Ellis Peters - George Felse 09 - Mourning Raga (15 page)

‘Oh, no! It can’t be…!’

‘Can’t be what? What’s the matter?’ Dominic asked in alarm.

‘That fellow… Look! The driver…“ At that moment the headlights swerved from Girish, and left him to climb into the Rolls in shadowy obscurity, and so start up his noble vehicle and drive it away.

‘Girish? What about him? He’s the Swami’s regular one… at least, he’s the same man who was driving him when we first met him.’

‘He’s the hillman who stopped me outside the temple this afternoon,’ Felder said with certainty, ‘and asked me the way to Birla House. That’s who he is! The guy who took my attention off the pay-off briefcase just long enough to get the contents swopped over.’

‘
Girish
? But he… damn it, he drove us home… Are you
sure
?’

‘I’m sure! I’d know that face again anywhere. Now you tell me,’ said Felder savagely, ‘why a man who can drive his boss about Delhi smartly enough to be worth his pay should have to ask his way to Birla House? Go ahead, tell me! I’m listening.’

After which, it was hardly surprising that a conveniently anonymous taxi, with three people aboard besides the driver, should sit waiting for the arrival of the plane from Madras, at something after noon the next day at Safdarjung Airport. The passengers didn’t care to venture out on to the tarmac, because the ancient Rolls was there in all its glory, with Girish lounging at the wheel, and the Swami Premanathanand had gone briskly through the airport buildings to the landing frontage, to wait for the emerging travellers. Instead, the taxi parked in a convenient position to watch the new arrivals proceeding towards their town transport. The Sikh driver, efficient, intelligent and uninterested in his freight, had taken out the newspaper he had bought half an hour previously, and was reading the news pages. He skipped the agony column; which was a pity, because one of its small ads. began: ‘Anjli: Am interested in your merchandise. High price if delivered in good condition…’ Felder had bought a paper, too; so they knew exactly what the advertisement said. But the dignified and faintly disdainful Sikh didn’t look at all like a probable kidnapper.

The passengers from the Madras flight were coming through. A bustling lady in a sari and a woollen coat, with a child in one hand, and transistor in the other, a bandylegged little husband in a Nehru cap and European suit following with two suitcases; a blasee girl, either English or American, worn-out with sight-seeing and pursued by two porters; a quiet, sensible couple, probably Australian – there must really be something in that legend of easy-going democracy – talking placidly to their one porter as if he lived next door back home, and giving the pleasant impression of effortless enjoyment; and then the flood of southern Indians, small-featured, delicately-built, golden-skinned, alert and aloof, good-humoured people balancing curiosity and self-sufficiency like acrobats. And finally, the Swami Premanathanand, pacing at leisure beside a tall, erect, haughty Punjabi – no mistaking those lofty hawkish lineaments – in the most expensive and yet unobtrusive of tailorings in a neutral tan. They came out through the glass doors talking earnestly, totally absorbed. The stranger was thicker-set than many of the Punjabis Dominic and Tossa had seen, with something of the suavity and goldenness of the Bengali about him, but the jutting nose and flaring nostrils were there, and the fastidious, full-lipped mouth, and the hooded eyes. Bengali eyes have a liquid softness, they suggest reserve but not reticence. These eyes were proud and distant, even, at first encounter, hostile. He had beautifully-cut black hair, crisp and gently wavy, and the sophistication of his movements was what they had expected. The manner of his conversation, urgent, quiet and restrained, tended to bear out everything they had heard or thought of him. He was so well-bred that he might as well have been English.

‘That’s it!’ said Dominic flatly. ‘Not much doubt.
He’s
genuine!’

The new arrival was brought up standing at sight of the Rolls. It would not have been surprising to see him insert a monocle into his eye to survey it more closely, but he did not. Delicately he stepped up into the back seat, presumably not merely cleared of grain samples for this occasion, but dusted as well; and the Swami mounted beside him as nimbly as ever, twitching the skirt of his robe clear with an expert kick of one heel.

The Rolls turned ponderously, and swept superbly away towards the centre of Delhi.

