Bombay Mail, page 5
Chapter Six: ON SUSPICION OF MURDER
Inspector Prike sat at the table in the dining-saloon of the Governor’s private car. He had removed his khaki helmet, revealing a head as bald as an ostrich egg. His high-arched skull was lightly spangled with perspiration. Deep rictus folds coming down to the corners of his mouth accentuated the length of his upper lip.
The Civil Surgeon from Benares was making a further examination of the Governor’s body in the second sleeping-compartment, which had been converted into a temporary funeral chapel.
Inspector Prike, after hearing William Luke-Patson and Captain Gerald Worthing repeat their stories of the Governor’s disappearance, was questioning Lady Daniels. There was a pause, filled only by the fans whirring in counterpoint to the clicking rails.
The Inspector thought Lady Daniels remarkably calm for a woman who had been so suddenly and brutally made a widow. She had had the long ride since the Governor’s disappearance at Gaya to prepare herself for the ordeal which was to follow. Besides, Lady Daniels had a reputation throughout officialdom in India of being a woman of great self-control, previously demonstrated by her suffering in silence the occasional lapses into philandering of which Sir Anthony was known to be guilty.
“Naturally Sir Anthony had enemies,” Lady Daniels was saying. “Any man in a similar public position has enemies. He didn’t need that bomb to explode in Government House yesterday morning to know that men wanted to kill him. I begged him to take precautions. He laughed at me—”
“You think the motive was political, Lady Daniels?”
“What else am I to think?”
Inspector Prike made no suggestion. He took a sip of brandy and soda from a glass at his elbow.
“In order that the Civil Surgeon may determine the exact cause of Sir Anthony’s death, an autopsy will be necessary,” said the Inspector. “As a matter of form, I shall ask your permission.”
“I shall refuse!” Lady Daniels declared instantly.
If Inspector Prike was surprised, his face did not show it.
“In order to help us apprehend the murderer—”
“No!” declared Lady Daniels with great force. “My husband is dead. Nothing you can do will bring him back now. I—it takes all the strength I can possibly muster, Inspector, to keep from going insane at the thought that he is gone. If you’re going to torture me further by disfiguring—” She stopped with a suppressed sob. She took a long breath and said in a scarcely audible voice, “I couldn’t bear it.”
Inspector Prike did not reply at once. He seemed to be looking out of the window. The sun-baked plains of the Ganges were slipping past—flat, hot, dry, monotonous. A village seemed to crawl backward in the wavering, heated air—a few lopsided mud huts with crooked, red-tiled roofs clustered about the dusty yellow bloom of a mimosa tree.
“I know what you are thinking, Inspector.” It was Lady Daniels who broke the silence. “You are interpreting my opposition to an autopsy as meaning that I do not wish to see the murderer of Sir Anthony brought to justice.”
“I am interested in no one’s opinion, not even my own,” said Inspector Prike. “I am interested only in facts. I am sorry you find you must hinder my collection of facts, Lady Daniels—”
“I am sorry you cannot understand— It is most difficult — Sentiment—” Lady Daniels was unable to go on.
Inspector Prike suggested that Lady Daniels retire to her compartment and rest. He might wish to resume the conversation later. In the meantime, he had other persons to question.
Lady Daniels withdrew. Inspector Prike took from his pocket the sheaf of passports he had collected, spread them on the table, studied them briefly. A turbaned khidmatgar put more ice in the inspector’s brandy peg. The click of the rails had increased to a frenzied rhythm. The Bombay Mail, half an hour late, was speeding to make up time, skimming through fields of white opium poppies at fifty miles an hour.
Inspector Prike turned to Anderson, the armed guard who had been standing in a corner of the dining-saloon since the train left Moghal Sarai.
“Bring Jack Hawley,” he said.
The guard went to the end of the carpeted corridor and unlocked the last compartment in which the three material witnesses from the second-class carriage were being held.
