Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 6
“To make certain the body was gone,” the deputy answered. “And tell me this: Why didn’t Miss Ingram tell us about Woodring? And why did Woodring leave his hotel so suddenly this morning?”
“You might ask him,” said Prike, with a faint smile. “He’s travelling by this train.”
“He’s what?” The deputy’s waxed moustache bristled. “Then I’ll—”
“Don’t, Robbins. I’d rather let him think he’s not being watched—at least for the present.”
For half an hour Inspector Prike frowned at the documentation Robbins had collected. For the next thirty minutes he sat smoking in silent meditation. His eyes were closed when the train slowed for the first stop at Ranaghat Junction.
The cars had scarcely come to a halt when a face appeared at the window. A voice called, “Inspector Prike!”
Robbins opened for Dr. Adolph Feurmann.
The German seemed in a state of great perturbation His pale eyes blinked excitedly behind his thick glasses.
“Ach, inspector,” he blurted, “didn’t I told you he was dangerous? He is following me, inspector!”
“You mean Count Vaznilko?”
“Yes. He is on this train.”
“I know,” said Prike quietly. “Third first-class carriage, second compartment.”
“So. Then you are here to protect me, inspector?”
“I’m not going as far as Darjeeling, probably,” Prike replied. “I have a little business in Santahar. Sit down, Dr. Feurmann, and smoke a cigarette with us. We stop here for ten minutes.”
Prike extended a gold koftgari cigarette case—a little remembrance for having solved the double disappearance of two of the wives of a Punjabi rajah, years ago.
“Dr. Feurmann,” he continued, holding out a match, “I’ve been wondering why it is you were carrying a candid camera on this expedition. After all, you don’t have to manœuvre to catch a tree or a plant in a pose that isn’t self-conscious. I should think you’d want the better detail a larger camera affords.”
“True, inspector, true,” agreed the German. “However, in the field weight and space are valuable. I come back loaded like a donkey with specimens. Dozens and dozens of orchids. Hundreds, even.”
“Exquisite flower, the orchid,” said Prike. “They’ve always fascinated me. I once knew a man who claimed to have seen a hundred orchids—Corallorhiza orchids, I believe he called them—growing on the branches of a single live oak tree. Is that possible, doctor?”
“Indeed, yes,” Feurmann replied. “The orchid grows in trees. It is a parasite.”
“You know, doctor,” Prike continued, “you really should try to go into Shimalghar while you’re in Darjeeling. I understand there are nearly seven hundred varieties of orchid growing in the rain-forests of that state.”
“Indeed yes,” said the German. “I was, in fact, planning a little expedition into Shimalghar. Its orchids are indeed famous.”
“One of the most curious orchids I ever saw came from Shimalghar,” said Prike, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring. “It was yellow, with delightful purple markings. Epidendrum Stamfordianum, I believe it was called. You should try and get a specimen.”
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Dr. Feurmann happily. “That you should mention the very orchid I want most to bring back to Switzerland, the Epidendrum Stamfordianum.”
Prike removed his cigarette from between his lips, stared at Dr. Feurmann for a moment. Then:
“I’m afraid you won’t find any,” he said regretfully.
“Ach, no?”
“No,” said Prike. “I recall now that the Epidendrum Stamfordianum is native to Guatemala, not Shimalghar. How stupid of me! But then, of course, I don’t pretend to be a botanist.”
The station-master’s whistle sounded outside.
The inspector held out his hand. “Good-night, Dr. Feurmann,” he said. “And don’t let this Count Vaznilko spoil your sleep to-night. My good friend Robbins will watch him. Schlafen-Sie wohl.”
“Auf Wiedersehen, und gute Nacht, Herr Inspektor!” Dr. Feurmann bowed stiffly from the waist. Prike stood in the doorway, watching his departing visitor walk briskly down the station platform. A passing guard slammed the door. The train began to move again.
