Carter grunted. ‘Well, by those rules, he’s most probably innocent. He was on leave the week Lionel was killed. Off back in the hills celebrating his father’s birthday, I think. Which is to say – no alibi! But really, if you look closely at motive, not as strong as you might think. This chap is the brains behind the company – everyone acknowledges that – and it’s not likely he would have lost his job even with Lionel in the saddle. I think he’d have won over any resistance and would have gone on doing what he’s doing because the plain fact is – the feller’s made himself indispensable.’
‘Might he have killed Lionel as a favour to Alice – to keep her in place?’
‘It’s possible. They’re certainly very thick. And there are those who say she is too dependent on him and listens too closely to his advice.’
‘Very thick? Just how thick, I wonder? Or rather, what exactly is the nature of their closeness? Seeing them together I had wondered…’ Rather embarrassed to be heard exchanging what Carter might think of as unworthy gossip, Joe shared his suspicions.
‘Well! Well! That kind of relationship!’ Carter paused for a moment, smiling. ‘Two attractive people so in a way I’m not surprised, but I am amazed that not a hint of it has ever come to the surface. Not even Meg has any suspicions, I’ll swear it. And in Simla that’s quite something!’
‘I have a feeling that Alice Sharpe is very good at keeping secrets,’ said Joe. ‘There’s something I’m uneasy about regarding Alice. I can’t get it out of my head that there is some connection between her and Korsovsky.’
‘Can’t see it,’ said Carter. ‘What have you got? This eight-year-old programme with English writing on it? Not much, is it?’
‘There’s more,’ said Joe slowly. ‘When I met Alice last night at the theatre she was suggesting that I might have been the killer’s true target and she said something rather strange. She said, “Korsovsky looked English from a distance…” How did she know? I’ve asked about and nobody else in Simla has a clue about his appearance! They’ve all heard of him but no one has seen a photograph apparently. He might well have been five feet tall with a red beard for all they knew. She denies ever having met him. And I’m still sure that the grief she showed when she sang her Russian lament was real.’
‘Mmm. Nothing in the press she could have got that idea from. What about publicity she might have seen in London before she left England?’
‘He did appear at Covent Garden but not until she’d already left for India. I went to see him myself and that’s how I recognized him.’
‘I’ve got it! Catalogues from record companies. Perhaps there’s a photograph of him in one of those?’
‘I looked at her collection today. No opera. All jazz and ragtime.’ Joe sighed. ‘And there is a third connection. Look at this, Carter…’
Joe took the French newspaper from his pocket and showed it to Carter, drawing his attention to the agent’s strange message and then to the name of Alice Conyers amongst the first class passengers.
‘That’s damned odd!’ said Carter. ‘Look, we’ve sent off telegrams to this Grégoire Montefiore in his Paris office to tell him Korsovsky’s dead and ask for names of next of kin and so on. I’ll send off another one to ask if he can remember why he sent this edition of a paper to his client three years ago. But let me look at it again.’
He looked closely at the lists of passengers, occasionally asking Joe to translate a passage he was unsure of. ‘Hang on a moment! There’s something else we can try for faster results. It’s a shot in the dark perhaps but look here, Joe, do you see? – someone else survived the crash. Someone travelling first class. Captain Colin Simpson. Returning to his regiment in Bombay. Perhaps he could shed some light on Alice Conyers. I don’t expect so but I think we ought to try. Do you think he might be still in Bombay? What does it say about him? Anything?’
‘Well it’s mostly tear-jerking blather about baby Henri,’ said Joe, reading down the column, ‘but I thought I saw… Yes, here it is. Not much I’m afraid. It mentions Alice and says she left almost at once to continue her journey and then it says, “An English soldier, Captain Colin Simpson, was also bound for Bombay at the time of the accident to rejoin his regiment, the 3rd KOYLI, but his departure will be much delayed on account of the serious nature of his injuries… So badly concussed was the captain that he was at first taken for dead and his body had lain for several hours in the morgue before it was realized that he was still alive. He was conveyed to the hospital in Lyons where there were better facilities for treating head injuries. He was at first reported as killed but his grieving family who had been informed of this have now been reassured that he is still alive.” ’
‘His regiment ought to be able to tell us where he’s got to. I’ll get off a telegram straight away. So – one to G.M. and one to the Adjutant of the 3rd battalion of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry!’
