by John Creasey
“Of course—it would to any man of discernment.” Weiner wrinkled his forehead again. “I told him I wouldn’t let you talk to him already, but you are to tell me and I will tell him – what I think is good for him! We know about der way you were kidnapped. There is some sewage work being done on Malabar Hill. The men used a hole in the wall recently made there to catch you. The babus attacked Joseph, der men took you. They had watched you go to Phiroshah’s house, here you understand, and then followed. It was a good place. After that, we know nothing.”
Mannering needed to say little to make the picture vivid. He also told of the man who had fallen into the water and disappeared.
Lorna drew in an involuntary breath.
“So!” exclaimed Weiner. “Now we understand it all. You were taken to der lakes. Crocodiles by the thousand, yes. Each year one or two fishermen are taken by them. A bad place, those lakes. That island – I know it, I did not know of der caves. Not many go there; not many would know. What a lucky man you are!”
“Lucky,” said Lorna unsteadily.
“Oh, I know, I know, he had to keep his wits about him to get away. Still, I say he is lucky. Yes. Now, Mannering, listen to me. You have a powerful constitution, that ox you understand, but you must have a rest. A day or two. Don’t just laugh it off, my friend. I will not let young Jagat come and see you this morning.” Weiner held up a hand, palm outwards. “No, I told him. Tonight, perhaps; tomorrow, yes – this morning, no. He will spend the day making eyes at Shani, and she will not object. This love. How do you feel, my friend? Better already? I am as good as a tonic, am I not?”
“Better,” Mannering chuckled.
Weiner laughed and patted his shoulder.
“Good fellow, good chap. Oh, I forgot – your ankle – der right ankle. I looked you over last night and saw it was swollen. I bound it up, but I’d better have another look. Please. Then I must be going, or I shall be late. Remember, you are not to be foolish and do much, and if you do, that ankle might let you down.” He watched Lorna unpin the elastic bandage. “Oh, not bad, not bad. A hot-water bath, then the bandage; your wife can do that for you.” He prodded. “That hurt already?”
“No.”
“Don’t do anything to make it hurt,” warned Weiner. “Now! Anything you want to ask me?” His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “I know everything! I have been in Bombay thirty-one years, so if I don’t, who does?”
Mannering murmured: “Imannati Patel?”
“Oh, to be sure. Phiroshah mentioned him.” Weiner scowled. “I should not speak ill of the dead, but there is a bad man. Ach, so bad! This morning, I could hear the sigh of relief all over Bombay. Even the beggars smiled. Fonny that, you know. Parsees are big business men, astute men, a lot of them rich, but—mostly good. I would say, mostly very good. This one – when he is on der tower tomorrow and der vultures peck until his bones fall down, then there will be the end of a very bad man.”
Dr. Weiner was a friend of Phiroshah.
“Ask anyone,” said Weiner, and scarred his forehead again with deep furrows. “Just anyone. Phiroshah is all that is good; Patel was all that is bad. But I am late already.” He jumped up.
“What does Jagat want?” Mannering asked.
“There you go, refusing to rest. Don’t be silly now, Mannering. How do I know what he wants? He won’t talk, even to Shani.” He shook hands quickly, firmly. “I will look in this afternoon when I come to see der old man. You’d better be where I leave you. Bind him to the bed, Mrs. Mannering, use chains!” He went out, laughing.
Lorna came back from the door.
“I heard him,” said Mannering humbly. “I’ll be as good as I can, but I think I’ll see the son of the Maharajah as soon as Weiner’s left the house. And I’m going for some gentle sight-seeing this afternoon.”
“No, John, you ought—”
“But I must see the police station,” Mannering said. “I’m told it’s unique. And there’s a venerable policeman named Kana, a friend of Bristow’s. I might look in to see him. You wouldn’t object to that, would you?”
Lorna eyed him stonily.
“Dr. Weiner was about right. I ought to chain you to the bed.”
