The Baron Goes East

by John Creasey

  Mannering said: “The Maharajah didn’t approach me.”

  “My friend, he wrote to you!”

  “I didn’t get a letter.”

  “You can be sure he wrote. I was puzzled when you didn’t answer.” Phiroshah paused, then went on softly: “The letter was intercepted, then, by someone who wanted to prevent you from coming.”

  “Who knew that he had written to me?” Mannering asked.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MANNERING PLANS

  Phiroshah walked towards the window and looked out. Excitement glowed in his eyes, the excitement of hope. It was a long time before he answered and then he seemed to speak to himself.

  “His son and his secretary knew.”

  “A European?”

  “No. An Indian.”

  “No one else.”

  “No one who should have known,” said Phiroshah. “Is it possible, Mannering? That the letter was never sent?”

  “Probable.”

  “You will admit that I was right in wanting you here.”

  Mannering smiled. “I’m not complaining, although I’ve been given plenty of notice that I’m not wanted. I had ‘Don’t go’ notes in London and on the aeroplane, and ‘Go back’ notes when I reached here.”

  Phiroshah asked softly: “How frightened they are of you!”

  “Or how careful.” Mannering lit another cigarette. “Do you know a bookseller named Patandi?”

  “I know of him, yes. He is a rogue.”

  “He had my brief-case,” said Mannering, and explained. Phiroshah listened without expression, but anger soon sparked in his eyes.

  “You handled that situation well. Patandi is a rogue, and can be bought by anyone’s money. We must try to find out who paid him for this. He is a coward, also, and might yield under pressure.”

  “Not yet,” said Mannering. “And if he’ll take anyone’s money, he’ll take mine.”

  “Mine,” corrected Phiroshah. “Now, Mannering, what do you think of this? Are you glad you came?”

  “I’m warming up,” said Mannering. He looked quite detached as he finished his whisky and soda. “So there’s a house party at the palace, with some dealers on the way, and me to follow. Who are the others?”

  “Petter and Kyneton of New York, Duval of Paris and van Groot of Amsterdam.”

  “Not a bad assortment,” Mannering said. “When is the auction to start?”

  “Three days from now. Two of them are going by train, and that takes two full days. The others are flying—may already be there, in fact. You will fly?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Mannering said. “Someone is so anxious to keep me away that it might be an idea to let the world think I’m not going.”

  Nothing stirred outside; there was only the beauty of the sun on the water. The tide was coming in and all but the higher rocks were covered.

  “I could go as a bearer or a servant—with you,” said Mannering. “There are tall Hindus. Patandi, for instance. The snag will be the language, so the big bearer will have to be dumb. Make-up shouldn’t be difficult. I’m fairly well-tanned, and with some careful work I can have the right complexion. A turban and a dhoti – although I’m not sure that I could manage a dhoti. It would show too much leg, anyhow.” His eyes were half closed and he spoke dreamily. “Sikhs are big chaps usually, aren’t they? A lot of them wear long breeches, too. Hot, but I can stand that. I can fix a beard, too – their religion forbids them to cut their hair, doesn’t it? Yes, a Sikh. The question would be whether to tell the Maharajah. Let’s think about it – whether I’m to go as myself or in disguise.” Phiroshah was smiling. “What will your wife say?”

  “Go as myself, or she can’t go,” said Mannering promptly. “We’ll see.”

  Phiroshah said: “You are a most remarkable man, with an equally remarkable wife.”

  Ten minutes later Lorna was ushered in. She looked flushed with the heat, but there was rapture in her eyes. She squeezed Phiroshah’s hands in greeting. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “I hope you will always feel like that,” said the old man.

  “Now, we shall have lunch.”

  They left Phiroshah’s bungalow a little after three. Lorna wilted in the heat, and Mannering went back with her to the hotel. She took a shower and rested, with a magazine. Mannering dressed again after his shower in a suit of cream linen.

