The Hidden Target (37 page)

She went back to unpacking: nothing inside her canvas bag that she needed except a thin scarf to cover the bare neckline of the low-cut dress. She began changing her clothes. It was almost two o’clock. Jim Kiley had already left. (He was collecting mail and money—he expected both at the American Express office. He was sorry, terribly sorry, but after that he had an important interview with a local politician—set up for him by Gopal, the guide who had met the camper at the Indian frontier and was still with them. But he would be back by late afternoon and this evening they’d go but to dinner and see the town, and wouldn’t Nina like that?) Tony Shawfield was absent, too; he was attending the camper at some garage over the other side of the city. The camper was in bad shape, Jim had told her to excuse their strange arrival in Bombay. Tony would probably have to sell it—if he got a good price for it.

Strange arrival... Surely Madge must have noticed it. “Wasn’t it odd this morning—” began Nina. “Madge,
please
don’t fall asleep. I have to talk with you.”

Madge roused herself. “It’s so hot. Don’t you feel it?”

“Yes. But I have to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“About our arrival this morning.”

“Well we got here, didn’t we?”

“Four days late. And after spending one day in a village right outside Bombay. Why didn’t we drive in yesterday? Why did we wait for this morning at six o’clock, and stop at a restaurant on the edge of the city for breakfast, and not have breakfast?” They had left the camper outside the small restaurant, with Tony staying inside it—well inside it; hadn’t he wanted to be seen?—and then walked through a front room into a courtyard. Jim Kiley hadn’t liked the look of either place so he had led them through the courtyard’s back gate, out into another street, where two Fiats were waiting. And that way they had driven southward to follow a wide curving bay and crossed handsome streets with skyscrapers and new buildings; and old buildings; and older buildings sardine-packed on narrowing and still more crowded thoroughfares.

“We got breakfast here,” Madge reminded her. “Stop grumbling, Nina!” She went back to her travel diary.

“What about the camper? Tony is thinking of selling it. Madge—please listen. Tony is selling the camper. How do you travel then?”

“Tony is going to put the money he gets for it into our expenses. A plane across the Pacific makes more sense than a set of wheels.” Madge giggled faintly at the idea of a camper with water wings.

“And before you reach the Pacific?”

“We’ll go on a freighter and stop off at all kinds of interesting places.” Madge’s patience ended. “Ask Tony. He can tell you all about it.”

“Where is he? Or is he spending all day at the garage?”

“Making travel arrangements. He will be here soon—no later than three o’clock. He’s taking me up to Nehru Park. We passed it this morning, remember?” Madge giggled again. “Did you see that marina?”

Nina was wasting no more time. She pulled on her dress, combed her hair again, fastened her earrings in place, picked up her scarf and shoulder bag. Then she remembered her toothbrush, almost laughed as she found it and her precious cake of soap, and added them to her bag.

“The one that Tony pointed out to us? ‘Swimming Baths and Sailboat Club.’” Then Nina’s change of clothes at last caught Madge’s attention. She sat up on the bed, said slowly, “And where are you going, Nina O’Connell?”

“Away. Will you come with me? Last chance, Madge.”

“Leaving—actually leaving? Where will you go?”

“I’ll manage. I managed in Greece. And I have friends—” Nina halted. “Just get yourself together. And be quick! Leave everything except your shoulder bag.
And
your passport.”

“Nina!”

“While you get ready, I’ll have a word with Shahna—is that her name?” The girl, no more than twelve years old, was sitting on the veranda just outside their room door. “Our little watchdog,” Nina added. “But she does speak English, and she can get us to a telephone. Madge—please hurry. I can’t leave you alone here.”

“I am not alone. And I’m not leaving.” Madge’s face was set. “Do you think I’d give up this trip? Easy for you—you’ll just cash a few cheques and travel where and when you like.”

Nina reached the door, hesitated. “Madge—”

“No.” The word was definite. Madge’s head was bent over her diary.

Nina stepped outside. Shahna looked up at her with a shy smile, and rose to her feet, shaking her long cotton skirt free from the veranda’s dust. She was slender-boned and fine-featured, a smooth little face with large dark eyes faintly shadowed. Her gleaming black hair was brushed tightly off her brow, caught into a heavy plait. Small gold studs of pinhead size decorated two pierced ears and one nostril. Nina said, “I don’t see Gopal. Where is he?”