Carter took a pad and a pen and carefully wrote out two messages. He called out and a young officer appeared. Instructions were given, the officer nodded in understanding, put the messages away in a leather pouch which he buttoned on to his belt and set off at the double for the telegraph office.
‘Of course,’ said Joe, ‘no matter how much digging about we do into these little mysteries, sleuthing about, you might say, and trying to look clever, there’s one step we would be negligent if we didn’t take – and as soon as possible.’
‘Edgar Troop, you mean,’ said Carter glumly. ‘Alice’s accusation seems to have been pretty blunt. Yes, I agree, we would be neglecting our duty if we didn’t follow it up.’
Neatly, Charlie Carter flicked a cigarette end over the verandah railing. Joe watched it sail in a graceful parabola on to the corrugated iron roof below where it exploded in a flash of sparks. ‘Are you thinking, I wonder, what I’m thinking? That we might go and lean a little bit on the charming Mr Troop?’
‘Yes, exactly that. Got anything better to do? Big Red can wait for another day, can he?’
‘No time like the present, I’d say! I’ll detail a couple of officers discreetly to accompany us but I’m not expecting a shoot-out. I’ll just write a note to Meg before we go. Tell her we’re going to Madame Flora’s establishment and she’s not to sit up for us. Should be home for breakfast.’
He bustled about making his arrangements.
‘Perhaps I should write a note for Sir George,’ said Joe. ‘How did it go?… Going to Madame Flora’s… Don’t sit up… Be back for breakfast.’
They set off together to walk down to the town with two silent Sikh policemen padding behind.
* * *
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
I don’t think we can plan this interview,’ said Joe. ‘It so very much depends on the reaction. But you do realize, I’m sure, that we’ve got very little we can hang on Troop. I plan to play it very informally. Agree? Perhaps he’ll be overawed by the police talent?’
‘If I know anything about Edgar Troop he wouldn’t be overawed by a squadron of Household Cavalry,’ said Charlie dubiously.
Joe wondered as they approached Madame Flora’s establishment what to expect. A tinkle of music from a honky-tonk piano? A palm court orchestra discoursing a little Offenbach? A row of black-stockinged legs kicking up an array of multi-layered petticoats?
They turned off the Mall where the street lamps had now clicked on and the brilliantly lit shop windows offered even more temptations than in the daylight. The façade of Madame Flora’s, in comparison, was hardly lit at all, beyond a lamp above the front door. In the dusk Joe observed two massive chaprassis, turbaned, silent and watchful. With Joe and Carter’s appearance they seemed inclined to dispute the way, moving discreetly together across the door.
‘Just explain,’ said Joe, ‘that we’ve only come to buy a bowl of early crocuses.’
But the guardians recognized Charlie and, as discreetly, stood aside and following an unseen signal the door opened from within.
Within the e
ntrance a figure in European dress rose from behind a desk and in heavily accented English gave them a smiling greeting. The accent? French? Joe wondered. Italian perhaps? He wasn’t sure.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. If you’d like to wait here… I’d be very pleased to bring you a drink if you’ll say what would be your preference. We’re not busy tonight. You shouldn’t have to wait at all.’
Charlie Carter cut him short. ‘Would you tell Mr Troop that we’re here? Police Superintendent Carter and Commander Sandilands.’
Before there could be a reply a booming voice was heard from the balcony above. ‘Charlie! An unexpected pleasure! And Commander Sandilands?’
Joe became aware of a large figure in a white suit, a purple cummerbund, a pair of black and white co-respondent shoes, a cigar burning in his hand.
