken care of, constantly protected against the humidity of a tropical climate, so that its contents would be ready for use at a moment’s notice, was news to Prike. He prowled about the godown until he found a tool kit. Then he set about opening some of the cases.
During the next half-hour Inspector Prike congratulated himself that he had probably saved the Indian Army from a second Sepoy Rebellion. The few cases he opened indicated that the godown contained thousands of machine guns, more thousands of automatic rifles, and probably millions of rounds of ammunition. He had no definite idea how these arms and munitions were to be distributed, but he was certain that they were destined in some way for use against the British. And he would arrest Harrison Hoyt’s accomplices tonight.
As he continued to prowl, Inspector Prike made two more discoveries. One was a trail of small muddy semicircles on the floor—like the prints of a woman’s high-heeled shoes. The other was a huge box containing gross after gross of brass belt buckles, embossed with Hindu characters which read, Akbar II. He smiled to himself with satisfaction. More missing pieces were fitting into his puzzle.
“Ah, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, there you are.”
The perspiring, mustachioed face of the commissaire of police emerged from the trapdoor behind Prike, who was prying the lid off another case of automatic rifles. Prike turned.
“I was about to send for you, mon cher collègue,” he said. “I seem to have discovered a violation of the Anglo-French agreement of 1815.” With a casual gesture, Prike indicated the array of deadly weapons.
“Nom d’un nom!” exclaimed the commissaire.
“But before we go into matters of international politics,” Prike continued, “I should like to determine a question of acoustics, with your help. I want one of your men to go down into the tunnel from this end. I want him to crawl slowly toward the wine cellar, calling out every few feet or so. You and I will go back to the bar of the Hotel Dupleix and listen. I am interested to know at just what point his cries will become audible.”
“As you wish, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” said the commissaire.
Chapter Twenty-Five
PERSONAL HISTORY
The gray-green eyes of Evelyn Branch were making a critical survey of the room to which Antoinette Vrai had brought her. Judging from their expression, they disapproved of the litter of hairpins, spilled powder, and crumpled towels on the marble-topped washstand, of the cracked porcelain bowl half full of gray soapy water, of the grimy mosquito netting, of the mangy rug on the crazy-china floor. Her nose wrinkled at the reek of musk.
Evelyn had a violent loathing to being in Antoinette’s room, yet she had come there deliberately. She had no intention of wearing anything that belonged to Antoinette Vrai. The mere idea revolted her. True, she had been curious to see Antoinette, even anxious to know the sort of woman who had won Harrison Hoyt away from her. But the first sight of Antoinette had convinced her that her interest in the woman had been purely academic. She had no further desire to probe into her hold over Harry Hoyt. Even as a name, Antoinette had been distasteful to Evelyn; as a person she was odious.
“Here,” said Antoinette, throwing open the mirrored door of a tall, mahogany armoire a glace. “Take.” She ran her scarlet-tipped fingers along a row of dresses.
Evelyn nodded, but made no move to select a gown. Rufus Dormer, during the trip up the river on the bunder boat, had told her she should somehow get into Antoinette’s room. Antoinette, he had said, would probably have the nao-ratna, and she was the sort of person who hid things under mattresses, behind clocks, and in sugar bowls. Rufus Dormer appeared to have a surprising knowledge of people and things. He was probably right about the nao-ratna being in Chandernagore. Something unusual was certainly happening here, to account for the presence of Inspector Prike, George Linnet, and Chitterji Rao.
“Take a nice one, ma chère,” said Antoinette. “You must be pretty for Carrot-top.”
“Who’s that?”
“Carrot-top. Lee Marvin. You like him, no?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“He likes you. He looks at you with goat eyes.”
“Let him look,” said Evelyn. She turned her, back on Antoinette and took a white poplin dress from a hanger. As she dosed the armoire, she saw Antoinette’s reflection in the mirrored door. Antoinette had slipped something from under the marble top of the washstand, and was bending over. Evelyn heard the rustle of silk, caught a glimpse of black lace underwear beneath the up-gathered green dress.
In a small looking-glass above the washstand, Antoinette saw the double reflection of Evelyn staring at her in the armoire mirror. She straightened up, smoothed down her skirts, spun around.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” Evelyn wondered what Antoinette was hiding. It was something she had taken from under the marble top—too flat for a necklace.
“So.” Antoinette approached, her eyes clouded with a distant look of sullen, smoking menace. Her lips were drawn tight against her unevenly spaced teeth. “So you are here to spy on me! You are of the police, too.”
Antoinette continued to approach. Evelyn took a hitch in her own temper, stepped back.
“Nonsense,” she said.
“Then why do you stand there like in the waxworks? Why don’t you move? Are you going to change your dress? Yes or no?”
“Thank you so much,” said Evelyn, trying to keep her voice steady. “My own dress is nearly dry now.”
“Then get out!” Antoinette snatched the white dress from the other girl’s hands. “Get out!”
Mustering all her dignity, Evelyn walked from the room to the veranda which extended along the side of the hotel. Behind her the door slammed. She stopped in her tracks. In front of her Lee Marvin was leaning against a post, his arms folded. For an instant she almost regretted not having borrowed a dress.
“Do you listen at keyholes, too?” she asked.
“My ears are too big,” said Marvin, without unfolding his arms. “I was waiting for you to come out. I have a good many questions to ask you, and I wanted to get to you before Linnet.”
“Why Linnet?”
“Well, we’re all more or less marooned here in these three square miles of French territory until Inspector Prike decides to reopen the border.”
“I repeat—why Linnet?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve decided not to like Colonel Linnet, and I’m afraid you do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you called on him last night, at the Maharajah of Jharnpur’s Alipore Palace.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. I saw the invitation on your night-table.”
