The Baron Goes East (12 page)

 

Below them the land was parched and arid. Above, the sun burned. They had flown through a night of stars. There had been no rain; and here it seemed as if rain never came. Only twice during the day had they seen a river. In the middle of each there had been a trickle of water; the rest was dry, cracked river-bed, with a little pale green growth near it.

They had passed over great cities, the colour and the squalor of which was hidden from the air. They had watched the mule trains and the ox-waggons plodding their way from city to city, village to village.

Ahead of them a range of hills rose out of the plain.

The pilot, a young Sikh, had said very little during the journey. Their bearer, Ramdhal, had passable English. They climbed above the hills. On the other side it was like being transported to a different world. The lower slopes were grass-clad; small rivers flowed criss-cross and meandered through fertile valleys and small plains. To the west a vast area was almost under water – rice fields, Ramdhal had said. Ganpore, being isolated, was almost self-supporting in food.

There were several small towns and innumerable villages; only the town of Ganpore was really large. The palace was two miles to the west of the town. They would see it from the air, Ramdhal had assured them. Yes, he had once been to Ganpore; he had worked there for two years.

At last they saw the town, spreading over a great area of the countryside. A river ran through it, and the sun glistened on the surface, turning it to gold.

Mannering picked out the palace, a square white building, standing out against the land; not far from it a smaller building, which seemed to sparkle as if the walls were studded with jewels.

Ramdhal said: “The palace, sahib—and the tomb.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mannering.

The plane was losing height. The airfield was nearer the palace than the town, and they could see the two runways; only small planes could land and take off. Mannering sat back and fastened his belt. Ramdhal scorned that. He was tall for a Hindu, powerful, rather like a Sikh to look at, with fine features and piercing eyes. He wore a white jacket and white trousers and a black fez cap – a bearer's dress which would pass anywhere.

A few men stood about the small airport building. The aircraft landed smoothly, and taxied near the Indians, who moved slowly towards it while others watched from the side of the field. Oxen lumbered along a nearby road, two to each of seven carts with wheels which were nearly a foot thick. As the engine was switched off, the creaking of the carts broke the quiet. A small temple was by the side of the airport building, and the evening sun shone on the figure of a scarlet elephant just inside the temple itself. The priest, naked from the waist up, chest touched by a long, straggly beard, stood watching as the Mannerings and Ramdhal walked stiffly towards the building.

A small carriage with big wheels moved slowly along the road, drawn by an old nag and driven by a hopeful-looking old man who waved his whip.

“We will take the tonga,” Ramdhal said. “It is a mile to the palace, sahib. I shall be next to the driver.” He put their two suitcases on the back of the little carriage, and the driver beamed at them and maintained a constant chatter which neither of them understood. A seat just large enough for two faced the road behind the driver. The road was metalled and thick with dust at the sides; the oxen kicked up clouds of dust with every heavy step. Bearded sleepy-looking drivers sat on the carts, watching the Mannerings incuriously. Two dogs came loping along the road, stopped by the temple and then approached the tonga as it jogged along. The seat had once been upholstered, but all the stuffing was out of it. The vehicle clattered noisily on its iron-bound wheels.

“Real India,” Mannering said.

“Mother India,” said Lorna. She didn't smile. “I hope you haven't done the wrong thing.”

“Feeling isolated?”

“Aren't you?”

A car was coming along the road towards them, turning a corner as Mannering spoke. Its nearside wheels were in the dust and a great cloud billowed behind it. It shone with polish, and there was a youthful Indian driver at the wheel. He made his horn blare as he passed an ox-cart, and the driver hastily pulled into the side of the road. The car came on, then pulled up almost level with the tonga, tyres squealing. The driver jumped out.

“From His Highness,” said Ramdhal in a whisper.

“You are Mr. Mannering?” The driver was standing beside the tonga, which had stopped. His Highness the Maharajah told me to put this car at your disposal; please to use it. Your luggage, also.” He switched into his own language and appeared to be hurling insults at the driver of the tonga. Ramdhal jumped down and helped Lorna, then Mannering. He paid the driver, and obviously satisfied the man.

