The Baron Goes East (10 page)

“I heard that, like the Bundi, he was interested in the affairs of the Maharajah of Ganpore,” Mannering said. “I wanted to find out – probably Phiroshah told you I was going to Ganpore to look at the jewels.”

“Yes, I knew,” said Kana. “Perhaps I guess more than I know! Mr. Mannering, what is it you really want of me?”

“Do you know of any good reasons why I shouldn't go to Ganpore?” asked Mannering.

 

 

Kana frowned and didn't answer at once. Mannering glanced at Lorna, who was still looking out of the window.

Kana moved his hands, a little gesture of uncertainty.

“I know of none. Ganpore is a long way from everywhere, it is buried. There has been little attempt to interfere with it, and the Maharajah is still the ruler although now responsible to the All India Government. If you go, fly. The journey by road or by train is long, weary, dirty. Mrs. Mannering would not enjoy it. But if Patel was interested, there could be something I do not know about,” said Kana. “Are you sure?”

“He tried to stop me from going.”

“So! He was up to his tricks, and that makes you wonder if he was one of the Bundi. That could be. But understand, Ganpore is not in my jurisdiction. It comes under Calcutta. There is a State Police Force, which seldom calls for help outside. It would not be possible for me to do anything to help, unless requested by the Maharajah, or instructed by Calcutta. They might, if they knew that Patel had been involved; but would they know? Have I answered you, my friend? Have I made it clear that Ganpore is cut off from everywhere?”

“Very clear,” said Mannering. “And I'm very grateful.”

“To be of assistance to a friend of Bristow – what more can I ask?” Kana said. “Or, for that matter, to an Englishman. Yes, I am one of the many who regret the passing of the British Raj. Here, in the police especially, we are the poorer for their going. Please don't quote me!” He smiled and stood up. “Your parcel, don't forget it.”

“Your parcel,” Mannering said. “With Bill Bristow's good wishes. Barley sugar, I believe.”

Kana beamed, thanked and ushered them to the door.

Joseph was at the club, and the Mannerings went ahead of him to Phiroshah's bungalow. It was half-past four.

Amu was on the steps, as if waiting.

“Hallo,” said Mannering, limping exaggeratedly. “Is Jagat here?”

“No, sahib; he has not returned.” There was a hint of anxiety in his voice and his manner. “He came at two o'clock. Shani went out with him. They were to be back, to see you, at four o'clock. They will not be long.”

“I'll see them as soon as they come in,” said Mannering. ‘That's if Jagat hasn't changed his mind!” He went to the room which had been designated for them. Lorna took off her hat and poked her fingers through hair damp from the humid warmth. “Pity it doesn't rain again.”

Lorna didn't answer.

“Tea or fruit juice?” asked Mannering.

“I'd like a long gin!”

“We should have gone to the Taj,” said Mannering.

“Or to the airport, for the London plane.”

“Still like that?”

“Didn't Kana terrify you? With warnings about an isolated state and no outside police control? He wanted to scare you in a nice way.”

“I doubt it – he just wanted me to know what we might be up against.”

“I had a feeling that he wanted you to go,” Lorna admitted.

“He probably thinks I'll blunder into something which would simplify his problems. I wonder what Jagat wants.”

“You weren't far wrong about him and Shani.”

Mannering grinned. “Second sight!”

“Was it just a guess?”

“I suppose so.” Mannering rang the bell, and asked for tea and iced drinks when Amu appeared.

“Yes, sahib.”

“Are the others back?”

“Not yet, sahib.”

“Were they alone?”

“His Highness's bearer followed, sahib, but His Highness drove his own car.”

“And they're nearly an hour late.”

“That is so.” Amu moved backwards towards the door. “They will be here soon.” He spoke as if he was trying to convince himself.

Neither Jagat nor Shani was back by eight o'clock that night, but old Phiroshah wasn't told.

When the Mannerings, Joseph and Amu reached the Taj Mahal Hotel at ten o'clock there was still no news. Lorna had a shower and went to bed. Mannering read until midnight; there was no word.

There was no news of the missing couple next morning.

Lorna, with her hair spread over the pillow and her cheeks flushed from sleep, watched Mannering for a while, then said quietly: “They could have eloped.”

