Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 5
“His description: Height 5 ft. 11 ins., weight, about 10 stone; brown eyes, grey thinning hair; age, 60. When last seen, he was wearing a blue serge suit and a bowler hat.”
Deputy-Inspector Robbins waited until Prike had finished reading, then handed him a telegraph blank.
“And here’s the original of that message Mr. Blenn got last night,” he said.
Prike studied the uneven, slightly-shaky scrawl which spelled the text:
“RUINED JERICHO HAS RISEN AGAIN TO POUR FORTH HOSTS OF VENGEANCE.”
“It was sent from Kipperpore,” Robbins explained. “My men found the telegraph babu who accepted it. He said a chaprassi from the P. & O. jetty brought it in, with a silver half-crown to pay for it. A sahib gave it to him, the. chaprassi said. The babu took the English money and paid for the telegram out of his own pocket, because the rate on inland telegrams is only twelve annas, and the half-crown was worth two rupees. Does that help any, inspector?”
“Definitely,” Prike declared. “The half-crown would indicate that the sender of the telegram had arrived so recently from England that he had as yet no time to change his money. A P. & O. liner from home docked in the Hooghly late yesterday afternoon. And while the sailings direct to Calcutta take about ten days longer than the mail via Bombay which brought the last newspapers, the Times reports that the mental patient named Jericho had escaped from the nursing home ten days previous to publication. Therefore the ruined Jericho which has risen to pour forth hosts of vengeance might very well be a Mr. Christopher Jericho, just arrived in Calcutta. At any rate, the mere announcement of the hosts of vengeance threw Alexander Blenn into a blue funk. Why?”
“I wouldn’t know, inspector.”
“We must find out, Robbins. The locksmith seems to have finished. Let’s have a look at the desk.”
Inspector Prike sat down, began going through the drawers. He sorted through a sheaf of papers, discarded them after a cursory glance. He found nothing to engage his attention for more than a few seconds until he came across a 5 x 7 photograph.
From the slight straightening of the inspector’s shoulders as he laid the photograph on the desk and studied it for a long moment, Robbins knew that something had clicked in Prike’s alert mind.
“Not what you’d call handsome, are they, inspector?” was the deputy’s comment. “Look as if they might have criminal records.”
“The old man with the beard,” said Prike, “is the Nawab of Shimalghar.”
“Does that mean anything?” Robbins asked.
“Possibly,” Prike answered, “in view of the fact that this is a bromide print, and apparently enlarged from a fine-grain film of the type used in miniature cameras. Now the camera which our distressed friend Herr Doktor Feurmann—Hello, what’s this?”
Prike had reached into the back of a drawer, pulled out a camera. It was a small, compact piece of apparatus that scarcely more than covered the palm of his hand. The lens that stared up from the centre of the camera seemed large in proportion to the size of the instrument. Prike examined it carefully.
“Make a note of this number, Robbins,” he said. “Schell-Ultra lens f/I:5, No. 25534. I want the owner traced as quickly as possible. You may have to begin with the factory records in Germany. In that case, use the transoceanic telephone.”
“Yes, sir. Now, about this Feurmann—”
“Yes, I know. You’ve had him followed.”
“Well, yes,” admitted Robbins, a little sheepishly. “I thought maybe, just in case—”
“Don’t apologise, Robbins. I’m quite aware of you admirable distrust of my unorthodox methods and lack of thoroughness. Well, has the Herr Doktor done anything of note this morning?”
“He’s bought his ticket for Darjeeling,” said Robbins. “But I’ll see he doesn’t use it.”
“Let him go, Robbins,” said Prike. “Now listen carefully. Your programme for to-day will consist of the following: First, you’re to make every effort to locate the servants of the late Basil Stiller, supposedly on holiday. Second, you’re to continue the search for the men who brought Stiller’s body to the burning ghat. Third, try to locate a man who answers the description of Christopher Jericho, a man arriving by P. & O. liner yesterday.”
“Fourth, inspector?”