“He left. He will come later.”

Good. “Has the Englishman arrived? Mr. Shawfield?”

Shahna shook her head.

Good again. “I need to telephone. Is there a place near here where I can find a ’phone?” If there was one in this house, which was doubtful, Nina had decided to avoid it. Gopal had recommended this place, and his relatives and friends were all around. Even now, eight men of various ages—some old, some mere boys—were sitting in the shaded side of the courtyard, talking, as they had done all morning. The women were out of sight, but audible even at this distance from the kitchen on the ground floor: voices drifted up along with the lingering smells of cooked spices. Not a word was understandable to Nina—among themselves, the clan of closely knit families who occupied this collection of rooms spoke Maharathi. English was kept, so Kiley had said, as a kind of lingua franca, useful for other Indians in Bombay who spoke quite different languages. Lucky for me, thought Nina as she waited patiently for Shahna’s reply: lucky, too, that all the shops and street signs she had seen on the drive through the city this morning had been in English. She drew out her wallet, selected one rupee but held it in her hand.

Shahna began walking along the veranda, lithe and graceful. She kept close to the house wall, as far from the railing as possible. But with its overhanging laundry, it would be difficult for anyone in the courtyard—if he could spare a moment from talking—to see what was happening on the third-floor veranda. At the narrow staircase, Nina stopped, looked back. Madge had come to their room door. Nina beckoned. Madge shook her head. But she waved. Nina waved, too, and with a lighter heart she followed Shahna down the enclosed staircase. They reached the entrance to the courtyard and turned towards the street.

Hot, narrow, bustling with traffic, filled with people. Nina halted in dismay.

“This way. It is near,” Shahna said. She looked at Nina’s dress, touched it lightly with her thin fingers. “Pretty.”

“Are there taxis?” Nina could see none. Plenty of cars, a bus, trucks, small carts. She began walking quickly.

Shahna shrugged. “Sometimes from the pier.” She gestured vaguely along the street. “Ballard Pier. Very big. Very nice ships.”

“How far is it to the waterfront where the big hotels are?”

“What hotel?” Shahna’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll come, too. I’ll show you.”

“In what direction are they?”

“Back there.” Shahna pointed behind them.

“How far? One mile, two miles?”

“Two miles, maybe three.” She was charmingly vague.

She’s probably never been there, thought Nina. So how do I calculate how long it takes to walk from here to the Malabar Hotel?

Shahna stopped, pointed to a wide doorway.

“A money exchange?” The room inside was cavernous, without windows, dependent on light from its wall opening on to the street. Nina hesitated.

“Much business. Sailors come here from ships. It has a telephone.”

I bet it has, thought Nina, which is more than can be said for that side street we have just passed: a local market of crowded stalls with strips of canvas overhead and a mass of people moving around. “Thank you, Shahna.” Tactfully, she slipped the rupee into the delicate little hand. “Now you must go back.” The girl looked at her reproachfully. “Thank you,” Nina said again.

The decision was made for them both by the man standing at the side of the door. He was young, alert, and much on guard. He raised his voice to Shahna, lifted the back of his hand: clear out, he must have, said; no beggars allowed here. Shahna was accustomed to this apparently, for she retreated quickly out of his reach, gave Nina a bright smile to retrieve her dignity, and walked away with her hips swinging and her head held high. The man nodded to Nina, stood politely out of her path.

Nina halted at the threshold. The place was bare and clean, its one counter securely caged, a man behind it, two customers with red perspiring faces, fair hair, and bright Hawaiian shirts. Three other men—one a venerable figure in white tunic and narrow trousers; two young and strong, dressed like the guard at the door in European clothes—sat along the opposite wall. And there was the telephone, strangely encased in a plexi-glass stall—privacy?—only four paces away from the door. She looked at the old man, who scarcely seemed to have noticed her. “May I use your telephone?” Everyone lost interest in her, except the two sailors.

“How much?” Nina asked.

One of the younger men rose, came forward, saying in excellent English, “Twelve rupees! You pay me, and I shall dial your number.”

“Five rupees. It is a local call. And short.”

“Eight rupees.” The tone of voice was polite; the smooth face—fine-boned, light-skinned—broke into a persuasive smile.

“Five rupees.” Nina was definite. There was a slight pause. She shrugged, looked towards the street, seemed about to leave.