“But kidnapping's in fashion.”

“I suppose there isn't a chance of making you go home, even if they've been kidnapped.”

Mannering leaned over her. “Not a chance, my optimist. The only question is whether to take you to Ganpore or leave you here.”

“I'm coming,” said Lorna.

 

A worried Amu was outside the door of the bedroom when Mannering went out just after ten. The tall Hindu bearer had become almost part of their lives.

“Before I went to the lakes,” Mannering said, “I had arranged to see an expert in disguise. Do you know who it was?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Do you trust him?”

“With my life, sahib.”

“Can you arrange a meeting this afternoon?”

“At what time, sahib?”

“As soon as you can, after two,” said Mannering.

He left just after two, with Joseph as guide, leaving Amu to look after Lorna. They went by taxi into the heart of the city, past the teeming masses, the swarming beggars, the itinerant salesmen, the colour and the squalor. Mannering looked about him, hardly noticing what he saw.

The taxi stopped in a narrow, quiet street of Western-type houses, but at the end of the street was a camp for refugees from the winter's floods; acre upon acre of land filled with tiny tents, mostly made of banana or palm fronds thrown over sticks which held them up. Mannering saw the families living in the dirt, over-crowded in a way revolting to Western eyes. The wind came from the camp and sickened him.

“We walk, please,” Joseph said.

Mannering limped, and kept his right hand in his pocket about his gun. They reached smaller houses, built in the Indian style, and Joseph stood aside for Mannering to enter an open doorway. The passage was narrow and dark; the smell of spices and Indian food was thick and heavy.

“Here, sahib.”

Mannering went into a darkened room, but Joseph switched on a light. Fluorescent strip lighting flickered, then became bright.

A middle-aged Hindu in spotless dhoti and spotless linen coat and turban bowed slightly and smiled.

“You are welcome, sahib. I am Alaka Chopra, at your service.” His voice was high-pitched, his English seemed to come with an effort, but the accent was good. “1 understand you wish to disguise yourself.”

“As a Sikh, if that is practicable.”

“It is the only wise way.” Chopra was reassuring. “Already Mr. Phiroshah has told me, and I have clothes ready. You understand that you will need to eat Indian food when you are with others. You will have to learn the habits quickly. I am prepared to teach you, but it will take time. Two three days – after that, you will know just a little. If you take Amu or Joseph with you, they can always be of assistance, but you understand—” he smiled deprecatingly—”that it is not a simple matter of the face, the figure, the clothes. It is complicated. And I understand you wish to be able to remove the disguise yourself, also to put it on yourself afterwards.”

“In emergency, yes.”

“The difficulty will be to look today as you were yesterday. If it can be avoided, do not change the final disguise. Now—please sit here.”

There was a swivel chair, a barber's mirror and a big barber's smock. Mannering sat down. Chopra went to a large suitcase and took out his equipment. Grease-paint, a beard, a wig, a dozen different things. Joseph stood silently by the door.

Mannering submitted to the gentle hands and firm movements of the youthful-looking Hindu, and watched himself change in front of his eyes.

 

Nearly an hour later Mannering stood in front of a long mirror and studied the reflection of the Sikh; he did not recognise himself. The greasepaint had altered his complexion to the tawny brown of the hardy men of the hills; the shape of his eyes and cheeks was different. He had a small dark beard which curled a little, hair that seemed to grow low on the nape of his neck. The turban concealed his own hair; the clothes gave his body a different shape. He wore a long khaki tunic, knee breeches and puttees, with pointed, turned-up toes. The puttees were hot but there was no way of avoiding them. He studied himself closely, then turned to his own make-up case.

He took out everything he needed to clean off the disguise, and worked while the men watched, without comment; Chopra obviously disapproved.

In twenty minutes the transformation was gone, except for the clothes.

Chopra didn't speak.

Mannering hitched the chair closer to the mirror and set to work – deft touches with greasepaint, everything he needed. Gradually, very gradually, he turned into the Sikh. He took longer than Chopra, but as he worked he saw the Hindu watching with an astonishment he couldn't hide. All disapproval faded.

He finished.

