Bengal Fire, page 6
“I don’t recall having heard of her,” he said, after a pause.
“Let me describe her,” prompted Prike. “She has light hair, slightly curly, and large, somewhat childlike eyes. Her lips, I should say, were rather less childlike—full, sensitive, with an expression that indicates considerable strength of character. Remember her?”
The arrival of the bearer, with brandy pegs, gave Marvin a short respite. Was Prike bluffing? His description fitted Evelyn Branch, true, but it was general enough to include half a dozen women of Marvin’s acquaintance.
“I don’t believe I know her,” said Marvin. Slowly, deliberately he took his brandy peg from the tray. The ice tinkled as he raised his glass. “Cheerio,” he said.
Prike did not touch his drink. “Evelyn Branch was a friend of Hoyt’s.” He pursued. “You must have heard him speak of her.”
Marvin shook his head. “She couldn’t have been a very close friend,” he said.
At last Prike took a deep draught of his brandy and soda. “Are you sure of that?” he asked.
Marvin, too, took a swallow of brandy. What had come over him, anyway, that he persisted in lying like this about Evelyn Branch? He couldn’t be in love with the girl. Not after having seen her only twice. Not after the way she responded to his efforts to help. Still—
“Positive,” he said.
Prike smiled. It was the wise, tolerant smile of a man whose career has been made up largely of listening to lies, so many lies that he was no longer annoyed when his infallible instincts announced the presence of a new one.
“In that case,” he said, “don’t you find it strange, Mr. Marvin, that, despite the fact that he was being married to a woman named Antoinette Vrai, his insurance should still be payable to Evelyn Branch.”
Yes, Marvin did find it strange. In fact, he was slightly flabbergasted, although he made an effort not to show it. He was also a little relieved to know that Prike had probably learned of the existence of Evelyn Branch through Hoyt’s insurance policy. Probably Prike didn’t even know that the girl was in Calcutta. He would act on that assumption.
“Possibly she’s a relative.”
“Possibly,” Prike echoed without conviction. He got up, crossed the room toward Marvin’s chair, and stood with one elbow resting on the gramophone.
“Do you know the Maharajah of Jharnpur, Mr. Marvin?”
“I do not.” Marvin was so relieved at being able to tell the truth that his declaration carried the force of an important announcement.
“Or his household officer, one Chitterji Rao?”
“I have met him in Hoyt’s office and again last night at the bachelor dinner, but I can’t say I know him,”
“What do you know about a piece of jewelry belonging to the Maharajah of Jharnpur which Hoyt kept in his office safe?”
“Nothing,” Marvin replied. Again he reached for his drink. He had difficulty in swallowing—but at least he knew what he was going to say next. He was through with subterfuge on this score. “Unless,” he continued, “you are referring to a nao-ratna, of which the Bosa pearl is a part.”
“I fancy I am. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” said Marvin, “except that I have the nao-ratna here in my flat.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Hoyt gave it to me last night.”
“Why?”
“I was interested in buying the Bosa pearl for my firm, Orfèvre, Ltd. I’d already paid Hoyt eight thousand rupees on account.”
“I see. Was Hoyt the authorized agent of the Maharajah of Jharnpur in this matter?”
“I don’t know. I would have found out, of course, before concluding the deal, in order to have clear title to the pearl.”
“If the deal was not concluded, how is it that you have the nao-ratna in your possession now?”
“Hoyt gave it to me unexpectedly during the banquet last night. For some reason, he seemed anxious not to have it on his person at the time. He was to have met me at midnight, doubtless to explain the matter. I’ve already told you that Hoyt didn’t appear at the meeting.”
“Are you in the habit of transacting business at midnight, Mr. Marvin?”
Marvin was spared an answer by the ringing of the doorbell. The bewhiskered bearer crossed the room and returned with a chaprassi, whose diagonal red sash was bisected by a large brass plate gleaming with an official crest. The chaprassi handed Inspector Prike a sheaf of papers. The inspector dismissed the messenger and stood with his back to Marvin as he rapidly skimmed through the pages. Suddenly he whirled.
