Bengal Fire, page 9
Deputy Inspector Robbins suddenly stopped twisting his mustache and stared at Prike with an expression of growing comprehension.
“New Caledonia!” he exclaimed. “That’s the French penal colony!”
“France has sent no convicts to New Caledonia since Jacques Vrai was old enough to commit a felony,” was Prike’s smiling comment. “However, there is still a considerable number of convict families living on the island. Be a good fellow, Robbins, and pass me a telegraph form.”
Thoughtfully Inspector Prike composed a cablegram to the prefect of police of Nouméa in New Caledonia, asking for information regarding a man posing as Jacques Vrai, about forty-two years old, five-feet-eleven, black hair graying at the temples, weighing about one hundred and forty pounds, long scar across the back of his right hand, believed to have worked in the chromium mines long enough to have contracted chronic poisoning.
The inspector called a cyclist to carry his cablegram to the general post office, then produced the fountain pen he had found in the wastebasket at the Grand Hotel.
“Ever see a pen like this, Robbins?”
“It’s a big one, all right,” said Robbins. “Made in Japan, eh?” He unscrewed the cap. “Why, it’s broken, inspector. Where’s the gold pen-point?”
“You’ll notice, Robbins,” said Prike, “that the upper segment of the barrel has been unscrewed, and the pen, as well as the usual long rubber reservoir for ink, has been removed.”
“You don’t think the pen has anything to do with that Raffles note, do you, inspector?”
“The Raffles note was written in pencil,” said Prike. “Of course, this pen may mean nothing. On the other hand, my curiosity is aroused by the fact that it has been dismantled and thrown away—despite the fact that it is apparently a new pen.”
“It looks new, all right,” said Robbins.
“I’ve just been examining the clip under the surgeon’s microscope in the next office,” said the inspector. “I hoped to find a tell-tale shred of cotton or wool that would indicate the sort of pocket it had been carried in. I found nothing. So I’m assuming, tentatively, that the pen has never been carried. I want you to take the pen, Robbins, and have one of your men find out all the shops in Calcutta that sell this brand. Find out, also, if any of this model have been sold in the past few days.”
“Certainly, inspector.”
Robbins was putting the pen into a drawer of his desk when a high tenor voice resounded through the dingy corridors of the police station, calling in chi-chi accents for Inspector Prike. An instant later Babu Gundranesh Dutt was ushered in, panting for breath, and goggle-eyed with excitement. Perspiration streamed from his multiple chins and he clasped a black umbrella against the vast rotundity of his stomach.
“Inspector Sahib!” he gasped. “Am having utmost difficulties in finding you out. Have been frantically traversing most of Calcutta in effort to deliver message from Julius Sahib.”
Inspector Prike glanced at Robbins. He was not gloating, merely assuring himself that the deputy inspector appreciated the fulfillment of his prophecies.
“I’ll be damned,” said Robbins. “And where is Julius?”
“He is just now awaiting inspector at Julius animal hotel in Dumdum Road. Quite urgent that interview be consummated immediately.”
The deputy inspector sprang to his feet and started for the door. Prike held up a restraining hand.
“Just a moment,” said Prike. “There’s not that much hurry, Robbins. See here, Babu, what were you doing at Julius’s place on Dumdum Road?”
“Was not visiting establishment of Mr. Julius,” protested Gundranesh Dutt. “In fact, have never visited same, not having fondness for wild beasts.”
“Then where did you see Julius?”
“In own house, inspector. Mr. Julius was paying visit to Dutt home which is quite near from Dumdum Road.”
“When was this?”
“Quite one hour ago, inspector. Contrariwise to usual temperate habits, was not yet on point of retiring, unusual circumstances being presence of Cousin Danilal Dutt from Barrackpore, as honored guest. Cousin Danilal was quite amused by crimson hues of Mr. Julius’s face.”
“What did Julius want?” interrupted Prike, drumming impatiently with his fingers on the desk.