“Robbins,” said Prike with the broadest grin his subordinate had seen in months. “What would you think of a botanist who doesn’t know that the Corallorhiza orchid is not a parasite, growing on live trees, but a saprophyte which lives only on decayed wood?”
“The man’s a ruddy fraud!” said Robbins. “He’s no more botanist than my left tibia.”
“Exactly,” said Prike. “Furthermore, he’s not a refugee from Nazi Germany.”
“He’s a German, all right,” said Robbins.
“You saw his passport. But you didn’t notice the date?”
“I did. It was issued in January of this year.”
“Then you should know, Robbins, that the Herr Doktor is not the enemy of the Nazis that he would have us believe. The Nazi Government does not issue passports to its enemies to go abroad and spread ‘vile untruths’ about the Third Reich.”
“What does that mean, inspector?”
Prike shrugged.
“Perhaps nothing,” he said, sitting down.
As the train rumbled over the first bridge, Paul Woodring backed into the compartment and fastened the door. He turned around, began taking off his khaki jacket. With one arm still in his sleeve he stopped and stared. On the seat opposite the one on which his luggage lay, was a woman.
“There seems to be some mistake,” she said.
“I wonder,” said Woodring. He sat down, coolly detailing his unexpected travelling companion. She was a tall, well-made woman of about thirty. Her thin dress of figured cerise foulard did little to conceal the contours of her body, which were generous and provocative. Her dark glossy hair, blue-black in its shadows, was parted severely in the centre, yet it failed to lend severity to the worldly oval face dominated by full, ripe lips. Neither did her long, curling black lashes make her gaze demure. The expression of her eyes was untroubled, bold, even hostile. Or was it hostility that Woodring saw there? It was a strange, disturbing light that came and went, something enigmatic and knowing, something out of tragic antiquity, something, perhaps, of Asia.
Asia! That might be the explanation. Instinctively Woodring glanced at her long, olive-tinted hands, looking for the tell-tale crescents on the fingernails.
There was something familiar about the woman, something he could not quite remember. Ah, yes!
“You really might ask permission to share my compartment,” she was saying. Her voice was low-pitched, warmly exciting.
“I’m not so sure,” Woodring replied, “that this isn’t my compartment.”
“I am. I reserved it. I made my bookings this morning,” she said.
“Yes, I know you did,” he said slowly. “You made your booking immediately after I made mine. You were sitting in a ghari in Koilaghat Street this morning when I went into the E.B.R. offices. You were still there when I came out.”
“Really? I didn’t notice you. I suppose I should feel flattered that you noticed me … although I doubt very much if you did.”
“I did, Miss Carmaine.”
“Oh.” That same disturbing light glowed again in the dark eyes. “You know my name. What else do you know about me?”
“I think you found out what compartment I’d booked this morning,” Woodring explained, “and then either deliberately booked the other seat in the name of some imaginary male—or merely noted the number and settled yourself in it without booking.”
Leda Carmine did not reply at once. She took a cigarette from her mesh handbag, a tiny cigarette scarcely larger than the match with which she lighted it. As the flame touched its tip, Woodring was aware of the strong fragrance of ambrein.
“Your colossal conceit,” said Leda Carmaine in a smooth tone that was not in the least indignant, “is exceeded only by your impertinence.”
“Thank you,” said Woodring.
“But you do think I am here by design?”
“Yes.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“Nothing, for the moment,” said Woodring. “In view of the peculiar construction of the Eastern Bengal Railway’s compartment trains, we seem condemned to endure each other’s company until the next station, which is, I believe, Ranaghat. We’re due there at 9.30.”
“And after Ranaghat, what?”
“If I were a gallant young man,” said Woodring, “at Ranaghat I should leave you in full possession of my seat and hunt for another place to sleep.”
“And are you a gallant young man?”
“Not very. I’m conceited and impertinent.”
“So you propose to spend the night in my compartment?” Leda Carmaine’s voice was completely devoid of alarm. The question was only mildly curious.
“My compartment,” Woodring insisted.
