by Ellis Peters
Anjli Kumar, quite certainly, was still alive to be salvaged.
The Delhi headquarters of the Native Indian Agricultural Mission lay in Old Delhi, not far from the crowded precincts of the Sadar Bazaar. They had half-expected a gracious three-acre enclosure somewhere in a quiet part, with green lawns and shady buildings; instead, the car wound and butted its way between the goats and tongas and bicycles and children of the thronging back streets, and into a small, crowded yard surrounded by crude but solid wooden huts. In a minute, bare office two young men conferred over a table covered with papers, and at the other end of the table a girl in shalwar and kameez typed furiously on an ancient, spidery machine that stood a foot high from the board. All three looked up briefly and smiled, and then went on passionately with what they were doing. In an inner room, creamy-white, a brass coffee-table and folding canvas chairs provided accommodation for guests, and a cushioned bench against the wall offered room for the hosts to sit cross-legged. A litter of pamphlets and newspapers lay on the table, and all the rest of the walls were hidden behind bookshelves overflowing with books.
The girl from the typewriter brought coffee when she had finished her page, and the Swami sat, European-style, round the table with them. And presently the driver came in silently and seated himself Indian-fashion at the end of the bench, respectfully withdrawn but completely at his ease, drinking his coffee from a clean but cracked mug, and watching the group round the table with intelligent black eyes and restrained but unconcealed curiosity. He had shed his sandals on the threshold; his slim brown feet tucked themselves under him supply, and the hands upturned in his lap, nursing the mug of coffee, were large and sensitive and strong. The Swami did not hesitate to refer to him when he wanted another opinion, or confirmation of a recollection.
‘Girish will recall when last Satyavan visited me here. It is surely more than a year.’
‘It was in September of last year,’ Girish confirmed. His voice was quiet and low-pitched, and his English clear as his master’s. Unsmilingly he watched the Swami’s face.
‘I do not wish, of course, to take your responsibility from you. It was to you that the child was confided, and you best know her mother’s mind. You have told the police all that you can, and now you will consider, I know, what more you must do. But if you have anything to ask of me, at any time, I am here. We have a telephone, write down the number, and call me whenever you will.’
By that time he knew where they were to be found in Delhi, and all about them, even to the one thing they had not told the police. He sat mildly smiling, or even more mildly grave, and they told him things they had hardly realised they were thinking.
‘But that’s too fanciful,’ Tossa said doubtfully. ‘Dominic is musical, but I can’t believe he could simply recognise Raga Aheer Bhairab when he heard it… not after a single hearing.’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ Dominic objected warmly. ‘I never claimed I recognised Raga Aheer Bhairab, what I recognised was a straightforward folktune, a song Ashok himself said had to reach everybody at first hearing. And the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that’s just what it did. I bet somebody who had heard the Brahms Wiegenlied only once would know it again the next time.’
‘However, as you tell me, this film unit is now in Benares. And this man, the director…?’
‘Mr Felder,’ said Dominic.
‘He is, you say, an old friend of the girl’s mother, the friend to whom she turned when she wished someone to meet you on arrival. You would say that he has her confidence?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he has.’
‘In the absence of both parents, he might, perhaps, be the best adviser? But you will consider what you ought to do, and do it, and it is not for me to meddle. If I can provide any helpful information, I shall get in touch with you. And if you receive news of the child, I beg you will let me hear it, too.’
They thanked him and promised.
‘Girish will drive you back to your hotel.’
Dominic sat beside the taciturn chauffeur on the journey back to Keen’s, and studied the profile beside him curiously out of the corner of his eye. A hawk-like Punjabi profile, high-nosed, clear of line, with a proud, full, imperious mouth, and cheeks hollow beneath bold, jutting bones. When he smiled all his features flashed into brightness; but he smiled only once, when Tossa asked diffidently exactly what the Swami was, monk, priest, Brahmin or what.
