Bombay Mail, page 7
An exclamation escaped Jack Hawley. With a sudden, involuntary movement, he grasped the arm of Beatrice Jones. He released it immediately, murmuring apologies.
The girl took no offense. There was sympathetic interest in her eyes as she studied the change of expression that had suddenly come over Hawley’s face.
“See a ghost?” she asked.
Hawley was staring into the crowd on the platform, seeking another glimpse of the man who had just passed.
“Xavierl” he said.
“Not Saint Francis?”
Hawley looked at the girl.
“Not a saint by a long shot,” he said.
“I’m relieved,” said the girl. “I thought you were having visions.”
Hawley went to the door of the compartment and started pounding on the panel.
“Let me out, somebody!” he called.
The door opened almost instantly. Hawley started out, but the guard barred the way with his rifle.
“Tell Inspector Prike I want to talk to him,” said Hawley.
“The Inspector wants to see Beatrice Jones,” said the guard.
“I’ve got to see the Inspector!”
“Beatrice Jones,” repeated the guard.
The girl stood up, paused a moment in front of a wall mirror, adjusted her blond hair with two deft pats of her fingers, and brushed past Hawley into the corridor.
“Snappy answers,” Hawley called after her.
Pundit Garnath Chundra took her place in the compartment. The guard pushed Hawley away from the door and locked it.
Inspector Prike motioned Beatrice Jones into a chair. She sat for several minutes while he occupied himself with a sheaf of telegrams the Chheoki stationmaster had just brought into the car. Most of the telegrams were messages of condolence for Lady Daniels. There were two cables from London, one extending Lady Daniels the official sympathy of the India Office, and the other directing that the dead Governor’s staff continue to Ballard Pier, turn oyer Secret Files D and E to the Governor of Bombay aboard ship, and continue to England with him as his adviser on Bengal affairs. That meant the private car would not be unoccupied at Chheoki. If the Governor’s staff was to continue across India, Inspector Prike would have to go along. He preferred to continue his investigation on the train, anyway.
Inspector Prike glanced at the list of passengers from Allahabad joining the Bombay Mail, which the Chheoki stationmaster had prepared at his telegraphic request. He handed the stationmaster several of his own telegrams to be dispatched. Then he looked at Beatrice Jones.
The girl was sitting forward on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped tightly on the table.
“Your passport lists your occupation as musician, Miss Jones,” said the Inspector, “yet your baggage doesn’t seem to include any musical instruments.”
“You haven’t searched me yet,” said the girl sarcastically. “How do you know I haven’t got a grand piano in my vanity case?”
The Inspector did not smile.
“Then you’re a pianist?” he asked.
“I don’t see how that can matter to you!”
Inspector Prike changed the subject. He took his wallet from his pocket and carefully extracted the torn scrap of paper that had slipped from between the slats of the shutter in Beatrice Jones’s compartment. He extended the piece of paper toward the girl.
“Isn’t that your handwriting?” he asked.
The girl leaned forward quickly, then relaxed.
“It is not!” she replied.
“Did you ever write a letter to the Governor of Bengal?”
“That’s not my writing,” said the girl.
“But you did write to Sir Anthony Daniels—mentioning a sum of money.”
“I did not. I’m not a blackmailer.”
“This scrap of letter bears the word ‘rupees’—”
“I didn’t write it.”
Inspector Prike replaced the bit of paper in his wallet.
“You may as well tell the truth,” he said quietly. “I have a theory that this scrap is part of a letter that was torn up and thrown from the train between Gaya and Moghal Sarai—probably very soon after Gaya, where Sir Anthony was murdered. I have telegraphed to Gaya, and at this moment a hundred men are searching the ground on both sides of the line for a distance of some miles. The wind may have scattered the bits of letter rather widely, but I have an idea we shall find enough of the pieces to tell what caused the writer of the letter to tear it up. Would you care to change your statement?”
“Certainly not!”
“Have you any idea how the Governor could have been murdered in the compartment next to yours without your being aware of it?
“I’m not good at riddles!”
