Bengal Fire, page 4
“He disappeared from his bachelor dinner last night,” said Dormer, with a cynical smile. “If you ask me, you’ll find him tanked up somewhere in Karaiya Road. I’d suggest Madame Karnoff’s.”
“The Thanadar has had men making the usual search for the past hour,” interrupted the European constable. “They haven’t found the slightest trace.”
Again Prike nodded. His alert gaze continued to detail the guests. He knew most of them—racing people, an Eurasian pearl dealer, two Parsi theater owners, a plump Bengali Babu with a black umbrella, looking very uncomfortable in European clothes and a celluloid collar, who Prike knew was clerk in Harrison Hoyt’s office. Standing a little apart from the group was the resplendent Chitterji Rao, the Maharajah of Jharnpur’s household officer, and two A.D.C.’s of the Maharajah’s staff.
“Who’s the very loud gentleman wearing one gray glove?” Prike suddenly asked Dormer.
“Some American friend of Hoyt’s,” Dormer replied. “Name’s Linnet, I think. Just arrived yesterday.”
“And the tall, redheaded chap talking to Kurt Julius?”
“That’s Lee Marvin, the best man.”
In three quick strides. Inspector Prike was standing between Marvin and Kurt Julius. The wild-animal buyer greeted him vociferously, slapped him on the back, introduced him to Marvin. The inspector nodded his response to greeting and introduction, but did not remove his hands from the pockets of his black alpaca coat. He seemed particularly interested in the face of Lee Marvin, which was tired, almost haggard, with dark pouches under the eyes.
Kurt Julius began a rapid and detailed recital of Harrison Hoyt’s disappearance from his own bachelor dinner, how no one had seen him go, how his departure was not noticed until Kurt Julius himself had proposed a toast.
“At what time was this?’’ asked Prike quietly, still watching Marvin.
“Eleven o’clock, maybe quarter-past,” said Julius.
“And how much later did the party continue?” asked Prike.
“It didn’t,” said Julius. “Right away everybody went home.”
“Everyone but Mr. Marvin,” suggested Prike. “Mr. Marvin doesn’t seem to have had much sleep. Spend the night looking for your friend Hoyt, Mr. Marvin?”
Lee Marvin seemed disquieted by the persistent, searching gaze of Inspector Prike. He stammered slightly as he said, “Well, yes, I—in a way.”
“In what way, Mr. Marvin?” Prike’s question was delivered in a calm undertone, yet the distinctness of his enunciation gave each word the sharpness of a steel blade.
“I—I had an appointment to meet Hoyt at his flat at midnight,” said Marvin. “Naturally I went there to meet him.”
“And Hoyt kept his appointment?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
“How long did you wait for him?” asked Prike.
“About an hour. At least an hour.”
“And no one came to Hoyt’s flat during that time?”
“Mr. Hoyt did not come,” said Marvin.
“I see. Someone else did. Who?”
“I’m not sure,” Marvin replied. “Someone drove up in a closed third-class ticca ghari at about half-past twelve. It seemed to be Hoyt’s Bengali clerk, Babu Gundranesh Dutt, but I wouldn’t swear to it. He went away again almost immediately.”
“You were inside the house at this time?”
“Well, no,” Marvin admitted. “When Hoyt’s bearer told me his master was not home yet, I didn’t go in. I waited across the street.”
“Why?”
“Well, I—I wasn’t sure why Hoyt wanted to see me,” said Marvin. “I thought I should like to be forewarned, if he was bringing someone else home with him.”
“Who, for instance?”
“No one in particular,” said Marvin. “But you know yourself, inspector, that Hoyt has a reputation for vaguely unsavory dealings of one sort or another, and I was rather anxious not to become involved in any of them.”
“I see. And at one o’clock you went home?”
“No. I went to the Grand Hotel. I thought Hoyt might be with his fiancée, Miss Vrai.”
“And was he?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since.”
“But you’ve tried?”
“Yes. I went by on my way home, at about two o’clock. And I called again this morning, naturally.”
“You have no idea where he might be?”
Marvin hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he said, “Not the slightest.”