“I have a report,” he said in a voice that rang with the cold resonance of a taut steel wire, “from Deputy Inspector Robbins, of the Bow Bazaar Station. It may interest you.”
Marvin leaned forward, tensely.
“Mr. Robbins says,” Prike continued, “that when you left the church in Dharmtolla Street at midday, you took a taxi to a boarding-house operated by a woman named Pereira in Guru’s Lane. You remained for some time in conversation there with a young woman who, according to the deputy inspector’s information, goes by the name of Evelyn Branch. Now, that doesn’t quite coincide with the story you told me, Mr. Marvin.”
Marvin swallowed audibly. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Furthermore,” Prike went on, “it seems that this Miss Branch, whom you have so quickly forgotten, arrived in Calcutta yesterday by the Burma mail steamer Bangalore under the impression that she, and not Miss Antoinette Vrai, was to marry Harrison Hoyt. Although this fact seems to have slipped your memory today, Mr. Marvin, you were sufficiently aware of it yesterday to have called it to the attention of Miss Vrai, adding your own suggestion that she retire in favor of Miss Branch. It occurs to me that you may have some explanation to offer.”
Marvin arose numbly. He was flushed to the roots of his hair. Yet he looked Inspector Prike squarely in the eye. “There is no explanation,” he said.
“Then you admit you lied?”
“I’d prefer the words ‘gallant falsehood,’” said Marvin. “The motive, I think, is obvious.”
Prike nodded. “The fact that you’re protecting this girl,” he said, “implies that you think she is guilty.”
“Not at all. I was merely trying to avoid further unpleasantness for a girl who’s had rather more than her share crowded into the past twenty-four hours.”
“The law makes no special provision for sentimentalists,” said Prike gruffly. “We were speaking of the Maharajah of Jharnpur’s nao-ratna. Where is it?”
“Right here,” said Marvin. He crossed the room to the gramophone, swung the cabinet away from the wall, opened the rear panel. His heart skipped a beat.
He plunged his hand deep into the innermost recesses of the cabinet, probed every bend and cranny. His heart skipped two beats. He withdrew his hand—empty.
“It’s gone, inspectori” he announced.
“Rather an unusual place to keep an object of great value. Doesn’t a man in your profession have a safe?”
“In my office, inspector. But it was very late when I finally got home last night. And this morning I had no opportunity.”
“I shouldn’t think that carelessness with valuables was tolerated by Orfèvre, Ltd.”
“It isn’t, inspector. I—”
“In view of your tendency to romanticize,” said Inspector Prike dryly, “I should like to verify a few facts for myself. Do you insist on my getting a search warrant, or shall we just look through your rooms—informally?”
“Do as you like,” said Marvin. He didn’t know yet whether to be relieved or chagrined by the disappearance of the ebony jewel-case.
Inspector Prike made a thorough and methodical examination of the flat. He began by taking the bedroom apart. The bathroom was next, then the kitchen. In the living-room, the divan, the chaise longue, the bookcases, the tall, fiery red vase of Jaipur enamel—all went through a minute scrutiny. Even the gramophone underwent another systematic search—without yielding a trace of the missing talisman.
Arising from behind the cabinet, Inspector Prike looked out the window. A curious expression came into his face as his gaze traveled down the trunk of the mango tree growing in the compound. He leaned a little farther over the window-sill, then straightened up and faced Marvin.
“So you think the Bosa pearl was stolen?” he asked.
“Evidently.”
“By whom?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Since Harrison Hoyt was so eager to get rid of the Maharajah’s gems just before he was murdered, don’t you think it likely that the nao-ratna—and its disappearance—is closely linked with Hoyt’s death?”
“I think it very likely.”
“Good,” said Prike. “Just remember that, the next time you feel tempted to lie to me. In the meantime, you are still at liberty. Good day.”
In leaving Marvin’s house, the inspector stopped in the compound, went directly to the base of the mango tree. Lying on the ground was an object which he had seen through the spreading foliage from Marvin’s window: a flat ebony ease with the arms of the Maharajah of Jharnpur encrusted in mother-of-pearl.
Taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket, Prike wrapped it around his fingers, picked up the box. He flipped back the cover. The case was empty.
Chapter Ten
AN UGLY RACKET
Much to the disgust of Deputy Inspector Robbins, Prike did not arrest Lee Marvin.
“But that chit that Hoyt was trying to write when he keeled over,” said Robbins, “I think that must mean Marvin. Raffles 82335…. Don’t you remember that old play, where the gentleman crook is named Raffles? I should think, inspector, that Marvin, being a gentleman—”
“You’re wrong, Robbins.”
“You don’t think Raffles 82335 is a telephone number, do you, inspector?”
“I do not. I think the Raffles referred to is Sir Stamford Raffles, founder of Singapore.”
“But he’s— Isn’t he rather dead, inspector?”
“Sir Stamford Raffles has been dead for more than a hundred years. Nevertheless, I’ve already sent off a cable to Singapore, asking for a copy of certain hotel registers.”
“Just the same, inspector,” Robbins persisted, “I’d feel better if this fellow Marvin were in jail.”
“My dear Robbins,” Prike explained patiently, “at this stage of the case a suspect at large is worth two in custody. And with your efficient shadowing, the man is as good as in jail.”
“But that business with the Maharajah’s jewels, inspector. It’s not usual.”
“Of course not, Robbins. Neither is the story of Mrs. Pereira’s durwan—about the American girl running out of the house at midnight, after a man who answers Hoyt’s descriptions.”
“I’d lock her up, too,” said Robbins.
“Did you talk to her, Robbins?”
“Evelyn Branch? I did!”
“I thought you did. Always checking up on me, eh, Robbins? Did she tell you the same story she told me?”
“She said she ran after Hoyt because he left all of a sudden after just telling her he was sorry for jilting her, and kissing her. And she wanted to talk to him some more, because she thought he sounded like he was in trouble. But she didn’t catch him. When she came into Elliots Road, she saw him get into a ghari and drive off. So she went back home and to bed.”
“Same story she told me,” said Inspector Prike. “At least she’s consistent. How did she impress you, Robbins?”
“Evelyn Branch? She’s a bit of a looker, all right. Seems nice enough. But you can’t be so sure about these American girls. I can’t make ’em out. She asked me as many questions as I asked her.”
“What about, Robbins?”
“Oh, about India—and Hoyt—and Hoyt’s business— and about this chap, Lee Marvin. I had to say to her, ‘See here, young lady, I’m the one that’s—’.”
“Did you call on Jacques and Antoinette Vrai, too, Robbins?”
“Yes,” said Robbins, “but I couldn’t get much out of ’em.”
“They’re still at the Grand Hotel, aren’t they?”
“They’re going back to Chandernagore tonight,” said Robbins.
“So Jacques Vrai informed me,” said Prike. “Would you have him locked up, too, Robbins?”
“Well, I don’t like his face.”
“Notice anything peculiar about it, Robbins? His skin, particularly?”
“Well, I did notice it was sort of scaly-like. Reminds me of a snake’s belly.”
“Correct,” said Prike. “Remember that, Robbins. I think Monsieur Vrai’s skin might fit in, somewhere. In the meantime, I’m going to have a bite to eat.”
It was nine o’clock when Prike went home for dinner. He had eaten only a few mouthfuls of dal curry when the arrival of the police surgeon’s autopsy report started him off again.
A post-mortem operation upon the body of Harrison J. Hoyt, the report read, revealed that death was caused by dilatation of the heart. Enlargement was apparently due to an organic disorder possibly neurogenic in origin. There is no evidence of unnatural causes.
The inspector dropped his fork and jumped up from the table. To his astonished bearer, who came running in, he said, “Yusuf, the autopsy surgeon is a fool. I have a good mind to make you autopsy surgeon—only you are not sufficiently be-wafuq. Bring me my hat.”
Then Inspector Prike hurried to the laboratory of Calcutta University, where Dr. T. T. Chaudry, Professor of Toxicology, had been, since that afternoon, delving intimately into a set of vital organs but recently the property of the late Harrison Hoyt. Amid an array of test tubes, Bunsen burners, and crucibles, the dusky Hindu scientist and his white-coated assistant had been testing strips of stomach tissue for traces of poison.