“He was in state of great perturbation,” the Babu replied. “He said, ‘Babu, I am possessing important information regarding murder of your late deceased employer, Mr. Hoyt. Am highly anxious to make same know to Inspector Prike, but unfortunate conditions are impelling me to not expose self in conversation with C.I.D. You will be performing immense service, Babu, by hastening to inform Inspector Prike that I am awaiting him in Dumdum Road premises.’”
At last Inspector Prike arose. “Was Rufus Dormer with Julius?” he asked.
“Unfortunately such was not case,” the Babu replied. “Dormer obligation remains unliquidated.”
Inspector Prike whipped a revolver from his pocket, reassured himself that it was loaded, then casually replaced it.
“Shall we proceed to Dumdum Road, gentlemen?” he suggested.
Deputy Inspector Robbins was already out the door when the Babu touched Prike timidly on the sleeve.
“But you will be having no further requirement for my services, inspector?” he pleaded.
“You will accompany me,” the inspector replied without looking at him.
“But Cousin Danilal is anxiously anticipating return—”
“Come,” said Prike. He grasped the Babu’s flabby biceps. The slightly bowed legs of Dundranesh Dutt wobbled as the inspector pushed him from the room.
A misshapen, blood-red moon stared ominously through the black silhouettes of stiff tal palms as Inspector Prike’s motorcar rolled slowly past the transient menagerie in Dumdum Road. The white stucco façade glowed faintly in the night. Three stories of barred windows made dark patches like pairs of sightless eyes. No light gleamed, but Prike had expected none. There were no living-quarters in the building, which Kurt Julius used merely as a storage place for the animals between shipments to Europe and America. Fifty yards beyond the animal hotel Prike ordered the motor to stop.
“I’ll reconnoiter,” said Prike to Deputy Inspector Robbins and the two constables in the car. “You stay here with the Babu until I call you.”
Inspector Prike strode briskly along a row of one-story, mud-and-bamboo shanties until he reached the heavy double doors leading into the animal hotel. There he paused a moment listening. From the interior came a confused, muted muttering like an uneasy breath of wind in the jungle. He could distinguish throaty snarls from some captive feline, the nervous chattering of monkeys, the guttural complaint of some snorting beast. Cautiously Prike put his hand on the great brass doorhandle, turned it. The door was locked. He let the handle slowly back into place, walked around the corner of the building, headed toward the rear.
The three-story part of the structure extended back only fifty feet from the road. Behind it was an enclosed compound, surrounded by a ten-foot wall in which Julius kept his larger animals. Prike skirted the wall for a dozen paces then again stopped to listen. From somewhere near the river came the mournful howl of a jackal baying at the moon. Inside the compound a hyena raised his mocking voice in answer. Instantly the whole of Julius’s menagerie joined in a blatant, bellowing, roaring clamor.
Suddenly Prike began walking again, quickly, tensely. He had seen the figure of a man outlined briefly in a lurid splash of moonlight beyond the end of the compound wall. The man loomed for a split-second, then vanished around the corner.
A gun glinted in the inspector’s hand as he hurried toward the end of the wall, rounded the corner. Something stirred in the moon-shadows piled deep ahead of him.
“Stop! I’ll shoot!” The command rang sonorously.
The only reply was the quick pounding of retreating footsteps, the flash of a white coat disappearing behind the far angle of the wall.
The hot night air shuddered as jagged flame thundered from Prike’s revolver.
The brute howling of the animal chorus swelled to a new crescendo inside the compound as the inspector’s nimble feet sped in the direction of the shot. Prike’s forefinger took up the trigger slack. He leaped from the shadow of the wall, doubled the corner, pulled up short. He had almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered voting man, who stood motionless with his hands raised. The man was bareheaded and his hair shone faintly red in the moonlight. Deputy Inspector Robbins and the two constables, attracted by the shot, arrived on the run, with Gundranesh Dutt in tow. Prike put away his revolver.
“Why didn’t you stop, Mr. Marvin?” he asked quietly. “Tired of living?”
“I—I didn’t know it was you, inspector.” Lee Marvin lowered his hands.
“You were expecting someone else?”
“No one in particular.”
“Just out for the walk, I suppose?”