Prike took Marvin’s arm and pushed him gently toward the entrance to the church.
“Let us interview the bride,” he said.
Antoinette Vrai and her father were waiting in the anteroom of the church. As Prike and Marvin paused outside the door, the voice of the jilted bride could be heard shrilly within. Hysterics, Prike thought to himself; tears all over the place, a decidedly unpleasant assignment. He opened the door.
If the sight that greeted him was a surprise, his stony, inexpressive features gave no sign of it. Instead of a weeping bride, he was confronted with a furious one. Antoinette Vrai had torn the bridal veil from her head and was shaking it in her clenched fist as she gesticulated almost under the nose of her father. Her curly black hair stood more erect than ever as she shouted in violent French.
Jacques Vrai, in an ill-fitting morning coat, paced the room slowly, ignoring the shouts of Antoinette. Half an inch of dead cigarette was flattened between his thin, bloodless lips, and his small, close-cropped head seemed almost lost in the high, wilted, gates-ajar collar several sizes’ too large for him.
When Prike and Marvin entered, Antoinette stopped suddenly in the middle of a high-pitched sentence, whirled, and glowered.
“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Vrai,’’ said Prike quietly, “but I believe I may be able to help in clearing up the mystery of—”
“Mystery?” Antoinette threw back her head and uttered a shrill, mirthless laugh. “There is no mystery! He can tell you everything! He knows where is Harry Hoyt!”
She pointed an accusing finger at Lee Marvin. Undisguised hate blazed in her black eyes, and the very white teeth which flashed through the scarlet of her full, scornful lips, gleamed like the fangs of a wild animal.
“I’ve questioned Mr. Marvin,” said Prike, unruffled by the woman’s outburst, “and he says he knows nothing of—”
“He is a liar!” screamed the jilted bride. “Always he has tried to break my marriage with Harry Hoyt! He hates me! He has had his way at last! He is keeping my fiancé from me! Tant pis pour lui! He will be sorry! And you will be sorry! Go away from me, chameau! Go away! Tell all those people outside to go home!”
“I’ll tell them the ceremony has been postponed.”
“No! Tell them it is canceled! Definitely! Come, papa!”
With a domineering gesture, Antoinette motioned Jacques Vrai to the door, and swept from the room after him.
Prike followed, with Marvin close behind. As they reached the steps of the church, they saw a ticca ghari drive up. It was a closed, third-class vehicle, like a shuttered packing-case on wheels. The bewhiskered ghari-walla reined in his bony horse and shouted something in Hindustani.
Instantly Inspector Prike sprang past Antoinette Vrai and her father, hurtled through the crowd, bounded down the church steps. The ghari-walla was still declaiming in Hindustani when Prike reached the closed carriage, seized the door handle, jerked it open.
A woman screamed.
A tallow-faced, glassy-eyed young man in evening clothes toppled stiffly from the ghari into the arms of Inspector Prike.
Prike lowered the young man carefully to the ground. One arm, pointing upward at a grotesque angle, vibrated rigidly in short, lifeless arcs.
Harrison J. Hoyt was quite dead.
Chapter Seven
PRIKE TAKES OVER
According to the police surgeon, who arrived ten minutes later from the Bow Bazaar station, death was due to natural causes, but by that time Inspector Prike had made up his mind otherwise.
“The man was murdered,” said Prike confidently.
“Nonsense,” said the police surgeon, just a trifle more confidently. “There are no wounds, no marks of violence. The post-mortem appearances indicate some sort of cardiac seizure. Perhaps coronary thrombosis. Note the slight cyanosis of the face.”
“Could the same symptoms be produced by poison, doctor?” asked the inspector.
“WeI-I-II, possibly,” admitted the police surgeon. “But this man—what’s his name? Hoyt?—has been dead at least eight or nine hours, judging from the advance of rigor mortis and the beginning of decomposition. You don’t mean to tell me, inspector, that a man who has been poisoned would jump into a third-class ghari to die?”
“The poison was administered far in advance,” declared Inspector Prike. “Isn’t it true, doctor, that there is usually a delay of twelve to twenty-four hours in death from arsenic?”
