‘Hyderabad’, said Fleming, ‘is an Indian city. I think you mean a hamadryad.’
‘Sorry, yes. A king cobra. Then, I think on Monday 23 April, a sawscale viper killed Walter Gill, an American tourist, at Bally, seven miles out from Howrah. On the same day, a common krait killed a Colonel Kerry at Khana.’
I hesitated. All the Ks made it ridiculous. Fleming was looking at his watch.
‘Khana is seventy miles out from Howrah,’ I continued. ‘On Thursday 26 April, some men of Blakeborough hydraulic engineers beat to death another krait near Moghalsarai, about three hundred miles out. On Sunday 29 April Douglas Poole, employee of the Railway, was given a glancing bite by an Indian cobra at Ondal, two stops before Asansol. He was unharmed. On Tuesday 1 May a sawscale viper was apparently found in a first class compartment of an East Bengal train departing Sealdah station for Siliguri. Nobody was harmed, and it was removed from the train.’
Fleming frowned. ‘That one wasn’t reported.’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘it wasn’t. Yesterday a fellow called Biswas, a lawyer travelling on Railway business, was bitten at Rannegunge, one stop before Asansol, by a Russell’s viper. All but one of these attacks occurred in first class carriages of the East Indian Railway, on trains departing from Howrah, and I was wondering whether the attacker might have a grievance against the Railway, perhaps arising from his own employment on the Railway. Perhaps he was – or is – in the traffic department. He would then know something about where the trains are stabled at Howrah, and where they are going to, and he himself would have a first class pass that would allow him to board the right parts of the trains at any time and place anywhere along the line.’
Hedley Fleming hesitated for a moment. Then he said, ‘Is the man Poole in the traffic department?’
I nodded.
‘Are you saying he was bitten by a snake that he himself had taken on to the train?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘From what you’ve said, I don’t think there would have been any need for anyone to go along the line. All the snakes on the East Indian could have been put on at Howrah. ’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘The biggest snake, the king cobra, was discovered immediately, at Howrah itself. Well, that’s no surprise. A snake of that size couldn’t remain concealed for long. The sawscale viper is an aggressive character, and so it attacked early, at Bally, just a few miles out. You say it was a sawscale that was found on the East Bengal, and it was discovered at the originating station there as well. But to go back to the East Indian, the snake coming to light at the furthest distance, at . . .’
‘At Moghalsarai.’
He nodded. ‘That was a krait, a relatively small snake, which might easily remain undiscovered for hours if tucked away beneath a seat. And there was another krait, you say?’
‘That struck at seventy miles out – at Khana.’
‘Even so, that’s after a good distance. The Russell’s viper would bide its time as well, and it struck towards Asansol, again after a good while.’
‘But what about the ordinary cobra? That bit Poole at Ondal, just two stops before Asansol – so more than a hundred miles out.’
Professor Hedley Fleming shrugged. ‘That is perhaps slightly anomalous. I might have expected an Indian cobra to strike before then if put on at Howrah.’
‘So it could have been put on later, at a stop after Howrah?’
‘All the snakes discovered after Howrah could have been put on after Howrah; I’m only saying they might not have been.’
He was rising from his seat. My time was up. He was no doubt relieved to see me putting the list of snake casualties back into my pocket book, and he was no doubt annoyed to see me take out another paper. It was the scrawled map showing the location of the head snake man. I handed it over to Fleming, saying, ‘I believe that a man operating from this spot is selling poisonous – I mean venomous snakes.’
‘Selling them to whom?’ he asked, returning the map.
‘The general public.’
‘Well, why don’t you go and question him, Captain Stringer?’
‘He’s not there at the moment. He’s somewhere up country, no doubt collecting the snakes. He’ll be back next week, and I’m going to turn up on his doorstep then – if he’s got a doorstep.’
‘Good luck to you,’ said Hedley Fleming. ‘Although I must say there’s no reason to go outside Calcutta in order to turn up snakes.’