The car driver seemed determined to force everything off the road. Lorna clutched Mannering's arm as they swerved past the ox-waggons and a train of donkeys which carried enormous loads.

“Prefer the tonga?” Mannering asked.

“I wouldn't like to go far in this.”

Soon the car swung between massive iron gates and they passed from the dusty road, with dry, parched land on either side, into rolling parkland. The transition was abrupt, hardly real. The grass on either side was bright green. Palms, trees they didn't recognise, a few pine and many flowering bushes gave gentleness and beauty. The slanting rays of the sun reddened the tops of the bushes.

They passed beneath an archway cut in a thick hedge of cypress, and the palace stood in front of them; beyond rose and flower gardens which had an almost hurtful beauty of colour. The palace itself, stark white, stretched for what seemed an illimitable distance on either side.

Gardeners were working among the flower-beds; water hissed gently from half a dozen hoses.

The car pulled up in front of the main entrance. Three men stood there, two servants dressed in white, and one white man. The white man raised a hand in greeting.

“Hi, John Mannering!”

“Why, hullo,” said Mannering, as he climbed out. “Long way from New York.” He helped Lorna out. “Darling, this is Mark Petter. Competition!” He shook hands with Petter, one of the biggest dealers in New York. “How are you, Mark?”

“I'm just fine.”

“Looking after you well?” Mannering glanced at the servants who were moving off with his luggage.

“Like a prince.”

“And the others?”

“Kyneton's resting. He doesn't like the heat.” Kyneton was another New York dealer. “Duval is in bed, sick. The poor fellow ate something that didn't agree with him; he may be in bed for a few days. Van Groot is with His Highness, looking at some pictures.”

“Is Duval really in a bad way?”

“I guess he could be worse.” Petter strolled up the wide white steps; they looked like marble. “He's feeling mighty sorry for himself, and afraid he'll miss the party.” Petter's drawl was attractive. He was nearly as tall as Mannering, blond, forty-odd, with wide shoulders and an easy carriage. He wasn't handsome, but his round face and blue eyes gave him a wholesome look. “You weren't expected so early. When they saw the plane, they did some guessing; that's how I knew it was you.”

“I thought I'd see what the hospitality was like for unexpected guests.”

“Are you kidding?” Petter said lazily. “If ever you do the expected, I guess Mrs. Mannering will fall down in a faint. Isn't that so, Mrs. Mannering?”

“You obviously know him,” Lorna said.

“Oh, only by reputation and an occasional meeting in London. When are you coming to New York, John?”

“One of these fine days.”

They had walked through a long, narrow passage, with photographs of groups of people and racing pictures on either side. They came to a doorway, and Lorna stopped and raised her hands involuntarily. Petter's lips twitched with amusement. Mannering glanced towards the room, and saw a vast chamber, with huge mirrors all round, and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, so big that they seemed fantastic. Each had hundreds of electric lamps. The furniture was light and delicate, all painted gilt; it was a golden room.

“Not bad,” said Petter. “Wait until you've seen the rest, Mrs. Mannering. Before I came here they told me that things were being evened out in India. Now I've seen this and had a look at the village outside, I guess I'm not so sure about that.”

A man came out of another doorway, dressed in white drill, youngish, dark-skinned. He bowed distantly to the trio and went into the grounds.

Mannering felt a sharp quickening of suspicion, for he had seen that man before. He had been at Patel's house, one of two men who had sat so quietly for a while – and one of two men who had given chase to a thief and had thrown knives.

“That's Rudra,” Petter said in his lazy voice. “His Highness's secretary. Unless I miss my guess, His Highness is on the way here right now.”

