Bombay Mail, page 20
The Indian peasant shuns banks and puts his savings into gold bracelets, anklets, nose ornaments, toe rings, and ear studs. When his anatomy provides no more room for his portable wealth, he buys gold and buries it. When half the world began to slide off the gold standard and the price of the yellow metal started climbing, gold began to come out of the ground in India. And Orfèvre, Ltd., sent Lee Marvin out to buy it.
Marvin also had his eye out for fine examples of native craftsmanship—the artistic product of the skilled jewelers of Bhutan and the filigree gold of Cuttack. He made occasional trips to the bazaars of Delhi and Jaipur to buy champlevé enamel, and once a year he went south to cross Adam’s Bridge into Ceylon for moonstones, cat’s eyes, and star sapphires. His headquarters, however, were in Calcutta, where he was known not so much for his shrewd knowledge of gems and precious metals, but for an unusual capacity for minding his own business. It was therefore something of an event when Marvin abandoned his life-long policy of laisser-faire to take an active and voluntary hand in the case of Harrison J. Hoyt and Evelyn Branch.
Hardly had Evelyn disappeared from view of the Kidderpore docks than Marvin jumped into a taxi and had himself taken to the Grand Hotel. Antoinette Vrai was stopping there with her father until after the wedding.
It is doubtful whether Antoinette was more surprised to see Marvin standing outside the door of her suite than Marvin was to be there. There had never been any love lost between the two, and there was a tacit mutual acknowledgment of the antipathy.
“Tiens!” said Antoinette. “It is the carrot-top. Come in.”
Antoinette Vrai was wearing a flame-colored negligée that needed cleaning. She was a small, bulbous person with curly black hair that radiated from her head like the coiffure of a Zulu queen. She was attractive in a forthright, physical way. Coarse, eager lips; high, pale cheekbones; narrow, half-moon eyes that alternately flashed with quick passion or dulled to an apathetic gray under eyebrows plucked and resketched into diabolic upward curves. There was something violently female about Antoinette, something at once repellent and fascinating, something elemental and obvious that would appeal to a man like Harrison J. Hoyt, but not, Marvin believed even at this late date, to the point of marriage. It wasn’t necessary to marry Antoinette.
“Sit down, Carrot-top,” said Antoinette, as she closed the door.
Marvin complied. As he did so, he could see into an adjoining room, where Jacques Vrai, Antoinette’s father, lay asleep under a fan, clad only in a pair of drill trousers that were cut high enough to serve as cummerbund. He was lying with his head toward Marvin, who noted that the close-cropped hair was black except for a touch of steel at the temples. The man must have married young to be Antoinette’s father, for he could not be more than forty-two or three, despite his thin, hardbitten features which added ten years to his appearance.
“Well?” said Antoinette. She sat down opposite Marvin, inserted a long Russian cigarette in a longer holder, and lit it. She crossed her hands behind her head and leaned back. The loose sleeves of her negligée fell away from her plump white arms, disclosing luxuriant axillary darkness. “Why are you here? Maybe you would like to stop the wedding. Yes?”
“I would,” said Marvin, speaking for the first time.
Antoinette threw back her head and laughed out tenuous clouds of smoke. There was nothing reserved or dainty about her laugh. In the next room, Jacques Vrai stirred in his sleep.
“I believe you are jealous, Carrot-top,” said Antoinette with a sidelong, teasing glance. “After all, you knew me before Harry. Tiens, you introduced us; no?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” said Marvin. He had met Antoinette three years ago at Chandernagore, that anachronistic enclave, the last vestige of ancient French power in Bengal, twenty miles up the river from Calcutta. Jacques Vrai ran the Hôtel Dupleix et de l’Univers at Chandernagore. At least, he was the nominal manager. He did keep a suspicious eye on the accounts, but his tight-lipped, monosyllabic personality was a detriment to the hotel, rather than an asset. It was the loud and effusive gaiety of Antoinette which had always dominated the Hôtel Dupleix et de l’Univers. It was Antoinette who attracted week-end guests from Calcutta, Antoinette who kept the bar, and Antoinette who taught the Bengali cook how to make poulet marengo and haricot de mouton bretonne. And it was the poulet marengo, rather than Antoinette, which had started Lee Marvin staying at Chandernagore when he was on a tour of gold-buying in up-river villages.
“Does Harry Hoyt know you came to see me now?” asked Antoinette.
“He does not. He wouldn’t understand my motive. But I think you will—because you are, after all, a woman. Did you know that Harrison Hoyt had a fiancée in the States?”
Antoinette filled her lungs with smoke before she replied. “I think I remember some silly story like that,” she said carelessly. “Puppy-love. Long ago and far away.”
“The story is not silly,” said Marvin soberly. “The girl is in Calcutta—now!”
Antoinette quickly unclasped her hands. She snatched the cigarette holder from between her teeth. She stood up.
“When she arrived?” she demanded.
“This afternoon. Her name is Evelyn Branch, and—”
“And you think I should stand aside, give up Harry, make way for this silly girl from America?”
“It would be the decent thing to do. This girl has a prior claim on Hoyt. She came here only because he let her believe he still loved her and was going to marry her. She—”
Antoinette exploded into loud laughter. Clutching the yawning front edges of her flame-colored negligée, she laughed until she had to sit down. It was not stage laughter, either. It was good, hearty, sadistic laughter that came from a deep-seated enjoyment of the plight of this girl who had come all the way to India to find her marriage broken. It was laughter that caused tears to roll down her cheeks. She gasped for breath, showing plainly the wide space between her upper front teeth. She laughed until Jacques Vrai came in from the next room, complaining under his breath.
“Listen, Papa,” gasped Antoinette. “He is too funny, this man. He tells me—he tells me—”
And she started to laugh again.
Jacques Vrai stared suspiciously at Marvin for a moment, scratching his bare and perspiring stomach. He had been sleeping on one forearm, and the pressure of his wrist had left a vivid red mark across his scaly, grub-white face. His lips, too, were bloodless. The end of his nose was beet-colored.
Vrai grunted something that sounded like “Bonjour,” and turned his back on Marvin. From a table he picked up a package of woolly French tobacco and started rolling a cigarette.
Marvin waited until Antoinette’s laughter had subsided. Then he said, “I see I am wasting my time.”
“Not at all,” said Antoinette. “I enjoy you immensely. But you cannot expect me to give up Harry. What does Harry say?”
“You know very well what Hoyt would say. What sort of hold have you got on him, anyhow’?”
“Hold? Only that he loves me.”
“Nonsense. Hoyt doesn’t love anyone but himself.”
“That is not nice to say. Of course Harry loves me. He thinks I can kiss better than anyone in the world. What do you think, Carrot-top?”
Marvin picked up his topee.
“Then you don’t want to see Miss Branch?” he asked.
“Miss Branch? Who is Miss Branch? Oh, yes, of course. Harry’s ex-fiancée. How stupid. Why, of course I would like to see her. Why don’t you bring her to the wedding tomorrow?”
“Good-by,” said Marvin.
He slammed the door as he went out.
Buy Bengal Fire Now!
About the Author
Lawrence G. Blochman (1900–1975) was an Edgar Award-winning author of mystery novels, a prominent translator of international crime fiction, and served as the fourth president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died in New York City.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1940 by Lawrence G. Blochman
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-8576-2
This edition published in 2023 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
THE INSPECTOR PRIKE MYSTERIES
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
info@mysteriousbookshop.com
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@ OpenRoadMedia
Lawrence G. Blochman, Bombay Mail