“What luck, professor?” asked Prike as he entered the laboratory.
“None,” said Dr. Chaudry. “We have made a series of color tests without positive reactions. Preliminary tests for arsenic, morphine, and cyanide show negative. Of course, we are not through yet.”
“Have you made a spectroscopic analysis?”
“We are working on it now. I have just been studying the first photograph. The nitrogen band is unusually wide.”
“Due probably to the advance of decomposition?” suggested Prike.
“Probably,” agreed Dr. Chaudry. “And furthermore, the heavy sodium line in the spectrum is probably meaningless also. Salt in the food the man ate just before his death no doubt.”
The inspector nodded.
“By the way, inspector,” Dr. Chaudry continued, “that gentleman you sent here just left.”
“Gentleman?” Prike was surprised. “I sent no one here. Deputy Inspector Robbins, perhaps.”
“No,” said the professor, “he is not from the police. He said he would come back. A small man with a thin mustache, badly in need of a haircut and, I am afraid, of a bath also. He is a journalist, I believe. Here he is now.”
Rufus Dormer sauntered into the laboratory, his grimy topee pushed to the back of his head. The fact that he wore a sun-helmet at all after sundown, at variance with the best Anglo-Indian custom, together with the badly rumpled condition of his soiled whites, marked him as not a pukka sahib.
“Well, Prike,” he said, as he poked the inspector disrespectfully in the chest with a forefinger, the nail of which was edged in black, “I see you’re stumped again, as usual.”
“You have been misinformed,” said the inspector coolly.
“Oh, I fancy not,” said Dormer, with a smile of malicious enjoyment. “You have an obvious murder on your hands and you can’t even prove the man was murdered. No trace of poison, eh, Prike?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” the inspector replied.
Rufus Dormer laughed loudly. “I knew it,” he declared. “That’s the whole trouble with the British raj in India. You train superior Oriental minds in piddling inferior Occidental methods. Look at Dr. Chaudry here. He has forty centuries of wisdom and culture behind him; but do you allow him to use his heritage? Of course not. The dominant race insists that he play with the half-baked theories of adolescent Western science. Result: He gets nowhere. Don’t you know, Prike, that there are poisons in India far too subtle and mysterious for your shiny, new European laboratories to detect?”
“Old wives’ tales,” said Prike.
“Arrogant British ignorance,” countered Dormer. “I know for a fact that the Khasis of Assam have a substance which produces death with all the symptoms of typhoid. In the Nilgiri Hills, men die of a poison which Western doctors mistake for cholera.”
“Nonsense,” said Inspector Prike. “Both these poisons are well-known cadaveric alkaloids and can be analyzed. I’m sure Dr. Chaudry could give you the formulas. Incidentally, Donner, what are you doing here?”
“Two interests bring me,” Dormer replied. “First, my public. The readers of the Anglo-Bengal Times will be clamoring for the gory details of the Hoyt case. Second, I knew I’d find you here.”
“You wish to see me?”
“Yes. I suppose that you are temporary custodian of the late Mr. Hoyt’s assets.”
“Well?”
“Hoyt owed me five hundred rupees. I want you to get the money for me.”
“You will have to make a claim against the estate through the usual channels,” said Inspector Prike.
“I need the money at once,” Dormer insisted.
“Isn’t that a rather high-handed manner for one with your magnificent salary (What do they pay you at the Anglo-Bengal Times? Two hundred rupees a month?) and who borrows money from Bengali clerks?”
“I want the money,” Dormer repeated. “Hoyt owed it to me.”
“For how long?”
“For months.”
“There was some argument over it, no doubt?”
“I wouldn’t argue with a man like Hoyt,” sneered Dormer. “I despised him.”
“But you took his money.”
“Gladly. Particularly as I was being paid for the pleasant task of embarrassing the type of person. I am able to hate so cordially—the fifth-rate European who comes to India to consider himself superior to a first-rate Hindu like Dr. Chaudry.”