 

 

As Petter spoke, two men came round a corner of the passage. The first was tall, slim, honey-coloured, with greying dark hair which alone gave him an air of distinction. Mannering judged him to be in the sixties. He had fine, dark eyes, and his features were perfect. Jagat was like him, but not so good-looking. He was dressed in a light-grey suit of faultless cut. He came forward with hand outstretched.

“It
is
Mr. Mannering?”

“Yes.”

“I am very pleased you are here. And Mrs. Mannering.” He took Lorna's hand and bowed. “I had been told that you would not arrive until tomorrow. We have been waiting for you, and all the others have been very patient. I—but forgive me. Mynheer van Groot – Mrs. Mannering, Mr. Mannering.”

The second man was short and stocky, with heavy features, heavy-lidded eyes. Mannering knew him by sight, but had never met him before. His name was famous. His headquarters were in Amsterdam, but his market was the world.

“I am glad to meet you.” His voice was harsh. He jerked his head to Lorna.

“How are you?” Lorna said.

“I've been looking forward to seeing you,” said Mannering.

“You are both tired from the journey,” said the Maharajah. He was as pleasant and unassuming as if he had been one of the guests, and his English was perfect. “I will have you taken to your rooms. We will meet for sherry.”

He led the way up a wide flight of stairs. Although he hadn't spoken, hadn't appeared to do anything, two servants appeared and followed silently. Ramdahl was just behind them. They reached the first floor, and the Maharajah led the way along wide passages, with oil paintings hanging on the walls and here and there a tapestry worth a fortune. Everything Mannering saw would have brought dealers from all over the world to Quinns.

They stopped by a pair of double doors.

“Do take your time, Mrs. Mannering. I shall look forward to seeing you when you are ready.”

He smiled, and, as the servants opened the doors, turned back to the stairs.

There were three rooms all furnished with the elegance of the Regency days, and a bathroom the size of a small house. The sunken bath was pale green; the walls were of the same colour; the ceiling, too. There were thick mats round the sides of the bath, and two showers in small cubicles.

Ramdahl was waiting in one of the outer rooms.

“Is it all clear?” asked Mannering. “I want you to find out what precautions are taken against theft and, if possible, to find out where the jewels are kept. And make sure whether anyone takes any special interest in me.”

“Very good, sahib.”

The Mannerings stood together in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Everything a man could want after a long journey,” Mannering said. “What do you think of the Maharajah?”

“No robes,” said Lorna faintly.

“No penetrating eyes.”

“No cortège of bearers.”

“No ceremony,” said Mannering.

“I suppose he's real?”

“Even human. Bath, ma'am?”

“Do you think I dare soak for half an hour?”

“You won't miss anything but sherry and chatter,” Mannering said. “What did you think of van Groot?”

“Hostile?” asked Lorna. “Unfriendly? Suspicious?”

“Could be all three. He's known to be greedy, and he probably has more millionaires up his sleeve than anyone else in our wicked game. Petter?”

“I liked him.”

“Just his American charm,” said Mannering. “When it comes to business he'll be as ruthless as the crocodiles in the lakes of Bombay.” He was taking off his clothes and moved across to one of the showers, in singlet and trunks. Ramdhal was unpacking the cases in the other room. “Four of the biggest diamond and jewel merchants in the world under one spacious Indian roof, a smooth and suave host with a curious history plus a record of social reform. Notice much social reform outside?”

“No.”

“Plus a man named Rudra whom I saw at Patel's house and is the great man's secretary.”

“You're dreaming!”

“I'm not likely to forget that face. Plus a gang known as the Bundi, possibly fanatical zealots, possibly just crooks, certainly murderous. Plus what?”

“A sleepy American we haven't seen – what was his name?”

“Kyneton. Pronounced, as you heard, Kine-ton. The most wide-awake American I've met. I don't know him well. I do know that he comes from the south, and I can't imagine why the heat has got him down like this unless it's a normal daily siesta. Plus?”

“Darling,” said Lorna, and Mannering stepped out of his trunks and into the shower, “are you trying to scare me?”

“What on earth makes you think that?”

