Bombay Mail, page 9
“Nai manta” said Miss Klink, using her only. Hindustani phrase. Someone in Calcutta had told her she could extricate herself from any situation by saying “nai manta —nothing wanted.”
The knock was repeated, but before Miss Klink had a chance to express herself further on her desire for solitude, the door opened quickly and a man stepped into the compartment, closing the door behind him. Miss Klink was prepared to scream. She had a pathological fear of anything that wore trousers, or, since the last few months, what passed for trousers in India. When a man walked unannounced into the compartment of an unmarried lady traveling alone, the obviously proper thing to do was to scream, yet Miss Klink did not scream. She felt a slight vertical motion of her thyroid cartilage as she blinked at this tall, dark, distinguished European, who removed his sun helmet with great politeness and set a black Gladstone bag gently on the floor.
“I am afraid this compartment is occupied,” said Miss Klink. She colored deeply at the thought that she was violating the proprieties in allowing not only a man, but a man with baggage, to come into her compartment.
“I know,” said the distinguished-looking European with a strong accent. “I am most confused and apologetic for coming in like this without introduction, but I have a great favor to ask, and I know you will not refuse, because you have a kind face.”
Miss Klink gave a little gasp of pleasure at this compliment. Her suspicions of all men were by no means allayed, but there was something extremely civilized about this intruder, something of great charm and polish that she had never seen before at close quarters. Even the cut of his black beard had a distinction, and Miss Klink could not help comparing it favorably with the scraggly whiskers of the Sikh policeman she had been painting a minute before.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” said the man with the beard, bowing graciously. “I am Doctor Maurice Lenoir of the Pasteur Institute for Southern India.”
“Won’t you sit down, Doctor?” asked Miss Klink in a voice which she feared was a trifle fluttery.
Doctor Lenoir bowed again very gravely and said, “After you, madame.”
As Miss Klink stiffly resumed her seat, Doctor Lenoir stole a quick glance out the window and sat down at a point not visible from the station platform.
“I must again beg your pardon for this bold intrusion,” said Doctor Lenoir, “but I am in something of a quandary, madame.”
“My name is Klink—Miss Klink. I am not married.”
“Miss Klink,” said Doctor Lenoir, “I believe I can trust you. Many years as a physician have made me quite a good judge of human nature. I do not need a stethoscope to tell me you have a good heart.”
“My doctor in Keokuk says it’s as sound as a girl of sixteen’s,” interrupted Miss Klink.
Doctor Lenoir nodded tolerantly, if a trifle impatiently.
“As you probably know by now, the Governor of Bengal has been found murdered on this train. Although I believe there has been no Franco-British blood shed in India since the days of Clive, I am nevertheless placed in a most peculiar position by this murder.”
Again Miss Klink gasped, but this time it was not a gasp of pleasure. She stood up, her hand clasped tightly against her flattish bosom. There was fear in her eyes, not her usual generic fear of man, but a very specific fear of this one man. Doctor Lenoir smiled reassuringly.
“No,” he said. “I did not kill His Excellency the Governor. You must believe that I am not an assassin.”
Miss Klink sat down again.
“You certainly don’t look like a murderer, Doctor,” she said. “Still, with all the things one reads about nowadays—”
“No,” repeated Doctor Lenoir, “I am not asking you to conceal guilt. But there are police inspectors aboard this train who may at any minute conduct embarrassing investigations. I say embarrassing, madame—Miss Klink, I should say—because I am a toxicologist who has worked for years with poisons, and by a tragic coincidence, I am told that the Governor of Bengal was killed by poison.”
“I see,” said Miss Klink. Her eyes traveled to the bag of black cowhide that stood near the door. Doctor Lenoir followed her gaze.
“You are correct,” he said. “In that bag are tools and materials of my profession. You must not ask me to tell you in detail what they are. Only accept my word that there is no danger as long as you do not open the bag. For personal reasons, I prefer not to make explanations to the police, nor do I wish to have them open the bag.”
“Then you want to leave the bag with me?” asked Ursula Klink.
