Wives to Burn, page 20
“I’m not going to argue with you, Gabriel. I’m going to count to three. If you don’t tear up that letter, I’ll—”
“I suppose someone lent you the money to put back in the bank,” Gabriel went on, “so you felt very brave and honest and charged the poor girl with extortion.”
“One,” said Brinker.
“I can see why you’d want the charges dropped,” Gabriel said. “Wouldn’t sound right, having Lucy tell her stories in court about a banker, even if the books showed they were lies. I can’t see how you happened to bring charges in the first place.”
“Two,” counted Brinker.
Gabriel suddenly dropped to his knees, ducked under the table. The roar of a pistol shot beat upon his eardrums and he had the fleeting sensation of being hit. There was a grunt, a cry, and the crash of overturned furniture, and Gabriel dove through to the other side of the table, prepared to grab Brinker’s legs with a flying tackle. But he could not find Brinker’s legs. There were only a pair of brown legs draped in the loose, voluminous folds of a dhoti.
The detective crawled out from under the table. The tall Hindu with the walrus mustache and the scarred cheek had the banker clasped tightly in his arms. He was holding him upside down, as though ready to bounce his bald head against the floor. Brinker’s pistol hand was clamped tightly between the Hindu’s bare knees.
“Hold his legs for me, will you, Bill, old man?” said the Hindu, speaking with a perfect Oxford accent. “He’s kicking to touch with one of my ears.”
“Aubrey!” Gabriel exclaimed. He immediately proceeded to relieve Alvin Brinker of his revolver, and a moment later the banker was handcuffed.
“I just happened to look through the window and noticed you were in a little trouble,” said Inspector Dumbarton, “so I thought I’d pop in and ask if I could be of any service. You couldn’t give a man a proper cigarette, could you? I’ve been smoking dried leaves for nearly a week now.”
Gabriel was mentally removing the mustache, turban, scar, shaven pate, and brown complexion as he tried to picture the inspector in one of his usual natty tussah silk suits. He passed the cigarettes.
“Nice job of make-up, Aubrey,” he said admiringly. “You fooled even me—at first.”
Inspector Dumbarton chuckled. “Walnut juice,” he said. “Wears off eventually.”
“I don’t suppose you got my letters and telegrams.”
“I got their gist. I’ve been in touch with Delhi, you know. Matter of fact, I’ve got the details of that Bombay case for you. Thought I’d bring them to you myself tonight, after the big show was over.”
“Was this the bird?” Gabriel nodded toward the sullen taut-jawed Brinker.
“Alvin Brinker was complaining witness in the case against Lucy Steel,” Inspector Dumbarton said. “And Mrs. Brinker’s brother, the Hon. Henry Connington-Trent, was King’s Counsel. Strangely enough, the K.C. died before the case came to trial—and charges were dropped immediately.”
“Nothing strange in that,” Brinker growled. “Connington-Trent died of typhoid.”
“But you dropped charges.”
“Naturally. I didn’t want to prosecute in the first place. It was Connington-Trent who insisted. That was one of the conditions on which he—he—”
“Put up the money to cover your shortage at the bank?” suggested Gabriel.
“Well, yes, he did lend me the money. But I’ve paid it back to his estate—every penny of it. And you needn’t try to pin his death on me, because—”
“We’ve got plenty as it is,” Gabriel said.
The District Officer made a breathless entrance.
“I was down the road,” he panted, “when I could have sworn I heard a pistol shot. Did you—? I say, Brinker, what’s going on?”
“Say, Mr. Hatton,” said Gabriel, “I’d like you to meet my good friend Inspector Aubrey Dumbarton, C.I.D. Aubrey’s been down here these last few days to help me crack this case.”
“Your name’s not Gabriel for nothing, is it, Bill?” Inspector Dumbarton chuckled.
“I don’t understand,” the District Officer began. But he was interrupted by the hasty entrance of the Subadar of Police.
“Shivaji Lal, the Brahman, is on the veranda, Sahib,” he blurted. “He says the sahib’s sister is in grave danger. She is at the mosque—”
“What the devil is she doing at the mosque?” demanded Hatton.
“I do not know, Sahib. But the Brahman says there is dynamite stored in the mosque.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the District Officer. “Hajji Ahmed knows I wouldn’t stand for anything of the sort. He wouldn’t dare—”
“He’d dare all right,” said Inspector Dumbarton.
Hatton stared open-mouthed at first one man, then the other. “But—” he began.
“The Brahman says the dynamite is to be exploded at nine o’clock tonight,” the Subadar continued.
“Then what the devil are you waiting for?” Hatton barked. “Don’t stand there gabbing like a woman! Get along to the mosque and stop it. Take as many men as you need. Go on, Hurry!”
“There’s no need to hurry,” said Inspector Dumbarton quietly.
“But there is, Sahib. The Brahman assured me that the dynamite will explode at nine o’clock.”
“Hurry along, then!” ordered the District Officer.
“I assure you that there’s no hurry,” insisted Inspector Dumbarton calmly, “because the dynamite will not explode.”