“You mean—at Mrs. Pereira’s?”
“Yes,” said Marvin. “You may as well know that I’ve compromised you thoroughly. I slept in your room last night—or rather this morning.”
“You—?” The girl looked searchingly into Marvin’s placid blue eyes. “Lee Marvin, do I have to start getting suspicious of you all over again?”
“There’s plenty of suspicion floating around here,” said Marvin gravely, “and there may be a little left for you; but most of it’s mine. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Your little playmate Rufus Dormer has just been stabbed.”
“Stabbed—killed?”
“Very badly wounded. They’ve taken him to Calcutta.”
“Is he—? Who did it?” The girl swallowed.
“The same person, I imagine, who killed Hoyt.”
“Then Dormer didn’t—? But he practically admitted he killed Harry. He hated him.”
Evelyn was very pale. Marvin wished again she didn’t look quite so feminine, quite so desirable. He had come to Chandernagore strictly on business—and the girl looked as though she were going to faint.
“Let’s sit down.” Marvin took Evelyn’s arm and pointed off the veranda to a bench under a peepul tree. Next to the bench was a rudely carved stone image, splashed with vermilion, of a fat deity with the head of an elephant. “That’s Ganesh over there, the god of wisdom—and good luck. Shall we sit by him?”
“Let’s,” said Evelyn. “Maybe I should rub his forehead.”
“First you might tell me why you went to the Alipore Palace at two in the morning,” said Marvin. They sat down.
“I had business there.” Evelyn was much occupied with the damp folds of her dress. She was composed again—harder. Marvin was relieved.
“All night? What kind of business—?”
“None of yours,” said Evelyn sharply.
“Fine!” Marvin declared. “I was sure I knew why you sent me that note—just to see if I’d come twenty miles at the merest word from you!”
“Of course I didn’t!” Evelyn’s eyes softened. She smiled a little wistfully. She reached over to lay a slender, tapering finger on Marvin’s damp, pongee sleeve. “I sent you that note because I’d come to the conclusion that I could trust my instincts again—and that I could trust you. And I wanted to tell you—” She paused.
“What?”
“Well, I’ve been looking back on these last mad days, and I realized I must have given you the impression that I’m just a crazy adventuress. I want to correct that impression, if it’s not too late.”
“I’m reserving judgment.”
“Oh, I admit I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of excitement in the abstract, but the things I’ve done since Thursday—my going to Alipore in the middle of the night, for instance—are all a matter of economics. You see, Lee Marvin, when I was seventeen I ran away from a dull and orphaned childhood in North Platte, Nebraska. I ran away to New York, because I wanted to make my own living, because I was bored with corn fields, and because I was fed up with the over-kind ministrations of my distant—and only—relatives. Since I have turned over practically all my savings to steamship and railway companies in return for transportation to India, I am, to put it frankly, stony broke. I certainly can’t ask money from my distant relatives; for years they’ve considered me worse than dead, because any girl who travels alone to New York, to say nothing of India, can no longer expect to find favor in the eyes of God and decent Nebraskans. So there really isn’t anything surprising in my getting up in the middle of the night, when I have a chance to recoup my fortunes.”
“Who offered you this chance? Linnet?”
“No. A Mr. Chitterji Rao, on behalf of the Maharajah of Jharnpur, offered me fifteen thousand rupees to get back that ceremonial necklace—from you.”
Marvin frowned. “This would make a lot more sense,” he said, “if I didn’t happen to know that you aren’t at all penniless. Harrison Hoyt’s insurance policies are still in your name.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I couldn’t touch that money,” she said.
“Why not?”
The girl drew a deep breath. “You asked me last night,” she replied, “why I insisted on sailing for India, after Harry Hoyt cabled me not to come. I didn’t tell you last night, but I will now. You see, Harry had a sister, Charlotte, who adored him—and thought the world of me. She was terribly happy to think that Harry and I were getting married, and it worried her when a year and a half went by without Harry sending for me. She wrote Harry, and he answered that it was taking him longer than he expected to get established, because he was short of capital. Well, Charlotte had a few thousand dollars’ worth of bonds—not much, but it represented a lot to a middle-aged school teacher who’d been scraping and saving for years on a school teacher’s pitiful salary. She sold the bonds and sent Harry the money. Harry sent back a newspaper clipping about the Maharajah of Jharnpur and the Bosa pearl. Charlotte now owned an interest in the pearl, he wrote, which the Maharajah had commissioned him to resell for a fabulous price. Several months passed. Then Harry wrote that there had been a hitch, because his deal for the pearl was being blocked by the machinations of a soulless international corporation—Orfèvre, Ltd. That’s you.”
“Why, the—!”
“Wait. Knowing that Harry was always terribly irresponsible with money, I thought perhaps, if I joined him, I might be the steadying influence. I wrote him I was coming. When he cabled me not to, I thought he was just trying to spare me financial discouragement. And that made me even more determined to come out and help—for his sake, and Charlotte’s. So I want the insurance money to go to Charlotte. Am I so terribly wrong?”
Marvin didn’t answer. The proud blond head wasn’t proud now; it was leaning toward him almost imperceptibly. The trusting lips, even more trusting, were parted expectantly, a little fearfully, perhaps. The big eyes, at once wise and child-like, were pleading with him. Then suddenly they became points of light in the warm blur that was her face. Marvin wasn’t seeing very clearly. All his senses seemed subordinated to an abrupt and overwhelming realization that he wanted to kiss Evelyn Branch, that he would have to kiss her because he had never wanted anything so much in all his life. He could already imagine his arms around her, holding her tightly, so tightly, so closely, that she was a living, vibrant part of himself. But he was not going to kiss her—now. He needed to think clearly, and his rational brain, at this moment, wavered on the brink of abdication. He stood up quickly.