“This is not a case of arsenic poisoning. There has been no vomiting.”
“Nevertheless, you will make a most thorough autopsy?” asked the inspector.
“Of course, of course. But I am certain we will find a very ordinary case.”
“I am just as certain you will not.” Inspector Prike was not arguing; he was stating a fact. “Possibly Harrison J. Hoyt’s death may mark the unusual coincidence of a wish and an accident. But probably the long arm coincidence has been rudely jogged at the elbow.”
“Good Lord, inspector.” The police surgeon mopped his pink, perspiring brow. “Why this insistence on foul play?”
Inspector Prike thrust his hand into the pocket of his alpaca coat. His fingers grasped a silk handkerchief in which he had carefully wrapped two objects recovered from the floor of the ghari before the arrival of the surgeon. He was about to withdraw the handkerchief, then hesitated. He looked around at the grimly silent group of wedding guests that a squad of red-turbaned pahare-wallas and European constables had herded back onto the steps of the church. Fifty eyes were watching him, eyes devoid of tears, curious eyes, yet eyes that were awed by the pitiful, inexorable evidence of mortality that lay stretched before them. Voices, even the shrilly hysterical voice of the bereft bride, were hushed in the presence of death. Only the whisper of bare feet on the hot pavement, the feet of half-clad Orientals straining against the police lines, their betel-red lips gaping, gawking at the corpse, violated the steamy stillness. Inspector Prike scanned the tense faces, pausing longest on the earnest, troubled features of the redheaded Lee Marvin. Then he removed his hand from his pocket— without the handkerchief and its contents. He turned back to the police surgeon.
“That, doctor,” was the inspector’s belated reply, “is exclusively my business. I would appreciate your occupying yourself solely with the business of removing the body and performing the autopsy.”
With a nod, the inspector left the police surgeon to his task and walked slowly up the church steps.
Within half an hour, to the disconcerted amazement of Deputy Inspector Robbins from the Bow Bazaar station, Inspector Prike had dismissed the bride, her father, and the wedding guests after only the briefest and most cursory questioning. He did not even give Robbins instructions to have these people shadowed; he knew Robbins would do so anyhow, for Robbins distrusted the unorthodox detective methods of his superior and never failed to set the routine police machinery in motion loyally to cover up the apparent errors of Inspector Prike.
Prike did go so far as to detain the bearded ghari-walla who had driven the dead Harrison J. Hoyt to his wedding. The man’s story seemed reasonable enough.
“I was driving slowly down Elliots Road,” the ghari-walla said, “when this sahib who is now dead came running out of a side street, I think it was Guru’s Lane, and shouted at me to stop. He kept shouting at me as he got into my ghari. I did not understand his directions very well, as he was out of breath and yelled very loud. However, he seemed in a great hurry and every word was, ‘Jeldi!’ or ‘Ek dum!’ so in order not to displease the sahib, I drove at great speed (for my horse) in the same direction. After perhaps five minutes I stopped to inquire the exact address. The sahib appeared to be quite drunk and spoke thickly. He said something about getting to a church for a wedding at nine o’clock the next morning. Then he went to sleep.
“At this point, O Huzur, I fear I yielded to temptation and acted in a manner for which I will suffer in my next incarnation. In fact I have acted in the same manner before when a sahib, befuddled with wine, has stumbled into my ghari. But I am a poor man, Huzur, and all sahibs are rich. I examined the sahib’s pocket-book to see if it contained enough money to pay the legal rate of twelve annas an hour for sleeping in my ghari. It did, so I drove to my home in Narkooldanga Road, left the ghari in the alley, unhitched the horse, and went to rest. I arose early this morning, saw that the sahib was still sleeping, and thought I would do him a favor by driving him to the wedding before awakening him. As I did not remember the name of the church, I drove from one pardesi church to the next, looking for one at which a shadi was being celebrated. The rest, Huzur, you know, for you saw me stop in Dharmtolla Street. I did not know the sahib was dead. I swear it. Qasam khao.”