Marvin’s shoulders drew back perceptibly. “I wasn’t aware,” he said, “that a man couldn’t walk in Dumdum Road after dark without being shot at. I’m sorry.”
“You might be considerably sorrier if I had aimed a few inches lower,” said Inspector Prike. “You might not have been in condition to make your scheduled visit to Mr. Kurt Julius. Or perhaps you’ve already seen him.”
“I have not,” Marvin declared.
“Then we may as well make a party of it,” said Prike. “Shall we all go in?”
The group moved to the front of the animal hotel. Prike stepped to the double doors and paused with his fingers on the handle.
“No doubt you have the key, Mr. Marvin,” he said, extending his other hand.
Before Marvin could reply, the brass door handle twisted downward under pressure of Prike’s fingers, and the doors swung slowly inward. The gaping darkness exhaled the foul reek of caged animals. Prike frowned, puzzled. Over his shoulder he asked, “You still insist, Mr. Marvin, that you have not been inside this building?”
“Definitely,” Marvin replied.
“This door was locked ten minutes ago,” said Prike. “Robbins, have you seen anyone enter or leave this place?”
“I couldn’t say, inspector,” Robbins answered. “You said I was to stay in the motorcar, and this side of the house being pretty much in shadow, I couldn’t see much of what might be going on, not being an owl.”
Prike again faced the open doors.
“Kurt Julius!” he called.
His voice echoed strangely above the din of animal noises. No answer came.
A pencil of light sprang from the flash-lamp in the inspector’s hand. The beam swept the darkness, pausing for an instant on a half-open door leading to a small office at the right. Prike went in. The disk of light danced over the walls, floor, and furniture, revealing nothing except that Julius seldom used the office. There was dust on the desk and chairs.
“You hold on down here, Robbins,” said Prike, “I’m going to have a look above.”
The restless eye of the inspector’s flashlight explored the stone stairway and the upper floors. The brilliant plumage of cages upon cages of tropical birds flared brightly before the searching lamp—twittering, feathered mites; proud Burmese peacocks; Imperial pheasants from Tibet. Scores of black and gray monkeys jabbered and grimaced as the inspector passed. Small, sharp-nosed mammals bared white fangs at him through wire-gratings. But there was no sign of Kurt Julius here nor on the floor piled with sacks and bales of feed. Prike went downstairs again. His little group was standing in the fetid darkness.
“Leave one of your constables by the door, Robbins,” Prike ordered. “The rest of you come with me.”
Pushing open the iron grille that barred the way to the compound, Prike swung his flashlight beam slowly about the rectangles of cages. A hundred savage eyes flung back luminous points of cold green radiance. The stench was stifling.
“Julius!” Prike called again.
An elephant calf, chained by one foot to a ring embedded in the cement floor, raised its trunk and trumpeted shrilly. Once more the compound was a roaring, howling bedlam. The shrieking of marmosets made a hideous counterpoint to the potent, cruelly vibrant bass of a tiger, the cry of a black panther.
With deliberate, measured strides, Inspector Prike moved along this array of sleek, captive ferocity. The disk of his flashlight glistened for a moment on a tank of giant water-lizards, rippled over the scaly tangle of two boxed pythons, flamed for an instant on the vivid stripes of a Bengal tiger. Abruptly he stopped.
A new voice had joined the deafening din of frightened beasts—a human voice, so shrill with terror that its despairing scream was almost inhuman. It was the voice of Babu Gundranesh Dutt, who, his eyes starting from their sockets, pointed a trembling, pudgy finger as he shrieked, “Inspector Sahib! Look!”
The inspector’s flashlight followed the Babu’s finger. The light encircled a splotch of crimson upon the cement floor, then moved away, following a thick serpent of blood that squirmed toward the cages. The inspector darted forward.
Lying beside the cage of a snarling cheetah was Kurt Julius. Except for the vicious red marks of a great claw from ear to ear, his once sanguine face was gray with death.
