Bombay Mail, page 6
“Salaam, Pundit Garnath Chundra,” said the Inspector at last.
“You have an excellent memory, Inspector Sahib.”
The Inspector nodded. “Ten years, isn’t it, since we met last?” he said. “You had just been expelled from the State of Zunjore for advising the students of your high school to buy no British cotton goods.”
Pundit Garnath smiled wistfully.
“True, Inspector Sahib,” he said. “It made me sad to see the Maharajah—the father of the present ruler of Zunjore —a puppet in the hands of his British advisers. And it amused me that a few years later in British India your people should be so inconsistent as to make me an instructor at Bengal Hindu University—”
“You were removed from that position three days ago, Pundit.”
“The Inspector Sahib is well informed.”
“The Pundit is incorrigibly disloyal.”
“I merely tell the truth, Inspector Sahib. I told my students that the sole purpose of the British in granting them education was to make cheap English-speaking clerks. I told them they were fools to study third-rate English poets, when they were forced to neglect their own great literature—Kalidasa, the Mahabharata—”
“It occurs to me, Pundit-ji, that you might have had a grievance against the Governor of Bengal for signing the decree that deprived you of your livelihood—”
The Pundit smiled sadly.
“The Inspector Sahib seeks to establish that I had a motive for slaying Sir Anthony Daniels,” said Pundit Garnath. “He forgets that a Hindu is forbidden to take life in any form—and I am a Hindu.”
“You are also a political agitator,” said the Inspector. “One of your kind tried to kill the Governor with a bomb yesterday morning.”
“Not of my kind, Inspector Sahib. Murder is action. I am a Brahmin. A Brahmin is committed to the doctrine of non-action. ‘Free from the bonds of action is that man who has attained wisdom.’ ”
“You quote from the Message of the Master,” said Inspector Prike. “Yet in the same revered writings you can find excuse for the killing of a man you consider your enemy. Did not Lord Krishna say to Arjuna, ‘Therefore, O Prince of Pandu, arise and fight… Prepare thyself for the fray. That is thy plain duty’?”
The Pundit smiled.
“The Inspector Sahib is learned in our Sanskrit classics,” he said. “He must know, then, that these words from Bhagavad-Gita were addressed to a prince of the warrior caste. I am a Brahmin, of the caste of self-mastery, serenity, and knowledge.”
“Cannot a Brahmin, Pundit-ji, neatly expiate the sin of falsehood by proper offerings to Sarasvati?” asked Prike.
The Brahmin smiled sadly.
“According to our Vedas, Inspector Sahib, the sin of falsehood is not—”
The Inspector slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “Enough sophistry. I want facts, Pundit-ji,” he interrupted. “Did you see the body of the Governor in the bathroom of your compartment?”
“One is aware of much that one does not see.”
“Then you knew the body was there?” the Inspector leaned forward.
“I did not see it. I was aware of an evil influence troubling the serenity of my meditation.”
“You were in a trance, Pundit-ji?”
“That is your word for it, Inspector Sahib.”
Inspector Prike did not laugh. He had seen numerous cases of Hindu masters of Yoga who could at will pass into a state of suspended animation. He made no pretense at understanding the phenomenon. He did not deny the sensitivity to unseen forces claimed by these Hindu masters, neither did he rely upon it. The solution of crime must depend upon less occult means. He resumed:
“Did you see the young American leave your compartment at Gaya?”
“He came and went most of the night,” said Pundit Garnath. “He was not easy in his mind. I made no note of the stations.”
“Can you remember from which side of the train the American got down?”
“I made no note of it.”
The whistle of the locomotive screamed shrilly. The Bombay Mail was approaching a station.
Inspector Prike was drumming on the table with the fingers of both hands.
The door of Lady Daniels’s compartment opened. The Inspector looked up. The widow of the Governor advanced into the dining-saloon with uncertain steps. Her lips were tightly pressed together. Her face was more haggard than ever. She was clasping a small glass jar.
