A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  The boy came with the key and in a moment Perron was outside. The balcony overlooked a broad passage between the block of flats and its neighbour and also had a view of the backs of other blocks. It was a world of hot night air and lighted windows. From some of them music came. The gap between the balconies was as narrow as the cook had promised. The cook allowed his shoulder to be used as a support while Perron got up on the parapet, steadied himself and stepped across. Without pausing to lose momentum or balance he jumped on to the floor of Purvis’s balcony, barely managing to avoid twisting his ankle. One foot had landed within an inch of a potted plant which looked both virile and belligerent. The curtains in Purvis’s room were closed but the wire-mesh screen gave at a touch. He entered.

  The room was unoccupied. He tapped at the bathroom door and called. There was no sound from inside. He tried the handle. This door was locked too. He unbolted and opened the one into the corridor. The three servants were waiting outside.

  ‘Did Purvis Sahib have his bath before the telegram came?’

  No. All Purvis Sahib had done after Sergeant Sahib left was to sit drinking.

  ‘In the flat below,’ Perron said, slowly and carefully, ‘there is a Major Rajendra Singh of the IMS. A Doctor Sahib. Please go downstairs, ring his bell and ask him to come quickly if he is there. If not come back at once.’

  The cook volunteered to take the message but Perron said, ‘No, you help me.’ The cook looked tougher than the bearer. ‘Purvis Sahib may be very ill. We have to break into the bathroom.’

  Perron did not wait to watch the bearer go. He rattled the bathroom door, kicked the bottom and punched the top. The bolt was at waist level. Again he launched himself, right shoulder this time. After three attempts he stood back.

  ‘Together. Okay?’

  The cook lined himself up. On Perron’s count of three they attacked the door together. There wasn’t really enough working surface. Two shoulders needed a wider door. But Perron thought he felt something give. He fingered one of the panels. The door was a good solid piece of carpentry; which was a pity because breaking in looked like a chopper or axe job.

  ‘Once more.’

  This time the sound and feel of cracking wood was unmistakable. The bolt-hole was being forced out of the doorframe. Some of the frame would come with it.

  ‘I think I can manage now.’

  He stood the cook aside, made an anchorage for his left arm on the cook’s shoulder and kicked hard at the door just above the handle with the flat of his shoe. He did this four times. At the fifth kick the door gave, swung open and revealed their own reflections in the mirror above the hand-basin: an unlooked-for and disturbing confrontation.

  Perron went in. The water in the bath-tub had a pink tinge. In it Purvis lay, fully clothed except for his shoes which were placed neatly on the cork mat. His body had slumped and the head, turned into one shoulder, was half submerged. The source of the pink tinge was a series of cuts on the inner side of the left arm which was bare to the elbow. From these cuts slicks of blood rose. In his right hand, which lay under the water, the fingers touching but not grasping it, was the broken-off bottle neck that he had used to inflict the wounds. Other fragments of the bottle were visible. The label – from the second of the two bottles of Old Sporran – floated on the surface.

  There was space enough between the wash-basin and the head end of the bath. From there Perron reached down, grasped the collar of Purvis’s bush-shirt and heaved him up far enough to get the head out of water and a hand under one arm. He had to struggle to get a grip under the other. He glanced round. The cook was standing in the doorway looking as if he had come to announce that the dinner was ruined through no fault of his own.

  ‘Help me with his feet,’ Perron said.

  ‘Sahib dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. Help with his feet.’

  Reluctantly the man came in. After one glance at Purvis’s face he looked away, studied the feet and presently leant over and grasped them, none too firmly.

  ‘Up.’

  Shoulders and feet came clear but Purvis was a dead weight. He sagged in the middle. The feet fell back in. The cook was drenched. Perron’s eyes began to sting with sweat. The bathroom was like a hothouse. By contrast Purvis’s body felt alarmingly tepid through the sodden khaki material. Changing tactics, Perron heaved the shoulders further up and then began to turn Purvis over on to the rim of the bath. As the face disappeared from the cook’s view his attention to the mechanics of the problem improved. He grabbed Purvis’s knees and heaved. Purvis was now face down and half out of the bath at the top end. Perron readjusted his grip and began to pull. The cook got hold of the thigh and knee of the left leg. At one moment Purvis was balanced entirely on the rim and in danger of falling off it. Perron walked backwards to the door, dragging Purvis with him. The water sloshed out of Purvis’s pockets. The cook now got a secure grip on both ankles. They carried Purvis through into the bedroom.

  ‘Bed, Sahib?’

  ‘No, here.’ Perron lowered his end to the floor. The cook followed suit.

  ‘Towel.’

