The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8)

by Robert Newman

  “Very well,” said Bannerji. Then, turning to Sara and Andrew, “As you probably gathered, we have been having an argument. I have been telling them that they are not in some remote part of India where the law does not reach. They are in England, the home of Anglo-Saxon law and the country with the best police force in the world, and they cannot do what they have been doing. They say that they are doing what they must do and insist that I tell you what they want. And that is for you to help them find our friend Beasley.”

  Sara and Andrew looked at one another.

  “How can we help them?” asked Andrew. “As you know, we’ve been looking for him ourselves.”

  “They know that,” said Bannerji. “And they do not think you know where he is. But they think that your friend Inspector Wyatt may know.”

  “If he does—and I don’t know why they think he does—why should he tell them?”

  “Because you will ask him to. They want you to write a note to him saying that you and your friend, Miss Sara here, are prisoners and the price of your release is the information they want.”

  “And if we refuse?”

  “You will not refuse,” said Chunder Das who had been following the exchange carefully. “You will not refuse because you will be very sorry if you do, and it will do you no good. Because if you do not write the note, we will write it ourselves, saying we are holding you and what we want.”

  “You really think you can get away with that?” said Sara. “That you can make Inspector Wyatt do what you want?”

  “Yes, my dear child, I think we can,” said Chunder Das. “Because we have reason to believe that you and your young friend here are very important to him.”

  “Well, it will be interesting to see what comes of it,” said Sara. “But, in the meantime, you’re not planning to starve us, are you?”

  “Starve?”

  “Yes. It’s lunchtime, and I’m very hungry. Aren’t you?” she asked Andrew.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Chunder Das. He spoke rapidly to the man called Ananda Lal, who nodded. “We will feed you,” he said to Sara. “Do you eat curry?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” He spoke curtly to the three seamen, who salaamed and left. “You will stay here,” he said to Bannerji. Then he and Ananda Lal left also.

  “That was well done,” said Bannerji. “I assume you said what you did to give us time to talk and think.”

  “Partly,” said Sara. “And partly because I am hungry.”

  “In the meantime,” said Andrew, “let’s see if we can figure out where we are and if there’s anything we can do to escape.”

  He had been looking around the room ever since his blindfold had been taken off. It was a large room that had probably once been a back parlor. It was empty now except for some mats and cushions in one corner. He walked over to the windows and looked out. There was a narrow garden in back of the house and beyond that were the brown and muddy waters of a canal.

  “Do you know where we are?” asked Bannerji.

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “That’s the Grand Union Canal, which runs into the Regent’s Canal. We’re somewhere between Wormwood Scrubs and the branch of the canal that runs south to the Paddington Basin.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sara, pointing.

  Just to the right of the house was a dock and several sheds set close to the edge of the canal. A large steam launch was tied up to the dock, apparently with steam up, for faint puffs of smoke were rising from its tall stack.

  “Looks like a boatyard,” said Andrew. “There are quite a few along the canal. They rent out boats as well build and repair them.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it seems to have some connection with the people here.”

  Looking out, Andrew saw what she meant. A weather-beaten, gray-bearded seaman wearing boots, a short dark jacket, and a peaked cap was walking up the path from the boatyard to the garden in back of the house.

  “Ahoy!” he called as he reached the garden. “Anyone about?”

  A door immediately under the window from which they were watching opened, and Chunder Das stepped out.

  “Good morning, Captain Clemson,” he said. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

  “Well, it’s well after eight bells, but you can call it what you like. What I came up for was to see if you’ve got any word for me.”

  “No, captain. Not yet.”

  “Oh? My boy said you’d had visitors, and I thought maybe that was what you were waiting for.”

  “No, captain. However, it shouldn’t be long now, so just keep the steam up in your launch and be patient.”

  “Long as I’m being paid for it, I don’t mind. I’ll stand by.” And saluting Chunder Das, he turned and went back down the path to the boatyard.

  “What was all that?” asked Sara.

  “I do not know,” said Bannerji, “except that this British captain seems in some way to be in league with my compatriots. But what is much more important is what you intend to do.”

  “About what?” asked Andrew.

  “The demand of Chunder Das that you write a note to Inspector Wyatt, telling him that we are prisoners and he must give Chunder Das and the others whatever information he has about our friend Beasley.”

  “I don’t think we should do it,” said Andrew. “Do you, Sara?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not sure. The only reason for doing it would be if we could put something in the note that would help him find us.”

  “Do you think you could?” asked Bannerji.

  “We might be able to. On the other hand, once he realizes what’s happened to us—which will be as soon as he gets a note from them or from us—he’ll start looking for us anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “But it does matter,” said Bannerji gravely. “I am afraid you are not taking this seriously enough. These people are bad—very bad. If they are, as I think they are, Thugs, then they have killed many times in India and probably here, too. As long as you are in their power, you are in danger, and I would advise you to do anything they ask you to do in order to get away from them.”

  “If we are in danger,” said Andrew, “and I suppose we are, then Beasley and Mr. X, the British agent you think he’s trying to protect, would be in even more danger if these people found them. Well, I’m not going to save my skin by destroying someone else.”