“Fourth, you’ll find the chaprassi who carried the original telegram from the P. & O. jetty. Fifth, you’ll get me samples of the handwriting of all persons associated with Alexander Blenn. Sixth—”
There were sounds of rapid footsteps on the stairway. A constable burst into the room, holding a salmon-coloured envelope. He announced:
“Telegram for Miss Ruth Ingram.”
The girl reached for the envelope, but Prike’s deft fingers were quicker than hers.
“Give it to me!” she demanded. “It may be a personal matter.”
“In that case, you’ll have to trust to my professional discretion,” said Prike, opening the telegram. His expression did not change as he announced, “You’ll be relieved to hear, Miss Ingram, that your uncle is alive and apparently well. He telegraphs you from Santahar as follows, ‘Please give Woodring any further telegrams addressed to me to-day.’ Who is Woodring, Miss Ingram?”
The girl hesitated. Her eyes avoided Prike as she said, “Why, I—I believe Mr. Woodring is an employee of my uncle’s, stationed somewhere in the Punjab.”
“Apparently Mr. Woodring is now in Calcutta,” Prike insisted. “And apparently your uncle believes you know where to reach him.”
“Naturally.” The girl faced Prike at last. “Any employee of Uncle Alex can be reached through the Blenn offices in Clive Street.”
Prike absent-mindedly handed the telegram to Ruth Ingram.
“Santahar,” he mused, “is on the main line to Darjeeling….” His voice trailed off.
“And sixth, inspector?” prompted Robbins, whose pencil was still poised above his notebook.
“And sixth,” snapped Prike, roused instantly from his cogitation, “if you finish the other business by 8.16 o’clock, Robbins, you will join me at Sealdah Station. I think it quite likely that we shall be running up to Darjeeling on to-night’s mail.”
When Paul Woodring judged that the offices of the Eastern Bengal Railway would be open, he went to Koilaghat Street and bought his ticket for Darjeeling. Then he returned to his hotel to clean up. He was taking off the tatters of his shirt when he heard some one stirring in the bathroom. He tiptoed to the door and was amazed to see a strange Indian youth calmly setting out his shaving things.
The strange youth turned, and Woodring saw that he was very thin and very black, with a Dravidian cast of features. He wore a white dhoti and a frayed khaki coat that was nearly white from many washings. A pill-box cap of astrakhan perched jauntily above his black, pock-marked forehead.
“Salaam, Sahib!” said the youth respectfully.
“Who in hell are you?” Woodring demanded.
“Am Sahib’s bearer,” was the reply.
“You’re not my bearer. Where’s Dahi Ali?”
“Dahi Ali being misfortunately retracted to Punjab, has elected me for his badli.”
“That’s not true,” said Woodring. “He said nothing to me about a substitute.”
“True, Sahib. He made departure of utmost suddenness, having report that wife and three children prostrated by grave aches and pains.”
“Dahi Ali wouldn’t have left without collecting his fare home,” Woodring insisted.
“Dahi Ali will employ munshi to write sahib instructing where rear salaries may be sent,” said the black youth. “In meanwhiles, I am advancing my friend one rail ticket for Delhi, third-class. Total, ten rupees, one anna, six pie.”
“So you’re a banker, too,” said Woodring. “What’s your name?”
“Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram.”
Woodring smiled in spite of himself. He knew the type, now. A Christianised Tamil from the French possessions in Southern India.
“With that illustrious name,” he said, “you’re from Pondichery, naturally.”
“No, Sahib. Not naturally,” said Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram. “Naturally am from Karikal, but unnaturally am Pondichery man because of Jesuit schooling.”
“You didn’t learn that amazing English at a Jesuit school,” Woodring said.
“No, Sahib. At Jesuit school was learning French. Perfected English resulting from knowledge pursued from American Presbyterian Mission academy at Kodai Kanal. Also am speaking somewhat Urdu, Bengali, Canarese and Telugu.”
“And Tamil.”
“And Tamil, Sahib. We are leaving to-day, sahib?”
“Leaving?” Woodring’s eyes narrowed.
“Dahi Ali informed that sahib was travelling to Darjeeling,” said Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram.
“He was misinformed,” snapped Woodring. “Furthermore, I won’t need a bearer.”