‘The Swami is himself, what else can one say? He does not conform to any prescribed order, and he does not recognise caste. He does not do what is expected of him, or even what is required of him – he is too busy doing what he wants to do and what has to be done. I doubt if any group would dare to claim him – or care to own him,’ he added, more surprisingly.
‘And what does this Agricultural Mission of his do?’
‘Whatever it can to improve stock – but that’s an uphill struggle! – or bring in better methods of farming and cultivating. Through village co-operatives, small voluntary irrigation works, improved seed, local dairying schemes, new cropping methods – anything, wherever we can find the right material for the work. We try to make such village cooperatives self-supporting, and even self-reproducing. To be clear of debt is to attract envy. To show a profit is to stimulate imitation. We have some foundling farms, too, where the children who are left to fend for themselves by begging can do a small share of the work and get a fair share of the food. Even a seven-year-old is useful for some jobs.’
‘Seven…!’ Tossa drew breath incredulously. ‘But surely such young children… You mean you get them as young as that? Just drifting in, on their own?’
‘On their own,’ he agreed. The ancient Rolls turned majestically into the drive of Keen’s Hotel. ‘In our country, too,’ said Girish levelly, staring ahead between the high hedges, ‘there are neglected and forsaken children.’
They argued it out between them over a lunch for which neither of them had any appetite, and came to a decision. Even if they had not been gently prompted by the Swami they would probably have come to the same conclusion.
‘Even with the police in on it,’ said Dominic, summing up, ‘we’ve still got to face our own responsibility. We simply have to let someone know what’s happened. Kumar’s out of reach, and Dorette – let’s face it, what good would it be telephoning Dorette? All we’d get – all Anjli would get – would be hysterics. Dorette wouldn’t come out here to take charge herself, not with a film half-finished, and that’s the sober truth. And even if she did, she’d be no use at all. But there’s Felder. She turned to him when she needed somebody here, in a way he’s a sort of representative of Dorette. And he’s sensible, and knows his way about here. If he says we must call Dorette, then we’ll do it. But let’s at least consult him first.’
So he telephoned Clark’s hotel at Benares, and by luck the unit happened to be in for lunch. The sound of Felder’s vigorous voice over the line was cheering, and the promptness of his decisions bracing.
‘Now look, you hold it right there, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. We haven’t finished shooting, but this is an emergency, and they’ll just have to get along without me. There’s an afternoon flight, if I can get a seat on it. Don’t worry, the airlines office is right here in the hotel. You stay close to home, in case there are any messages, and I’ll come straight to you there.’
‘Messages?’ Dominic repeated, thinking hopefully of the police calling to tell him Anjli was already traced, and as good as found.
‘Well, they can’t get at him, if no one knows where he is, can they? And you’re the nearest available channel to Dorrie, aren’t you?’
Air travel comes into its own in India, where you can transport yourself at very reasonable cost from Calcutta to Gauhati, or Trivandrum to Madras, or even from Delhi to Srinagar across a minor range of the Himalayas, in roughly the time it takes to go from Birmingham to London by train. Thus it happened that Ernest Felder, having bluffed and persuaded his way into the la
st available seat on the afternoon plane from Benares, was in Keen’s Hotel by seven in the evening, his grey hair on end, his lined, easygoing face for once desperately grave. Over dinner, which by that time they all needed, he got them to tell him the whole story all over again, in detail, and with as much detachment as was possible in the circumstances. He didn’t exclaim, he didn’t swear, he simply listened with every nerve, helped out with a question here and there, and soothed them by the very fact of his large, zestful, intent presence and the degree of his concentration. If sheer compact energy could recover Anjli, she was as good as saved.
‘Now, let’s not get tangled with non-essentials. The facts are, someone went to a lot of trouble to get Dorrie’s girl. And there’s no reason on earth why such an elaborate plot should be laid to get her into the right place, except just plain money. Somebody knows her value. There’s a rupee millionaire of a father, and a film star mother. There’s money, and plenty of it. Right?’