Prike was inclined to believe the story of the trembling, stammering ghari-walla. The man was frightened almost to the point of tears, yet the inspector’s cross-examination could poke no holes in his statement. Moreover, Harrison Hoyt’s money and his pearl shirt-studs had not been taken. Of course, it was possible that the ghari-walla had been so well paid for telling this story that he was not tempted by petty larceny. But Prike ordered him released; he could always put his hands on him if he wanted him later.
Then the inspector proceeded directly to the publicity offices of the late Harrison Hoyt in the Maidan Mansions. In the outer office he found Babu Gundranesh Dutt seated at a desk, writing furiously. The Bengali clerk’s massive head wagged ponderously as his pen scratched over the paper. When the inspector entered he looked up guiltily and immediately covered the writing with a piece of pink blotting-paper.
“What are you doing, Babu?” Prike asked quietly.
Gundranesh Dutt arose so quickly that he knocked over his chair. “Nothing, Inspector Sahib,” he protested. “I am just now writing chit to person who is friend of mine.”
Prike extended his hand. “Could I see it please, Babu?”
“It is strictly quite personal matter, Inspector Sahib.”
“Let me see it, please.”
The Babu fumbled beneath the blotter. The fat hand which extended the sheet of note-paper shook violently. Prike read:
Dear Mr. Dormer—I am requiring most urgently to see you this evening time. Reason therefore is no doubt quite transparent in view of catastrophe in Dharmtolla Street. Quite essential that situation be liquidated instantly. Most respectfully and obediently yours, Gundranesh Dutt.
Inspector Prike tossed the chit carelessly to the desk. “What situation must be liquidated so urgently, Babu?”
“As heretofore stated, matter is quite personal, Inspector Sahib.”
“How much do you owe Mr. Dormer, Babu?”
“Quite contrariwise, Inspector Sahib. I am being creditor of Mr. Dormer to extent of ten rupees.”
Inspector Prike’s eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly. “What is your salary, Babu?” he asked.
“Have recently been increased to sixty-five rupees per mensum. However, in view of catastrophe to Mr. Hoyt, am facing possible period of unemployment. Am, therefore, seeking refund of outstanding accounts.”
“Do you expect me to believe, Babu, that a man with your small salary is in the habit of lending money to Europeans?” the inspector demanded.
“Not in the habit, Inspector Sahib. However, Mr. Dormer was recently enjoying great economic distress which I was humbly able to alleviate from own sparse nest-egg.”
If Inspector Prike had any particularly violent ideas on the subject of Europeans who borrow money from native clerks, he expressed them neither verbally nor facially. He merely nodded. Apparently the Dormer-Dutt credit relationship was of no further interest to him. Suddenly he turned his head at a faint sound from the inner office.
“Who’s in there, Babu?” His head gestured toward the door.
“No one, Inspector Sahib.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Proceeded directly to this place following release from custody at church,” said the Babu. “By the way, Inspector Sahib, have police investigations yet revealed causes underlying death of my late employer, recently deceased?”
Inspector Prike did not reply. He walked briskly to the door of the inner office, flung it open.
A man, kneeling before a small safe in a corner of the room, arose quickly and turned to face him. The long tail of an almond-green turban was draped fan-wise over one shoulder of Chitterji Rao.
Without a word Inspector Prike strode up to the household officer of the Maharajah of Jharnpur. With deft fingers he explored the contours of the Hindu’s long, black coat, tapping the pockets for non-existent bulges. Chitterji Rao’s protruding eyes watched him with amused cynicism.
“What are you doing here?” Inspector Prike demanded.
“I am here in the service of His Highness.” A humorless smile twisted the household officer’s thin, dark lips.
“Why did the Babu tell me there was no one in this office?”
“He was not aware of my presence. I came in by the side door. Mr. Hoyt’s private entrance.”
“You have a key?”
“The door was open.”
“Was the safe also open?”
Chitterji Rao’s smile became a little broader, a little more disdainful. “I know the combination,” he said. “For some time His Highness and I have found it advisable to have access to Mr. Hoyt’s safe—with Mr. Hoyt’s consent, of course. As you doubtless know, His Highness has been pleased to employ Mr. Hoyt for maintaining contacts with the press.”
