Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 3
“I’m not going there,” said Woodring quickly. He sauntered over to the chair on which his coat was hung, draped his arm across the back so that his right hand touched the pocket that held the automatic.
“Too bad,” Emmet-Tansley shook his head with alcoholic sadness. “You should go. Darjeeling is—”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“That must be the drinks,” he said.
“Suppose you open, then,” said Woodring.
Emmet-Tansley staggered across the room, opened the door. A Hindu in long white tunic and red turban stood there. He held an envelope in his hand. khansama. The servant held an envelope in his hand.
“It’s only a chit for you.”
“Tell him to bring it here.”
The khansama came in with the envelope.
“Jawab manta?” Woodring asked.
No, there was no answer expected. The khansama left. Woodring tore open the envelope. Still watching his self-invited guest out of the corner of his eye, he read a note written in a vertical, copy-book hand:
“Dear Mr. Woodring,
Will you please come to Camac Street as soon as you can? I’m afraid something dreadful has happened.
In great haste,
Ruth Ingram.”
Woodring stuffed the note into his pocket, stood up, put on his coat. He said: “I’m leaving now, Mr. Tansley. Sorry.” He looked sharply at Emmet-Tansley. “But I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again—soon.”
“I sincerely hope so, my dear Woodring. Well, cheerio, then.”
The plump red-head went weaving down the corridor, a glass in each hand. Woodring watched him until he turned a corner, followed by his bearer with the tray. Then he locked the door again.
Quickly he melted the seals back in place on Blenn’s thick envelope, which he put into his breast pocket. He also pocketed the leather wallet. Then he took the mail he had just addressed, went down in the lift.
He stopped at the reception desk to buy stamps.
“Shall I post your letters for you, sir?” the clerk inquired.
“I’ll take care of it myself, thanks,” said Woodring. “Will it go out to-night?”
“Inland letters are taken up to-night, sir. Home mail won’t leave until Thursday, of course. There’s a pillar box right over there, sir.”
As Woodring was posting his letters near the entrance, a taxi swooped to the curb from across the street. The driver was evidently not one who paid baksheesh regularly to the guardians of the Great Eastern’s portals, because the Sikh durwan greeted him with a loud and menacing rush. Woodring, however, was in a hurry and put an end to the argument by jumping in and giving the Camac Street address.
The taxi turned left into Dharmtolla Street. As it continued to roll eastward, Woodring leaned forward and repeated: “Camac Street?” The driver nodded. Woodring was not familiar with the geography of Calcutta, but he had a good sense of direction. He knew that Camac Street lay farther south. And when the taxi made another left turn into Wellington Street, he yelled, “Kidhar jaenga, jangli-walla?”
The driver’s reply was lost in the noise of the motor as the taxi picked up speed.
Woodring stood up. The driver glanced back over his shoulder, jammed on the brakes. Tyres squealed. Woodring pitched forward over the front seat.
Instantly the driver threw his right arm around the youth, crushed him in the powerful angle of his elbow. Woodring tried to reach for his gun, but his arms were pinioned. He struggled. The taxi was gaining speed again; swung sharply into a narrow, dark alley. Woodring squirmed half out of the driver’s grip, wrenched his left arm free. He raised his head—in time to see men swarming from the shadows.
The car jolted to a stop. The headlights winked out. Something struck Woodring a stunning blow at the base of the skull. Rude hands seized him, dragged him from the taxi. The contact of his feet with the ground jarred him from his painful stupor. He began to fight.
He looped a long right against the jaw of the man holding his shoulders, felt him wilt. His left was working in short, quick jabs, as he tried to back away. His knuckles raked painfully across bared teeth, plunked into a yielding stomach. Grunts and howls filled the darkness. Then a low, hurtling body knocked his feet out from under him. As he fell flat, three men sprawled on top of him.
Woodring winced as a blade flashed down. But the expected bite of steel did not come. Instead the blade slashed through the outside of his coat. A hand seized the contents of his breast pocket.
Instantly the weight of men lifted from him. He heard a motor whir into action. As he got to his feet, he saw a car which had been standing without lights farther down the alley. The car was moving, bearing down on him. He sprang aside.
At that moment the taxi began backing out of the alley. Its headlights flashed on. In the glare of the twin beams, Woodring caught a glimpse of a European sitting in the back of the other car. Quickly gaining momentum, the car whisked by, passed the taxi. But the brief glimpse was sufficient for Woodring to recognise the long, pasty face of Basil Stiller.
When Paul Woodring finally reached the Blenn house in Camac Street, he might have been mistaken for a beachcomber after a brawl in a sailor’s brothel at Kidderpore. His white coat was in tatters, he was smeared with dust and grime, and there was a streak of dried blood on his face from a cut under one eye. For ten minutes he had been rehearsing acrimonious remarks he intended to address to Ruth Ingram.
The girl herself opened the door for him. Her look of astonishment at his appearance seemed genuine enough, and there seemed to be real concern in her blue eyes. Nevertheless. Woodring could not refrain from blurting: “Why do you look so surprised? Didn’t they do as thorough a job as you expected?”