I had hoped to trigger some reaction by my mention of the snake man, but all I got was the glint of Fleming’s glasses. Before closing the door on me, however, he asked, ‘When are you going to pay your call?’
‘Monday,’ I said. ‘Three-four o’clock.’
‘What?’
‘Between three and four o’clock.’
I had put my cards on the table, in hopes that Fleming would do likewise. He eyed me as he closed the door. By all appearances, he’d gone back to thinking me an idiot, if indeed he had ever stopped thinking this.
I was escorted some of the way towards the gates of the zoo by Hedley Fleming’s Indian assistant. As before, he was more or less silent, and when I asked, ‘Was Professor Fleming at Oxford or Cambridge?’ he confined himself to one word: ‘Cambridge.’ When I pushed my luck by asking, ‘What college?’ he gave a shrug. As we closed on the main gate of the zoo, we passed a giant birdcage, with two giant birds inside it. A small man stood before the cage, watching the birds, but I could only see his back. A tonga waited conveniently at the gate. As I climbed up, I looked again towards the birdcage, and the small man was still there, but half turned away. He appeared to be lifting a hip flask to his lips, and taking a drink. As the tonga rattled away, the suspicion grew on me that the fellow might have been Dougie Poole.
I rode the tonga back towards the middle of town, watching the sun crash down over the maidan, and thinking of the wife. Had she telephoned or wired to the hotel? I would not bother to check. I would not be beholden in that way – not after what she might have done. But I would be told anyhow if she had left a message.
I alighted from the tonga at Dalhousie Square. Should I try Dr Ganguly again? His premises were only a short walk away. But I was too exhausted, and I decided to walk straight back to the hotel. My way took me past a row of grey-haired Indians who conducted office work on the pavement. They sat on folding chairs at folding tables, typewriting away. They would compose and type letters for you; or read the letters that were sent to you. There were half a dozen of them, and they all wore spectacles, and they were all typing all the time . . . but only in the evenings, since they very sensibly avoided the heat of the day. Everyone knew the service they provided, but one of them advertised an additional skill, for a pasteboard sign propped in front of his typewriter paraded the famous phrase ‘Convert to English’.
I positioned myself before him. I removed my sola topee and mopped my brow. The man was typing like a maniac. If he was impressed at having a rare European client he certainly did not show it; in fact, he put his head down and redoubled his typing speed. Another Indian came up to me. It appeared that he was a sort of secretary or agent for the typists.
He said, ‘What is it you want, sahib? This man is busy.’
‘Conversion to English,’ I said, holding up the two crumpled papers I had taken from Detective Inspector Khan’s unburnt fire. I passed them to the man, and he turned away from me while reading them. The fellow then began walking fast away from me. ‘Hold on a minute!’ I called out, walking after him, but he was only going to the end of the line of outdoor clerks, where he spoke to another individual who was connected to the enterprise but not typing. He then turned back to me.
‘These wrong men,’ he said, indicating all the typists. ‘Come here tomorrow.’
He handed back the papers.
I asked, ‘Are they not written in Bengali?’
He shook his head.
‘Not Hindustani?’
He shook his head again. �
��Tomorrow you will see.’
On returning to the hotel, I was given no message to say Lydia had got in touch. I had an iced bath, and then went out into the terrace, where I drank a bottle of Beck’s beer and smoked a cigarette. I then walked back to the reception and asked whether Mrs Stringer had left word. No, nothing from the memsahib. I went back the terrace, and ordered another beer while looking out over the road. Having crashed down on to the maidan, King Sol was now bleeding all over it.
Chapter Twelve
I
I was in the police office at seven the next morning, which was the morning of Friday 11 May. The heat had started an hour before. Lydia had left no message at the hotel overnight. On my way to Fairlie Place, I had passed the plaque announcing Dr Ganguly, but it was too early for him, and in fact the exterior door was closed, the first time I had seen it so.