“You didn’t hear or see anything unusual during the night, Miss Jones?”
The girl shook her head.
There was a pause. The confused sounds from the station platform filtered into the car. A bell rang in the servants’ quarters, A turbaned bearer crossed the dining-saloon and passed into the corridor. Captain Gerald Worthing’s voice could be heard asking the servant to go out to buy a copy of the Allahabad Pioneer. Beatrice Jones turned her head. A door opened and closed. Lady Daniels appeared in the dining-saloon. She glanced at Beatrice Jones. The girl returned her stare.
“Pardon me for interrupting, Inspector,” said Lady Daniels, “but I happened to overhear the name Beatrice Jones. I was wondering if you were in possession of all the information regarding her.”
“Do you know Miss Jones, Lady Daniels?”
“I haven’t the honor,” said Lady Daniels coldly. “But I happen to know that a Beatrice Jones was the subject of a letter to Sir Anthony a few days ago— Monday, I believe it was.”
“Who wrote the letter, Lady Daniels?”
“Someone wrote anonymously,” Lady Daniels continued, “calling the Governor’s attention to the fact that a Canadian woman named Beatrice Jones was the occupant of a house in Karaiya Road.”
Beatrice Jones sprang from her chair. “I was never in Karaiya Road!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never—”
“I saw the letter,” continued Lady Daniels icily, without looking at the girl, who was trembling with indignation. “And from the reaction of this young person, I should judge that she is not ignorant of the class of women who live in Karaiya Road.”
“Where is this letter, Lady Daniels?” asked Prike calmly.
“It was undoubtedly referred to the proper channels,” said Lady Daniels. “You of course know that Government disapproves of European women in Karaiya Road, since their presence lowers the prestige of the white race in the eyes of the Indian. As women of that type are not wanted in India, Government is forced to repatriate them. A deportation order was likely issued for Beatrice—”
“I won’t be insulted! I’ve never been in Karaiya Road!” Beatrice Jones’s fists were clenched tightly by her side. Her voice was unsteady with indignation and suppressed tears.
“Where did you get your railway ticket, Miss Jones?” asked Inspector Prike.
“I bought it!” said the girl.
“Where?”
“At—at Howrah Station.”
“Could I see it, please?” Inspector Prike extended his hand.
“I—I don’t know where it is,” said the girl weakly.
“Then please look for it,” said Prike quietly, “or else I shall.”
Beatrice Jones fumbled in her bag. Her hand trembled as she withdrew a folded slip of green paper. Inspector Prike took the paper and unfolded it.
“You didn’t buy this at Howrah Station,” he said, “because it is a pass for second-class transportation issued by the East Indian Railways office in Calcutta. At whose instance was it issued?”
“At the Government’s, very likely,” said Lady Daniels.
Beatrice Jones, very pale, said nothing.
“Who got you this railway pass, Miss Jones?” asked the Inspector.
“A friend,” said the girl.
Inspector Prike made a note of the number of the pass.
“It will be a simple matter for me to telegraph Calcutta and find out full particulars,” he said.
Beatrice Jones shook her head. Her lips quivered. Suddenly she dropped limply into a chair, her eyes closed. She raised her hand to her forehead.
The man in Prike displaced the criminal investigator for an instant. He left his seat, poured some brandy into a glass.
“Better drink this,” he said.
Beatrice Jones shook her head, opened her eyes.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I haven’t had any breakfast—”
“Please don’t make the mistake of offering a person of her type the hospitality of my car, Mr. Prike,” said Lady Daniels.
The Inspector glanced at his watch.
“I’ll just have time to send you to a restaurant car-under escort, of course—before the train leaves,” said Prike. He addressed an armed guard. “Collins, Miss Jones will go to the restaurant car in your custody until the next station. Take Hawley with you too. No use taking the Brahmin, because he can’t eat food that isn’t cooked and prepared by other Brahmins. Hurry, Collins. And tell Harrison to bring me the following passengers from the second-class carriage: Breeze, Neal, and Doctor Lenoir. Here’s the passports: When they get here, tell the station-master we’re ready to leave.”