  “But it’s not just your own skin that you should be thinking about,” said Bannerji. “What about Miss Sara here?”

  “I wouldn’t let him do anything to save me that would put old Beasley or Mr. X in danger,” said Sara.

  “You are making a mistake,” said Bannerji. “You do not seem to realize what is at stake here and how cruel these people can be. However—”

  The door opened, and Chunder Das came in, followed by one of the seamen carrying a tray, which he set on the floor. There was a large bowl on the tray, which contained a mound of rice covered with meat in a sauce.

  “I am afraid that we have no forks or spoons,” said Chunder Das. “You will have to eat with your fingers as we do.” Then, as they squatted down around the tray, “Well? Have you decided what you are going to do?”

  “About what?” asked Andrew, watching Bannerji make a small ball of rice and curry and put it in his mouth.

  “Are you going to write a note to your friend Inspector Wyatt as we have asked you to?”

  “No,” said Sara, making a ball of rice and curry and popping it into her mouth almost as dexterously as Bannerji had.

  “No?”

  “No,” said Andrew.

  Frowning, Chunder Das looked at Bannerji, who shrugged and said something to him in Hindustani.

  “Very well,” said Chunder Das angrily. “I will write the note. And if it does not have the desired result—and quickly!—we will take other, more extreme steps!” And he stalked out of the room.

  Bannerji said something to the seaman in Hindustani, and the
seaman nodded, went out, and came back with a pitcher of water, a basin, and several cups. They all drank thirstily, for the curry was heavily spiced, and after they had eaten they washed their hands in the basin.

  The seaman took out the tray, and the three prisoners separated, Bannerji sitting cross-legged and somewhat sulky on a mat against one wall of the almost empty room and Sara and Andrew sitting together against the opposite wall. About a half hour later, Chunder Das came in with an envelope in his hand. There were two of the seamen with him this time and, when Chunder Das said something to them, one of them drew a long knife from a sheath inside the waistband of his trousers and advanced on Sara.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Andrew, scrambling to his feet and stationing himself between Sara and the seaman with the knife. The seaman paused, feinted, and when Andrew tried to grapple with him, the other seaman grabbed him from behind and held his arms. With a quick slash, the seaman with the knife cut off a lock of Sara’s hair and, at the same time, pulled off one of her hair ribbons.

  “This is all we want at the moment,” said Chunder Das as the seaman gave him the ribbon and the lock of hair. “We need them so the inspector will know that we are telling the truth when we say that we have you. Next time, if we have to send him something to show that we are in earnest, it will be something that will be a good deal more painful.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” said Sara, going a little pale.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Chunder Das quietly. “Yes, we would. You had better accept the fact that there is nothing—but nothing—that we will not do to get what we want!”

  There was a strange sound from outside. Ever since they arrived at the house, Andrew and Sara had been aware of sounds from the canal: the hoot of tug whistles, the sound of horses’ hoofs on the tow path as they pulled the loaded barges, the calls of the bargemen to one another. But this was different. It sounded like a foghorn, and it was a clear day. Not only that, but there was something familiar about it.

  Sara had scrambled to her feet after the lock of her hair had been cut off. Now, more to cover her anxiety than for any other reason, she turned her back on Chunder Das and went over to the window. Andrew went with her. They looked out and, with a start, Sara clutched Andrew’s arm, her fingers digging painfully into it.

  A small tug was towing a string of six barges east on the canal. Most of them were loaded with coal. But the last barge, which was now just opposite them, was loaded with ashes and broken bricks from one of the dust yards. Whispering Willie, the dustman, stood in the bow of the barge. He had just blown a blast on his foghorn, apparently as a signal of some sort to the tug that was towing them, for it answered with a short whistle. Dropping the foghorn so that it hung from the lanyard around his neck, Willie picked up a shovel and began leveling the ashes in the area around him.

  But surprising as this was, this was not what Sara and Andrew were staring at. For sitting in the stern of the barge, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and looking quite relaxed as he steered the heavily laden craft, was Beasley!

  14

  The Chase

  When Sara got to her feet, Bannerji got up also, either to protect her as Andrew had tried to do, or to remonstrate with his compatriots. In any case, when the foghorn sounded, he glanced out of the window and reacted as decidedly as Sara and Andrew had, actually saying something in Hindustani under his breath. This made Chunder Das glance out of the window, too, and his reaction was the most violent of all.

  When he saw Beasley, his face lit up, and he exclaimed in triumph. He said something to one of the seamen, who ran out of the room, and a moment later a large handbell was rung loudly.

  This must have been a signal to the boatyard for, as soon as he heard it, Clemson, the English captain in the peaked cap, came hurrying out of one of the shacks, glanced up at the house and, jumping into the steam launch, blew two answering blasts on its whistle.

  There was now a rapid exchange in Hindustani between Chunder Das and Bannerji. Whatever Bannerji said, Chunder Das disagreed with it, for he shook his head impatiently and said to Sara and Andrew, “Come! You will come now, quickly!”

  “Where?” asked Sara.

  “Onto boat.”