Doctor Lenoir nodded. “I should be infinitely and eternally grateful if you would,” he said.
“But if the police should make me open it?”
“They will not,” said Doctor Lenoir with his disarming smile. “Of all the passengers on this train, you will be the least subject to suspicion and annoyance from the police. You are the incarnation of goodness and gentleness, and it is for this reason that I have come to you with this strange request.”
“It’s not strange at all, Doctor,” said Miss Klink, with her fluttery laugh. “I’ll be only too glad to keep your bag for you until we get to Bombay.”
Doctor, Lenoir rose, stepped forward to take Miss Klink’s hand in his, and carried her finger tips to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said. “I knew I was not mistaken. I shall return at intervals to make sure you are not inconvenienced.”
Miss Klink heard the compartment door close as if from a great distance. Her fingers were tingling with little electric currents. Never before had a man kissed her hand and she had an almost shameful feeling that perhaps she should have resented such familiarity. It was hard, however, to be resentful to anyone so patently a gentleman as Doctor Lenoir. She wished that she had asked the doctor a little more about the contents of his bag. She went to the door and looked out at the station platform. Doctor Lenoir was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Miss Klink looked squarely into the face of a bandy-legged little man who wore a fez. The man with the fez bestowed “a simian-like grin upon Miss Klink. Miss Klink was shocked, particularly when she compared this man’s uncouth features with the image of the distinguished, bearded countenance of Doctor Lenoir. With a vicious jerk, Miss Klink slammed the door shut.
Couplings creaked and steam hissed somewhere forward in the train as the Bombay Mail began to move out of the station of Chheoki. Miss Klink looked with some trepidation at the black Gladstone bag which had been entrusted to her. Gingerly she lifted it. The bag was heavier than she thought it would be. She carried it into the lavatory and shut the door on it—purely for safekeeping, she told herself. Then she returned to her seat before her easel and studied the blob of red which was to have been the turban of a Sikh policeman. There would probably be another red-turbaned policeman at the next station.
Chapter Thirteen: PUZZLES FOR PRIKE
The Maharajah of Zunjore sent word that he was ill. He was in great pain—which was the reason he had not stirred outside his compartment since the discovery of Sir Anthony’s body at Moghal Sarai. He was suffering too much to come for an interview by Inspector Prike, the Maharajah told Captain Worthing, who conveyed the Inspector’s request.
Inspector Prike drummed with his fingers on the table top when Captain Worthing brought the Maharajah’s reply back to the dining-saloon. The Bombay Mail was puffing slowly out of Chheoki station. Five other persons besides Prike and the Captain were in the dining-saloon: Luke-Patson, Lady Daniels, Edward J. Breeze, Doctor Maurice Lenoir, and Neal, the press photographer. A guard stood at the far end of the corridor, outside the compartment in which Pundit Garnath Chundra was locked. Inspector Prike stood up.
“Very well,” he said, in a voice louder than he usually employed. “Then I shall visit His Highness in his compartment.”
Immediately a door opened in the corridor. The Maharajah of Zunjore advanced into the dining-saloon with long, rapid strides. He stopped and folded his arms majestically across his chest. His handsome face was drawn with fatigue and his eyes burned with a strange exalted light.
“Why do you persist in annoying me?” demanded the Maharajah. “Do you imagine you have authority over the ruler of a sovereign Indian State?”
“Your sovereignty does not exist beyond the borders of Zunjore, Your Highness,” said Prike quietly. “A crime has been committed in British India. We remain in British territory until the train crosses the State of Rewa at one-thirty this afternoon. In the meantime I have several routine questions to ask Your Highness.”
“We are responsible only to the Viceroy of India—”
Cootie Neal nudged Breeze.
“His Nibs has gone screwy,” the photographer whispered. “Look at his eyes! Listen to the editorial ‘we’”
“If Your Highness prefers,” Inspector Prike continued, “I can telegraph my questions to the Viceroy. However, it seems trivial to instigate a viceregal investigation for the sake of a few routine questions.”