  Lorna looked at him from the bed. “Fantastic’s the word for you,” she said. “Don’t you feel the heat?”

  “It’s tolerable.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I thought a chat with Mr. Patandi wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  Lorna knew everything – except about the attack on Phiroshah. The old man had not broached the subject again. Lorna said: “Be careful.”

  “We’ve that week’s grace, remember.”

  She stretched out an arm to make the electric fan go faster. It stirred her hair without really making her cool.

  “Don’t take too much for granted,” she said.

  Mannering laughed, and went out, spoke to Amu, and walked downstairs with Joseph. The sun was glaring down, but not far off was a bank of heavy cloud. Everyone, even beggars, stood about listlessly in what shade they could find. A party of tourists stopped outside the Gateway and looked as if they couldn’t have cared less had they been in hell. It burned like that. In a little patch of shade not far along three venerable gharry drivers were standing by their gharries; the horses drooped.

  “We’ll take one of those,” Mannering said.

  “Yes, sahib.” Joseph went quickly to the nearest gharry and Mannering studied the people lounging near. One looked very much like another. He tried to photograph them on his memory as he climbed into the gharry. Joseph sat beside the squatting driver.

  No one hurried, but the city streets were crowded. Shopkeepers kept inside their little shops. Through the doorways of the larger shops and offices people were waiting in the comparative coolness, glad to be out of the sun. Only a few Europeans were about, the women carrying parasols.

  They turned off a wide street into a narrow one with a cobbled roadway. Cars were parked on one side, and heat radiated from them. White-clad Hindus moved slowly, sluggishly across the road. They turned into a still narrower street, where there was hardly room for two cars to pass. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves made almost the only sound. Native shops were on either side – tiny places, no more than holes in the wall, filled with merchandise. A carpenter sat outside a shop sawing, the only sign of activity.

  The sun was blotted out, but the heat seemed worse. Mannering’s body was damp from head to foot.

  The gharry stopped as a few drops of heavy rain fell. Immediately alongside was a tiny shop with the name I. Patandi above it. Books were crammed in one window, mostly second-hand and poor-looking volumes. Leather goods and carvings, all cheap souvenirs, filled the other window. Mannering climbed down from the gharry as the rain belched out of the skies; his coat was damp before he reached the shop. Joseph paid off the driver and waited in a nearby alley.

  There was room for a single counter in the middle of the shop, crammed with books and nicknacks, and for three people to move; that was all. The shelves were filled with junk from floor to ceiling.

  A little old man in European clothes came up from a corner.

  “Mr. Patandi is expecting me,” Mannering said. “My name is Mannering.”

  “Yes, sahib,” the little man said, and disappeared into the back of the shop through a tiny doorway. There was whispering and scuffling; then a boy of nine or ten came out, darted past Mannering and raced off into the rain. It was so hot that Mannering went to the door. Water splashed up at him, but at least it gave an illusion of coolness. Several Indians were taking what shelter they could. He didn’t s
ee one he recognised, except Joseph, who was in the dry.

  The little old man was near.

  “Beautiful books, sahib; very beautiful books. Very beautiful.”

  “No thanks,” said Mannering.

  The soft, pleading voice went on and on. “Books, souvenirs, hand-beaten copper, Kashmir inlay.” Mannering didn’t answer again, just stared at the teeming rain. Was he being watched, or just noticed? He waited for seven or eight minutes, until the boy turned the corner, splashing through water which was now several inches deep in the steep gutters. Immediately behind him came an unbelievable figure – Patandi, carrying an umbrella.

  Patandi stepped through puddles with fastidious care, holding the black umbrella high above his head; it made him look a giant. He glanced up, saw Mannering and waved joyously – and stepped into a puddle, which splashed up to his knees. He laughed until his whole body shook, and the laughter seemed to waft him to the doorstep. Mannering stepped inside and Patandi squeezed through.

  He beamed.