“I was mistaken, Mr. Prike, when I told you a few moments ago that my cyanide bottle was in the luggage van,” she said. “I have just found it—in a bag in my compartment.”
Inspector Prike nodded. He held out his hand to take the bottle.
III. CHHEOKI JUNCTION
(Arrive 10:10 a.m. Friday)
Chapter Eight: THIEVES’ MARKET
The city of Allahabad, piled on a promontory at the confluence of the muddy Ganges and the blue River Jumna, was waking to the first hot breath of dawn. Among the church spires and factory chimneys of the European quarter of town men were still asleep, but across the tracks, the narrow crooked streets of the bazaar were already coming to life. Down one tortuous alley walked a sallow-faced, dark-haired man in an immaculate suit of tussah silk, swinging a cane. He stood aside to let a camel train pass, then continued a few steps to bang with the head of his stick on the rickety wooden door of a dingy shop. Above the door, a sign proclaimed in English and Hindi letters: D. K. LAL, Licensed Dealer in Benares Opium and Fine Mirzapur Rugs
The sallow-faced man pounded impatiently with his cane for five minutes before the door opened a crack and a fat brown hand appeared. Pushing the fat man aside by poking him in the stomach with his cane, the visitor entered unceremoniously.
The brown man finished winding his dirty blue turban and tucked in the end.
“Dammit, Lal, what do you mean by keeping me waiting like this?” demanded the sallow-faced man.
D. K. Lal made exaggerated gestures of regret with his fat hands, his blubber lips, and his round, rascally eyes. “Most extremely sorry, Mr. Xavier,” he said. “But had no means of expecting you at this most early hour. Was slumbering quite soundly.”
“Didn’t you get my telegram?” asked Xavier testily. “I telegraphed you I was coming by Number 7 Up Express from Calcutta.”
“Doubtless telegraph office is not yet open,” said Lal. “Will you take tea?”
“Get me some whisky,” said Xavier. “And quick. I’m in a hurry.”
Lal shouted for servants. He and Xavier sat down in the rear of the shop. The room was dark and redolent with strange odors.
“Why am I honored by your visit, Mr. Xavier?” asked Lal.
“I want you to get me a man,” said Xavier.
“What kind of a man?” Lal spread his hands. “You have many men in your service in Calcutta. What kind of man could I provide that you would not have?”
“Fool, I want a man who is not known in Calcutta. Especially I want a man who is not known to be in my employ. Otherwise, why do you think I should come to a scoundrel like you?”
“I see,” D. K. Lal nodded his big head until his lips shook. “You want that kind of a man.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I have two Afghans who are very strong and skillful with a knife—”
“No Afghans!” said Xavier. “They are too big. I want somebody small and agile, who can get in and out of tight places.”
“Perhaps if I knew purpose why you are requiring this person?”
Xavier hesitated. It was obvious that he did not intend to confide his business to a thieves’ broker like D. K. Lal.
“The matter is simple enough,” said Xavier. “Some rather valuable gems, have been stolen from me by a man who is now on his way to Bombay, perhaps to Europe, to dispose of them. For reasons that are no concern of yours, I cannot ask the police to recover the gems for me. I myself am not as young as I once was. Besides, I have my position to consider. I want a man who can do this job for me. Do you know one?”
“Where will work be performed?” asked Lal.
“On the Bombay Mail which passes Chheoki Junction at ten o’clock this morning.”
“I had heard talk in the bazaar,” said Lal, scratching his head, “that you were yourself traveling by Bombay Mail—”
“I spread that report myself,” said Xavier. “Have you a man?”
“How much will you pay?”
“It is an easy job,” said Xavier. “One hundred rupees should be enough.”
D. K. Lal made gestures of despair.
“What great pity!” he said. “I have just the man you want, but he will cost five hundred rupees! Three hundred for the man, two hundred for me.”
“Ridiculous,” said Xavier. “One hundred fifty is all I can offer.”
“Mr. Xavier, you have not come all the way to Allahabad at five o’clock in the morning-time to make jokes. However, perhaps I can make arrangements for four hundred rupees.”