Chopra said softly: ‘That is remarkable, Mr. Mannering. I would not have thought it possible. If only you knew the language!”

“I'll manage,” Mannering said. “Joseph and Amu will talk for me. Joseph, I want you to take that case back to the hotel. Tell the memsahib I shall be late, but she is not to worry. Tell her I am just trying out my new clothes.”

“Yes, sahib. Can I tell you where it is best to go?”

“I know where to go,” said Mannering.

He didn't add that he was going to the home of the late Imannati Patel.

 

 

Mannering reached the end of Woodham Road at dusk. He had walked from Chopra's house, and his ankle wasn't as sound as he had expected it to be. No one had given him a second glance, not even the Sikhs he had passed on the way. He went briskly past No. 81. Dim lights shone at two downstairs windows, none upstairs.

He turned back and went into the drive of the house next door. Halfway along, a gap in the hedge was large enough to squeeze through. He stepped on to the drive of Patel's house, looking at the lighted windows, then up at the starlit sky. He moved quietly towards the back of the house, but saw no light.

He had a roll of tools and the gun. He pulled on a pair of cotton gloves, then tried the handle of the back door; it was locked. The windows were both locked and shuttered. Standing close to the door, he listened intently, but heard nothing. He took out a pick-lock and slipped it into the keyhole.

He heard metal scraping on metal. In less than thirty seconds the lock clicked back smoothly.

He opened the door, and there was no light.

He stepped inside.

As the door closed behind him and he stood in the darkness, years seemed to slip away. He wasn't in India; he was disguised, but not as a burly Sikh. He was the Baron, cracksman extraordinary, standing on the threshold of a house where the owner slept, and where jewels worth a fortune waited for the taking. He was the man Bristow had hunted throughout England, and whom the French police had sought in Paris and in Lyons.

He took a slim pencil torch from the pocket of his tunic and shone it round.

The smell of spices had already told him he was in the kitchen – a small room. Another door was opposite, and as the torchlight shone through it he saw that it led to the passage which ran alongside the stairs. He stepped out and saw a faint light beneath a door on the right. He went forward soundlessly.

He reached the foot of the stairs.

The other light he had seen from the garden came from a room on the left of the stairs. There were rooms on either side, and he hesitated before stepping towards the front door. He opened then closed it again. The catch was easy to slip, and in emergency he could get out that way.

He went back to the stairs and opened the door on the right stealthily. He peered in. Two men sat on upright chairs, facing each other; neither was talking, and he thought that one was asleep. Both were dressed in European clothes. He crept out and opened the other door.

Several sari-clad women sat on cushions on the floor, all of them looking towards the carpet. They were beautifully dressed. The silence of meditation made a hush about the room. Mannering closed the door gently and went up to the room where he had seen Patel.

The only light here was from his torch.

He shone it towards the floor, remembering the way a man had squatted in the corner, remembering how servants rolled themselves up in their blankets and slept on the boards. Were eyes straining at him in the darkness? He found his way to Patel's room, wondered if the police had been here yet; he saw no traces of a search.

He studied photographs on the dressing-table and other pieces of furniture, then went to the room where the servant in the corner had startled him.

The man wasn't there.

Mannering shone the torch round slowly, carefully, keeping the beam below the level of the window, and drew the curtains. He smelt a delicate perfume he had noticed before. He closed the door and switched on the light. The room was shabby. The striped wallpaper with the flowered design reminded him of some of the faded salons of Paris. So did the Louis Quinze furniture; part of the house was furnished as Indians would furnish it, but most was Westernised. There was a large double bed.

A cord hung from one of the posts, the kind of cord which had been used to bind him in the cave. It had been cut, and the cut was clean. At the other side of the bed there was nothing, but more cord lay on the floor beneath the post. It was in two half-circles, showing where it had been cut from the wrists of someone who had been tied to the post.

Had Shani and the Maharajah's son been tied up here?

The perfume reminded him of Shani. He turned to the door. A piece of blue material, silk which might have come from a sari, had caught in the barrel of the lock. Shani had worn blue that day. He ran the piece of silk between his gloved fingers, then put it in his pocket.