  “The wise Englishman, how quickly you come! I congratulate you. The rain is just a little storm; it will soon pass and we shall start, yes? With the famous lady? Or . . .” His aniseed-breath swept over Mannering, and he gave an obscene wink, “we start alone, sir? Just you and me? Oh, the things I can show you, the—”

  “We start by sending everyone but you and me out of the shop,” said Mannering. “Out of the back of the shop, too.”

  Patandi’s eyes widened. He looked puzzled, and he hesitated. Mannering went to the back of the shop and bent down to look through the tiny doorway.

  “No!” cried Patandi, and hurled himself at Mannering and dragged him away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MONEY TALKS

  Mannering allowed himself to be dragged from the door, then gripped Patandi’s wrist, twisted, and sent him thumping against one of the walls. Books fell in a shower on his head. Patandi gasped with pain. His face was distorted. Mannering did not doubt that it was naked fear. There was no malevolence – just fear. Patandi licked his lips.

  “I beg the sahib’s pardon. I did not mean to touch him. You understand – my wife.” He pointed to the door.

  Mannering said: “Either she leaves, Patandi, or I go to the police.”

  Patandi’s face turned a greenish-white. Mannering watched as he went towards the door, poked his head through, and then wriggled; it seemed impossible for him to get his great bulk through there, but he disappeared. There was more furtive whispering.

  A woman appeared, holding her sari in front of her face, and ran out through the street-door. Another. A third, who looked little more than a girl. Two others followed, also girls. Next, a boy. Mannering hadn’t seen more than the dark hole beyond and smelt the fetid air; he had not dreamed that so many people were crowded in there.

  Patandi called out, and the little old man in European clothes went sadly off into the rain. This beat down noisily against the front of the shop and into the street.

  Patandi wriggled through again, and even managed a mockery of a smile.

  “All gone, Mr. Mannering, all gone.”

  “I’d like to be sure.”

  Patandi waved to the door. “See, mister!”

  Mannering bent down and poked his head through. It was gloomy in there, and the stench was revolting. A small window, high up in the wall, gave the only light. He could see well enough to be sure that no one else was present. He coughed, backed to the door and took in deep gulps of fresh air, then turned back to Patandi. Mannering moved the counter across the opening into the rear room. No one could hear through that.

  “I wait, mister,” said Patandi.

  “Who stole my brief-case? The boy who just ran out?”

  “Mister, he is my son. I try to make him a good boy, as good as a Christian, but no, mister, he lies, cheats, steals. I beat him, I—”

  “You sent him to the airport, told him who to look for, told him what to do.”

  Patandi’s hands were intertwining.

  “Mister—”

  “Why did you do it? Who did you do it for?”

  Patandi looked as if he would soon be in tears.

  “I am sorry, mister. That boy is a great worry, I cannot make him honest; I—”

  “You’ve taught him to be a cheat, but I’m not here about that. Who gave you the orders to get my case? Who did you take it to? Who sent you back with it, and with that story of a week in Bombay?”

  Patandi’s voice was shrill.

  “Mister, mister, it is not true! I swear by the sacred serpent, it is not true.”

  Mannering said: “How much were you paid?”

  Patandi stopped moistening his lips and protesting, and looked owlish.

  “How much?” Mannering insisted.

  “Mister—I am a poor man, and you are a wise one. You see in the darkness. I have to keep my wives, my family, so many children.” Patandi spread his arms round, as if to imply that he had as many children as books. He spat the last words. “Two hundred rupees!”

  “It wasn’t more than fifty.”

  “Mister! One hundred and fifty rupees—”

  Mannering took out his case, selected some notes; Phiroshah had changed cheques for him. He counted out two hundred rupees in twenty-rupee notes, held them loosely, put his wallet away, and said: “Who was it?”

  “You will not betray me, mister?”

  “I want to know who you worked for. If you tell me the truth, I won’t name you or go to the police. If you lie, I’ll tell the police what I saw in there.”