They could not but agree.
‘So they now have to get in touch with all that money, in order to tap off as much of it as the traffic will stand. Right? And as we’ve said, the father is out of the picture… unless the kidnappers know more than we do. If they know how to get in touch with him, so much the better, that will bring him into the open, and we can all join forces. But if they don’t they’re going to be after Dorrie. But my guess would be, not directly. There are complications once you start sending messages of that kind across frontiers, from here to Europe – even if they know where to find her, and my guess is they may not, though pretty obviously they must know who and what she is. No, they’ll make their play in the safest and nearest direction. And that’s you! You represent Dorrie here, you’re Anjli’s temporary guardians. My bet is that you can expect instructions from whoever’s got Anjli, and pretty soon.’
‘Supposing there’s any choice,’ said Dominic firmly, ‘we can’t risk Anjli.’
‘No, I agree. Any instruction they give must be obeyed absolutely. We can’t take any chances with Dorrie’s kid. I wouldn’t with anybody’s kid, for that matter. What about this Cousin Vasudev you were talking about? You reckon they’re likely to contact him?… as kind of a tap for the family money? Family is a great thing here, they might well figure he’d pay out for her, supposing he has legal access now to the funds. Company or family. I don’t know how they’re fixed.’
Tossa and Dominic didn’t know, either. Their voices took on a certain reserve when they spoke of Cousin Vasudev.
‘Sure, I know! He stands to gain. But he could be on the level, too. And if he isn’t, it won’t do any harm to shake him up now and again, he might give something away. But whoever took the little girl knew all about that gold dollar, that’s what gets me. And this cousin of hers didn’t – or at least not from you, not until today…’
‘But he could have from Kishan Singh,’ Tossa pointed out. ‘We told him we’d come straight from there, he might very well question the house-boy afterwards, and Kishan Singh would tell a Kumar everything. From his point of view, why not?’
‘That’s true, that’s very true. Maybe a neighbour, even, could have overheard when she gave it to the old man. I don’t know, I just don’t know! All our bunch may have known all about it, from that time you telephoned for me and got Ashok, and gave him the whole story to hand on to me… but then, most of the bunch are away in Sarnath still, and have been since early the morning after you called, before Anjli was snatched.’
Dominic had laid down his fork with careful quietness. ‘Most?’ He met the blank, enquiring stare, and elaborated uneasily: ‘I thought you all were.’
‘Well, all the working unit, yes, and nearly all the players. Not Kamala, of course – Yashodhara doesn’t appear in the Deer Park scenes. This is where the sacred brotherhood line begins. No women on the scene for a while.’
‘I see.’ Dominic reflected that he should have taken time off, like Anjli, to read the book, and he might have been somewhat wiser in his assumptions. All the women left behind in Delhi! He thought for a moment, and asked without undue emphasis: ‘And Ashok?’
‘Ashok? In India you don’t ask an artist of that calibre to run around after you, you run after him. We show the rushes for Ashok, right here in Delhi, and he broods over them three or four times, and comes up with the music for the sound-track when he’s good and ready. Oh, yes, he likes to spend a good deal of time with us down at Hauz Khas, but that’s a bonus. He enjoys us. But not enough to go blundering about in Sarnath with us on the day’s grind.’
‘I see,’ said Dominic again, making more readjustments. But this picture of Ashok, on the face of it, removed him still farther from any possibility of participation in a sordid crime for gain. ‘I suppose he must be in the film star class himself, then?’
‘Just about. I know what you’re thinking of – this tune you heard the chap in the garden here whistling – but you don’t even know that it was the chap who brought the note, do you? And for goodness sake, some of the sweepers and drivers around the villas and the office could have heard Ashok playing that theme and picked it up. He meant it to be catchy. And believe me, he isn’t satisfied with one run through when he’s recording, not to mention all the practising beforehand. I shouldn’t worry too much about that. Even if you’re right about it!’ And plainly he was by no means convinced about that, and on the whole Dominic could hardly blame him. Nobody else had been convinced, either, not even Tossa.