“No doubt you opened the safe merely to look for newspaper cuttings,” said the inspector gravely, his keen eyes searching the Hindu’s features for any change of expression.
“The Thanadar has had men making the usual search for the past hour,” interrupted the European constable. “They haven’t found the slightest trace.”
Again Prike nodded. His alert gaze continued to detail the guests. He knew most of them—racing people, an Eurasian pearl dealer, two Parsi theater owners, a plump Bengali Babu with a black umbrella, looking very uncomfortable in European clothes and a celluloid collar, who Prike knew was clerk in Harrison Hoyt’s office. Standing a little apart from the group was the resplendent Chitterji Rao, the Maharajah of Jharnpur’s household officer, and two A.D.C.’s of the Maharajah’s staff.
“Who’s the very loud gentleman wearing one gray glove?” Prike suddenly asked Dormer.
“Some American friend of Hoyt’s,” Dormer replied. “Name’s Linnet, I think. Just arrived yesterday.”
“And the tall, redheaded chap talking to Kurt Julius?”
“That’s Lee Marvin, the best man.”
In three quick strides. Inspector Prike was standing between Marvin and Kurt Julius. The wild-animal buyer greeted him vociferously, slapped him on the back, introduced him to Marvin. The inspector nodded his response to greeting and introduction, but did not remove his hands from the pockets of his black alpaca coat. He seemed particularly interested in the face of Lee Marvin, which was tired, almost haggard, with dark pouches under the eyes.
Kurt Julius began a rapid and detailed recital of Harrison Hoyt’s disappearance from his own bachelor dinner, how no one had seen him go, how his departure was not noticed until Kurt Julius himself had proposed a toast.
“At what time was this?’’ asked Prike quietly, still watching Marvin.
“Eleven o’clock, maybe quarter-past,” said Julius.
“And how much later did the party continue?” asked Prike.
“It didn’t,” said Julius. “Right away everybody went home.”
“Everyone but Mr. Marvin,” suggested Prike. “Mr. Marvin doesn’t seem to have had much sleep. Spend the night looking for your friend Hoyt, Mr. Marvin?”
Lee Marvin seemed disquieted by the persistent, searching gaze of Inspector Prike. He stammered slightly as he said, “Well, yes, I—in a way.”
“In what way, Mr. Marvin?” Prike’s question was delivered in a calm undertone, yet the distinctness of his enunciation gave each word the sharpness of a steel blade.
“I—I had an appointment to meet Hoyt at his flat at midnight,” said Marvin. “Naturally I went there to meet him.”
“And Hoyt kept his appointment?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
“How long did you wait for him?” asked Prike.
“About an hour. At least an hour.”
“And no one came to Hoyt’s flat during that time?”
“Mr. Hoyt did not come,” said Marvin.
“I see. Someone else did. Who?”
“I’m not sure,” Marvin replied. “Someone drove up in a closed third-class ticca ghari at about half-past twelve. It seemed to be Hoyt’s Bengali clerk, Babu Gundranesh Dutt, but I wouldn’t swear to it. He went away again almost immediately.”
“You were inside the house at this time?”
“Well, no,” Marvin admitted. “When Hoyt’s bearer told me his master was not home yet, I didn’t go in. I waited across the street.”
“Why?”
“Well, I—I wasn’t sure why Hoyt wanted to see me,” said Marvin. “I thought I should like to be forewarned, if he was bringing someone else home with him.”
“Who, for instance?”
“No one in particular,” said Marvin. “But you know yourself, inspector, that Hoyt has a reputation for vaguely unsavory dealings of one sort or another, and I was rather anxious not to become involved in any of them.”
“I see. And at one o’clock you went home?”
“No. I went to the Grand Hotel. I thought Hoyt might be with his fiancée, Miss Vrai.”
“And was he?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since.”
“But you’ve tried?”
“Yes. I went by on my way home, at about two o’clock. And I called again this morning, naturally.”
“You have no idea where he might be?”
Marvin hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he said, “Not the slightest.”
Prike took Marvin’s arm and pushed him gently toward the entrance to the church.
“Let us interview the bride,” he said.