“I’ll stay in tonight, and you can read to me,” said Mannering meekly. “Oh, just a little thing, my sweet. Find out when Patel’s funeral will be.”
“You’re not going to that.”
“Couldn’t,” said Mannering. “It’s a deeply religious ceremony; only Parsees can get in. But his house ought to be empty during it, don’t you think?”
Lorna actually laughed.
Jagat Kalda, son of the Maharajah of Ganpore, had taken Dr. Weiner at his word, had resisted the opportunity to make eyes at Shani, and had left, saying that he would be back to see Mannering at four o’clock.
At half-past two Mannering limped down the steps to one of the Daimlers, although in fact his ankle was giving no trouble and there was no need for him to limp. It would do no harm if others thought there was. Lorna helped him into the back of the car and sat beside him. Joseph sat next to the driver. After a heavy rainstorm the streets were still damp, but the sun was out again. The temporary coolness made driving pleasant, and the rain had settled the dust. When they were near Crawford Market and the narrow streets of that part of the city, rain had even subdued the smell. They drove round for three-quarters of an hour before getting out at the club. Mannering told Joseph to be back with the car in an hour’s time, waited in the hall of the club while the Daimler was driven off, then had the porter send for a taxi. Fifteen minutes later he was limping along the passages of the police headquarters, with Lorna holding his arm.
Kana, Bristow’s friend, was an elderly man with very dark skin, piercing brown eyes and a permanent smile. He sat behind a huge desk, with two fans working from the corners. The desk might have been at Scotland Yard, the Súreté Nationale – any police headquarters in the world.
Kana greeted Lorna courteously, Mannering with a twinkle in his eyes, and did not appear to notice the parcel which Mannering put on a corner of his desk.
“Yes, Mr. Mannering, the superintendent cabled me that you were going to visit us. We’re delighted! He didn’t say why, but you’ll remedy that? Mind you, I know something about you. How much you know about precious stones, how often you have helped Scotland Yard. Now you come to help us?”
“I hate to disappoint you,” murmured Mannering. “I need help.”
“Then we help each other.”
“You’re very good. May I ask some questions about people?”
“Phiroshah?” Kana’s eyes danced. “If there is any bad in that man, I retire.”
“Did you know anything about Imannati Patel?”
The light died out of Kana’s eyes.
“Patel, yes,” he said. Even his voice changed. “Yes. That was the worst man in Bombay whom we failed to catch. How shall I say it? There is much drug-trafficking, much eating and smoking of drugs here. Illegal, of course, but – what can you do? It is everywhere. This Imannati Patel was the big supplier. I knew, we all knew, but we could never prove it – he was so clever. Now he is dead and we breathe more freely. Others will carry on, but they are not likely to be so clever.”
“Who will carry on?”
Kana shrugged.
“One never knows who worked for him. That big house of his with its dirt and decay – it was filled with mystery and mysterious comings and goings. There are many entrances we don’t know about. He has three sons. Two of them work in his legal business, shipping. Are they bad? I tell you, I don’t know. The other left him some years ago. In disgust, I think. So I would say that those who stayed were not disgusted and will continue with his work, but we will get them. We must. My friend—” he leaned across the desk and lowered his voice—”yesterday you called to see Patandi. You remember. Soon after you left he was kill
ed. Murdered. Yes, yes, we knew you had been there; we have eyes and we have ears. We were quickly on the scene, and they could not clean up the back room before we arrived. Everywhere, traces of cocaine. Everywhere. They were impregnating tobacco with it. Also chewing gum. This would be distributed to all the little shops you see – and to the betel-nut pedlars. So we raided all of Patandi’s other shops and found the same, the same. This is how he worked. Behind his shops, the drugs are made edible, ready for general sale. Then through his sons and the horde of children he collected round him he sent them out into the city, the suburbs, the nearby villages. You see? It is so easy, and so hard to prevent. There are thousands upon thousands of these begging children, these runners and distributors. Already many of them are drug addicts. They being that young; the women, also. You understand?”