Lydia had left no message at Fairlie Place either, and there was no sign of Bennett or Jogendra at the office, but the latter had left on my desk some piles of documents relating to the affairs of the Company in September 1919, towards the end of which month a king cobra and a Russell’s viper had been placed on its trains. A bearer brought me jam on toast and tea thick with sugar and condensed milk; I put on my spectacles and began to read.
At eight, I moved to the opposite side of the table, because the sun raying through the window was beginning to dazzle, and the blind was broken. At half after eight, Jogendra came in with some more boxes.
‘Much obliged to you Babu-ji,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier.’
Each flimsy paper that I picked up fluttered under the revolving fan, as though panic stricken at what it might disclose, but after two and a half hours I was starting to think I was wasting my time. I had read of the doubling of certain tracks, and the temporary implementation of single-line working on others, because it was a time of big expansions; I read of a new batch of tank engines released from the workshops at Jamalpur, which had taken on more apprentices than ever in the previous year. No new light was thrown on the snakes of September 1919.
There was a lot on the social side, as disclosed by that month’s edition of the East Indian Railway Magazine. September seemed to be the season of weddings within the Company, and not only in Calcutta but at the out-stations along the line also. There seemed numerous instances of accounts clerks or permanent way inspectors marrying the daughters of engine drivers or signalmen. ‘. . . Dancing was indulged in to the strains of excellent music supplied by Starlight Juvenile Jazz Orchestra . . . After the reception the happy couple left by train for their honeymoon.’ There was always dancing, the couple was always happy, and they always left by train, of course. These would mainly be Anglo-Indian weddings. You could tell by phrases such as ‘The reception was held at the Railway Institute’, or ‘Many European staff members attended.’ That would have been taken for granted, and would not have needed stating, in the case of a European wedding.
With many men returning from the war there was also the biggest programme of sports yet seen, and page after page in the magazine was given over to the Company’s Annual Sports on the maidan, probably because, being a mixed event with all pay grades and all races represented, this gave an impression of harmony within the Company. I read not only of long jump, high jump and all the running races, but even of events down to ladies’ throwing the cricket ball, hoop bowling, obstacle race, potato race, egg-and-spoon race, three-legged race, open bicycle slow race.
‘An event which caused endless amusement’, I read, ‘was the Invalids’ Race won by A. Tweedie and Mrs P. Turner.’ ‘Another event which evoked great fun’, I read, ‘was the bun-and-treacle race for boys, the winner of this event being loudly cheered as he reached the tape half blinded with treacle and pieces of bun sticking all over his face.’ There seemed a determination on everyone’s part to put the war behind them by means of dances, comic sketches, tennis-at-homes, whist drives, or fancy-dress balls. (‘Mr West won the prize for most original. He went as “the House that Jack Built”.’)
I turned to a thin volume that Jogendra had presented. It was entitled The East Indian Railway: A Short History of the Line, and it was by ‘P. T. Wallace C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., and Friends’. It began, ‘The history is not encompassed in its entirety, of course . . .’ It certainly was not. Even with the assistance of his friends, P. T. Wallace had produced little more than a pamphlet. Jogendra had marked a certain page. I read fast down it:
It would hardly have been natural if the long strain of the war had not affected the Superior Staff in ways which worked very greatly to their disadvantage . . . But it must have been apparent to those in authority that disaffection was brewing. The cost of living had risen enormously. This was happening all over the world, but it struck one more in India than in England . . . The price of necessities, and the cost of servants, beer, whisky and food of all kinds seemed to have doubled . . .
In 1919, the position reached a climax. A large number of Supervising Staff entrusted to one of their number the formulation of a memorandum to the Directors praying for an improvement in their salaries and conditions of service. In the whole history of the E.I.R. nothing like this had ever before happened: a petition from the officers was unheard of, without precedent, and this is partly why I talk of a ‘climax’.