“Who said it won’t?” asked Gabriel, suddenly interested. “That dynamite was probably stolen from Jim Curring—”
“It was certainly stolen from Curring,” said Dumbarton. “That’s why I’m sure it cannot be detonated.”
“The Brahman says someone will fire a rifle bullet into it.”
“It is highly questionable whether the rifle—no doubt aimed by the Brahman’s son—will fire a bullet,” said Dumbarton. “But I can vouch for the dynamite, because I personally supervised its shipment. It is a very special kind of dynamite. The wood meal of which it is composed is saturated with the purest of glycerine—but not with nitro-glycerine. It won’t explode.”
“What do you mean, you supervised the shipment?” Gabriel asked.
“I’ve been watching the Shakkarpur plot grow for the past month,” said Inspector Dumbarton, “and for the past week, I’ve been exceedingly busy—I, and perhaps twenty other agents. By the way, Hatton, there are a number of Mauser rifles in the godown of Chunder Bose that you might want to confiscate quietly in a day or so.”
“Day or so!” snorted the District Officer. “I’ll do it immediately. Subadar!”
“I should advise waiting until things calm down a bit,” said Inspector Dumbarton. “The rifles are useless now, because they are without proper ammunition. I had a dozen experts from the Dum Dum arsenal working all night in the luggage van of the Mail from Madras, carefully removing the powder from I don’t know how many thousand cartridges.”
“But that’s incredible and rather stupid!” Hatton declared. “If you knew of these shipments of arms and explosives, why didn’t you confiscate them at once?”
“For the same reason you didn’t call for troops, Hatton,” said Inspector Dumbarton.
The Subadar of Police looked at his immediate superior somewhat dubiously, shrugged and left the room.
“You see, Hatton,” Inspector Dumbarton continued, “we in Delhi decided it would be much more effective, in the long run, to let useless or defective arms be delivered to prospective rebels. In that way we discredit those foreign agents who promise help to malcontents, but who furnish only duds. At the same time we demonstrate that order can be preserved and authority maintained in characteristically British fashion, and therefore that the British raj is essentially a just and humanitarian government able to rule without recourse to the harsh methods of others—or of our own former methods at Amritsar.”
“Say, Aubrey,” Gabriel interposed. “You must be the guy that needled Fred Oaks last night.”
“That’s right.”
“What was the idea?”
“I wanted to keep him out of circulation until I was sure my harmless weapons had got into the proper hands,” Inspector Dumbarton said. “Oaks is rather a clever boy, and I wanted to be sure that he didn’t discover my little deception and take steps to remedy it.”
“But if you knew he was an agent provocateur, why didn’t you just turn him over to the D.O.?”
“Delhi decided against it, as a matter of policy,” said the Inspector. “Oaks is an American from a prominent and wealthy family, so that his arrest would be bound to cause undesirable publicity. The story would be certain to reach the press—the American press is extremely enterprising, you know—and call attention to a condition of unrest being fomented in India by outside influences. Stories of unrest would serve to feed unrest, and encourage further agitation. As long as we can cope with the situation quietly, we find it much preferable simply to deny that the situation exists.”
“But good lord, Dumbarton!” the District Officer protested. “You can’t be lenient with a man as dangerous as Oaks at a time like this. Or aren’t you aware how tense the European situation has become in the last twenty-four hours? I’ve just had another despatch—”
“Yes, I know,” said Inspector Dumbarton. “War. German troops have already crossed the border. We’ll be in it in no time.”
“Exactly. That’s why we must seize Oaks.”
“No,” said the Inspector. “I repeat, Oaks is an American. The Government at home is going to great lengths to insure a favorable press in America for everything British. We musn’t risk spoiling it by doing anything drastic to Oaks—particularly since he’s done no real damage down here. Naturally, I don’t intend that he shall remain much longer in India.”
“You won’t have to worry about that,” Gabriel said. “I’m taking him back to the States with me. My home office cables me that he’s needed in San Francisco in connection with his father’s estate.”
“You mean he’s going to inherit all those millions after all?” asked the District Officer.
“Looks that way, eventually,” Gabriel replied.
“Well!” Hatton smiled broadly. A faraway look came into his eyes. “I wonder if my sister knows about that,” he said, half to himself. “She’s always been fond of young Oaks.”
The Subadar came rushing back into the room.
“The Brahman says his son also has side-arms, Excellency!” he exclaimed. “In addition to the rifle, he also has a revolver which he smuggled in on his return from America!”
“Has he ammunition for the revolver?” Inspector Dumbarton asked.
“Yes, Sahib. The Brahman says he has ammunition.”
The smile faded from the face of the District Officer.
Chapter Twenty-nine
A Hypothetical Risk
Virginia Hatton’s head emerged from the pile of prayer rugs. She was smiling happily.
“You’re very prompt,” she said.
“Quick!” Fred ordered. “Get out of here!”
“But, Fred—”
Fred stopped, swept the girl into his arms, bolted across the room.
“Run!” he panted. “Run like hell!”
“Where, Fred?”
“Anywhere. But run. I’ll join you.” He swung the girl over the window sill, pushed her through, sprang after her.