“Two hundred would be stretching matters to their limit,” said Xavier.
They compromised on two hundred fifty and expenses.
“And now who is this man?” asked Xavier.
“He is a foreigner,” said Lal. “Not an English, exactly, but a sort of an English. I believe he is an Italish.”
“My sainted mother’s ancestors were Italian,” said Xavier. “What is his name?”
“Martini. He is very good. He is just what you want. He is an acrobat.”
“An acrobat?”
“Very skillful. He can fold himself up in small barrels. He can hang himself from roof eaves like monkeys. He can steal the shirt off your backside and you won’t even notice it. He is worth many times more than two hundred fifty rupees.”
“How trustworthy is he, Lal?”
“Mr. Xavier!” D. K. Lal spread his hands indignantly. “Can a man in my business afford to hire people that are not trustworthy?”
“How long have you known him?” asked Xavier, his hands clasped on the head of his cane.
“Perhaps three months,” said Lal. “At first, I gave him only small things to do. He did them very well. Then I let him rob camel trains for me. He is very fine. He has brought me some very fine rugs from the best mosques— very fine. And he has never been caught. I really don’t know if I should let you have him for so little money—”
“I’m giving you plenty,” snapped Xavier. “You’ll have him back in two days at the latest. Send for him.”
“Now?”
“And in a hurry. He and I will have to catch that shuttle train that meets the Bombay Mail at Chheoki Junction.”
“Perhaps—” D. K. Lal lowered his eyes like a shy girl. “Perhaps if you could let me have a hundred rupees first— to seal the bargain?”
Xavier grudgingly counted ten ten-rupee notes into Lal’s fat hand.
“Now get Martini.”
“I will send for him. He is lodging quite far from this place, one mile other side of bazaar near Akbar Fort.” ~
It was nearly an hour before Martini appeared in the dark, smelly, cave-like interior of D. K. Lal’s shop. He was a small, wiry man. He wore a white suit of drill, the trousers of which were tight enough to indicate the muscles of his slightly bowed legs. On his head was a tall, red fez without a tassel, which, combined with his swarthy complexion, his dark hair and beaked nose, gave him the appearance of a westernized Turk.
“Does he speak English?” Xavier asked D. K. Lal.
“Who? Me? Whadya tink! Do I spicking English!” Martini spoke rapidly, pouring out a torrent of clipped syllables. “Also am spicking Punjabi, Urdu, Gujerati, Bengali—”
“Very well. Fine.” Xavier interrupted the flow of language to explain in guarded terms what he wanted with Martini. D. K. Lal interrupted Xavier to speak of the money arrangements. Martini interrupted D. K. Lal to sputter boastfully about how easy such a job would be to a man of his talents.
“Whadya tink? You like my dress? Can also dress for to resembling Hyderabad Mohammedan, Bagdad Jew, Bhopal Brahmin— Whadya tink?”
“You’re all right just as you are,” said Xavier. “Now listen to me. We’re traveling together, but we’re traveling separately—understand? As a matter of fact, I think I’ll send you second-class, while I travel first. I’ll try to point out your man to you on the platform at Chheoki, when the Bombay Mail comes in. If not, then we will meet by accident in the restaurant car. I believe Manikpur is the stop where one can go into the restaurant car for tiffin. After that, you’ll get down at every station and I’ll manage to pass word to you in the crowds on the platform. Understand?”
“Understand? Whadya tink! Sure!”
“Then we’ll separate now,” said Xavier. “Here’s your second-class fare. The shuttle train leaves Allahabad at 9:30 o’clock. It takes twenty minutes to get to the main trunk line at Chheoki. And if you don’t show up at the station—”
“He will be showing up, have no fears,” said D. K. Lal. “Martini is good man. You are lucky to get him, Mr. Xavier.”
Chapter Nine: A BLONDE ON THE SPOT
When Inspector Prike called Pundit Garnath Chundra for questioning, Jack Hawley was left alone with Beatrice Jones in the locked and guarded compartment at the end of the private car.