Chapter Thirteen
DEAD MAN’S INTERIOR
Even the police surgeon from the Bow Bazaar thana, whom Prike summoned although the case was not officially in his jurisdiction, had to admit reluctantly that Kurt Julius might conceivably have been murdered. At least, the surgeon agreed after a cursory examination of the body that Julius had not been killed by the cheetah in front of whose cage he had been found. In fact, from the posthumous appearance of the wounds and the relatively small amount of bleeding, it seemed likely that the claw marks on the dead man’s face had been made a few seconds before or after life had become extinct.
“In other words,” suggested Inspector Prike when the puzzled surgeon announced his findings, “Julius probably collapsed in front of the cage and was clawed through the bars as he lay dying.”
“Probably,” said the police surgeon, “unless the claw marks were made deliberately to throw us off, it’s a pure coincidence. There seems to be no skull fracture and, as far as I can see, death has not been caused by external violence. Damned queer, inspector. I begin to see your point about this Hoyt business. Naturally you’ll want me to cut this chap open.”
“At once,” the inspector replied.
Prike appeared to be paying little attention to what the surgeon was saying. He was intently examining the concrete floor in the vicinity of the cheetah cage. Bent almost double, he followed the slow, rhythmic swing of his flashlight as it flung grotesque patterns of light and shadow against the restive, shifting background of imprisoned animals. Foot by foot he advanced through malodorous darkness that quivered with throaty sounds, past the chained elephant, past the screeching marmosets, past the uneasily pacing hyenas. He had almost reached the grille on the Dumdum Road side when his eager fingers snatched something from the ground.
Straightening up, Prike brought the gleaming lens of his flashlight close to the object in his other hand. A studious frown wrinkled his high-arched forehead as he contemplated a well-chewed cigar butt which had been smoked to within an inch of the end. Carefully placing the butt in a small manila envelope which he extracted from his wallet, he walked rapidly toward the office just off the street door where, by the insect-dimmed light of a kerosene lamp, Deputy Inspector Robbins was enthusiastically browbeating Lee Marvin and Babu Gundranesh Dutt.
“Here’s your man, inspector!” exclaimed Robbins as Prike entered. “Marvin’s your Raffles. He’s the one that was inside this house when you found the door locked. He’s your murderer!”
Inspector Prike scrutinized Marvin’s worried features. There was anxiety in the clear blue eyes of the tall redhead, but not fear.
“What makes you think so, Robbins?” Prike asked.
“Simple, inspector. Can’t be any doubt about it. Look here.” Robbins extended his hand. On his palm lay two detachable silver buttons made of old Siamese money that had been carved to resemble tiger heads. “Recognize these, inspector?”
Prike took the buttons and examined them casually. “Belonged to Julius, didn’t they?” he said without great show of interest.
“Exactly!” crowed Robbins. “And this Marvin had them in his pocket. If that ain’t proof that he’s been in here with the dead man, then my name ain’t Robbins.”
Inspector Prike turned his cold, professional gaze upon Marvin. “What’s your story?” he asked curtly.
“Why, I was explaining to this constable here—”
“Constable, my left tibia!” Robbins exploded. “You’re talking to Deputy Inspector Robbins, and no nonsense about it. Inspector, this bloke’s been telling me some cock-and-bull story about picking up one of these buttons when it popped off of Julius’s coat in Hoyt’s office yesterday. He says he found the other one in his own apartment tonight. Says he’s got no idea how it got there.”
“That’s the truth,” Marvin insisted.
“Truth, my left tibia!” said Deputy Inspector Robbins. “Jhuth, you mean.”
Inspector Prike rattled the silver buttons in his closed hand for an instant, like a pair of dice. Then he handed them to Robbins.
“The regularity with which Mr. Marvin pops up in the immediate vicinity of each new corpse we find is positively uncanny,” said Inspector Prike to his subordinate. “Whether his presence here is a sign of sinister complicity, as you believe, Robbins, or mere blundering coincidence, I’m not yet ready to say. However, I do think we should permit him to roam about a while longer. If we watch him carefully, he may lead us into something really significant. So I’m not taking him into custody yet, Robbins.”
Deputy Inspector Robbins leaped up indignantly.
“You can’t be turning him loose like this, inspector!” he expostulated. “If he ain’t guilty, then the Hooghly ain’t muddy!”