Antoinette Vrai and her father were waiting in the anteroom of the church. As Prike and Marvin paused outside the door, the voice of the jilted bride could be heard shrilly within. Hysterics, Prike thought to himself; tears all over the place, a decidedly unpleasant assignment. He opened the door.
If the sight that greeted him was a surprise, his stony, inexpressive features gave no sign of it. Instead of a weeping bride, he was confronted with a furious one. Antoinette Vrai had torn the bridal veil from her head and was shaking it in her clenched fist as she gesticulated almost under the nose of her father. Her curly black hair stood more erect than ever as she shouted in violent French.
Jacques Vrai, in an ill-fitting morning coat, paced the room slowly, ignoring the shouts of Antoinette. Half an inch of dead cigarette was flattened between his thin, bloodless lips, and his small, close-cropped head seemed almost lost in the high, wilted, gates-ajar collar several sizes’ too large for him.
When Prike and Marvin entered, Antoinette stopped suddenly in the middle of a high-pitched sentence, whirled, and glowered.
“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Vrai,’’ said Prike quietly, “but I believe I may be able to help in clearing up the mystery of—”
“Mystery?” Antoinette threw back her head and uttered a shrill, mirthless laugh. “There is no mystery! He can tell you everything! He knows where is Harry Hoyt!”
She pointed an accusing finger at Lee Marvin. Undisguised hate blazed in her black eyes, and the very white teeth which flashed through the scarlet of her full, scornful lips, gleamed like the fangs of a wild animal.
“I’ve questioned Mr. Marvin,” said Prike, unruffled by the woman’s outburst, “and he says he knows nothing of—”
“He is a liar!” screamed the jilted bride. “Always he has tried to break my marriage with Harry Hoyt! He hates me! He has had his way at last! He is keeping my fiancé from me! Tant pis pour lui! He will be sorry! And you will be sorry! Go away from me, chameau! Go away! Tell all those people outside to go home!”
“I’ll tell them the ceremony has been postponed.”
“No! Tell them it is canceled! Definitely! Come, papa!”
With a domineering gesture, Antoinette motioned Jacques Vrai to the door, and swept from the room after him.
Prike followed, with Marvin close behind. As they reached the steps of the church, they saw a ticca ghari drive up. It was a closed, third-class vehicle, like a shuttered packing-case on wheels. The bewhiskered ghari-walla reined in his bony horse and shouted something in Hindustani.
Instantly Inspector Prike sprang past Antoinette Vrai and her father, hurtled through the crowd, bounded down the church steps. The ghari-walla was still declaiming in Hindustani when Prike reached the closed carriage, seized the door handle, jerked it open.
A woman screamed.
A tallow-faced, glassy-eyed young man in evening clothes toppled stiffly from the ghari into the arms of Inspector Prike.
Prike lowered the young man carefully to the ground. One arm, pointing upward at a grotesque angle, vibrated rigidly in short, lifeless arcs.
Harrison J. Hoyt was quite dead.
Chapter Seven
PRIKE TAKES OVER
According to the police surgeon, who arrived ten minutes later from the Bow Bazaar station, death was due to natural causes, but by that time Inspector Prike had made up his mind otherwise.
“The man was murdered,” said Prike confidently.
“Nonsense,” said the police surgeon, just a trifle more confidently. “There are no wounds, no marks of violence. The post-mortem appearances indicate some sort of cardiac seizure. Perhaps coronary thrombosis. Note the slight cyanosis of the face.”
“Could the same symptoms be produced by poison, doctor?” asked the inspector.
“WeI-I-II, possibly,” admitted the police surgeon. “But this man—what’s his name? Hoyt?—has been dead at least eight or nine hours, judging from the advance of rigor mortis and the beginning of decomposition. You don’t mean to tell me, inspector, that a man who has been poisoned would jump into a third-class ghari to die?”
“The poison was administered far in advance,” declared Inspector Prike. “Isn’t it true, doctor, that there is usually a delay of twelve to twenty-four hours in death from arsenic?”
“This is not a case of arsenic poisoning. There has been no vomiting.”
“Nevertheless, you will make a most thorough autopsy?” asked the inspector.