  Patandi gulped.

  “I am a poor man, mister; an honest man.” He darted a greedy look at the two hundred rupees. “I tell only the truth. I live to serve the wise Englishman.” He gulped again and muttered: “It was the wretched man, Patel, Imannati Patel; you will find him in the telephone directory. Please, mister.”

  He moved across the room. The telephone, of the candlestick type, stood in a recess, with the directory hanging from by a cord. He thumbed it over. Mannering watched the grimy forefinger go down the list of Patels. There were dozens of them – hundreds.

  The finger stopped, pointing.

  Mannering read: “Imannati Patel, 81 Woodham Road.” He wrote it in a small notebook, added the telephone number, and drew back. Patandi licked his lips as he looked at the money. Mannering handed it over and looked towards the little door.

  “I hope this is true.”

  “I would not lie to you, mister. Patel himself told me. I was to bring you the brief-case, I was to frighten you. I said to myself the moment that I saw you, this man will not be frightened. Patel, he is a fool.” Patandi was counting the money and his fingers shook. “A thousand thanks, mister. Thank you very much.”

  Mannering went out.

  He stopped at the threshold, startled; water was still rushing down the gutters, but the rain had stopped and the sky was clear overhead. It was cooler, too. More people were walking about, the shopkeepers no longer looked so sleepy. Two beggars approached, but Joseph pushed them aside.

  “Where now, sahib?”

  “We’ll walk a little way,” said Mannering. “You follow, Joseph. I want to know if anyone follows me.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Were we followed from the hotel?”

  Joseph considered, then smiled; his teeth showed very white against his dark skin.

  “No, sahib.”

  “Make sure, now.”

  Mannering walked towards the corner, trying to remember the way the gharry had come. The streets looked narrow but cleaner. Shops on one side of the next street had been boarded up, but the boards were being taken down; on the other side they had been protected against the rain. Children splashed through muddy-looking puddles. Mannering kicked up mud as fa
r as his knees and slackened his pace. He took three more turnings and then saw a wide main street ahead, with cars moving in each direction. He headed for this and waited at the corner. As he looked round, he tried to see whether anyone but Joseph had followed him. He recognised no one, but wasn’t sure; in London he would have been.

  Lorna was still lying on the bed, the magazine on the floor; a tea tray was on the bedside table, with two cups. She wore a negligée of some flimsy material.

  “Have a cup, darling? It’s much cooler after the rain, and I just had to have a drink.”

  “Two cups, please,” said Mannering.

  She poured out. “Did you have to walk? You’ve ruined that suit.”

  “It’ll clean up,” said Mannering. “Patandi has given me the name of the man who paid him to work his trick. Patandi has about a dozen wives, and they all live in a room a quarter – an eighth the size of this.” He drank his tea, and leaned across and lifted the telephone.

  Phiroshah’s number was on a pad near the telephone.

  “So soon, my friend?”

  “Is it wise to talk over the telephone?” asked Mannering.

  “No. I will come and see you.”

  “Thank you,” said Mannering. He rang off, and Lorna was looking at him through her lashes. He saw the drawing-pad by the side of the bed for the first time, picked it up, and was startled. Lorna’s drawing was always good, but he’d seen nothing better than this. Patandi, Phiroshah, Amu, Joseph – all of them looked up at him from the pad. There were a dozen pencilled drawings, firm, vivid types he recognised from his brief encounters.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like to stay here while I go diamond hunting?”

  “No,” she said. “I can finish these any time. It’s odd, but the only one I would like to sit for me is Patandi. Do you think—”

  “He’ll do anything we ask, he’s so scared.”

  “Of whom?”

  “You’ll find out,” said Mannering. He went into the dressing-room. All his clothes had been pressed and were in the wardrobe. He had another shower and changed leisurely; it was now pleasantly cool. By the time he had finished, there was a tap at the door. He went into the sitting-room, where Phiroshah was waiting.