  “He wants us to come along on the launch,” said Bannerji. “I asked him why he could not lock us up if he felt he had to keep us secure, but he said he did not have the time to make sure we were well locked in. He also said, if we came quietly, once they caught Beasley, they would let us go.”

  “Do you believe him?” asked Andrew.

  “I’m not sure. I think he may also want us along so that if anything goes wrong, he may use us as hostages. But, on the whole, I think it is better to go along.”

  Andrew and Sara exchanged glances. They were not at all certain that they could trust Chunder Das; on the other hand, if they went along in the launch they might be able to help Beasley or escape themselves or both.

  “All right,” said Sara. “We’ll come.”

  “Quickly, then,” said Chundar Das. “Quick, quick!”

  He waved his hand, and Sara, Andrew, and Bannerji hurried out of the door, Chunder Das and the seaman bringing up the rear to make sure they did not run away. They hurried down the stairs, and on the floor below, met the other two seamen and Ananda Lal. There was another exchange in Hindustani, and Ananda Lal and one of the seamen led the way out of the back of the house, through the uncared-for garden, and along the path to the boatyard.

  When they got to the launch, a young man in his early twenties was shoveling coal into the glowing furnace, building up the steam pressure, and Clemson was waiting impatiently for them. His eyes widened when he saw Sara and Andrew, and he frowned; but Chunder Das said quickly, “It’s all right. They are friends, and they are coming with us.”

  “All right, then,” said Clemson. “Get aboard.”

  “Back there,” said Chunder Das, pointing to the stern of the launch. Sara and Andrew jumped down into the stern of the launch and helped Bannerji to follow. Chunder Das and Ananda Lal got into the bow. The seamen cast off the lines and jumped into the bow also. Clemson advanced the throttle, spun the wheel, and the launch curved from the dock and started up the canal.

  There was not as much traffic on the canal as there usually was. A horse plodded along the towpath on the far side, drawing a pair of barges loaded with stone and lumber. On the near side, just past the house they had left, several narrow monkey boats laden with lime and cement were tied up, waiting for a tow. The muddy waters of the canal were stirred as the launch picked up speed to catch the string of barges, which was some distance ahead by now.

  What would they do when they did catch up, Andrew wondered. For there was no question but that they would. How could a tug towing barges outrun a fast steam launch? And there was no doubt that the launch was fast—as fast as a Thames police launch. Not only that, but Beasley and Whispering Willie did not even seem to realize that they were being chased.

  As Andrew wondered if there were any way he could warn them, Clemson blew two short blasts on his whistle to let the man steering the stone and lumber barges know that he was overtaking and passing him.

  As the man, a burly bargee in a checked shirt, raised an arm in acknowledgement, Beasley turned and looked back. The sight of the Indians in the bow—for, even at a distance, he could have seen their turbans—must have alarmed him, for sitting up, he called out something to Whispering Willie in the barge’s bow. Willie looked back also, then, lifting his horn, he blew a series of short blasts on it. If it was a signal to go faster, it did no good at all. For though the tug towing the barges again answered with a whistle, it did not increase its speed appreciably. In fact, it probably couldn’t.

  As Beasley, looking worried, kept glancing back, the launch gained rapidly on the barge.

  “That the one you’re after, the last one?” said Clemson.

  “Yes,” said Chunder Das.

  “What do you want me to do, draw up alongside so you can boa
rd her?”

  “Yes.” He exchanged a few words in Hindustani with one of the seamen. “Up in the front of it—the bow.”

  The launch drew nearer to the barge. The three seamen were up in the bow. The one who had cut off the lock of Sara’s hair had drawn his knife again. A second one had a cosh, a short bludgeon, in his hand. The third had taken the fire axe from its bracket in front of the launch’s cabin. Whispering Willie had picked up his shovel and was holding it like a club, prepared to repel boarders.

  “How are they going to do it?” asked Sara. “They can’t just kidnap Beasley out here on the canal in broad daylight.”

  “Apparently they think they can,” said Andrew. “No one seems to realize what they’re doing, and the launch seems to be very fast—faster than anything else around here at the moment.”

  “They may be in for more trouble than they think. Whispering Willie looks as if he’s going to fight, and I’ve a feeling that Beasley will, too.” Then, lowering her voice, “Isn’t there anything we can do to help?”

  “There may be,” said Andrew quietly. “Let’s wait and see.”

  The launch was up level with the barge now. One of the Indians waved his hand. Clemson spun the wheel, and the launch swung in at the bow of the barge. Raising the axe, the Indian brought it down on the barge’s bow, cutting through the tow line. Almost at once the barge began losing way, slowing up, while the tug and the other barges drew away from it. Clemson spun his wheel the other way, and the launch started to circle around behind the barge, where the Indians could make fast and board her.

  Beasley threw the barge’s helm over and, with what momentum it had left, the barge swung toward a warehouse on the north bank of the canal. Its inertia carried it forward until it bumped against the piles of the dock on the canal side of the warehouse. With seamanlike agility, Willie threw the barge’s hawser around one of the piles and pulled it tight to hold the barge in place. Then he picked up his shovel again. Beasley, meanwhile, had picked up a boathook, which he prepared to use as a pike.