‘Stay where you are – I’ll come down.’
As he descended the stairs he glanced out through a small window, observing the two silent policemen outside. ‘Not entirely a social call, I see? None the less welcome for all that. Come through to the office and we’ll have a small drink. Perhaps we’ll have a large drink?’
He spoke to the receptionist.
The office to which he led them might have been something out of the Arabian Nights Entertainment. A difficult room to sit in with dignity, they both found, since they were offered nothing more formal than divans and cushions. As they entered the room a further door opened and closed, admitting briefly the tinkle of Indian music from the back premises.
Almost before they had sat down, following a discreet knock on the door a bottle of champagne appeared on a tray with three glasses.
‘Now,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘I’d like to know the nature of this visit so I’m hoping you’re going to accept a drink.’ Troop turned confidentially to Joe. ‘I don’t know, Commander, how familiar you are with Indian ways – rather different here from Scotland Yard I dare say. It’s impossible to go anywhere, do anything or call on anybody without being offered a dish of sweets and this establishment, although European, is no exception.’
As he spoke the door opened and a slender figure in a pink sari entered, a silver tray in her hand. A second figure in a green sari followed. Both girls, Joe estimated, were in their late teens, both tinkled with cheap jewellery, but where one had the wheaten pallor of a Eurasian, the other was ebony black. They deposited the tray on a low table and in a pose of theatrical submission, hands folded, eyes downcast, they stood by the door for an embarrassing moment until Edgar Troop with a wide gesture of a large hairy hand waved them away. With repeated salaams they backed away through the door.
‘You’re sure,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘there’s nothing more with which I can provide you?’
He looked from one to the other, very much at ease, his eyes wreathed in smiles and said again, ‘Anything with which I can provide you?’
‘Information,’ said Carter coldly.
Troop looked genially from one to the other. ‘Ask your questions and if I can I’ll supply the answers.’
‘A simple question,’ said Carter. ‘What were you doing yesterday afternoon, let us say between noon and four o’clock in the afternoon?’
Troop appeared to relax. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘I left here at about twelve and I had tiffin with Johnny Bristow and Jackie Carlisle. Bertie Hearn-Robinson was there too for a while. Oh, and Reggie Sharpe but he had to leave to go to Annandale.’
‘Where do your friends live?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose I have to tell the omniscient police but they – Johnny, Jackie and Bertie – share that large house on Mount Pleasant – the corner house, just past the Cecil Hotel. They’re living in a chummery.’
‘And they would be able to confirm this?’
‘Yes, of course they would.’
‘And you got there just after twelve?’
‘Say ten past.’
‘Was this a long-made arrangement?’
‘No. It wasn’t an arrangement at all. Just went round to see what they were all up to. Planning to have a game of snooker, to tell you the truth.’ And, turning to Joe, ‘Do you play snooker? Have you ever played snooker? It’s all the rage here. Billiard game, you know.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Joe.
‘We should play sometime.’
‘So,’ said Charlie Carter, ‘you were planning to play snooker though you seem to suggest that you didn’t in fact do so?’
‘That’s quite true. When it came to the point, it was such a lovely day we thought we’d go for a drive. Jackie had got a new car and wanted to show it off to us so that’s what we did.’
‘Four of you?’
‘No, as I said, Bertie stayed for tiffin but then had to go and do something else. Working man, you know. Reggie was due up at Annandale to look over some nag on the racecourse so we drove him up there and dropped him off then Johnny and Jackie and I went on up into the hills as far as the road was decent. We took the Mashobra road.’
‘And when did you return?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. About three, I should say.’
‘And then what happened?’
Joe had listened to Carter’s level questions and sat in silence examining the room. The pictures on the wall were in the Mogul erotic tradition of centuries, that is to say bejewelled and moustachioed rajahs expressionlessly penetrated scantily silk-clad and large-eyed maidens whose thoughts, by some trick of the painting, seemed to be miles away. They seemed indifferent to the convolute and anatomically improbable positions in which they found themselves. There were though, Joe noted, some beautiful rugs on the floor, some good Tibetan cushions and a particularly fine brass hanging lamp. ‘Come through to my office,’ Edgar Troop had said. But whatever else this apartment might be it was no office.