“Five,” he agreed, and held out his hand. He had a handsome wrist watch, a heavy gold ring. Like the other young men, he wore a cream silk shirt and well-cut gaberdine trousers. “The number?”

“I can manage.” Nina gave him five rupees and stepped into the plexi-glass enclosure—no door, just two transparent side walls. The telephone was a dial model, much the same as she had used in London. The young man stood close, perhaps curious to see the number or hear her conversation. There was nothing she could do about that, except turn her back to him, try to hide the dial from his interested eyes, and keep her voice low. For one blank moment she almost forgot the figures she had memorised; and then, her nervous fingers began turning them in careful sequence. A distant voice said, “Malabar Gift Shop.”

I have the wrong number, she thought. “Mr. A.K. Roy?” she tried timidly. Oh, God, I’ve got the wrong number—what now?

“Who is speaking?” The voice was clearer. “Who is there?”

“Pierre?” In her overpowering relief, she was almost incoherent. “Nina. I’m near the Ballard Pier. I think. I’ll need perhaps an hour to reach you.”

“I’ll come and get you.”

“No. Not here. I can’t wait here. It’s a money-changing place. And the street outside—impossible.”

“Then meet me in the hotel’s bookstore. It is in the arcade— next to the gift shop.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am now. I’ll see you—” she consulted her watch—“at half-past three. Perhaps later. I can’t judge.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll wait. Your old friend is in Bombay—the Courtyard of the Janissaries—remember? He’ll be glad to see you again.”

Bob Renwick? She said, her voice suddenly unsteady, “I’ll be more than glad.” She hung up the receiver.

The young man stopped lounging against the plexi-glass partition, followed her to the door. “The streets are very crowded. It is very difficult to walk alone.” He was summing up her dress, the silk scarf that covered her shoulders, her earrings. But most of all, it was her manner that impressed him: she did not belong in this quarter. “Too many beggars ready to follow you. They give no peace. Perhaps you should take a taxi.”

“Is there one?” Nina glanced along the street.

“My cousin’s car is there.” He pointed to a vintage Chevrolet standing by the kerb just ahead of them.

“How much?”

“To where?”

“Oh—” she floundered a little, recovered enough to say— “to the waterfront near the big hotels.”

“Which hotel? There are several of them.”

“How much?”

“Twenty rupees.”

“What?” She was scandalised. “Impossible.” She began walking.

He caught up with her. “Fifteen.”

“Twelve.”

“The price of petrol is high,” he said sadly.

“Twelve,” she repeated. “Not twenty, not fifteen. Twelve.”

With his gentle smile, he led the way to the Chevrolet. His cousin could have been his twin, but he spoke little English. The two of them had a quick conversation, unintelligible to Nina.

It was a long long street lying ahead of her, and how many other long streets after that? “It’s a short distance,” she said, trying to appear as if she knew her way around Bombay.

“If you would pay me now,” her mentor suggested.

First, she got into the car, making sure it wouldn’t drive away without her. Then she counted out the last of her rupees. He accepted them gracefully, handed over three of them to his cousin, and bade her a polite good-day. Now I know, she thought as she nodded her thanks, why the cousin wears a cotton sports shirt and a cheap wrist watch. It was a wild ride, and speedy. She reached the approach to the Malabar International Hotel with fully thirty minutes to spare.

She entered the vast lobby and was greeted by ice-cold air. Shimmering lights cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, marble floors and walls gleamed, trees—twice her height—had ornamental shapes to match the flowers around their feet. People everywhere; and from everywhere: many well-fed and well-groomed Indians, Japanese, Singapore Chinese, all in well-tailored business suits. Europeans and Americans were noticeable by less expensive clothes—sports shirts and linen jackets. Their women in limp drip-dry dresses were quite silenced by the bright-coloured saris that floated past them.

Nina recovered, looked around for the arcade. It must beat the other end of the lobby, perhaps at the back of this incredible palace. But she saw a large travel desk, a counter where Thomas Cook and American Express had staked their claims. She’d have time to cash one of her cheques; then she’d stop being destitute. It had been a horrible feeling, all through the journey here, to realise she had nothing spendable in her wallet. At least I’ll be able to visit the powder room, she thought as she took her place at the counter. And I’ll find out where the arcade is, and I can buy a paper or a magazine in the bookstore if I have to wait for Pierre. Her fear and terrors were leaving her. She began to feel normal again.