  While the cook went back for this Perron turned Purvis’s face sideways and adjusted the arms, straddled the body and began the exhausting drill for first-aid to the drowned. While he did so he looked at the left arm. There didn’t seem to be much blood on the floor. Perhaps the slashes on the arm were superficial. A towel dangled in his face. ‘Sahib,’ the cook said. Perron broke off, took the towel and wound it tightly round the slashed arm. Then he resumed. A thin trickle of water and what looked like vomit came from Purvis’s mouth.

  ‘Doctor Sahib not answering,’ came the bearer’s voice. The cook repeated the message. ‘No answer, doctor sahib.’

  Perron continued exerting and relaxing pressure. A large trickle of water came.

  ‘Go downstairs,’ Perron said, between pressures. ‘Ring Colonel Grace Sahib’s bell. Ask for Major Merrick. Anyone. Say: Doctor, ambulance, Purvis Sahib. Quick. Okay?’

  The cook repeated the instructions to the bearer.

  ‘Go with him,’ Perron said. ‘Doctor. Ambulance, Sergeant Perron’s request.’

  Alone, Perron paused to wipe sweat. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes altogether was what was recommended. Say another fifteen yet to go. After that Purvis could be presumed dead. He was probably dead now. Perron was tempted to pause again and listen for heart and pulse beat but he supposed the most important thing now was to keep up the rhythm. He resumed. He had studied the drill but this was the first time he had had to put it into practice. The action he was performing suddenly struck him as distasteful. Not only was the body very likely dead, it was Purvis’s. It would have been preferable if the inert figure, prone between his thighs, had been that of a complete stranger. The fact that he had sat and talked to Purvis strengthened the unpleasantness of their present positions. He wondered whether Purvis would thank him if he succeeded in reviving him. The suspicion that he would not made the task that much more objectionable. There was another ejaculation of water and vomit. Perron turned his head, closed his eyes. He began breathing in and out through his mouth, slowly, to the rhythm of his own body’s movement. He breathed audibly, thinking that perhaps by some quirk of nature Purvis’s moribund brain and water-logged lungs might be stimulated into action by an association of ideas.

  From breathing just audibly he progressed to doing so hoarsely through a half-closed throat, and continued so after his throat had begun to ache; the point being that he wanted Purvis to hear what he himself now began to despair of hearing from Purvis. His back hurt. His arms and shoulders hurt. Sweat poured unchecked over and around his closed eyes. His knees were numb from contact with the tiled floor. Pain stabbed through them down the shins and up the thighs with each forward and backward movement. Only his hands, pressing into Purvis’s thin bony back and rib-cage, still seemed capable of doing their work indefinitely. He went on, exerting and relaxing pressure and breathing hoarsely until suddenly his throat
dried up. He closed his mouth, swallowed and tried to make saliva. The effort put him off his stroke. He stopped for a moment and then, alerted, opened his eyes and stared down at Purvis. From Purvis’s open mouth was coming a sound and under Perron’s hands the rib-cage was moving. Purvis was breathing, or anyway fighting for breath.

  ‘I think you can stop now, Sergeant,’ someone said. He looked up and round. Merrick stood just behind him. ‘I’ll get another towel. We’ve rung for a doctor. He’s just up the road so he’ll be here in a tick.’

  Perron nodded and looked down at Purvis. The struggle for breath seemed immense. Surprisingly it was not without a certain dignity. When Merrick returned with the towel Perron took it from him and spread it over the vomit and then, folding a clean section, tucked it under Purvis’s cheek and stroked a lank bit of the mousy hair away from the closed eyes. As he did so Purvis’s mouth shut and then opened again.

  Merrick said, ‘I think a blanket would be a good idea if there is such a thing.’ He found one in the almirah and brought it over. Perron helped him cover Purvis with it.

  ‘We’d better have a look at this.’ He leant down and lifted Purvis’s left arm. Perron unwound the towel. The inside was fairly bloody now but only one of the cuts was seeping seriously.

  ‘I think just wrap the towel round again, Sergeant, until the doctor gets here,’ Merrick said. ‘It wasn’t a very effective job, was it?’

  ‘He was pretty drunk.’

  ‘What on? More of the whisky the Maharanee didn’t like?’

  ‘To judge by the broken bottle.’

  ‘And the smell in this room.’

  ‘Is there a smell?’

  ‘Very much so. Haven’t you noticed?’

  Perron sniffed. He noticed it now.

  ‘Not the most prepossessing chap by the look of him, is he?’ Merrick said. ‘Do you know what was wrong?’

  ‘I think he’d just had enough.’

  ‘You look as if you have. Where did you leave the bottle you brought back from the Maharanee’s?’

  Perron told him he thought it must be in the living-room.

