Bengal Fire, page 20
Babu Gundranesh Dutt and Cousin Danilal were seated upon a padded quilt, having their tiffin in the tiny compound of the Babu’s mud-and-bamboo home. They were talking English—solely to impress the Babu’s twenty-year-old wife, who, having finished serving the rice, dahl, and curried alu, had left the men to their ghi-soaked sweetmeats and returned to her four children in the women’s quarters. The Babu was cutting areca nut for the after-tiffin pan-chewing, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the postman.
“Postman?” said the Babu, to his wife’s announcement. “Am expecting nothing by post. At present am without private correspondents.”
“Perhaps former employers are seeking re-engagement of services for West Bank Jute Mills,” said Cousin Danilal.
Gundranesh Dutt shook his head and got up. He returned a moment later with a small oblong package.
“Address is unmistakable,” he said, puzzled, “yet am at loss to account for whole dam’ business.”
Cousin Danilal took the package from his hands. “Imprint indicates same was deposited in Calcutta General Post Office yesterday,” he announced. “Perhaps contents will offer further clue.”
“Perhaps,” the Babu agreed. He undid the wrapping. Inside was further wrapping, but folded about the inner parcel was a loose sheet of paper on which was a pencil-written note in crudely printed block letters:
Do not open this. Tell nobody. Telling police means death. Bring packet to Lower Circular Road graveyard at ten o’clock Saturday night. Walk inside until somebody takes package from you. Come alone—or you follow Hoyt.
There was no signature.
“Chit seems quite clear, though anonymous,” commented Cousin Danilal, reading over the Babu’s shoulder. “Proposed meeting is scheduled for tonight.”
Gundranesh Dutt began to perspire. Half a dozen rivulets trickled down between his chins. His eyes bulged, as his sausage-like thumbs gave the parcel a few nervous, exploratory squeezes.
“Fingers are distinguishing nine distinct lumps within,” he declared in a quavering voice. “Am greatly fearing that package enfolds missing nao-ratna of H.H. the Maharajah of Jharnpur. What to do, Cousin Danilal? Why is said criminal object sent to self?”
Cousin Danilal looked very grave as he smeared lime on the heart-shaped leaf of a betel creeper, sprinkled it with areca nut, folded it into a small cornucopia, pinned it with a clove, and popped it into his mouth.
“No doubt,” he said between chews, “that criminal has great faith in your honesty and good nature. He is merely leaving stolen goods in safe hands until danger of search by police is past. Why not communicate direct with police, Cousin Gundranesh?”
“But chit expressly forbids same,” the Babu replied, mopping his face, “on penalty of death.”
“According to Bhagavad Gita,” said Cousin Danilal wisely, “death is not tragic or disgraceful, but merely minor step on road to infinite and self-realization.”
“True,” agreed Gundranesh Dutt. “However, am personally anxious to make slight improvement in own Karma before quitting present incarnation. One dozen or more good deeds would greatly increase chances for superior social status to next rebirth.”
Cousin Danilal nodded solemnly. He twisted another betel leaf into a cornucopia of pan and handed it to the Babu. Then he reached for his luggage, which consisted of three bulging cloth-wrapped bundles, untied one of them, and extracted a bottle of very yellow liquid.
“In that case,” he said at last, “would suggest anointing scalp with latest hair oil am just now bringing from Barrackpore. Same is quite efficacious in not only promoting growth of hairs, but also penetrates through hair roots to brain, developing latent mental qualities. Brand is entitled Zabardast Maghz, and customers are uniformly pleased. Perhaps use of some will stimulate useful thoughts.”
“Is action instantaneous?” asked the Babu.
“Practically,” said Cousin Danilal, pulling the cork with his teeth and tendering the bottle.
The Babu cupped his hands and transferred some of the thick yellow liquid to his head. The air was pungent with the aroma of saffron, coconut oil, and cloves as he rubbed his scalp vigorously.
For the next five minutes the two men chewed pan in silence. Then Cousin Danilal asked, “Is brain feeling stimulated?”