“But I booked—”
“Yes, so you said. Shall we take the matter up with one of the guards at the next station?”
“As you like.” Leda stifled a yawn. She leaned over to lower the window shutter. The train was rushing through paddy fields a-glitter with a greenish firmament of fireflies. She lazily flicked her cigarette stub into the night, rested her smooth, bare forearm on the window-sill. She crossed her legs.
They were pretty legs, Woodring remarked. Nor could he help remarking that Leda Carmaine was perfectly aware of the fact that they were pretty legs. The sheerest of flesh-coloured silk encased the shapely calves, and the hem of the gown seemed draped with careful carelessness to set off the display to best advantage. The advantage was such that Woodring could not help glimpsing a flash of cerise garter above one knee. Simultaneously and with a rude start, he saw the unmistakable gleam of steel.
He turned his head, dropped the window shutter nearest him, looked out the window with the same affected nonchalance that Leda Carmaine was showing. He could not know if he was supposed to see what was tucked under the cerise garter, but he had. And he was more convinced than ever that Leda Carmaine was one of Alexander Blenn’s “certain parties.” He wondered if Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram had been guilty of complicity in putting him in the same compartment as this dark-eyed woman. Possibly not.
Neither spoke. Both pretended to be absorbed in the shadowy Bengal landscape speeding by in the warm darkness. And each was aware that the other was watching.
At 9.30 the Darjeeling Mail sighed to a stop at Ranaghat. An instant later the compartment door opened and Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram loped in. Without further ado he began unfastening the straps of Woodring’s bedroll. Leda Carmaine watched him listlessly.
“Shall prepare sahib’s bed this side?” he asked.
Woodring looked at Leda. She shrugged.
“Yes,” said Woodring.
As the Tamil set to work, Leda’s bearer limped into the compartment. He was a twisted, misshapen little Moslem with a black goat beard. While the Tamil was smoothing out Woodring’s sheets of unbleached muslin, and making short work of a pneumatic pillow and a light wool blanket, Woodring saw that the other bearer was busy too. From Leda Carmaine’s bedding roll came hemstitched linen sheets, dainty lace-bordered pillows, a light silk comforter. The scent of musk filled the compartment as the crippled Moslem tucked in the linen sheets.
Without a word, Woodring stepped from the train, quickly crossed the platform, entered the refreshment room. The dimly-lighted interior was suffocating, despite a feebly whirling punkah. He walked to a table in the shadowy far corner, where he could still watch the platform and the side of the train.
“Burra peg lao,” he told the khansama.
The servant had just brought the double whiskysoda when Woodring saw Ruth Ingram come into the refreshment room. He doubted his eyes at first, but when she hesitated a moment beneath the punkah, her curly brown hair alive in the faint stir of warm air, he recognised her trim young figure, the poise of her small head, the troubled expression in her wondering blue eyes. Evidently she was a passenger on the Darjeeling Mail. Why? … He looked the other way, but she immediately walked towards his table.
“Don’t talk to me in here,” Woodring murmured into his drink as he lifted his glass.
“But I must talk to you!”
“Then I’ll come to you later if you’re alone.”
“I’m alone. I bought enough tickets to reserve all seats. Third first-class carriage, fourth compartment.”
“Good. I’ll come when I can. Next station, perhaps. Now don’t stand here any longer.”
The girl moved away, bought a package of cigarettes, and went out. Woodring finished his drink, paid for it, and sauntered out to the platform. The Mail would not leave for three or four minutes.
Woodring lost himself behind a crowd of Hindus clustered about a water vendor. From where he stood he could look into his own compartment. It appeared deserted except for Leda Carmaine’s deformed Moslem bearer.
Woodring scanned the length of the train from the panting locomotive to the guard’s van. After a moment he caught sight of Leda. She was standing on the platform, apparently taking a breath of air and smoking one of her tiny perfumed cigarettes. But despite her air of casual idling, Woodring saw that she was listening to a man who was leaning from a car window just behind her. He could not hear the man’s voice above the din and bustle of the station platform, but he saw his lips moving. The man had a rather distinguished-looking face—or rather a face that had once been distinguished.
