The Baron Goes East (8 page)

 

The prominent eyes were open now and staring. The old man looked towards the side of the bed and his gaze moved slowly until he saw Mannering. He stopped moving his head, but didn't speak. The man in the next room sat unmoving. Mannering felt his fingers clammy round the steel of his gun. The old man's mouth moved; a big mouth, with almost shapeless lips. He bared yellow, wide-spaced teeth and spoke again in the croaking voice.

“Come here.”

Mannering went a little nearer.

“Nearer.” The invalid spoke in English. Would he speak in English if he didn't know who was present? “Here!” He raised his right hand and touched the side of the bed. His movements were slow and deliberate. Mannering had never felt himself so close to the presence of death.

He obeyed.

The other's eyes were light brown, seemed to be covered with a muddy film. He bared his teeth again.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Mannering said: “I'm Mannering. John Mannering.” He had been fooled. This wasn't Imannati Patel; it couldn't be.

The man on the bed said: “So Patandi told you.”

Mannering felt as if he had been slashed by a whip. He shifted his position while the other eyed him with piercing appraisal. Now and again the man licked his lips. Then: “Sit down,” he said.

An upright chair stood against the wall, just behind Mannering. He pulled it up and sat down. The other did not look away from him; seemed as if he were trying to read his thoughts. The silence dragged on.

“What do you want with me?” asked Patel abruptly.

Mannering said slowly: “I'm interested in murderers.”

Seconds passed before Patel spoke again.

“Fool,” he said. “Just a fool. I told you not to come. I could not have told you more plainly. Go back. Take your wife with you.”

“I've a job to do,” said Mannering.

“Not yours,” said Patel hoarsely. “Nothing to do with you. Go back where you came from. Leave our affairs—to us. Don't be fooled by that old liar, Phiroshah. Only an idiot would listen to him.”

It was bizarre enough in itself – the scene, the watching eyes, the sick man. The natural idiom in which Patel spoke, as if English were his mother tongue, heightened that, made everything more unreal. The flat statements, made as if there was no possible chance that he was wrong, spread doubts and uncertainty.

“I've a job to do,” said Mannering. “I'll finish it.”

“It will finish you,” said Patel. “You
and
your wife. I told you what to do. Told Patandi to tell you. He did, didn't he?” Patel paused between each short sentence, as if talking and breathing both hurt him. “Have a week's holiday. See what you can. Go back. You won't run into trouble then. You'll be in trouble if—if you go to Ganpore. Only a fool would go to Ganpore; a bigger one would take his wife with him. Go back.”

Mannering said: “Why do you want the blue diamonds?”

Patel didn't answer, just sneered.

“Who's paying you?” Mannering said.

Patel actually raised himself upon one elbow, pointed a bony finger, licked his lips, swallowed two or three times before he answered. There was froth at the corner of his lips.

“Damned insulting fool. Who is paying
me
? I don't accept anyone's money. I'm—I'm Imannati Patel. I work for no one. Don't let Phiroshah fool you. Always been enemies. We'll die enemies. He couldn't—beat me. I'm a sick man, very sick. Even now, Phiroshah can't beat me. Sent for you, to try. Old fool and young fool together. Go back.”

He dropped on to his pillows, his breathing heavier. Mannering heard a rustle of movement. The old man from the corner room was moving forward. He reached the bedside table, opened the bottle of tablets, and put a tablet to Patel's mouth. Patel gulped it down. His breathing became hoarse, and the bed springs groaned under the convulsive movements of his body. The old man turned away and went back to the next room, leaving the door ajar.

Patel's eyes were closed; he looked as if he were falling into a drugged sleep. His breathing grew more steady; the bed stopped creaking.

Mannering got up, and the boy in the doorway turned and led the way downstairs. Still the only sound in the house was of his padding footsteps. He opened the front door and bowed low.

Mannering stepped into the street. It was still cooler, but anything would feel cool after the heat of that bedroom. He beckoned Joseph. The other bearer was walking up and down on the far side of the street, at least fifty yards away.

“We'll get a taxi,” Mannering said.

“Yes, sahib.”

There was a taxi a hundred yards along the road. Mannering sank back in his corner, wiped his forehead, lit another cigarette. He looked out of the window, and instead of seeing the walking people, saw the face of Imannati Patel – that death's head face. When he had bared his teeth, Patel had looked grotesque, obscene. Mannering turned to the other window; every man seemed to have the face of Patel.

He tapped on the window, and Joseph turned.

“To Mr. Phiroshah's house.”

“Yes, sahib.”

They drove to the Marine Parade and up the Malabar Hill, and the house already seemed familiar when it came in sight at the end of the long drive. The garden was immaculate; there could not be a greater contrast between this and Patel's. The taxi stopped. Mannering paid the driver, and walked up the steps. A servant opened the door, but Mannering didn't see the servant; he saw Shani.