“Somewhat,” the Babu replied. “Am just now thinking that advice of European, name of Rufus Dormer, would be useful. This chap is quite smart and well versed in police matters. Also he is under slight obligations to self.”
“You are acquainted with address?”
“Am discovering same yesterday while seeking reimbursement of small loan.”
“Then why are you not sending him fast inland telegram asking consultation?”
“No sooner uttered than accomplished!” exclaimed Gundranesh Dutt, getting to his feet.
At nightfall there was no answer from the telegram to Rufus Dormer. The Babu and Cousin Danilal were no longer worried, however. They were busy celebrating Diwali. Oil lights twinkled over the door, Bengal fire flared at intervals in the compound, and Cousin Danilal, officiously swinging the burning end of a tarred rope, set off mines and flowerpots for the edification of Mrs. Dutt and the four Dutt offspring.
At 8:45 he consulted the thick nickeled watch suspended around his neck on a string.
“Lacking response from Mister Dormer,” he said to his cousin, “am suggesting you proceed immediately to graveyard with troublesome package.”
“You are accompanying?”
“Part way,” said Cousin Danilal. “Let us depart.”
The two Hindus sauntered to the Lower Circular Road burying-ground on foot, loitering to admire the glittering shop fronts of pious and prosperous merchants, stopping to lend moral support whenever they passed a particularly replete display of fireworks, watching an occasional rocket wriggle its fiery tail across the sky. Cousin Danilal carried a paper bag containing a few squibs which he fired off every quarter-hour. Even nature was celebrating Diwali, with trees all asparkle with the pulsating light of fireflies.
At the entrance to the graveyard Cousin Danilal said good night.
“You are not coming in?” asked the Babu plaintively.
“Chit expressly said, ‘Come alone,’” said Cousin Danilal.
“But chit could not possibly wish to exclude you, Cousin Danilal. You are one of family.”
“Nevertheless, am under impression that dosed ghari has been following us during part of journey. In view of threatened death penalty—”
Cousin Danilal paused. The two men looked up at the warm stars. A paper fire-balloon soared overhead.
“Have also observed ghari following,” said Gundranesh Dutt. “However, am not imputing sinister significance thereto.”
He continued to regard the sky. Two more fire-balloons floated past like great, spectral glow-worms.
“Now ten o’clock p.m.,” said Cousin Danilal.
“No hurry,” said Gundranesh Dutt. He looked forlornly into the graveyard, where crooked lines of leaning headstones staggered into the night in swooning, ghostly ranks. Family vaults stood stolidly in the warm starlight with grim patience.
“Good night,” said Cousin Danilal. “I am wishing you luck.”
“Are you remarking, Cousin Danilal,” said the Babu quickly, taking the other’s hand, “that such graveyards are excellent for observing queer Occidental philosophy of life?”
“Am remarking only that Occidentals have cumbersome customs for disposing of dead,” said Cousin Danilal.
“Such elaborate structures and stone monuments,” said the Babu, continuing to speak rapidly, “denote vanity of surviving relatives and great Occidental uncertainty regarding immortality of soul. If soul is immortal, why must names of departed be perpetuated at great cost on carved stones? We Hindus, having great faith in Karma and doctrine of rebirth, can cremate and destroy body with great nonchalance.”
“All but the navel,” commented Cousin Danilal.
“The navel, of course, we preserve from flames. But that is different. The navel is the beginning of life…. Come, Cousin Danilal. Please accompany me.” The Babu clung more tightly to his cousin’s hand.
“Very well,” said Cousin Danilal with a sigh.
The two men walked into the cemetery, looking neither to the right nor left. The tombstones and vaults assumed strange shapes in the darkness, and a chorus of frogs somewhere near made lugubrious, hoarse noises in the night. When they had walked for several minutes, Cousin Danilal stopped short.
“Is someone coming behind?” he asked.
“Have you looked back?”
“No. I am positive of hearing footsteps. You look.”
The Babu looked. “Am seeing no one,” he said.
“Odd,” said Cousin Danilal. “You are still possessing package?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us proceed.”