Mannering murmured: “Yes, I think so.” Certainly he understood Patandi’s terror when he had looked into the back of the shop. “Did you find anything about the Bundi?”
“Ah,” said Kana softly. “This organisation of so-called patriots who rob the rich to help the poor. No, we found nothing about them. We never do. There have been vicious crimes of violence laid at their door. Is there a Bundi? Or is it just a name used to hide crime of a hideous kind? I do not know. It has political roots, and political intrigue is as rife today as it was yesterday. There is a new villain, that is all! You seek the Bundi?”
“They seem to be interested in some of the things that interest me.”
“The more you see of Bombay the more you will understand our difficulties,” said Kana. “Finding witnesses, finding evidence, that is the terrible task we have here. But we keep doing a little, and now that Patel has gone perhaps we will have a big clean-up. It may touch the Bundi, it may not. Of this Patandi – he was a distant relative of Patel’s. He discovered more than most. The surprising thing was that Patel allowed him to live for so long. Perhaps because he was a relative. Who knows? The tragedy is that Patandi was one of the few men we know was directly associated with Patel. It cannot be helped, but it was a blow to us. Why are you interested in Patel?”
“I heard that, like the Bundi, he was interested in the affairs of the Maharajah of Ganpore,” Mannering said. “I wanted to find out – probably Phiroshah told you I was going to Ganpore to look at the jewels.”
“Yes, I knew,” said Kana. “Perhaps I guess more than I know! Mr. Mannering, what is it you really want of me?”
“Do you know of any good reasons why I shouldn’t go to Ganpore?” asked Mannering.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DISGUISE FOR ONE
Kana frowned and didn’t answer at once. Mannering glanced at Lorna, who was still looking out of the window.
Kana moved his hands, a little gesture of uncertainty.
“I know of none. Ganpore is a long way from everywhere, it is buried. There has been little attempt to interfere with it, and the Maharajah is still the ruler although now responsible to the All India Government. If you go, fly. The journey by road or by train is long, weary, dirty. Mrs. Mannering would not enjoy it. But if Patel was interested, there could be something I do not know about,” said Kana. “Are you sure?”
“He tried to stop me from going.”
“So! He was up to his tricks, and that makes you wonder if he was one of the Bundi. That could be. But understand, Ganpore is not in my jurisdiction. It comes under Calcutta. There is a State Police Force, which seldom calls for help outside. It would not be possible for me to do anything to help, unless requested by the Maharajah, or instructed by Calcutta. They might, if they knew that Patel had been involved; but would they know? Have I answered you, my friend? Have I made it clear that Ganpore is cut off from everywhere?”
“Very clear,” said Mannering. “And I’m very grateful.”
“To be of assistance to a friend of Bristow – what more can I ask?” Kana said. “Or, for that matter, to an Englishman. Yes, I am one of the many who regret the passing of the British Raj. Here, in the police especially, we are the poorer for their going. Please don’t quote me!” He smiled and stood up. “Your parcel, don’t forget it.”
“Your parcel,” Mannering said. “With Bill Bristow’s good wishes. Barley sugar, I believe.”
Kana beamed, thanked and ushered them to the door.
Joseph was at the club, and the Mannerings went ahead of him to Phiroshah’s bungalow. It was half-past four.
Amu was on the steps, as if waiting.
“Hallo,” said Mannering, limping exaggeratedly. “Is Jagat here?”
“No, sahib; he has not returned.” There was a hint of anxiety in his voice and his manner. “He came at two o’clock. Shani went out with him. They were to be back, to see you, at four o’clock. They will not be long.”
“I’ll see them as soon as they come in,” said Mannering. ‘That’s if Jagat hasn’t changed his mind!” He went to the room which had been designated for them. Lorna took off her hat and poked her fingers through hair damp from the humid warmth. “Pity it doesn’t rain again.”
Lorna didn’t answer.
“Tea or fruit juice?” asked Mannering.
“I’d like a long gin!”
“We should have gone to the Taj,” said Mannering.