“I hope, Mr. Prike,” said Lady Daniels, “that you aren’t going to be misled by that silly fit of hysterics that person just indulged in for the purpose of arousing your sympathy.”
“The Bombay Mail doesn’t reach Ballard Pier until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Lady Daniels,” Inspector Prike replied. “I have twenty-four hours more in which to discover the murderer of your husband.”
Chapter Ten: THE MYSTERY OF THE MAHARAJAH
The cars swayed and jolted as the Bombay Mail, approaching Chheoki twenty-one minutes behind time, roared into a curve.
Cootie Neal, whose steady succession of pick-me-ups had carried him well on the way to a crying jag, was inconsolable. The shriek of the train whistle seemed to him the saddest sound in the world.
“Biggest news picture of the year and I missed it,” he complained tearfully to Edward J. Breeze. “Governor of Bengal murdered right under my nose, practically, and I didn’t expose one lousy plate. They’ll probably fire me.”
“But I saw you snapping pictures through the window,” said Breeze.
“Don’t mean a thing,” mourned Neal. “Body on a stretcher. Can’t recognize a single face. They’ll say I faked it. ‘Where’s a shot o’ the widow prostrated by grief and vowin’ vengeance on slayers of ’er distinguished spouse?’ they’ll say. Better have a drink, Mr. Wind.”
“Breeze,” corrected the importer of plumbing fixtures. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking whisky?”
“Never too early,” said Neal, raising a bottle. “Earlier the healthier. Oughta drink lots in hot weather. Keeps the pores open. How’re your pores?”
“Fine.” Breeze laughed. “And how’s your friend the Maharajah that you were talking about last night?”
“Say, that’s right,” said Neal, putting down his bottle. “I oughta get out and keep an eye oh His Highness at the next station. There’s no hurry, though. I’ll probably have to follow him all the way to Europe.”
“Who is this Maharajah, by the way?” asked Breeze.
“You don’t know him? Maharajah of Zunjore? Hot stuff. Big, swell-looking bird, not very dark, and Britishas hell. Plays cricket and all that. Best polo-playing Maharajah that ever rode an elephant. He’s my special assignment. I follow him till the story breaks.”
“What story?” asked Breeze.
“It’s a mystery,” said the news photographer. “But whatever it is, it’ll be good.”
“Some woman, I suppose. A nautch girl?”
“Nope,” said Neal. “The background is this: His Highness ain’t been Maharajah for very long. His father, the old Maharajah, only died about a year ago. The old man had quite a few wives and daughters, but only two sons— the present Maharajah and a half-brother ten years older. When the old man died, somebody figured out that the mother of the older brother didn’t get promoted to be an official wife and Ranee until after the son was born, so they gave the job to the younger brother. That made the orthodox Hindus in Zunjore State sore as hell. They figured the younger brother was too British, and the job shoulda gone to the older brother—”
“An orthodox Hindu, I suppose?”
“Sure. Pious as hell. Always makin’ pilgrimages to some shrine. Goes to Benares to bathe in the Ganges twice a year and all that kind of bunk. No cricket or pigsticking for him. Well, when they made the young brother Maharajah, the older brother disappeared,”
“Disappeared? Where to?”
“That’S the mystery. The orthodox Hindus say the Maharajah did away with him. The friends of the Maharajah say the older brother is just hidin’ out, so the orthodox Hindus can raise a stink with the British and get them to depose the Maharajah for mistreatin’ his brother. My tip is that the Maharajah is on his way now to dig up his brother and prove that he didn’t kill him. Or maybe he’s just goin’ to London and play a little cricket.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” said Breeze, “if the Maharajah really did kill his brother, that the Governor of Bengal had the goods on him, and the Maharajah murdered the Governor to keep from being exposed—and deposed?”
“Funny? That’d be hot stuff!” said Neal. “And what a play I’d get on my pictures. I can see the captions now: ‘Oriental Potentate Slays Bengal Governor to Hide Guilty Secret.’ Hot stuff, Tempest, old man.”