They walked fifty feet farther, then stopped again. Babu Gundranesh Dutt moaned. Something dark scurried out from behind a marble slab, loped off into the thick gloom.
“Jackals,” said Cousin Danilla. “Quite dismal place for rendezvous.”
“Quite,” the Babu agreed. “Am of opinion—”
He did not finish his sentence. He felt his arm jerked suddenly, saw Cousin Danilal crumple under a blow on the head. The lean shadow of a man had materialized behind him, swung something heavy. He turned on Gundranesh Dutt. The Babu dodged, screamed. The lean man snatched the package from the Babu’s hands, turned to run.
The Babu screamed again.
A white figure slid silently from behind a tombstone, tripped the fleeing shadow.
Another white figure arose in the darkness of the graveyard, then another. Men were running down the cemetery aisles, shouting. The night resounded with the near-by smack of fists, grunts, curses.
A wide blade of light slashed through the darkness. All at once the graveyard was filled with an eerie, spluttering blue glow. Cousin Danilal, having recovered consciousness, removed a little clay pot of Bengal fire from his paper bag, lit it.
By the lurid light Gundranesh Dutt saw Inspector Prike snapping handcuffs about the wrists of Jacques Vrai. He saw two European constables and several red-turbaned pshare-wallas crowding in from the rear. And at one side he saw with astonishment Lee Marvin and Miss Branch. How had all these people assembled in the cemetery?
“I didn’t expect to see you for another hour, Vrai,” Prike was saying to his manacled prisoner, “when the Alfonse Daudet sails from the Kidderpore docks at the end of this road.” He went through Vrai’s pockets. “Well, where is it?”
“What?” growled Vrai.
“The nao-ratna.”
“You’re crazy,” mumbled Vrai sullenly. “You can see I don’t have it.”
Marvin and Evelyn Branch exchanged glances.
“If you are referring to small package recently grasped by Mr. Vrai,” volunteered Babu Gundranesh Dutt, “am under impression that he dropped same when tripped.”
“Who tripped him?” Prike demanded. “You, Marvin?”
“I’m not sure exactly what happened,” Marvin replied, “with all the confusion, and the darkness.”
Prike nodded to one of his constables.
“You stay here, Smith,” he said. “Make a thorough search of the ground for a radius of ten or fifteen yards. Then come to my rooms. The rest of you will come with me now.”
The blue light spluttered out. A match flared. A loud detonation shook the night.
Inspector Prike’s flashlight revealed the startled, powder-blackened face of Cousin Danilal Dutt.
“No cause for alarm,” explained Cousin Danilal sheepishly. “Am deeply regretful, but mistook small Diwali bomb for Bengal light.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE INSPECTOR WORKS BACKWARD
When Inspector Prike locked the handcuffs about the wrists of Jacques Vrai in the Lower Circular Road cemetery, the mystery of the murder of Harrison Hoyt was as good as solved. In fact, Prike was sure of his solution after his return from Chandernagore, and the conferences, telephone conversations, and telegrams which filled the late afternoon and early evening were merely for the purpose of verification.
Deputy Inspector Robbins was the first conferee.
“I’ve come from the hospital,” said Robbins. “Dormer is coming around all right, but the doctor won’t let me speak to him until late tonight. Did the French police find Henry Kobayashi?”
“Not yet,” said Prike.
“Then I’m going back to Chandernagore,” Robbins announced. “I’ll find him.”
“Good,” said Prike. “Bring him to my rooms by midnight. If I’m not there, wait; I may be detained. I’m going aboard the French freighter Alfonse Daudet before she sails. I expect to find Jacques Vrai aboard.”
“Why do you say that, inspector?”
“When Jacques Vrai made his bold break this morning,” Prike answered, “he very likely was sure he had means of escaping from India. I eliminate the usual agencies of transportation, naturally. In checking over the cargo ships sailing today, I’ve had a telephone conversation with Tartine and Company, agents for the Alfonse Daudet. They tell me that the Daudet used to carry chrome ore from New Caledonia. It seems reasonable to suppose that Vrai would know some member of the crew from his Noumea days, someone he could bribe to stow him away. I— Hello, what’s this?”