‘All right, driver,’ Felder said, at once resigned, puzzled and uneasy. ‘Back to Keen’s Hotel.’ And when they were in motion, not too close to the resplendent veteran sailing ahead: ‘Back to square one! It looks like him, and it must be him. Anybody could check the passenger list, after all. So where do we stand now? Don’t tell me that driver of his is on the level!’

They didn’t tell him anything, one way or the other; it remained an open question all the way back into town.

The Swami brought his friend to Keen’s Hotel punctually at half past seven in the evening, apparently deeming it necessary to allow them half an hour for the social niceties before the stroke of eight, when they would all, almost certainly, freeze into strained silence, waiting for the still hypothetical telephone call. Felder, in fact, was the last of the party to arrive, and came in a great hurry from the Connaught Circus office, with a much-handled script under his arm.

‘Not that I’m thinking of leaving,’ he assured them all, with a tired and rueful smile, ‘not until this business of Anjli is cleared up. But I must do a little work sometimes. I hope and pray I’m going to be able to fly back to Benares soon with a clear conscience.’ It was easy to see that in spite of his poise the strain was telling on him. He turned to the stranger and held out his hand, not waiting to be formally introduced. ‘Mr Kumar, I’m Felder. I expect you know the score about all of us already from the Swami here. I needn’t tell you that you have the sympathy of every one of us, and we’ll do absolutely everything we can to help you and Anjli out of this mess.’

‘I understand from my friend,’ said Kumar quietly, ‘that you have already done all and more than I could possibly have asked of you. I’m very grateful, believe me. We must set that account straight as soon as possible. But you’ll forgive me if my mind can accommodate only one thought at this moment.’

He stood in the middle of Dominic’s extravagant hotel sitting-room, immaculate in his plutocratic tailoring, a curiously clear-cut and solitary figure, as if spot-lighted by his deprivation and loneliness on a stage where everyone else was a supernumerary. He was not so tall as they had thought him to be, but his withdrawn and erect bearing accounted for the discrepancy. The patina of wealth was on his complexion, his clothes, his speech, his manner; but that was neither his virtue nor his fault, it was something that had happened to him from birth, and if it had one positive effect, it was to add to his isolation. He was a very handsome man, no doubt of that; the gold of his skin, smoother than silk, devalued whiteness beyond belief. Maybe some day they would get used to that re-estimation of colour, and realise how crude the normal English pink can be.

The Swami, a benevolent stage-manager, set them all an example by seating himself calmly, and composing himself for as long as need be of nerveless waiting. ‘We are all of one mind, and all informed about what we have to expect. We have taken all possible steps to deserve success, let us then wait decorously and expect it. We are contemplating an exchange which will be to the advantage and convenience of both parties, there is therefore no need to anticipate double-dealing. It would be worth no one’s while.’ His practicality sounded, as always, unanswerable; but Kumar, even when he consented to follow his friend’s example and sit with folded hands, was tense from crown to heels.

‘If the call does come,’ ventured Dominic, ‘should I answer? And hand it over to you, sir, if it’s the same man?’

The Swami approved. ‘The number is your number. And there could, of course, be some quite innocent call. Yes, please answer in the first instance.’

It was barely twenty minutes to eight, and the scene was set already. There was nothing now to look forward to but the gradually mounting tension that was going to stretch them all on the same rack until the bell finally rang. Except that they had barely set their teeth to endure the waiting when they were all set jangling like broken puppets, as the innocent white handset emitted its first strident peal of the evening. Never, thought Tossa, huddled in her corner, never, never will I live with a telephone again. Better the telegraph boy at the door every time.

Dominic picked up the receiver. There was sweat trickling down into his eyebrows, prickly as thistles. A voice he hardly knew said distantly: ‘Hullo, Dominic Felse here!’

He should have known it was too early, he should have known the damned instrument was going to play with them for the rest of the night. A gentle, courteous, low-pitched voice said in his ear: ‘Good, I was afraid you might all be out on the town. I looked in the dining-room, but not a sign of you there. This is Ashok Kabir, I’m down in the foyer. May I come up? I brought a little present for Anjli.’

Distantly Dominic heard himself saying, like an actor reading from a script: ‘I wondered why we hadn’t heard anything from you. Have you been out of Delhi?’