 

It was the first time he had seen Phiroshah's daughter since he had arrived in India. She wore a sari of the familiar deep red, cloaking her as petals cloak a flower. She smiled with less gravity than he had known in London.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Mannering.”

“Thank you, Shani.”

“I have just been to see Mrs. Mannering,” said Shani. “I will try to show her much of interest. Now, I have a message for you. My father has been called away, but he has arranged for the meeting tonight. Amu will know where to take you. The man whom you will visit is an expert in such make-up as you require.”

“Will your father be long?”

“It is impossible to say.” Shani raised her hands. “He did not expect to have to leave this evening. He hoped to see you again. He still hopes that he will be back before you retire.” She smiled. “Can I offer you refreshment?”

“No, thanks.” Mannering tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. “You've been more than good. I'll go back to the hotel.”

“I will tell the chauffeur,” said Shani.

“I'd like to walk.”

She raised her hands again, as if to say that she understood that an Englishman would walk when the rest of the world would ride. He went out. Shani stood at the top of the steps, smiling after him. Joseph followed. The other bearer was still in sight when Mannering reached the street itself. He walked briskly, in spite of the heat. The visit to Patel had been a sickening anti-climax; the visit to Phiroshah almost as bad.

Shani had been smooth – too smooth? Everything had been too smooth. He had relied on Phiroshah and no one else, and that was folly. Patel had called him a fool, and perhaps he was. He ought to get in touch with the English community; the European community, anyhow. They would know about Patel and Phiroshah, and they would give him a dispassionate opinion. He could make contact through the Embassy or through any of the clubs.

He reached the point in the road where it swept in a hair-pin turn to the left and the city, and led straight on past tall, shabby-looking houses. Beyond was a native quarter. He found himself sneering at the thought. It was all native; parts were built by Western standards, that was all. Did he have to remind himself that he was in India?

There was a traffic policeman in a crow's-nest, high above the corner, signalling to drivers who seemed to ignore him. Typical to place a policeman where he couldn't be seen. Mannering turned savagely round the corner. The road ran downhill. There were no buildings on either side at this spot; the houses were all up the hillside, above road level. There was a high wall on his left; the road on his right. He looked over the bay and the promenade, walking briskly. A few cars were coming from each direction; horns were blowing without the slightest need. Noise, dirt, squalor, misery – and mystery. He was already sick of it. He had been doubtful from the beginning, and . . .

He heard Joseph shout: “Sahib!”

He half turned. Joseph was twenty yards behind him, on the pavement. Two boys were kicking at him – just boys, ten or eleven years old, no more. Joseph didn't shout again, seemed to be covering his face with his arms. Mannering swung round.

Something clutched at his ankle and he went sprawling. As he fell, he saw a dark face peering at him from a hole in the wall on his left. He saw another. Hands stretched out, gripping him round the throat. He choked. He felt himself dragged head first into the hole. He hadn't a chance to shout, to struggle. The pressure at his throat grew stronger. He had to gasp for breath. His chest heaved.

The pressure relaxed.

He fell heavily, felt hands on him, felt a cloth being put over his head and drawn tightly round his neck. He struck out. Someone kicked him in the pit of the stomach; agony. He almost fell again, would have fallen but for the hands which clutched him. He felt himself being pushed along and pulled; hands seemed to be all round him. He felt cold – icy cold.

The pushing and the pulling stopped. He leaned against a wall. It seemed damp. The cloth over his face stopped him from seeing. He clawed at it, but felt a savage blow over the head as he touched the string. He staggered forward. A second blow pitched him into unconsciousness.

 

At least he was alive.

He lay on his back, on something hard. His head ached and his eyes ached, but he was alive. He could feel pain in his right shoulder, too – not severe, but uncomfortable. He moved little, because his feet were tied together. His hands weren't; that was odd.

He opened his eyes.

The bag had gone, but it was dark here. A faint light came from some way off – a flickering light of lamp or candle. He could hear nothing. He closed his eyes again, because the light was enough to hurt him. He moved his hands cautiously. It should be easy to draw up his legs and get at the cords round his ankles. No one could see what he was doing in this light.

He moved his legs slowly, but the cord was secured to the ground or the wall. He opened his eyes again, but could only see the dark shape of his body; couldn't make out the shape of the cords. He hitched himself forward, bending his knees all the time. Lying on his back, it was almost impossible to reach his ankles; not almost – it was impossible. He would have to turn over. He tried to turn towards the right, but the cord hampered him. He put out his hand again, made sure that the wall was on his right and turned slowly over on to his left side. Then he flattened himself against the wall and started to bend his knees again.

It was still difficult.

He strained his muscles, and the pain in his head grew worse. He stopped and relaxed. He would have to rest. The cords had been tied so that he couldn't get at them. If he stood up, then bent down, it should be easier; but getting to his feet would be an ordeal in itself.