‘Mind if I hang around with you this evening? Just in case anything happens?’
‘I wish you would!’
‘I shouldn’t have any peace if I left you to it,’ said Felder almost apologetically.
They adjourned to Dominic’s sitting-room, and waited the evening through; and no one got much rest, when it came to the point. The strain of waiting for something to happen is not conducive to conversation, and presently even monosyllables faded out. Eight o’clock passed, and nothing broke the tension. Nine o’clock, and still nothing. Half-past nine…
Felder shook his solid shoulders and sighed. ‘Nothing’s going to happen tonight, it seems. I wonder if they went for Vasudev and family loyalty, after all?’
And it was then that the telephone rang.
All three of them started wildly, as if a gun had been fired; all three of them came to their feet, staring at the instrument, even reaching out for it, half afraid to take the plunge. Dominic looked up over the white handset at Felder.
‘Yes,’ said Felder rapidly, ‘you take it. Hold it till I open the door, then answer it, and if it is – give me the sign, and I’ll slip down to the switchboard and see if it can be traced. And – listen! – if it is, talk back, hold him as long as you can, give us a chance. And don’t miss a word he says!’
He took a couple of quick strides backwards and opened the door of the room. Dominic lifted the receiver.
‘Hullo… Dominic Felse here.’
‘You are the gentleman who has lost some valuables,’ said a high, strident, clacking voice in his ear. ‘I have them, they can be recovered.’
Dominic’s mouth was suddenly so dry that for a minute he could not make any answer. He nodded strenuously at Felder across the room, and the big man slid noiselessly through the door he was holding open, and drew it to after him, releasing the latch slowly so that it made not a sound. In the telephone the voice crackled impatiently: ‘I know you hear me. You want your lost property back. I can provide. Of course at a proper price.’ An old voice, he thought, or at least elderly; its tone cracked when it was raised, it had no body in it, and no juice. On first bearing, either male or female; but he thought, male. He moistened his lips feverishly, and instinctively began to waste time.
‘Who is that? Are you sure you’re on the right number? This is Felse speaking, you wanted me?’
‘It is you who want me, my friend,’ said the voice, and cackled painfully in his eardrum. ‘If you want Miss Kumar, that is.’
‘How do I know you really have
any information about Miss Kumar? Where are you speaking from? Who are you? How do you know anything about it?’
‘That is very well put, how do I know! How could I know, except that I have her? Oh, she is safe, quite safe. You want proof? Miss Kumar has American passport…’ Horrifyingly the old voice rattled off its number, the place of its issuing, the personal details of her description, and giggled unnervingly at the blank silence that ensued. ‘You can have this lady back for two hundred thousand rupees – cash.’
‘But that’s impossible… you must allow us time, at least, how can we command cash at short notice…?’ Dominic protested, feeling round the apparently empty recesses of his mind for any prevarication he could find, anything to keep the man talking; while at the same time he struggled to record every word that was said. ‘I don’t believe you have her. You could have found her handbag, or stolen it, and got hold of the passport that way. If she’s there, let her speak to me, and I’ll believe…’
The voice cut him off sharply. ‘Listen, if you want her! You get that two hundred thousand rupees, you get it in mixed notes and put it into a cheap black school bag. And on Sunday afternoon at two o’clock…’
‘Sunday?’ gasped Dominic in utter dismay. ‘But that’s only two days! How can we…’
‘… on Sunday, I say, you go, you and the woman also, to the Birla Temple. You leave your shoes with the lame boy who sits at the foot of the steps, on the right, and with your shoes the case with the money. Then you go into the temple and stay within for half an hour, not one minute less. Do not try to keep watch on your shoes, do not say one word to the police, or anyone else, if you want to see the girl again. Put on your shoes and go back to your hotel. On Sunday evening I call you again and we arrange about the child. If you have done as you are told.’