“I'm not appreciating it. Plus what, were you going to say?”

“Guess.”

“A sick Frenchman.”

“That's right. Four of the biggest men in the jewel business here in Ganpore, pretty well cut off from any civilisation, the Bundi threatening, and two of the dealers already under the weather.”

“Five,” said Lorna.

“Don't start getting hallucinations.” Mannering was vigorous with the soap, but brief.

“Five of the biggest men in the jewel business.”

Mannering turned off the water and took the towel which Lorna thrust forward.

“Thanks. Sweetheart, you flatter me. That's all right provided you don't really think it. Compared with any one of these men, I'm small fry. They have more customers who can sign a cheque for millions than I have who can sign cheques for a hundred thousand.”

He unzipped the back of her dress and let it slip from her shoulders. He covered his eyes with his hands.

“Darling,” said Lorna. “You've some silly idea in your head which probably won't stand up to any kind of examination. What is it?”

She wore a brassiere and the briefest panties.

“You're wonderful!” Mannering grinned.

 

All outward show of lightheartedness had gone when he went downstairs. The servant outside the door of their suite didn't surprise Mannering; nor did the servants at every door. The servants were all immaculate in white, and the buttons on their tunics were brass, or gold. They were small, dark, lithe-looking men from the hills.

Lights were on – small chandeliers in the wide passages. Only corner lights shone in the big room. Voices sounded from another, not far away. This was much smaller, and furnished almost in modern style; almost, because there were touches which one would only find in the east – the rich cushions and the tapestries and an atmosphere it was hard to define.

Petter and a short, round, tubby man were there – Kyneton. He heard Mannering come in, and pirouetted round, agile as a ballet dancer. He beamed at Mannering as he stretched out his hand.

“Why, hullo there. Just the man I'm glad to see; you can explain everything.” He had a softer voice than Petter's. Twenty-five years of New York hadn't changed him, he was still a man from the deep south. His hand grip was firm. “How are you doing, John?”

“Fine, Frank, thanks.”

“You look it.”

“Not more than ten years older,” Mannering said. “Do the doors close?” There were two of the small dark men at the doorway.

“Haven't dared try,” said Petter.

“Could go up to our room,” said Kyneton. “We share.”

“Too obvious,” said Mannering. “Obvious that we were going into a huddle, I mean.” He kept his voice low, they were in a corner of the room, it wasn't likely that what he said could be heard from the doorway. “That's if you two want to.”

Petter slid both hands into his pockets. His suit couldn't have come from anywhere but New York or Washington.

“I remember,” he said. “You're a detective, aren't you? That makes you mysterious. We don't mind, do we, Frank?”

Kyneton said: “I guess not.”

“All right,” said Mannering. “You're after the Maharajah's jewels – so are the others. You're here with your eyes open. You know about Phiroshah's two sons, about the robbery in London. You know there's a hot campaign to steal jewels from the Indian princes under the cover of a patriotic organisation.”

“Sure we know,” Petter agreed.

“And we know that Phiroshah brought you because of your detective instinct.” Kyneton was mildly sardonic. “He doesn't think the police are doing all they could. Do you?”

“I'd like to know why we're all here together.”

“He wants to sell his stuff to the highest bidders,” said Kyneton. “He knows there's a big risk sending it out of India to sell it. So he'll sell it here, and we'll have to take it out. The Bundi will go for him but not for us.”

“Why not?”

“International complications.”

“That didn't stop the London robbery or a murder in New York.”

Petter said: “I guess not.”

Kyneton spoke uneasily: “What's on your mind, John?”

“That we're to be taken for a ride,” said Mannering. “Whether by His Highness or not—” He broke off. A shadow appeared on the floor of the passage and stopped moving. “And I think we're going to see the most fabulous collection of jewels we've ever come across,” Mannering added mildly.

The shadow moved, and the Maharajah appeared.

“I hope I shall not disappoint you,” he said.

He could have heard much more than the last sentence.