The girl sat close to the window, her hat on her lap, her face pressed against the pane. The smoke from the engine was streaking heavily along the side of the train, dragging wavering, unevenly transparent shadows over the ground, veiling the glare from the parched plains.
Hawley was nervous. He had not yet regained his composure, upset by Inspector Prike’s accusation, and by the narrow margin by which he had almost lost his rubies.
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
Without turning around, the girl shrugged her slim shoulders. She continued to stare silently out the window.
“Do you want me to open that window for you?” Hawley offered.
The girl turned.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” she said—almost savagely, Hawley thought. Then he noticed that there were tears in her big gray eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why should you be sorry?” The girl’s voice was challenging.
“I— Well, I didn’t mean to annoy you.”
The girl laughed, a little bitterly. “You’re rather conceited,” she said, “to think that you could annoy me. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m the man who’s just been accused of killing the Governor of Bengal,” said Hawley.
The girl looked at him curiously.
“Did you?” she asked.
“I’m beginning to think I must have. This Inspector Prike is pretty convincing,” Hawley replied. “And the Governor’s body was found in the bathroom of my Compartment.”
The girl’s eyes widened—like the eyes of a frightened child. “You mean—in the compartment right next to mine?”
Hawley smiled. “Then you do recognize me as your neighbor,” he said.
The frightened look disappeared from the eyes of Beatrice Jones. The sophisticated, slightly suspicious expression returned to her lips:
“Vaguely,” she said.
“Anyhow, they ought to let you go now,” said Hawley, “since the Inspector has decided that I’m the murderer.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m in for plenty of grief,” she said.
“Did you hear anything—or see anything—of the murder last night?” asked Hawley anxiously.
The girl hesitated. She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. She shook her head.
Hawley struck a match and carried it to the bowl of his pipe. The flame went out instantly.
“You did say you didn’t mind my smoking, Miss—I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Believe it or not—Jones,” said the girl.
“Just Jones?”
Hawley struck another match and puffed vainly on his pipe. Again the match went out.
“Beatrice Jones.”
“Mine’s Jack Hawley.”
“Fancy that!” said the girl. “I don’t think I’d ever have guessed it.” Despite her facetiousness, there seemed to be less hostility in her glance as she looked Hawley in the eyes for the first time.
Hawley puffed futilely as the flame of his third match was sucked to extinction in the bowl of his pipe. “You mean you’ve never heard of the Hawleys of Upper Bengal and the Brahmaputra Valley?”
This time Beatrice Jones actually smiled.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “They’re a mystic people who go around smoking pipes without any tobacco in them.”
Hawley looked down at the empty bowl of his pipe and smiled sheepishly. He looked out the window.
“We’re coming to a station,” he said. “Maybe they’ll let you get out here.”
“What’s the station?”
“Chheoki Junction,” said Hawley. He and Beatrice Jones were leaning out the window together. Their elbows touched.
The song of the rails slowed to an intermittent clicking. The decreasing roar of the train was replaced by the deafening confusion of the crowds milling in the heat of the station platform. Hawley saw water carriers running about, some with goatskin bags, some with separate buckets for Hindus who cannot touch drink handled by persons not of the same caste. Passengers were besieging them with brass pots. Some passengers without pots were squatting on the ground, tilting their heads back, cupping their hands before their mouths while the water carrier poured his cooling liquid into the improvised funnels. Leather-lunged venders were hawking tea, milk, fruit, cigarettes, greasy sweetmeats, and puri—flat, thin cakes. Four soldiers from a Scottish regiment pushed through the crowd, with a swish of kilts. Ear down the train curtains were stretched to allow an Indian lady to step from her compartment into a covered palanquin without being exposed to the gaze of vulgar men. Four coolies shouldered the palanquin and disappeared in the brilliant kaleidoscope of colored turbans, wagging beards, glistening brown torsos. A sallow-faced man in an immaculate suit of tussah silk used his cane to make a path for himself through the crowd and was lost to view almost instantly.