The face was not old; it was dissipated, rather. There were pouches under the eyes and the lips moved loosely as they formed words. His hair, slicked back straight from the forehead, was dark except for one silvery white strand on the left side
A whistle sounded and a guard ran along the side of the train, closing doors. Woodring saw Leda Carmaine walk rapidly back to her compartment. She stood at a window, looking anxiously up and down the platform, as the train began to move.
Woodring counted the first-class carriages as they slowly passed: One … two … third carriage, fourth compartment. He sprinted, caught the step. The slatted shutters were closed, but there was a light inside. He hung on with one hand, rapped with the other. There was no response. The rumbling wheels of the Mail clicked over switch frogs. Woodring knocked again. The train was gaining speed.
At last the door swung open. Woodring jumped in.
Ruth Ingram helped Woodring pull the door closed.
“Then this is your compartment,” Woodring said. “I thought I was in for another surprise when you didn’t open for me.”
“I wasn’t expecting you. You said the next station.”
“I know. I changed my mind.” Woodring sat down. He noticed that the bed was made up on the opposite side of the compartment. “Now, why do you have to talk to me?”
“Because I had to tell you that the police know about you,” the girl replied “You were worried about that this morning, so I thought I should warn you.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. Inspector Prike—that’s the C.I.D. investigator—opened a telegram from Uncle Alex this morning that mentioned your name. Uncle wanted me to give you any telegrams that came for him.”
“So Mr. Blenn is expecting more messages like the one that gave him the jitters last night,” Woodring said. “Were there any?”
“No.”
“Then why are you on this train? Just to warn me?”
“No. I thought I might be of some help to Uncle Alex. Obviously he’s in some sort of serious trouble. His telegram came from Santahar.”
“I see. So Prike is probably on the train too?”
“Yes. He seems to be interested in this Christopher Jericho you mentioned.” Ruth repeated what little she had gleaned during Prike’s investigation that morning.
Woodring got up to adjust the fan, which was making a tiny clatter. He said, “I thought you’d stay in Calcutta for Stiller’s funeral.”
“There’s no funeral,” the girl said. “Basil didn’t believe in anything, so any sort of ceremony would be both silly and sacrilegious. They’re going to cremate him when the police release the body.”
“You’re not even in mourning,” said Woodring, eyeing the girl’s suit of ecru linen.
“You don’t expect me to wear black in this weather, I hope,” was Ruth’s comment. “And I’m certainly not going to wear a crêpe arm-band like a Eurasian stenographer.”
“No, of course not. But I almost wish your heart was in mourning for him—just a little.”
“I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have married Basil,” said the girl, taking out a vanity case.
“Why not?”
The girl did not reply. In silence she dabbed powder on her pert nose. The lights of a country station flashed through the closed shutters. Ruth replaced her minuscule powder puff, extended her hand.
“Couldn’t I borrow a cigarette?” she asked.
Woodring obliged. He struck a match.
“That envelope you found in Basil’s flat this morning,” Ruth resumed. “The one with the green seals on the back—wasn’t it to get the contents of that envelope that Basil was killed?”
“Probably,” Woodring answered.
A shadow darkened Ruth’s blue eyes. “Then in order to carry out your task in Darjeeling, you’ll be forced to find the murderer of Basil Stiller?”
“Not necessarily,” said Woodring. “I fully expect to meet the gentleman—or lady—but I’m certainly not looking for him—or her.”
“But if the murderer has the documents—?”
“He hasn’t,” Woodring chuckled. “When Stiller was murdered, that envelope probably contained exactly what it contained when he stole it from me. Three folded pages of the Amrita Bazar Patrika.”
Ruth Ingram’s dimples appeared. There was admiration in her smile. Then her eyes clouded again.
“You mean you’re not carrying the original documents with you—on your person?” she asked.