“You—you’ve had an accident!” the girl said.
“Accident?” Woodring smiled grimly. “I don’t think there was a single detail left to accident. Your job was very well planned.”
“My job?”
“Certainly. Didn’t you write me this chit?” Woodring held out the crumpled note.
“Yes, but—You’re hurt. Let me get some antiseptic for that cut on your cheek.”
“Thanks,” said Woodring, “but don’t feel yourself obligated to bind up the wounds inflicted by your charming fiance’s gang of cut-throats.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the girl said.
“No? Then I suppose you’d like me to believe you didn’t know why Stiller had you write that chit.”
“Basil hasn’t been here this evening. I asked you to come because I was terribly frightened. Uncle Alex has disappeared.”
Woodring laughed. He entered the sitting-room.
“Don’t you believe me?” the girl asked. She followed him, remained standing while he sat down.
“Of course not. Why do you say Mr. Blenn has disappeared simply because he’s gone out somewhere?”
“But he hasn’t just ‘gone out somewhere,’” Ruth Ingram protested. There was a note of sincere distress in her voice. “You saw how strange he was when you were here earlier. Just after you left the doorbell rang. Uncle Alex came running from his room. He had a gun in his hand and he shouted: ‘Don’t open the door! Don’t let him in!’ I went to the side window and looked out. There was no one at the door. When I told this to Uncle Alex it made him worse. I’ve never seen such eyes—like the eyes of a madman. He went back to his room and for a while I could hear him talking to himself. I was worried, naturally, and after a while I decided to call the doctor. I thought I’d better get my uncle’s permission first, so I went to his room. He was gone! And yet he couldn’t have gone down the stairs without my seeing him, because the door of my room was open all the time.”
“Isn’t there a back way?” Woodring asked.
“There’s the servants’ stairway,” the girl replied. “But I questioned the servants. None of them saw him go out.”
“He could have easily slipped out without being seen. You must remember that these servants are blessed with a large talent for sleeping at the slightest provocation and in the most awkward positions.”
“But why should Uncle Alex want to slip out without being seen?”
“I don’t know,” said Woodring, “any more than I know why you sent for me, a perfect stranger, instead of sending for your fiancé.”
“I couldn’t reach Basil,” the girl said.
“That’s right; he was busy.” Woodring ruefully stroked a painful lump on the back of his head. “But I still don’t see why you called me in preference to a friend of the family.”
“Friend?” Ruth Ingram shook her head. She smiled. It was a wistful smile, despite the dimples. “Uncle Alex has no friends,” she said sadly. “People may respect him for the private empire he’s created. They may envy him, and certainly they fear him. But mostly they hate him. You know better than I do how he’s got where he is. By using other people, twisting them to his own ruthless ends, crushing them. But he trusted you. I’ve heard him say so.”
“And you feel that you have to trust me because your uncle does?”
“I think I’d trust you anyway,” replied the girl. “I read about your exploit in Chota Nagpur when the paymaster was shot. It was splendid. I was going to tell you so—on the stairs this morning.”
“Stiller doesn’t trust me,” said Woodring. “And I must say the feeling is mutual, although I haven’t expressed my distrust by physical violence—yet.”
“You still haven’t told me what happened to-night.”
Woodring studied the girl’s face. There was no longer any use denying to himself that she was pretty. But, Woodring told himself, it was not because he found her attractive that he had suddenly decided she was innocent of complicity in Stiller’s schemes. “Tonight,” he explained, “your fiancé paid me the compliment of hiring half a dozen ruffians for a job he himself apparently wasn’t equal to. They waylaid me in an alley—to rob me of a package your uncle entrusted to my care for delivery in Darjeeling.”
“Are you sure it was Basil Stiller who did this?”
“Positive. I saw him,” Woodring replied. Then, impulsively: “Are you in love with Stiller?”
“I don’t see why that should interest you.”
“Neither do I, as a matter of fact,” Woodring agreed. “Do you know a man named Emmet-Tansley?”
“No. Why?”
“I was wondering who he might be. Now about your uncle. Who was he expecting when the doorbell rang?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the girl said.
“Just to set your mind at rest—I was the one who rang that bell. I was coming back—but I changed my mind.”
“Oh.”
“When did this … well, this fear psychosis … when did it start?”
“A little after six this evening,” said the girl. “A telegram came for him, and when he read it, he went all to pieces. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He turned white and began to tremble.”
“You were with him when the telegram came?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Who was it from?”
“It wasn’t signed,” said the girl.
“Then you did read it.”
Ruth Ingram flushed. “I didn’t want you to think I was in the habit of reading Uncle Alex’s private communications. But I couldn’t help seeing the telegram—just for a moment before he destroyed it.”
“What did it say?” Woodring tapped out his cigarette.
“I don’t remember the exact words. It was probably code. It read like something from the Bible. Something about ‘The walls of Jericho have arisen from ruins and the hosts of vengeance are on the march.’ That’s all.”
Woodring stood up suddenly. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” he asked eagerly.
“Nothing.”
“The name Jericho … you’ve never heard it before?”
“Only in Sunday School,” said the girl.