Inspector Prike let Jack Hawley stand in front of him for a full minute before he spoke. He might have been studying Hawley’s passport—or he might have been watching for signs of nervousness from the young American.
“Hawley, your passport says you’re a miner,” said Prike at last.
“Yes, Inspector Prike.”
“How do you know my name?”
“The Brahmin gentleman who’s sharing my compartment mentioned it. He seems to know you.”
Prike took a thoughtful sip of his brandy peg. “You’ve been working as a miner in India?” he asked.
“I’ve been prospecting.”
“For gold?”
“No, sir. For—for oil.”
“Never worked in a gold mine, I suppose?”
“Why, yes, I’ve worked in gold mines, back in California.”
“You’re familiar with the use of cyanide solutions for the extraction of gold?” Inspector Prike leaned in his chair.
“Sure,” said Hawley. “So is anybody who’s ever worked in a quartz mine.”
“Ever work in a gold mine in India?”
“Never.”
“But if you suddenly found yourself connected with an Indian gold mine, you’d know where to get a supply of cyanides?”
“Why, I—I never thought about it,” said Hawley. “I suppose I could find out easy enough.”
“You know that potassium cyanide is a deadly poison?”
“Sure,” said Hawley.
Inspector Prike paused. Something about the muscles of his face gave the impression of a sleek panther, preparing to spring. The locomotive whistle shrieked. The Mail was slowing down to pass through Chunar, with its ancient fort overlooking the muddy Ganges. Inspector Prike leaned forward suddenly.
“Why did you kill the Governor of Bengal?” he demanded.
“I didn’t!” exclaimed Hawley vehemently. “I’ve never seen the Governor.”
“Weren’t even aware that the Governor’s body was in the bathroom of your compartment, I suppose?”
“Honest to God, I wasn’t!” protested Hawley. “I hadn’t opened that bathroom door for hours:”
“Didn’t leave your compartment all night, either, I suppose?”
“Well—I did get out and walk around several times.”
“At what stations?”
“I don’t remember the names of the stations.”
“Did you get out at Gaya—at, about four-thirty this morning?”
“I think I did.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did the Brahmin get out with you?”
“Not with me. As far as I know, he stayed in the compartment.”
“So you think the Governor was killed in your bathroom while you were walking about on the station platform?”
“I don’t think anything. I don’t know.”
“Did you know the Governor of Bengal was to travel by this train?”
“Well—I guess I did,” Hawley admitted. “They told me at Government House yesterday morning.”
That was a stupid answer, Hawley thought. Prike is sure to pounce on that. And Prike did.
“Why did you go to Government House?”
“I wanted to see about a mining concession.”
“Why didn’t you go to the mining office for that?”
“Well—I—” Hawley hesitated.
“Because you wanted to see the Governor,” said Prike quickly. “And since you didn’t see him, you took the Bombay Mail because Sir Anthony Daniels was to be aboard. Is that right?”
“No,” said Hawley. “I took this train because I had to get to Bombay.”
“Then you’re not going to England?”
“No.”
“Why did you take this boat train, which goes to Ballard Pier? Why didn’t you take the earlier Mail that stops at Victoria Terminus in Bombay?”
“I missed the early train. This was the next one out,” said Hawley. “I was in a hurry to get to Bombay.”
“Why?”
“I had a business appointment.”
“With whom?”
Hawley hesitated. With whom should he say he had an appointment? There was no one, of course. He knew no one in Bombay. He could not say that he was going there to raise money on six rubies that had been dug from land on which a concession had not yet been granted. Technically the rubies were stolen property—stolen from the state. And Xavier was supposed to be on the train!
“I’d rather not answer that question,” said Hawley. “It’s a confidential matter.”
Inspector Prike stood up. “Very well,” he said. He nodded to the guard in the corner and ordered, “Search him.”
The guard went through Hawley’s pockets. On the table in front of Inspector Prike he placed a watch, a billfold, a handkerchief, a pipe, a tobacco pouch, a large jackknife, a pocket compass, a few loose coins, and a crumpled telegraph blank.