Directly in front of him he saw the closed ghari on a little rise, saw the long rifle barrel gleam dully in the torchlight. He ran toward the rifle muzzle, keeping in line with the window behind him. Silently, desperately, hopelessly he ran, his arms raised above his head, expecting at every step to see the universe explode in flaming thunder. He scarcely heard the harmless click of the firing pin, the repeated snap of the breech-bolt, the curses of Ganeshi Lal.
He was surprised to find his hands closing about the rifle barrel. Automatically he wrested it free, swung the stock against the bony rump of the ghari horse.
As the horse bolted, the face of Ganeshi Lal flashed briefly at the carriage window. The last vestige of Occidental veneer had been stripped from it and his lips, twisted with rage, screamed imprecations in a dozen Oriental dialects. There was a revolver in the hand that he thrust toward Fred.
A dazzling bud of fire blossomed before Fred’s eyes, then another, smaller flower. Two more shots, further away, shook the hot night as the careening carriage rattled off into the darkness.
Fred found himself on his knees. A streak of searing pain burned his cheek. His right arm was numb, and refused to respond when he tried to pick up the rifle that had slipped from his limp fingers. He got to his feet, was relieved to discover that he could stand. Virginia was beside him, her arms around him.
“You didn’t run,” he said.
“Not without you—Fred, you’re hurt.”
“Don’t you know you might have been blown to bits?”
“Stop talking nonsense. You’re bleeding!”
“Just a scratch. I can walk all right. See?”
“You’re trembling, Fred. What happened? Tell me, Fred!”
“Nothing happened. It was all Maya—all illusion.”
“You talk just like Shivaji Lal.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re sure you can walk, Fred?”
“Quite sure. See?”
“Then you’re running away—tonight?”
“No.”
“When are you running away?”
“Never. I’m through running away. I’ve found what I want.”
“You’ve found yourself.”
“I’ve found you.”
“Fred darling! But we can’t stay in Shakkarpur. My brother—”
“We’re going to see your brother now. I’ve got lots to tell him.”
“But you can’t. He’ll put you in prison.”
“It won’t really matter. Nobody can put me in prison now—not really.”
They walked in silence to the bank of the river. Suddenly Virginia stopped. She said:
“I’m terribly happy. Do you suppose it could be just—Maya?”
“I’m sure it’s quite real,” Fred replied.
He felt his knees buckle, made a supreme effort to remain standing. The pain of his useless right arm was now throbbing in his shoulder, his whole side. He wondered if he would have the strength to walk all the way to the District Officer’s bungalow.
“Sit down and rest for a while,” Virginia said. “Let me try to stop the bleeding.”
“Never mind the bleeding,” Fred replied. “Kiss me, darling.”
She did. She kissed him six times before he became aware, looking over her shoulder, of a naked Ooria boy, watching them with wide, wondering eyes. He became aware, too, beyond the boy, of a thicket of masts swaying gently against the stars as the tide rippled into the river mouth to stir the native craft moored at River Ghat. The indigo dhow must still be there.
“Virginia,” Fred began softly, “did you know I was going away with Rhoda Curring tonight?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“Did you know that Rhoda was afraid that if I saw you again I wouldn’t go—so afraid that she was willing to send you to a horrible death?”
“She did nothing of the kind, darling. She did me a tremendous favor.”
“If she did, it was quite by accident. She’ll be consumed by rage when she finds out. Whatever Rhoda’s qualities may be, selfless generosity isn’t one of them.”
“Rhoda’s not really bad, darling.”
“No, I suppose not. Very few people are. But Rhoda has a very great talent for making herself unhappy. Sometimes I think she actually enjoys being miserable. She’d carry that wretched, gnawing restlessness with her no matter where she went. I was just wondering how much she’d relish carrying it on a long, smelly journey alone.”
“Fred darling, you can’t let her go away by herself!”
“No, I suppose not,” Fred admitted. “I haven’t anything against Jim Curring, but I’m afraid I’ll have to send Rhoda back to him.”
“Yes, do.”
“All right. Reach in my pocket for a two-anna bit and give it to that boy standing there watching us.” He called the Ooria lad. “Chokra!”
The boy approached respectfully. “Sahib?”
“At River Ghat there is an indigo boat from down the coast,” Fred told the boy in Hindustani. “On the boat there is a memsahib with copper-colored hair. Understand?”
“Yes, Sahib.”
“Go to the mem-sahib on the boat, chokra, and tell her not to wait any longer for the rascally sahib who was to come to her tonight. Tell her the sahib is sorry, but he has been detained—for a hundred years or so.”
He watched the naked boy disappear in the direction of the ghat. He closed his eyes. He could feel Virginia very close to him, her arms about him.
“That was rather a decent gesture you just made,” he heard her saying. “Was it very painful?”
“Not very.” Fred smiled. “But I’ll have to watch myself, in case it’s habit-forming. You might not love me if I turn into a stolid, civilized member of society. Or would you?”
“That,” said the girl, “is a purely hypothetical risk we may never have to face.”
She kissed him again.
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.
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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.