A chaprassi had just deposited a slip of paper on Prike’s desk.
“Our men at the Telegraphs Administration,” said Prike, “inform me that Gundranesh Dutt has just sent a wire to Rufus Dormer.”
“Anything important?”
“All is lost, Mr. Dormer. Kindly and urgently see me at promptest opportunity,” Prike read. “The interest here, Robbins, lies in the fact that the Babu seems to know Dormer’s new address.”
“I’ve got a man shadowing the Babu,” said Robbins.
“I may go out for a look myself this evening,” said Prike. “When you leave, Robbins, will you send in the police surgeon.”
The pink-browed doctor made his entrance a moment later.
“Doctor,” said Prike, “I’d like you to come to my rooms tonight between eleven and twelve. Bring your sphygmomanometer with you.”
“Who’s the patient, inspector?”
“No patient,” said Prike. “A prisoner. The man who murdered Hoyt and Julius.”
“I’d advise you proceed cautiously, inspector. There’s still no trace of poison in either body. Dr. Chaudry’s laboratory has been working twenty-four hours a day, making test after test—”
“The two men were killed—chemically, then, if you object to the word poison,” said Prike.
“How, inspector?”
“Dr. Chaudry found strong sodium and nitrogen bands in his spectro-analysis?”
“Yes.”
“Indicating, possibly, the presence of sodium nitrite?”
“Both sodium nitrite and sodium nitrate are natural products of organic decomposition,” said the toxicologist, “and you know very well, inspector, that decomposition begins immediately in this climate.”
“Yes, indeed. However, let us assume that the sodium nitrite was administered before death—”
“But sodium nitrite is not a poison,” protested the police surgeon. “We use it therapeutically.”
“For what purpose?”
“To reduce high blood pressure, although in these days amyl nitrite is—”
“What is the dose, doctor? Rather small, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite small. Less than a grain, usually.”
“What would happen if a large dose were administered; large enough, say, to reduce a man’s blood pressure to almost zero?”
“Well,” said the police surgeon, “there would doubtless be a general dilatation of the circulatory system, a progressive dilatation of the heart to compensate for the lowered blood pressure—”
“Ending in paralysis of the lungs,” concluded Inspector Prike, “with accompanying cyanosis and other external symptoms of asphyxia?”
“By jove, inspector! Those are the symptoms, all right!” The police surgeon slapped his thigh. “What made you think of sodium nitrite?”
“I merely worked backward,” the inspector said. “When you and Dr. Chaudry were unable to find traces of orthodox poisons, I assumed as a working basis that death was caused by the misuse of some normally harmless substance. The symptoms you described in both cases indicated a vaso dilatator. Therefore I simply consulted my volume of Materia Medica and Therapeutics, opened to the chapter on vaso-dilatators, ran my finger over the page until I came to something that would correspond with Dr. Chaudry’s findings—and stopped at sodium nitrite.”
“But sodium nitrite is slightly bitter, inspector. How could your man induce his victims to swallow it?”
“I admit this baffled me for a while, doctor. Then I marshaled all my evidence, and was struck by the fact that both Hoyt and Julius, six or seven hours before they died, had been drinking gin and bitters. My chief suspects—Vrai, Kobayashi, Linnet, and Chitterji Rao— were the drinking companions of each. It seems logical, therefore, that one of these men could load the drinks of his victim with sodium nitrite, the taste of which would be covered by the bitters.”
“But how, inspector?”
“That,” said Inspector Prike, “I shall demonstrate this evening. Good afternoon, doctor.”
Left alone, Inspector Prike spent some time studying the page of a hotel register that had arrived by plane from Singapore that afternoon, in response to his cable to the Straits police.
He then sent a man to relieve his operative at the Kalighat Temple, and talked by long-distance telephone with the subordinate he had sent to watch the religious observance of Diwali at the Temple of Kali in Jharnpur.