“Of course, of course. But I am certain we will find a very ordinary case.”
“I am just as certain you will not.” Inspector Prike was not arguing; he was stating a fact. “Possibly Harrison J. Hoyt’s death may mark the unusual coincidence of a wish and an accident. But probably the long arm coincidence has been rudely jogged at the elbow.”
“Good Lord, inspector.” The police surgeon mopped his pink, perspiring brow. “Why this insistence on foul play?”
Inspector Prike thrust his hand into the pocket of his alpaca coat. His fingers grasped a silk handkerchief in which he had carefully wrapped two objects recovered from the floor of the ghari before the arrival of the surgeon. He was about to withdraw the handkerchief, then hesitated. He looked around at the grimly silent group of wedding guests that a squad of red-turbaned pahare-wallas and European constables had herded back onto the steps of the church. Fifty eyes were watching him, eyes devoid of tears, curious eyes, yet eyes that were awed by the pitiful, inexorable evidence of mortality that lay stretched before them. Voices, even the shrilly hysterical voice of the bereft bride, were hushed in the presence of death. Only the whisper of bare feet on the hot pavement, the feet of half-clad Orientals straining against the police lines, their betel-red lips gaping, gawking at the corpse, violated the steamy stillness. Inspector Prike scanned the tense faces, pausing longest on the earnest, troubled features of the redheaded Lee Marvin. Then he removed his hand from his pocket— without the handkerchief and its contents. He turned back to the police surgeon.
“That, doctor,” was the inspector’s belated reply, “is exclusively my business. I would appreciate your occupying yourself solely with the business of removing the body and performing the autopsy.”
With a nod, the inspector left the police surgeon to his task and walked slowly up the church steps.
Within half an hour, to the disconcerted amazement of Deputy Inspector Robbins from the Bow Bazaar station, Inspector Prike had dismissed the bride, her father, and the wedding guests after only the briefest and most cursory questioning. He did not even give Robbins instructions to have these people shadowed; he knew Robbins would do so anyhow, for Robbins distrusted the unorthodox detective methods of his superior and never failed to set the routine police machinery in motion loyally to cover up the apparent errors of Inspector Prike.
Prike did go so far as to detain the bearded ghari-walla who had driven the dead Harrison J. Hoyt to his wedding. The man’s story seemed reasonable enough.
“I was driving slowly down Elliots Road,” the ghari-walla said, “when this sahib who is now dead came running out of a side street, I think it was Guru’s Lane, and shouted at me to stop. He kept shouting at me as he got into my ghari. I did not understand his directions very well, as he was out of breath and yelled very loud. However, he seemed in a great hurry and every word was, ‘Jeldi!’ or ‘Ek dum!’ so in order not to displease the sahib, I drove at great speed (for my horse) in the same direction. After perhaps five minutes I stopped to inquire the exact address. The sahib appeared to be quite drunk and spoke thickly. He said something about getting to a church for a wedding at nine o’clock the next morning. Then he went to sleep.
“At this point, O Huzur, I fear I yielded to temptation and acted in a manner for which I will suffer in my next incarnation. In fact I have acted in the same manner before when a sahib, befuddled with wine, has stumbled into my ghari. But I am a poor man, Huzur, and all sahibs are rich. I examined the sahib’s pocket-book to see if it contained enough money to pay the legal rate of twelve annas an hour for sleeping in my ghari. It did, so I drove to my home in Narkooldanga Road, left the ghari in the alley, unhitched the horse, and went to rest. I arose early this morning, saw that the sahib was still sleeping, and thought I would do him a favor by driving him to the wedding before awakening him. As I did not remember the name of the church, I drove from one pardesi church to the next, looking for one at which a shadi was being celebrated. The rest, Huzur, you know, for you saw me stop in Dharmtolla Street. I did not know the sahib was dead. I swear it. Qasam khao.”
Prike was inclined to believe the story of the trembling, stammering ghari-walla. The man was frightened almost to the point of tears, yet the inspector’s cross-examination could poke no holes in his statement. Moreover, Harrison Hoyt’s money and his pearl shirt-studs had not been taken. Of course, it was possible that the ghari-walla had been so well paid for telling this story that he was not tempted by petty larceny. But Prike ordered him released; he could always put his hands on him if he wanted him later.