“You’ve never heard of Christopher Jericho? Never heard Mr. Blenn speak of him?”
“Never.”
Woodring sat down again. He took another cigarette from his pocket, but stared thoughtfully at the flaming match for several seconds before he lighted up.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Ruth suggested.
“No!” Woodring snapped out the match with an emphatic gesture. “My instructions are not to call the police for any reason. Has Stiller a telephone at home?”
“Yes.”
“Please try calling him again, then,” said Woodring.
The girl got up and went into the hall. Woodring followed, stood over her as she called a number. There was a long wait. Her expression changed, but she did not speak. After a moment she hung up.
“What’s the matter?” Woodring asked.
“Nothing. Strange. I thought my uncle might have gone there.”
“Some one answered. I was watching your face.”
The girl shook her head. “I thought I heard some one take the receiver off the hook at the other end of the wire,” she said. “But I may have been mistaken. The telephone system in Calcutta is a strange and wonderful thing. They say it’s quicker to call London than to get through to some one in Bow Bazaar.”
“Where does Stiller live?”
“Not far from here. He has a flat in Elysium Row.”
“I’m going over there,” said Woodring. He looked at his watch. “It’s midnight. Are you afraid to stay here alone?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then wait for me. I may be several hours, but don’t do anything until I get back. Yes, there’s one thing. You might try telephoning Stiller again, at intervals. Wait here.”
Woodring didn’t stop for an answer. He walked to the corner of Theatre Road and hurried over the few hundred feet to Elysium Row. He tried the front door of Stiller’s flat; it was still locked. He walked to the back of the house, without much hope; it was locked also. Nevertheless he turned the knob. The door swung open.
Woodring paused on the threshold, listening. Some one had been here within the last hours, some one who had unlocked the back door, some one who was perhaps there yet. He drew his automatic, advanced cautiously through the kitchen.
The rooms were steeped in gloom. The windows were only pale grey blurs in the still-slumbering daylight. Woodring could barely make out the furniture of the dining-room. In the bedroom, however, he could see at once that something was amiss. The drawers had been pulled from a wardrobe and the contents were scattered on the floor. The disorder, however, was nothing compared to that in the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room, furniture had been over-turned. Broken glass gleamed on the floor. A desk had been ransacked, and the papers strewn over the rug. Almost at his feet, Woodring saw an envelope that appeared familiar. He stooped to pick it up, carried it near a window. On the back of the envelope were three blobs of green sealing-wax on which was pressed the monogram “A.B.” The top of the flap had been slit open. The envelope was empty.
Suddenly Woodring backed away from the window, turned to face the door from the dining-room. He heard faint sounds of movement. His thumb found the safety of the automatic, slipped it off. He listened again. There was no mistaking the sounds now. They were light, cautious footsteps. Silently he approached the door, flattened himself against the wall. The footsteps continued to come nearer crossed the threshold.
Woodring sprang—jammed the pistol against the midriff of Ruth Ingram.
The girl gave a frightened gasp. Woodring stepped back, abashed.
“Why did you come here?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you wait? …”
“Wait! I’m half dead with waiting!” the girl protested. “If anything has happened, I want to …” She stopped, staring at the empty envelope in Woodring’s left hand. “Is that the packet you were supposed to take to Darjeeling?”
“Yes.”
“Have they—Are the papers gone?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Woodring, with a sweeping gesture that indicated the littered rug. “I haven’t finished looking over the wreckage here. I’m inclined to think …”
He broke off abruptly. His gaze was fixed on something that glistened across the room, something shaped like a grotesquely big mango leaf, as though some dark liquid had flowed off the edge of the rug on to the floor of porcelain mosaic. Quickly he crossed the rug, bent over. The liquid was thick, viscous, and deep red-brown. It gave off a faintly sweetish odour.
“You’d better get out of here, ek dum!” he said.
The girl too, was staring at the horrid puddle. Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper as she asked:
“Blood?”
“Yes. Go on home, now.”
“But where…? Have you looked in all the rooms?”
“I think so. Unless … What’s behind that door over there?”
“That’s a spare bed chamber.”
Woodring strode over to the door, pulled it open. One glance at the thick dust on the floor told him that the room had not been entered for several days. He closed the door again.
“I think,” he said, as he walked over to Ruth Ingram, “that we may have to call the police after all.”
“Then Uncle Alex is…?”
“I don’t know what’s happened to Mr. Blenn,” Woodring said. “But in case he should be dead, the whole picture changes. You’re his sole heir, aren’t you?”
The girl’s face looked very small and white in the half-darkness, but her voice was steady as she replied:
“As far as I know, yes.”
“In that case, I’d be working for you. Would you want me to go through with certain projects Mr. Blenn has started, or are you of Basil Stiller’s opinion that they should be cancelled?”
“I would want you to use your own judgment,” said the girl slowly, looking Woodring squarely in the eyes.
“Good. Then listen to me. I’m going to Darjeeling some time to-day. I’ll want a few hours to get my things together and to get clear of possible interference. Wait until nine o’clock. If you don’t hear from me by then, call the police. Tell them the truth.”