“We’re coming to a station,” said Breeze. “Chheoki Junction. Let’s get some breakfast.”
“I’ve already drunk my breakfast,” said Neal. “I’ll get some pictures.”
The train stopped. Neal busied himself with his cameras, checking his plate-holders, dusting his lenses with a camel’s-hair brush. He slung one camera case across his shoulder, put oh his sun helmet. When he tried to leave the compartment, a soldier stopped him.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“For a walk,” said Neal. “Me and my friend is mountain climbers and we got to keep our leg muscles in training.”
“Sorry, sir. Orders against it.”
“Against mountain climbin’? Well, how about drinkin’? Come over to the station pub with us, Sergeant, and have a whiff of Scotch dew.”
“Passengers ain’t allowed to leave their compartments except to go to the restaurant car, sir.”
“Well, we’ll go to the restaurant car, then,” said Neal. He walked past the soldier, then turned his steps toward the white private car. The soldier started after him, seized his arm.
“Restaurant car’s in the other direction, sir.”
The sun flashed on the soldier’s fixed bayonet.
“I got no sense o’ direction in a strange place,” said Neal. “You’re the only familiar thing around here. Ain’t I seen you somewheres before? What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Corporal Harrison, East Indian Railway Rifles, sir.”
“Well, well. And I’m Cootie Neal, of the Associated News and Photo Service. Confidentially, I want to make a few pictures, Sergeant. How’s to let me go by for half a shake? There’ll be drinks on Neal right afterward—”
“Get back in the train!” ordered the corporal, outraged. “You can’t bribe a—’’
“All right, all right. We’ll go to the restaurant car, then.”
“You’ll get back in the train!” said the soldier. “Both of you.”
“I’m starved,” protested Breeze, as the corporal herded the two men back into the compartment and slammed the door.
“Try a drop of this breakfast food,” said Neal, tendering a bottle. “Hello! Look who’s here!” He was at the window. “Did you see that girl that just went past?”
“Which girl?”
“The snappy blonde in the blue dress, walking with the soldier and the young chap in the khaki shorts. She’s another picture for me.”
“Who is she?” asked Breeze.
“SmeganofE!” announced Neal.
Breeze shook his head.
“Who’s Smeganoff?”
“You wouldn’t know, since she ain’t got nothing to do with plumbing,” said Neal. “Why Sonia Smeganoff is a Russian opera singer, but I never saw anybody that heard her sing. Somebody in Calcutta saw her having tea with the Governor’s military secretary at the Gymkhana Club, so there was some talk about her bein’ a Russian spy.”
“She’s traveling second-class,” said Breeze. “I saw her head at the window of a second-class compartment in the next car this morning.”
“I tried to get her picture in Calcutta last week,” Neal continued, “just in case she really was a Russian spy and should get herself shot like Mata Hari sometime. Well, I called her up at her hotel, and you should hear her talk English over the phone. She’s got an accent like a balaïka orchestra eating borsch in part harmony. Well, I went around to make a picture, anyhow, and when I got there, she’d gone. Picked up and cleared out, without leavin’ no forwardin’ address. But I know where she is now and I’ll make her picture before we get to Bombay. See if I don’t.”
The corporal of the railway rifles opened the door to the compartment. He had two passports in his hand.
“Neal and Breeze wanted in the Governor’s private car immediately,” he said. “Inspector Prike’s orders.”
IV. MANIKPUR
(Arrive 11:49 a.m. Friday)
Chapter Eleven: DOUBLE CROSS
Watching from the window of the first-class compartment that he had entered a moment previous, Xavier saw Jack Hawley walking down the station platform with the girl and the armed man in uniform.
With the lighted tip of his Burma cheroot, Xavier pointed to Hawley. Martini, Xavier’s new acrobatic hireling, was standing on the platform a few yards away. He saw Xavier’s gesture and nodded.
Xavier immediately threw away his cheroot, got out of the compartment, and started after Hawley, Glancing over his shoulder, he saw. Martini’s red fez following him.