‘Ever since the unit left for Benares. I had three concerts in Trivandrum and Cochin. I’m only just back. Am I inconvenient just now? Maybe you were getting ready to go out. I should have called you from Safdarjung.’

‘Anjli…’ Dominic swallowed whatever he might have said, looking round all the intent faces that willed him to discretion, and unhappily giving way to their influence. There was only one thing to be done. ‘Wait just a moment for me,’ he said, ‘And I’ll come down to you.’

He hung up the telephone, and they could all breathe again. ‘It’s Ashok,’ he said flatly. ‘He’s just back in town after a concert tour in the south, and it looks as if he doesn’t know anything about Anjli being missing. He’s brought a present for her, he’s expecting to see her. I said I’d go down to him. Now what do I do? Tell him the truth and bring him up here to join us?’

Very placidly, very gently, very smoothly, but with absolute and instant decision, the Swami Premanathanand said: ‘No! ’ It was impossible to imagine him ever speaking in haste, and yet he had got that ‘No!’ out before anyone else could even draw breath.

‘We are five people here already,’ he pointed out regretfully, as all eyes turned upon him, ‘who know the facts. Five people with whom the vendors have to reckon. I think to let in even one more is to jeopardise our chances of success.’

‘I am absolutely sure,’ said Tossa, ‘that Ashok is to be trusted. He is very fond of Anjli. I know!’

‘And I feel sure you are right, but unfortunately that is not the point. He could be the most trustworthy person in the world, and still be enough to frighten off the criminals from dealing with us.’

‘He is right,’ said Kumar heavily. ‘We are already too many, but that cannot be helped. We
can
help adding to the number and increasing the risk.’

Anjli was his daughter, and he was proposing to pay out for her whatever might be needed to bring her back to him safely. There was nothing to be done but respect his wishes.

‘Then what do I do? Go down and get rid of Ashok? Tell him Anjli’s out? Supposing he’s already questioned the clerk on the desk?’

‘He would not,’ said the Swami absently but with certainty. ‘He would question only you, who had the child in charge. Yes, go and talk to him. Tell him Anjli is not here this evening.’ He adjusted his glasses, and the great eye from behind the thick lens beamed dauntingly upon the unhappy young face before him. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you what you shall say to him, if you require from me an act of faith. Put him off for tonight, but invite him to come for coffee tomorrow evening, after dinner… with you, and Miss Barber here, and Anjli.’

Dominic staring at him steadily for a long moment, considering how deeply he meant it, and realising slowly that the Swami never said anything without deliberate intent. It might not, of course, be the obvious intent, but serious, final and responsible it would certainly be. The only way to find out what lay behind was to go along with him and take the risk.

‘All right!’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ll tell him.’ And he turned and walked out of the room and down the stairs to the foyer where Ashok waited.

It was then just twelve minutes to eight.

Ashok unwrapped the little ivory figure from the piece of grey raw silk in which the carver had swathed it, and set it upright in Dominic’s palm. She stood perhaps four inches high, a slender, graceful woman latticed about with lotus shoots and airy curves of drapery, her naked feet in a lotus flower, and a stringed instrument held lovingly in two of her four beautiful arms. Ashok’s expressive, long-lashed eyes and deeply-lined gargoyle face brooded over her tenderly.

‘It is a veena, not a sitar, but Anjli will not mind. This is Saraswati, the mother of the vedas, the goddess of the word, of learning, of all the arts. Perhaps a good person for her to consult, when she finally faces her problem. I found her in a little shop I know in Trivandrum, and I thought Anjli would like her. I am sorry to have missed her, but of course I gave you no notice.’

‘I’m sorry about that, too. But if you’re free, could you join us here tomorrow night for coffee? About eight o’clock or soon after? We shall all three be very happy to see you then,’ he said, setting light to his boats with a flourish; and he did not know whether he was uttering a heartless lie which must find him out in one more day, or committing himself to an act of faith to which he was now bound for life or death. At that moment he did not know whom he trusted or whom he distrusted, he was blind and in the dark, in a landscape totally unfamiliar to him, in which he could find no landmarks. Yet there must, for want of any other beacon, be a certain value in setting a course and holding by it, right or wrong; thus at least you may, by luck rather than judgement, set foot on firm ground at last and find something to hold by.