Then the inspector proceeded directly to the publicity offices of the late Harrison Hoyt in the Maidan Mansions. In the outer office he found Babu Gundranesh Dutt seated at a desk, writing furiously. The Bengali clerk’s massive head wagged ponderously as his pen scratched over the paper. When the inspector entered he looked up guiltily and immediately covered the writing with a piece of pink blotting-paper.
“What are you doing, Babu?” Prike asked quietly.
Gundranesh Dutt arose so quickly that he knocked over his chair. “Nothing, Inspector Sahib,” he protested. “I am just now writing chit to person who is friend of mine.”
Prike extended his hand. “Could I see it please, Babu?”
“It is strictly quite personal matter, Inspector Sahib.”
“Let me see it, please.”
The Babu fumbled beneath the blotter. The fat hand which extended the sheet of note-paper shook violently. Prike read:
Dear Mr. Dormer—I am requiring most urgently to see you this evening time. Reason therefore is no doubt quite transparent in view of catastrophe in Dharmtolla Street. Quite essential that situation be liquidated instantly. Most respectfully and obediently yours, Gundranesh Dutt.
Inspector Prike tossed the chit carelessly to the desk. “What situation must be liquidated so urgently, Babu?”
“As heretofore stated, matter is quite personal, Inspector Sahib.”
“How much do you owe Mr. Dormer, Babu?”
“Quite contrariwise, Inspector Sahib. I am being creditor of Mr. Dormer to extent of ten rupees.”
Inspector Prike’s eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly. “What is your salary, Babu?” he asked.
“Have recently been increased to sixty-five rupees per mensum. However, in view of catastrophe to Mr. Hoyt, am facing possible period of unemployment. Am, therefore, seeking refund of outstanding accounts.”
“Do you expect me to believe, Babu, that a man with your small salary is in the habit of lending money to Europeans?” the inspector demanded.
“Not in the habit, Inspector Sahib. However, Mr. Dormer was recently enjoying great economic distress which I was humbly able to alleviate from own sparse nest-egg.”
If Inspector Prike had any particularly violent ideas on the subject of Europeans who borrow money from native clerks, he expressed them neither verbally nor facially. He merely nodded. Apparently the Dormer-Dutt credit relationship was of no further interest to him. Suddenly he turned his head at a faint sound from the inner office.
“Who’s in there, Babu?” His head gestured toward the door.
“No one, Inspector Sahib.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Proceeded directly to this place following release from custody at church,” said the Babu. “By the way, Inspector Sahib, have police investigations yet revealed causes underlying death of my late employer, recently deceased?”
Inspector Prike did not reply. He walked briskly to the door of the inner office, flung it open.
A man, kneeling before a small safe in a corner of the room, arose quickly and turned to face him. The long tail of an almond-green turban was draped fan-wise over one shoulder of Chitterji Rao.
Without a word Inspector Prike strode up to the household officer of the Maharajah of Jharnpur. With deft fingers he explored the contours of the Hindu’s long, black coat, tapping the pockets for non-existent bulges. Chitterji Rao’s protruding eyes watched him with amused cynicism.
“What are you doing here?” Inspector Prike demanded.
“I am here in the service of His Highness.” A humorless smile twisted the household officer’s thin, dark lips.
“Why did the Babu tell me there was no one in this office?”
“He was not aware of my presence. I came in by the side door. Mr. Hoyt’s private entrance.”
“You have a key?”
“The door was open.”
“Was the safe also open?”
Chitterji Rao’s smile became a little broader, a little more disdainful. “I know the combination,” he said. “For some time His Highness and I have found it advisable to have access to Mr. Hoyt’s safe—with Mr. Hoyt’s consent, of course. As you doubtless know, His Highness has been pleased to employ Mr. Hoyt for maintaining contacts with the press.”
“No doubt you opened the safe merely to look for newspaper cuttings,” said the inspector gravely, his keen eyes searching the Hindu’s features for any change of expression.