“But, Sahib!” The black youth unbuttoned his khaki coat, produced a stack of greasy, dog-eared papers. “Am servant of great excellence and training. Will serve with intense skill. Have chits—”
“Chits of reference,” said Woodring, waving away the letters, “may be purchased for four annas apiece from almost any munshi. Sorry, Georges.
“Am therefore discharged, Sahib?” A look of extreme melancholy crossed the lean, black face.
“You’re simply not engaged,” said Woodring.
The Tamil wagged his head. Then, “There is small matter of ten rupees, one anna, six pie, advanced to Ali….”
“Very well,” Woodring tossed out a bank-note. “Good-bye, Georges.”
“Thank you, Sahib. Perhaps some other time, Sahib.”
Woodring walked to the door, opened it. Henry Emmet-Tansley stood outside.
As Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram went out, Emmet-Tansley slipped in before Woodring had a chance to close the door. He was still in evening clothes, although his white mess-jacket was soiled and rumpled. His red hair was rumpled, too, and his eyes bloodshot. His plump face was lined with fatigue.
“Morning,” he said. “You have a new bearer, I see.”
“You seem tremendously interested in my servants,” Woodring countered.
Emmet-Tansley’s chubby hand made an evasive gesture.
“I hope you’ll pardon this intrusion again, old bean,” he said, “but I simply had to see you, for two reasons: First, I wanted to apologise in case I said anything rude in my exhilarated mood of last evening. Second, I wanted to inquire if I happened to drop my wallet in your room.”
“You did neither.”
“Oh. Well, I must have dropped it some place along the line. Probably in some gilded den of iniquity in Karaiya Road. There were so many places….” Emmet-Tansley passed his hand wearily across his eyes.
“I suppose I look as if I’d slept in my clothes,” the red-haid continued. “As a matter of fact, that’s just what happened. I slept at the thana. Awfully decent chaps, these Calcutta police. I don’t know where they found me, but they did their best to bring me home. Only I couldn’t for the life of me remember what hotel I was stopping at. So they let me sleep it off in the police station.”
“Nice of them, wasn’t it?” said Woodring.
“Awfully decent,” Emmet-Tansley repeated. “But the awakening was a bit on the jumpy side. Fancy a man in my delicate condition coming to life in the midst of bustling constables and detectives, all talking about a murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes,” continued Emmet-Tansley, slyly. “Some European managed to get himself murdered last night. Chap by the name of Stiller.”
“Basil Stiller?” The explosive exclamation escaped Woodring. He recovered himself instantly, but not, he saw, before Emmet-Tansley had noted his surprise.
“I say, old man, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the red-head. “I hope he wasn’t a friend of yours.”
“He wasn’t But I knew him slightly.”
“Pretty gruesome business, from what I overheard at the thana,” Emmet-Tansley went on. “They shot the poor chap in his own flat, then carted him away to some burning ghat, to put the torch to him. The police found him just in time…. Well, I must be buzzing off for a bath and a change. Cheer-o.”
Woodring locked the door as soon as Emmet-Tansley left. Then he whipped out a cigarette, lighted it, puffed furiously for a moment, ground it out. He resumed undressing. He’d have time for a hurried bath, at least. It would help him think more clearly.
So Stiller was murdered? Woodring thought he knew the motive. That damned envelope with the three green labels on the back, without a doubt. He was tempted to get in touch with Ruth Ingram and ask details, but decided against even using the telephone. There was no use calling attention to himself, and evidently the girl had not yet mentioned his name. If she had, the police would certainly have arrived by this time.
By six o’clock in the evening he was at Howrah, taking a bite to eat in the railway refreshment room. He retrieved his bags and took another taxi back across the river to Calcutta. He would get to Sealdah station just before the departure of the Darjeeling Mail—which was just as he planned.
He had not planned, however, for his taxi to drive off Howrah Bridge smack into a traffic jam in Harrison Road—which is what happened. It was a traffic tangle such as could occur only on the principal native thoroughfare of a great Indian city. Vehicles of East and West, of the twentieth century and the tenth, were locked in hopeless immobility. For ten minutes Woodring was an island of muttered profanity in a sea of crescent-horned buffaloes, hump-backed bullocks, ticca gharis, bicycles, vintage flivvers, and modern motors. At one side of him, a marooned taxi-walla was squawking the bulb of his horn with the dusty toes of his bare foot. At the other a fat Bunya dozed with eyes shut and chubby hands clasped across his stomach, while his gaudily-uniformed chauffeur cursed in three dialects.