He searched every drawer in Patel's room and found many papers, most of them written in English, a few in Hindu or a language with Indian characters. The Indian writing showed how heavily the dice were loaded against him. He studied the photographs again, then turned towards the door of the room which had been empty.

The light shone on emptiness, at first – then on to a chair – then on to a man sitting in the chair.

 

Mannering kept the light steady on the man's legs. He was dressed in European clothes. He wasn't moving. Mannering listened with bated breath, but could not hear the sound of another's breathing. He raised the light, slowly. It fell on a grey suit. It fell on a young face, an olive-coloured chin and on to dark eyes, which were wide open, staring; the light hardly made the other man blink.

Jagat? He was sure it was.

Jagat was bound hand and foot to the chair, and a cloth was tied round his mouth, gagging him.

 

Words sprang to Mannering's lips but he kept them back. He was a Sikh who hadn't the power of speech, and had to remember that. The youth could only see his shape. The light was shining into his face, half blinding him.

Mannering didn't put on the room light.

He put the torch on a pouf so that it shone on a level with Jagat's waist, and took out a sheathed knife, part of his props. He cut the cords at the youngster's ankles and wrists, then removed the gag. Jagat slumped in his chair, but couldn't get up at once. Mannering began to massage his wrists, then his ankles. Jagat kept hissing, as if against pain.

That was the only sound. None came from outside or downstairs.

Mannering worked swiftly, desperately; they might be interrupted at any minute. He couldn't guess how long it would be before Jagat could move freely. After a long ten minutes, Jagat grunted as he tried to get up, held the chair tightly and managed to get to his feet.

Mannering wanted to tell him what to do, but didn't know a word of Hindi, daren't speak in English, because the day would come when Jagat might recognise him. Jagat began to move, and they walked round the room several times, until Jagat could stand without help.

Jagat spoke in whispers, in a language Mannering didn't understand. He didn't answer. Jagat whispered again, more insistently. Mannering shook his head, but the faint light probably hid that from the youngster. He made a queer sound in his throat, as a dumb man might do. Jagat stopped whispering, and walked about again, then went towards the door.

Mannering switched off the torch.

Jagat might try to avenge himself; might cause trouble; or might have the sense to sneak out. Mannering wasn't sure, but knew what he wanted. Jagat made little sound as he crept out of the room and across Patel's bedroom towards the stairs. Mannering now shone the torch behind him so that he could see.

Jagat reached the stairs, turned and looked at the light, and beckoned. Mannering stood still. Jagat went down, making hardly a sound. Mannering gave him time to reach the front door, then followed to the head of the stairs.

He saw a light from outside; Jagat was opening the door, going out furtively.

The door closed.

Mannering put out the torch again. He had no papers, nothing else that would help. If he were wise, he would go now, but – he hadn't found the safe.

Would it be downstairs?

He returned to Patel's room, locked each door, put out the light and went to the window. Outside there was a ledge almost immediately beneath him, then a long drop to the ground. The only near tree was a phoenix palm; he knew the sharp, sword-like fronds too well to take chances with those trees. But if he reached the ledge and hung from it, he could drop to the ground with reasonable safety.

He closed the window, went to the main door and switched on the light.

In this very room of death he stood and studied the walls, the furniture placed against them in studied disorder. One big chest was in a different place from when he had first seen it; so was a large dressing-table, a mahogany piece, incongruous here. He went across and moved the chest, then the dressing-table.

It was as simple as that.

The safe was built into the wall.

 

The Baron knelt in front of the safe, his tools spread out by his side, drilling. The noise of the drill was soft but persistent. Every minute or so he paused to listen, and heard no other sound. Tiny iron filings curled out from the holes he was making round the lock. It was an old-fashioned safe; easy to open unless there were some refinements which Patel had fitted specially.

He had been working for twenty minutes before he was able to lift out the lock.

There was no trick fastening; he opened the door of the safe without trouble. Inside were two shelves, each of them filled, mostly with documents. There were several jewel-cases, and there was also a packet wrapped in brown paper. He took the packet out first, broke it open and found white powder; this was probably cocaine. He put it aside and opened a jewel-case. The diamond necklace inside was a beautiful thing, worth a small fortune, but not unique and of no special interest to the Baron.

He opened another.

Blue
diamonds winked up at him.