The precipitating cause was undoubtedly the war. Those Officials had taken leave to serve in the army had found themselves returning to pay grades that were – de jure or de facto – lower than those obtaining beforehand, with commensurately lower gratuities to be expected on retirement . . . The tale cannot be pursued. The matter is, as the time of writing, in abeyance pending the deliberations of the Directors.
The book, I saw, had been produced in 1919, evidently late in the year.
I looked at my watch. I could not sit here all day. I collected up some of the more promising-looking papers, and put them inside the pages of the East Indian Railway Magazine, making a neat bundle that I thrust into my suit-coat pocket. It was time to pay a second call on Dr Ganguly at Old Court House Corner. On my way there I called in at the hotel. There was no message from Lydia.
II
On the dark staircase, the door of Miss Hatsuyo was firmly closed, and no sounds came from within. The same went for the door of Dr Ganguly, but this door was opened at my second knock by a green-eyed nurse who might have been Anglo-Indian. She admitted me to a room that was long and thin, like a railway carriage. It was very brightly coloured because of the jumble of posters on the two long walls. At one end, a wide window looked down on to Old Court House Corner. The other end of the room was screened off by a pretty curtain of green and red stripes. The doctor must be behind there, and if he were behind there, then that would make three of us in the room, since no patients waited on the rows of chairs lining the two long walls.
The green-eyed nurse ushered me over to one of the chairs, and sat down next to me in a companionable way. She turned towards me with a pleasant rustling of her white cotton uniform, and in good English she asked me why I wanted to see the doctor. I said I was a policeman and would like to ask him some questions in connection with an investigation I was conducting. I showed her my warrant card. She took this in her stride, as I believe she would have taken almost anything in her stride. She walked towards the curtain, and I experienced a sad enjoyment in watching her do so. As she went behind the curtain, I thought of Miss Hatsuyo and I thought of Lydia. From behind the curtain came the sound of a door opening and closing. So these premises must be bigger than I thought. I looked at the posters. ‘Chiefly for Mothers: Robinson’s Patent Barley.’ The stuff was bright yellow in the glass the woman was drinking from. ‘Ensure a Robust Constitution: start a course of Dr Hornby’s Number 9 Pills.’ The man who’d done so had a very pink face, and he was contemplating a multi-coloured sunrise.
The curtain parted, and the doctor came out. He was older, taller and thinner than I had expected, with sparse and disordered grey hair. He was very well dressed though, and wore a bo
w tie under his white coat. I had no doubt that the colourful posters would cease once one got behind the curtain: there, all would be scientific and serious, but I would never find out for certain, because the doctor sat down next to me in the same companionable way as the nurse had. He took out a silver cigarette case and offered it to me. He had a very languid manner, and he spoke in a drawling way. He lit our cigarettes, saying, ‘You are from the East Indian Railway Police, whereas the other man was from the criminal investigation department of the civil police.’
‘Detective Inspector Khan,’ I said, trying not to make a question of it.
‘But you two are co-operating, presumably.’
‘Yes,’ I said, after a while.
‘You don’t seem very sure of that,’ said Dr Ganguly.
I said, ‘Did you book a ticket on the Jamalpur Night Mail of 23 April, and then cancel the booking?’
‘No,’ said Dr Ganguly, blowing smoke, and watching the smoke that he had blown. ‘I neither booked nor cancelled. That must have been the other R. P. N. Ganguly, the fellow Khan asked me about two months ago . . . Just in case you didn’t know.’
‘I—’
‘Khan did not seem to me the type who would share his hard-won information very readily. A good man, no doubt, but costive.’
Ganguly withdrew two newspaper cuttings from his pocket, saying, ‘I had these from the offices of The Statesman. I didn’t see them when they originally appeared.’
The cuttings were both small, and the dates were marked on them in handwriting. The first was from February of the present year, the second from March. The first was headed ‘Alleged Seditious Speech’. I read:
Night Train to Jamalpur Page 24