Woodring looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eight, and the Darjeeling Mail left at 8.16. During the next ten minutes his taxi moved fifty yards….
At the corner of Chitpur Road, a sudden break appeared in the barrier. The motor roared as Woodring’s taxi shot through. At 8.13, squealing brakes halted him in front of Sealdah station.
Luggage coolies immediately swarmed about the taxi. Woodring flung a bank-note to the driver. Before he could reach his bag and bedding roll, a black, lanky Tamil in an astrakhan cap came plunging through the crowd of coolies, took possession.
“Hurry, sahib,” urged Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram. “Mail train is just now leaving.”
“Damn your hide! Drop those!” ordered Woodring.
“Have reconsidered sahib’s negative offer,” the Tamil shouted over his shoulder as he loped ahead towards the station. “Most undesirous that pukka sahib travel without servant.”
Woodring pursued his luggage and the black youth through the arcades of the station. Apparently he was to have a bearer in spite of himself. Moreover there was no time for argument now. The rails gleamed under the glaring searchlight of the Chittagong Mail, thundering in from the east. From the next platform the shrill whistle of the station-master signalled the departure of the Darjeeling train.
Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram, five paces ahead of Woodring, flung open a door just as the train began to move. He jumped in, then reappeared as Woodring caught the bottom step.
“Luggage is inside compartment, Sahib,” he announced. “Will return to prepare bedding when train stops at Ranaghat Junction.”
Woodring remained on the bottom step, watching the Tamil work his way to the rear, swing aboard the servants’ section. Then he climbed into the train and stood a moment to catch his breath. The Darjeeling Mail clattered over a bridge, gaining speed as it plunged through the Narkkooldanga slums.
As the station-master’s whistle announced the imminent departure of the train, Inspector Prike stood at the entrance to his compartment, his keen photographic eyes recording details of the people before him. He stepped aside as the flushed, perspiring face of Deputy-Inspector Robbins loomed in the crowd.
Robbins jumped in, dropped a leather brief-case on the seat.
“Hello, Robbins,” said Prike. “Made it, I see.”
The door closed. The train creaked into motion.
“By the skin of my eye-teeth,” Robbins panted.
“That’s because you took the time to go home and kiss Mrs. Robbins good-bye,” said Prike.
Robbins looked blank. “Am I shadowed, inspector?”
Prike laughed quietly. “Even you could make that simple deduction, Robbins,” he said. “The left spike of your moustache is slightly awry, and there’s a smudge of lip rouge on your left cheek. So, knowing you to be a great family man … What’s that?”
“The handwriting samples you asked for, inspector. I’ve got Blenn, Miss Ingram, Stiller, Hubertson and Dr. Feurmann. All I could get on Christopher Jericho is his signature on an old typewritten letter.”
Robbins was unloading his brief-case. Prike took the papers, glanced at them casually. The locomotive shrieked, approaching the Dum-Dum Road crossing.
“That should be sufficient,” said Prike, at last. “You couldn’t get me a sample of Count Vaznilko’s writing?”
“I’ve got a photostatic copy of the register at the Great Eastern,” Robbins replied. “His signature’s on it. So is this chap Paul Woodring’s.”
“What makes you think I want Woodring’s?”
“Because of this!” declared Robbins triumphantly. He laid a set of glossy photographs in Prike’s lap. “Latent fingerprints,” he announced, “developed by the nitrate process off that envelope we found on the floor of Stiller’s flat. A perfect set.”
“How do you know they’re Woodring’s?”
“Because we went to Woodring’s room at the Great Eastern this afternoon, and took some more prints. They match. So it all ties up, inspector. That khansama next door told me—”
“Yes, I know. The khansama next door saw a man answering Woodring’s description enter Stiller’s flat shortly after the bullock cart came for Stiller’s body. Why would he return afterwards, Robbins?”