Edgar Troop lounged amongst the cushions and Joe surveyed him. He was tall, nearly as tall as Joe himself, and must once have had brutish good looks. Mottled face and vinous nose hinted at the reason for his slide from peak physical perfection, Joe thought. His gaping shirt revealed a hairy chest, the top button of his trousers was undone and his braces strained over his shoulders like straps over a trunk.
Charlie Carter’s insistent questions flowed on. ‘And then what happened?’ he repeated.
Before replying, Edgar Troop refilled his glass. ‘Have another bottle, shall we?’ he asked, looking from Joe to Charlie and back again. Both shook their heads. ‘I get so dry,’ said Troop apologetically. ‘My doctor’s always telling me to keep up the fluids and I do my best. But you were asking…?’
‘What happened then?’
‘Well, Johnny and I settled down to our belated game of snooker while Jackie stayed to play with his car. We had three frames – if I thought a bit I might even be able to tell you the score. Johnny won the first two and I won the third. I think. That’s just about our average form. I think I got back here at about five o’clock.’
‘So during the afternoon from midday until about five there was no time when you were not in the presence of others?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And all will be prepared to bear you out?’
‘I see no reason why not. But now – I’ve been very patient. I’m not accustomed to being grilled in my own office and more or less in the presence of my staff. I think I’m entitled to ask what the hell is all this about? Presumably you’re investigating the death of the unfortunate Russkie? Now what on earth motive could I have? Just answer me that because I’m getting rather fed up with this.’
Charlie Carter ignored the question. ‘Tell me, Mr Troop,’ he said, ‘do you own a .303 rifle?’
The question seemed briefly to disconcert Edgar Troop but he rallied smoothly. ‘As a matter of fact I own two .303 rifles. One is a German sporting rifle and one a British Army Short Lee-Enfield, mark three.’
‘Would you lend them to us?’
‘Lend them? To you? Well, I suppose so,’ said Troop. ‘But I can’t imagine why you’d want to borrow them. I do hire
out sporting equipment, you know, to tourists – would-be shikari. Be glad to hire them out to you for the afternoon. If you really want them.’
‘If we were truly investigating the death of Feodor Korsovsky,’ said Charlie placidly, ‘and if we were seriously wondering whether it could have been any concern of yours, the first thing I would do (and I have made arrangements to do so) would be to extract the bullet from wherever it lodged, fire a practice round from each of your muskets and forensically examine the bullet. It can be as useful as a fingerprint.’
‘Well, let me know when you’d like to do that. And in the meantime, I hope you’ll excuse me but at this time of night I’m usually as they say in the theatre “front of house”.’
Subconsciously Joe had become aware of noises drifting through from the entrance, roars of hearty and European laughter, the angry, chiding voice of an Indian woman, a drift of drunken song and the scamper of light feet up and down the stairs and round the balcony.
Edgar Troop rose to his feet. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘Now come out this way. You really don’t want to go back through the entrance. Never know who you might meet! Senior officers sometimes feel the urge to buy a bunch of flowers at this time of night and we pride ourselves on the discretion of our service. Go with Claudio – he’ll let you out the back. And I’ll bid you both farewell. Let me know when you want to pop off a few guns.’
He clapped his hands and the elegant European youth appeared at once. Troop gave a mocking salute and made towards the door. He was halted by Claudio who murmured, ‘Excuse me, sir, I have a message for these gentlemen.’
‘A message? For these gentlemen?’ said Troop in surprise. ‘Who from? Does anyone know you were coming here?’
Claudio smiled a discreet smile. ‘The message is from madame. From Madame Flora, that is.’
Troop looked resentfully up. ‘Now what on earth…? But what was the message?’
Ragtime in Simla Page 11