“Or to the airport, for the London plane.”
“Still like that?”
“Didn’t Kana terrify you? With warnings about an isolated state and no outside police control? He wanted to scare you in a nice way.”
“I doubt it – he just wanted me to know what we might be up against.”
“I had a feeling that he wanted you to go,” Lorna admitted.
“He probably thinks I’ll blunder into something which would simplify his problems. I wonder what Jagat wants.”
“You weren’t far wrong about him and Shani.”
Mannering grinned. “Second sight!”
“Was it just a guess?”
“I suppose so.” Mannering rang the bell, and asked for tea and iced drinks when Amu appeared.
“Yes, sahib.”
“Are the others back?”
“Not yet, sahib.”
“Were they alone?”
“His Highness’s bearer followed, sahib, but His Highness drove his own car.”
“And they’re nearly an hour late.”
“That is so.” Amu moved backwards towards the door. “They will be here soon.” He spoke as if he was trying to convince himself.
Neither Jagat nor Shani was back by eight o’clock that night, but old Phiroshah wasn’t told.
When the Mannerings, Joseph and Amu reached the Taj Mahal Hotel at ten o’clock there was still no news. Lorna had a shower and went to bed. Mannering read until midnight; there was no word.
There was no news of the missing couple next morning.
Lorna, with her hair spread over the pillow and her cheeks flushed from sleep, watched Mannering for a while, then said quietly: “They could have eloped.”
“But kidnapping’s in fashion.”
“I suppose there isn’t a chance of making you go home, even if they’ve been kidnapped.”
Mannering leaned over her. “Not a chance, my optimist. The only question is whether to take you to Ganpore or leave you here.”
“I’m coming,” said Lorna.
A worried Amu was outside the door of the bedroom when Mannering went out just after ten. The tall Hindu bearer had become almost part of their lives.
“Before I went to the lakes,” Mannering said, “I had arranged to see an expert in disguise. Do you know who it was?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Do you trust him?”
“With my life, sahib.”
“Can you arrange a meeting this afternoon?”
“At what time, sahib?”
; “As soon as you can, after two,” said Mannering.
He left just after two, with Joseph as guide, leaving Amu to look after Lorna. They went by taxi into the heart of the city, past the teeming masses, the swarming beggars, the itinerant salesmen, the colour and the squalor. Mannering looked about him, hardly noticing what he saw.
The taxi stopped in a narrow, quiet street of Western-type houses, but at the end of the street was a camp for refugees from the winter’s floods; acre upon acre of land filled with tiny tents, mostly made of banana or palm fronds thrown over sticks which held them up. Mannering saw the families living in the dirt, over-crowded in a way revolting to Western eyes. The wind came from the camp and sickened him.
“We walk, please,” Joseph said.
Mannering limped, and kept his right hand in his pocket about his gun. They reached smaller houses, built in the Indian style, and Joseph stood aside for Mannering to enter an open doorway. The passage was narrow and dark; the smell of spices and Indian food was thick and heavy.
“Here, sahib.”
Mannering went into a darkened room, but Joseph switched on a light. Fluorescent strip lighting flickered, then became bright.
A middle-aged Hindu in spotless dhoti and spotless linen coat and turban bowed slightly and smiled.
“You are welcome, sahib. I am Alaka Chopra, at your service.” His voice was high-pitched, his English seemed to come with an effort, but the accent was good. “1 understand you wish to disguise yourself.”
“As a Sikh, if that is practicable.”
“It is the only wise way.” Chopra was reassuring. “Already Mr. Phiroshah has told me, and I have clothes ready. You understand that you will need to eat Indian food when you are with others. You will have to learn the habits quickly. I am prepared to teach you, but it will take time. Two three days – after that, you will know just a little. If you take Amu or Joseph with you, they can always be of assistance, but you understand—” he smiled deprecatingly—”that it is not a simple matter of the face, the figure, the clothes. It is complicated. And I understand you wish to be able to remove the disguise yourself, also to put it on yourself afterwards.”