“I am ill,” said the Maharajah. He turned suddenly, pushed through the little crowd, seized the handle of a door leading to the tracks, tried to open it.
“Careful, Your.Highness!” said Inspector Prike.
The Maharajah gave the handle a savage twist, flung the door open. A breath of hot, dusty air swirled into the car, billowing out the loose end of lavender turban that hung down the Maharajah’s back. The Maharajah took a step forward.
“Your Highness! ”
Captain Worthing caught the Maharajah by the arm, pulled him back. The cross-ties of parallel tracks were flying past the open door in a dizzy pattern. William Luke-Patson pulled the door closed.
With a movement of injured dignity, the Maharajah withdrew his arm from Captain Worthing’s grasp.
“Why do you interfere, Captain?”
“Your Highness might have fallen—”
“We needed a breath of air,” declared the Maharajah disdainfully. “We are ill—”
“You are fortunate,” said Inspector Prike, “that we have a doctor with us.” He turned to the tall, black-bearded Doctor Lenoir and said, “Vous voulez bien soigner Son Altesse, Docteur?”
“We cannot allow this man to touch us!” declared the Maharajah emphatically. “We do not know him. We allow only our own private physician to treat us. It is an old prejudice. We will return to Calcutta and consult with him. We will leave the train at the next station—”
“But Your Highness will answer my questions first?”
The Maharajah carried the tips of his forefingers to his temples. His eyes rolled crazily. “We cannot say. We are in great pain. We must retire now—”
“I shall send Doctor Lenoir with you.”
“We do not wish Doctor Lenoir.”
“Then I shall ask you to allow Mr. Breeze to intrude on your privacy for an hour, Your Highness. I wish to question a number of people separately and I must have room in which the others may wait.”
“You may use my compartment, Mr. Prike,” said Lady Daniels. “I should like to—to sit beside my husband for a little while.”
“Doctor Lenoir and Mr. Neal will take it then, with your permission,” said the Inspector.
A moment later Inspector Prike was facing Captain Worthing and William Luke-Patson across the table. He retained the two secretaries together, he explained, because they had been together during the minutes immediately following Sir Anthony’s disappearance.
“I should like to know,” Inspector Prike began, “if it would be possible for any occupant of this special car to have left the train with the Governor, when he got down at Gaya, and to have returned to his compartment without being observed by you, Mr. Luke-Patson?”
Luke-Patson smiled grimly. “If I answer in the negative,” he said, “I suppose you will assume, Inspector, that I might have gone out with the Governor myself?”
“Not necessarily,” said Inspector Prike. “There are two cars between here and the spot where Sir Anthony’s body was found. I am merely trying to get a clear picture of the situation.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Luke-Patson, “the corridor that passes the four sleeping-compartments opens into a bathroom adjoining the compartment occupied by Captain Worthing, and the bathroom has doors opening out to both sides of the train.”
“So it would have been possible,” continued Inspector Prike, “for—say, Captain Worthing to have left the car by the bathroom and to have returned the same way, without passing the couch on which you were dozing?”
Captain Worthing’s jaw dropped—then shut with a click.
Luke-Patson nodded.
“Either the Captain, the Maharajah, or Lady Daniels might have gone and returned that way without my knowledge,” said Luke-Patson. “The corridor is carpeted. I would not have heard them.”
Inspector Prike passed his hand thoughtfully over his bald head.
“Did either of you gentlemen notice anything—peculiar in the relations between the Governor and Lady Daniels last night?”
Captain Worthing and Luke-Patson looked at one another. There was an awkward pause.
“Just what do you mean by ‘peculiar’?” asked Captain Worthing at last.
“Shall I say ‘strained’?” Prike amended.
“Well—Sir Anthony and Lady Daniels did appear to be having something of a family argument,” said Luke-Patson.
“When was this?”
“A little after midnight. Captain Worthing and I both noticed it because the train was stopped at Asansol. Their voices seemed to be rather angry.”
“What were they quarreling about?”
Luke-Patson shook his head.
Captain Worthing said curtly, “We’re not given to eavesdropping.”
The inspector nodded.