He heard a sound close by.

He stiffened, and listened again. The sound was repeated —a little moaning sound. Someone else was here. He turned his head and tried to peer through the darkness, but he could see nothing. The groan came again, and almost immediately footsteps sounded. A man appeared, carrying an electric torch. It shone on Mannering's face and moved away. Mannering turned his head – and saw the light fall on Phiroshah's face.

 

 

There was a dark patch on the side of the old man's face. Blood. As far as Mannering could see, it came from a wound in his forehead. His eyes were closed, and he didn't move although he moaned again.

Mannering looked towards the light. He could see the dark figure behind it, but nothing was clear.

The light shone on him again, and he blinked. Whoever carried the torch held it steady for a few seconds, then made the beam travel down to Mannering's legs. The cord showed; so did the foot or so of space between his ankles and the wall; one end was tied to a ring. The light went out.

The man turned and walked away, and soon there was no sound but Phiroshah's occasional groaning; no light but the glim a long way off.

Mannering lay back with his eyes closed and pictured the way the cord was fastened to the wall. The knot was on the right side, closest to the wall. The important thing to ease his position was to get it off the ring; that would be easier than getting it off his ankle. He lay close to the wall and, using his left hand, levered himself up to a sitting position; that was much easier than he had expected. He leaned forward and was able to touch the ring. His fingers moved about the cord until he touched the knot. He began to pick at it. The strain on his arm, shoulders and legs was too great to keep going long at a time.

He relaxed against the wall.

Belatedly, he felt in his pockets. Money was there – all the loose change; so were his keys. But his knife had gone, so had the gun. He rested again, then slid his left hand into his pocket; he had some English coppers and silver. He felt each piece, selected a thin coin, and drew it out. He ran his thumb round the smooth copper edge, then transferred it to his right hand and began to rub it against the stone floor.

He went on and on, making a little scraping sound, punctuated by groans from Phiroshah.

When he felt the coin again it was warm from the friction and there was an edge which felt quite sharp. He held the coin carefully and applied the new edge to the cord, sawing at it. The strain of holding the thin coin tightly made his arm stiff and sent pricking pains up to the elbow. He dared not let the coin go; he might never find it again in the darkness.

Suddenly his muscles twitched, his fingers lost their grip, the coin fell with a tinkling noise. A wave of anger and frustration made him feel sick. Suddenly, he jerked his feet away from the wall; nothing happened. He jerked again, savagely – and the cord broke.

He fell sideways, bumping his head.

He leaned against the wall for at least a minute, fighting against a sense of exultation. He bent down and worked on the knot round his ankles with both hands. It was not easy; the savage pull away from the wall had tightened the knot.

Phiroshah was silent.

Mannering felt the knot giving, pulled cautiously, and unfastened it. He stopped and listened; there was no sound. His ankles and feet tingled with the returning circulation. He rubbed them vigorously, and even the noise that he made worried him.

After a while, he got first to his knees and then to his feet. His ankles were almost too weak to hold him, and the right was worse than the left. He moved about gingerly. The pain eased until he felt that he could walk safely. He couldn't see how far it was to the opposite wall, and moved towards it, hands outstretched. He staggered three times before touching the broken surface with the palms of his hands.

He walked to and fro, making little sound, with the strength returning to his legs. His head ached, but it didn't stop him thinking. He hoped that it didn't affect his hearing. He heard faint sounds from some way off; another, nearer. Phiroshah had stirred. He turned and looked at the spot where the man was lying, and could just make out the shape of his body and the white clothes. He went to him and knelt down. He felt his pulse; it was very weak.

He took off his coat and spread it over the thin body, shivered, turned and went towards the light. He had been making up his mind to do that for a long time. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes; he didn't know. He guessed that he had been conscious for more than one hour and less than two.

The light was faint and yellow, and not direct. As he drew nearer, he saw a corner. He stepped to the side of the wall nearest the corner, listening intently but hearing nothing. He peered round.

In the room beyond – if room were the word for it, it was more a passage – four men were playing cards. They sat cross-legged. All were Hindus, dhoti-clad, with white turbans which were little more than twisted rags. One man's was rucked up near the waist; he wore a belt, and a naked knife was thrust through that, the blade flat against a skinny dark thigh.

The light from three wicks in little red earthenware crucibles cast flickering shadows, giving a touch of the sinister to a scene which was in itself peaceful. The light seemed to get better the longer Mannering stayed there.

None of the four card-players was facing him; none would be able to see him at casual glance. All were nearly black-skinned, with incipient beards and moustaches, and all looked clean apart from their clothes. An old box stood on one side, with four small round trays with little metal bowls on them – their food dishes. There was a chipped china jug. Close to the walls were bundles – their bedding.