Prike glanced through the billfold. He picked up the tobacco pouch, slid back the zipper top, and peered inside.
Jack Hawley could hear his heart pounding against his ribs. He held his breath. What story should he tell to explain those six uncut rubies?
Inspector Prike had carried the tobacco pouch to the tip of his small, pointed nose. He sniffed, then tossed the pouch across the table. The top was still open. Some of the tobacco spilled out.
Hawley breathed again. The tobacco had hidden the rubies from Prike’s gaze. He had an impulse to reach for his pouch, to close the zipper, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want to attract further attention to the pouch.
But Prike’s attention was elsewhere. The Inspector was smoothing out the crumpled telegraph form. Damn it, Hawley had forgotten Burgess’s telegram! There was the suggestion of a self-satisfied smile about the corners of Inspector Prike’s mouth as he read it aloud:
“‘Just learned that Mr. X or his agent is aboard Mail. Prevent his seeing Governor at all costs. Who is Burgess?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” said Hawley. “We’ve been prospecting together.”
“And this man ‘Mr. X.’ who Burgess learns is aboard the Mail?”
Again Hawley hesitated. If he told the whole story, he would be forced to explain why Xavier was so anxious to allow the Hawley-Burgess option to lapse. And if the secret of their discovery became known, they could say good-by to their ruby concession. Whatever their moral right, their priority by reason of discovery, they had no legal claim to their ruby fields unless they took up their option. And if the ruby strike became public knowledge, there would be a dozen greedy Xaviers rushing in to take up the concession to the exclusion of the two penniless Americans. No, it was better to say nothing, to take a chance on dealing with Xavier alone, as soon as this mess attending the murder of the Governor was cleared up— which it must be soon.
“I can see why you’d rather not answer that question,” said Inspector Prike, when Hawley did not speak, “in view of your success in preventing Mr. X from ‘seeing the Governor at all costs’—even at the cost of the Governor’s life.”
“I didn’t kill the Governor!” Hawley protested.
Inspector Prike stood up.
“Hawley, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder.” Prike turned to the guard. “Anderson, take him back and lock him in that compartment again.”
Hawley felt a cold lump forming at the pit of his stomach. The guard took his arm. Hawley held back. He could not take his eyes from his tobacco pouch lying open on the table.
“Come on,” said the guard.
Hawley stood his ground. “Mind if I take my pipe and tobacco, Inspector?” he asked, in a voice that seemed to belong to somebody else.
Inspector Prike looked at him with an expressionless stare. It seemed hours before he replied. The lump in Hawley’s stomach was growing heavier and colder. At last Prike nodded.
“Take them,” he said.
Hawley grabbed the pouch. He turned it up carefully so that the contents should not spill and closed the zipper top.
He started to thank Inspector Prike, but his words were drowned in the roar of the speeding Mail hurled back and magnified by the cars of a mixed passenger train passing in the other direction on the next tracks.
Chapter Seven: THE CYANIDE BOTTLE
“We won’t have to cut him open after all,” said the Civil Surgeon gaily, pulling off his rubber gloves as he came into the dining-saloon. “I’ve found out all I need to know.”
“What’s the verdict, Doctor?” asked Inspector Prike, fortifying his brandy peg from a bottle marked V.S.O.P.
“Of course, I’d have done things differently, if I had a pukka laboratory,” said the Civil Surgeon. “I’d have wanted to get into the stomach, in that case. However, I did manage to find enough saliva to make a silver nitrate test. Just as I expected, the nitrate threw down a white precipitate, first thing; practically insoluble in ammonia. The silver cyanide reaction.”
“Then you can say definitely that Sir Anthony was killed by cyanide poisoning?”
“Positively. Other post-mortem symptoms coincide. Bulging veins, empty arteries, and all that sort of thing. I fancy I’ll be able to get back for that bridge tournament tonight in Benares after all, won’t I, Inspector? Now that I’ve given you a definite opinion, there’s no objection to my getting down at Chheoki and taking the next train back, is there?”