“Ask Lady Daniels to come in,” he said.
Lady Daniels was dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a small lace handkerchief as she entered the dining-saloon. Inspector Prike motioned her to a chair.
“It may be painful for you to recall the details, Lady Daniels,” Prike began, “but I should like to know if you and Sir Anthony quarreled last night at about midnight.”
With a brusque motion, Lady Daniels wadded her lace handkerchief into a tight ball. She looked from Captain Worthing to Luke-Patson. Then she said, in a low voice that she was obviously fighting to control, “It was nothing serious, Mr. Prike.”
“Could I ask the subject of your quarrel, Lady Daniels?”
“It was not a quarrel, really. It was silly. I started it. It was foolish of me. I regret more than—” She stopped. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
Inspector Prike waited patiently in silence, but his eyes never left the face of the Governor’s widow.
“We exchanged a few hasty words, Mr. Prike,” Lady Daniels said after a moment, “because of a man I saw on the station platform before the train left Calcutta. You see, Mr. Prike, Sir Anthony refused to accept my suggestion that he go to Bombay by special train. He insisted on having his car attached to the Mail. When I saw this man at the station, I reasoned to myself—foolishly, jealously perhaps—that Sir Anthony wished to travel by the Mail in order to be near his wife. During the past year, Sir Anthony had been paying occasional attention—innocently enough, I have no doubt—to this man’s wife.”
“And is the wife traveling by the Mail, Lady Daniels?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Prike. You might ask her husband. He is in this car now.”
Inspector Prike leaned forward on his elbows.
“The husband’s name, Lady Daniels?”
“Edward J. Breeze.”
Luke-Patson slapped his knee.
“Breeze!” he exclaimed, turning to Captain Worthing. “I wonder—? Remember the threat he made at the club, one night two months ago, Captain?” He turned back to Prike. “Ask Mr. Breeze why he’s no longer a member of the Chowringhee Club, Inspector,” he said.
The inspector nodded toward Captain Worthing, who was sitting in the chair nearest the entrance to the corridor. “Mind asking Mr. Breeze to come in here, Captain?” he said.
V. SATNA
(Arrive 1:27 p.m. Friday)
Chapter Fourteen: THE ELEVENTH SALUTE
Edward J. Breeze was enjoying his enforced tête-à-tête with the Maharajah of Zunjore a good deal more than was the Maharajah. The door of the compartment had scarcely closed upon them when he gave the Maharajah his card.
“May as well get acquainted, as long as they’ve put us together,” he said. “I’m Edward J. Breeze, manager of the Indian Import Branch of the International Plumbing Fixtures Corporation. You probably know our offices and showrooms in Calcutta.”
The Maharajah took the card and, without looking at it, creased it absent-mindedly several times between nervous fingers.
“I’ve never got up to Zunjore myself,” said Breeze, “but I hear it’s a pretty grand place. People say your palace is a wonder. Quite old, isn’t it?”
“Three hundred years,” said the Maharajah. He sat wearily upon his berth and continued to fold and unfold Breeze’s card.
“That’s old, all right,” admitted Breeze. “And I’ll bet Your Highness hasn’t got a piece of modern plumbing in the whole palace.”
The Maharajah did not reply.
“I’m not saying that to be critical or anything, Highness,” Breeze continued, adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles. “I just wanted to point out that lots of people who object to putting modern equipment in old buildings because it spoils their quaint charm don’t know what they’re talking about. An expert plumber could modernize King Solomon’s temple. When he got through, it would be just as picturesque, and a thousand times more comfortable and convenient. You ought to drop around to our showrooms when you get back to Calcutta, Highness, and see some of the marvelous new, artistic bathroom equipment we’re putting out these days. Better yet, when I get back to India in the fall, I’ll come up and look over the palace and give you an estimate. You’ll be surprised how much we can do for a little money—”
Edward J. Breeze stopped for breath. The Maharajah had not moved. He seemed to be staring right through Breeze, with eyes that were wide and troubled. But Breeze was not daunted by the fact that the Maharajah was not joining in the conversation.