He moved a little further out, increasing the risk of being seen, but he had to see everything within range. He saw his gun on the floor by the side of the box. The men were intent on their game; he could picture the size of each little pile of annas and rupees.

He felt in all his pockets; he had nothing which might serve as a weapon. If only he could get at his gun. He peered round the corner again, to measure the distance between him and the nearest man.

It was about six yards.

He could cover that in a running leap – two or three strides, at most. If he could get off to a good start he could scatter them and reach the gun. They would have time to recover and get their knives, but, once he had the gun, knives wouldn't matter.

The exit was beyond them, beyond that void. If he were to pull this off, he must prevent any one of them from escaping.

He went back behind the wall and bent up and down, flexing the muscles of his legs, testing his ankles. They were a little painful, especially the right one, but not enough to impede him. The task now was to get into a position for the attack without being seen. When he stepped right out into the passage he would be visible to two of the men if they glanced away from their cards.

He waited until they had finished dealing. They spoke in muted whispers, seeming to say what they wanted to say by nods and shaking of the head. Mannering stepped forward.

None of them looked up.

He stood poised for a second. They wouldn't know that he was on his way until he actually moved. If he could put two of them out of action at the first rush it would double his chances.

He leapt.

They heard him as his feet touched the floor after the first jump. He saw their heads jerk up and round, but he was on them before they moved. He flung out his right hand and smashed it into the face of the nearest man, paused long enough to kick a second and caught him on the side of the face. Both men went over. Another was on his feet, crouching, hand at his side, but he was too far away to strike with a single blow. Mannering reached the box and went down. He snatched the gun up, caught it firmly by the handle and swung round. A man was a yard away from him, knife upraised; the man slashed. Mannering felt his shirtsleeve rip.

He fired.

The shot roared out like a cannon, and the man pitched forward. The other, knife in hand, hesitated just too long. Mannering shot the knife out of his hand. It fell, glinting in the light.

The others, recovered, stood with their knives ready. The first man he had wounded lay still on the floor.

Mannering said: “Drop your knives.”

They didn't move, just stood crouching, wary, dangerous. Probably they didn't understand. He tried again.

“Drop your knives.”

They didn't move.

Mannering fired at the knife of the nearest man, hit and shattered the blade. The other man dropped his as if it burned him. They straightened up, fearfully, and the third joined them. They were in a line in front of him. He said: “Turn round.”

One spoke – in Hindi, or another language Mannering didn't understand.

Mannering raised his left hand, pointed downwards, and made a circular motion; they caught on quickly and spun round, facing a wall. He went forward, used his foot, kicked each man lightly behind the knees. They went down like puppets.

He had to go back to Phiroshah.

The three men lay with the uncanny stillness of Orientals, but Mannering could not be sure that they wouldn't jump up again.

He was wasting time.

He cracked each one behind the ear with the butt of his gun; they wouldn't spring up for a while. He stripped one man of his dhoti; there were yards of muslin in it, dirty and bedraggled. He tore it into strips, twisted one strip and bound the first man, used other strips for the remaining pair. He tore one strip into smaller pieces and stuffed them into the men's mouths.

Only the wounded man was free.

Mannering went across to him. He was unconscious, and the wound was high in the chest – too high, probably, for lung or heart. He tied the man's legs, loosely but in a way that would be difficult to undo, and did the same to his hands. Standing upright, the top of his head brushed the roof of the passage.

He went back towards the corner, stopped and picked up one of the lamps. The gentle light showed Phiroshah, still unconscious. Mannering lifted him gently and carried him to the other lights.

Phiroshah had a nasty knife wound in the temple and bruises on the back of his head, but he wasn't fatally injured – unless he were too old to stand the shock. Mannering wrapped his coat round him more closely, then lifted him again. He was able to pick up one of the crucibles in his left hand, and keep the gun in his right, with Phiroshah over his shoulder. He walked away from the now silent card-players, and seemed to walk for hundreds of yards. Then he saw the sky, the stars.

He laid Phiroshah down and crept forward; this was the entrance, and there would probably be a guard. He reached the gap at the end of the passage which was really a tunnel. He peered about him, but saw no shapes, nothing to suggest that anyone else was there. He ventured out a few paces. Nothing happened. He went back to the entrance, and peered out cautiously.

No one appeared.

Mannering went back for Phiroshah, lifted him and, with the old man over his shoulder, gun in hand and the light of the stars to guide him, stepped out of the tunnel. There were thick bushes and trees and, way above his head, the still, spectral heads of coconut palms. It was warm; not hot, but warm enough to bring the perspiration oozing out. He missed his footing once or twice, then came to a gap in the bushes.

He went through it.

As he saw a stretch of water, surface unruffled but peppered with the reflections of the stars, he also saw a man squatting at the water's edge.