“None whatever,” said Inspector Prike. “By the way, Doctor, there’s a colleague of yours traveling with us, two cars forward. Do you happen to know a Frenchman named”—Inspector Prike consulted the passports spread out on the table—“Doctor Maurice Lenoir?”
“Lenoir? Certainly,” said the Civil Surgeon. “That is to say, I don’t know him personally, but I know his name. I’ve read the papers he contributes to medical journals.”
“Attached to the Pasteur Institute, is he?”
“That’s right. The Institute for Southern India at Coonoor. Pity you didn’t tell me before he was on the Mail. You wouldn’t have needed me at all. Lenoir is a toxicologist. He knows more about poisons than I’ll ever know.”
Inspector Prike nodded his bald head. He sat for a moment without saying anything. Then he got up and walked absent-mindedly around the table several times, pausing to look out the window. The hot plains of the Ganges were still going by. The narrow pyramid of a Hindu shrine arose from a clump of dusty trees. A naked brown boy was driving a herd of black goats down a path beside the railroad tracks. A cloud of brilliant yellow butterflies suddenly swirled up from nowhere. Caught in the wind eddies made by the speeding train, they wheeled and fluttered frantically an instant in front of Inspector Prike’s window, then disappeared. Inspector Prike slapped the palm of his hand against the pane with such force as to threaten the glass. He turned abruptly with a look of determination on his usually expressionless face. He walked directly to Lady Daniels’s compartment and knocked. The door opened immediately.
“I’m glad to inform you, Lady Daniels,” said the Inspector, “that an autopsy will be unnecessary.”
“Thank you,” said Lady Daniels in subdued voice. She forced a smile. “I suppose you think I’m a silly sentimentalist.”
“Not at all,” said Inspector Prike. “By the way, Lady Daniels, do you still have your collection of tropical butterflies?”
“One of the finest in India,” said Lady Daniels.
“Are you still adding to it?” the Inspector asked. “I mean, are you still an active butterfly collector?”
“I had intended getting some new specimens at Simla this year,” was the reply. “Of course, those plans are finished now.”
“When you travel,” pursued Inspector Prike, “I suppose you frequently have with you your nets, a specimen box, and a cyanide bottle?”
Lady Daniels hesitated for a fraction of a second and her lips seemed to press together a trifle before she opened them to say, “I usually travel prepared to capture new specimens.”
“And do you happen to recall whether this equipment is in your luggage now—particularly the cyanide bottle? Would it be among your hand luggage—in your compartment?”
Lady Daniels placed a thin, almost transparent hand against the door frame as though to support herself.
“I think it more likely,” she said slowly, “that my nets and—and the bottle are in the luggage van.”
“Thank you, Lady Daniels,” said Inspector Prike. “I fancied they would be.”
The door closed. Prike retraced the few steps to the dining-saloon. From the expression of incredulous horror on the face of the Civil Surgeon, he knew that the doctor had overheard his conversation with Lady Daniels.
“Good Lord, Inspector!” breathed the Civil Surgeon. “You don’t really suspect—?”
“At this early stage of my investigation I suspect nobody—and everybody. I am still collecting facts, Doctor,” said Inspector Prike. He nodded to the guard. “Where is Captain Worthing?” he asked.
“The Captain and Mr. Luke-Patson are talking to the Maharajah of Zunjore in His Highness’s compartment. Shall I call him, sir?”
Inspector Prike hesitated.
“No. Bring me the Brahmin,” he said.
The Brahmin’s sandals made no sound as they trod the carpeted corridor. As he came to a halt in front of the Inspector’s table, he pressed the tips of his fingers together in front of his bare breast in the Hindu form of salutation.
“Salaam, Inspector Sahib,” he said.
There was a moment of silence, during which the intelligent eyes of the Brahmin seemed to be scrutinizing the Inspector as thoroughly as the Inspector was detailing the features of his flat, brown face.