  ‘I think you should have some. I’ll bring it.’

  Merrick went. Purvis’s breathing was shallow but fairly regular. Perron got up stiffly. A man’s voice in the corridor called ‘Hello?’ There was an exchange between Merrick and the new arrival. Merrick came back into the room with an English IMS officer. The officer knelt, lifted Purvis’s eyelid and felt his temple.

  ‘You’re the chap who found him, are you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The doctor unwrapped the towel from the arm.

  ‘Bath, I gather. Face completely submerged?’

  ‘Right side, sir.’

  ‘D’you know how long for, roughly?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How long were you resuscitating?’

  ‘About ten minutes, sir.’

  The doctor had his stethoscope out. When he had finished and slung the earpieces round his neck he glanced up.

  ‘Well done. You’d better go next door and have a bloody strong drink and get out of that wet uniform. Major Merrick – perhaps a couple of the fellows outside will help me get him on to the bed while you ring for the blood-wagon?’ He gave Merrick the number as Perron left the room.

  *

  After Purvis had been taken away Merrick came back from downstairs and into the wrecked living-room where Perron sat drinking some of the Maharanee’s whisky and admiring the vivid and lively effect of the Guler-Basohli technique. The paintings were the only things he felt able to concentrate on. They were about one hundred and fifty years old. Even the two damaged ones maintained that air of detachment and self-sufficiency that went with a talent for survival.

  Before Merrick could speak Perron said, ‘Until I told Purvis what those pictures were he’d no idea. If I’d kept quiet he’d probably have left them alone.’

  Merrick inspected them.

  ‘It’s what’s called Kangra painting, isn’t it?’

  Perron nodded. Kangra was close enough.

  Merrick said, ‘Actually I find all oriental art unattractive.’ He turned from the paintings. ‘I don’t think you need worry further about Captain Purvis unless he does the unexpected and dies, which would mean an inquest. But Simpson says he’ll be all right. When he’s recovered they’ll hand him over to the psychiatric people. Are you going to be fit to drive back to Kalyan?’

  ‘I should think so, sir.’

  ‘Then get your other things and come downstairs and clean up. We’ll give you something to eat. How much of that whisky have you had?’

  ‘This is my third glass.’

  ‘Rather a strong one, isn’t it? When you’re downstairs you’ll remember which subjects are taboo, won’t you?’

  ‘The subjects of Havildar Karim Muzzafir Khan and Harry Coomer.’

  ‘Good. Incidentally I liked the way you handled Count Bronowsky, but I was surprised he thought fit to raise the subject.’

  Perron sipped whisky. He had not liked lying. He felt he was owed an explanation. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me what Coomer did, sir?’

  ‘He and five of his friends raped an English girl called Daphne Manners, the niece of the Lady Manners whose name also came up. It was a squalid and extremely nasty business and I find it inconceivable that a man should refer to it in front of a woman.’

  Perron sipped more whisky. How old-fashioned. His inclination was to laugh. He wondered whether it was Merrick’s intention to make him.

  ‘Was a charge of rape the one you said he wriggled out of, sir?’

  ‘Yes. But as I told you we got him and the others on political grounds.’

  Perron drained the glass and stood up. ‘It all sounds so melodramatic. I find it difficult to imagine Coomer raping anybody.’

  ‘But then you didn’t really know him, except with a bat and ball. Are you one of those people who think that if you teach an Indian the rules of cricket he’ll become a perfect English gentleman?’

  ‘Hardly, sir. Since I know quite a few Englishmen who play brilliantly and are absolute shits.’

  ‘Do you?’ Merrick said. He stared at Perron. ‘What are you going to do about the Maharanee’s whisky?’

  ‘Keep it, I should think.’

  ‘In view of what Miss Layton said about her father’s fondness for that particular brand I was wondering whether it would be a nice gesture for you to leave it with her as a sort of thank you.’

  ‘Thank you?’

  ‘She’s putting herself out to see that you have something to eat.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for anything to eat, sir.’

  ‘I did that for you. I don’t want you driving on a stomach full of nothing but liquor. And then there’s the danger of delayed shock impairing your judgment and leading to an accident.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to have my welfare at heart, sir.’

  ‘My concern is quite unaltruistic. I have a vested interest in your continuing capacity to perform efficiently. Now, let’s go down and get you cleaned up and fed.’

  ‘May I ask what vested interest, sir?’

  ‘I’m arranging to have you attached to my department. The signal ordering you to report for an interview is probably waiting for you in Kalyan but the interview will be no more than a formality. You can assume you’ll be working for me. You’ll find it pretty interesting.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, sir, but I imagine my department will think its present commitments much too important to allow me to go elsewhere.’

  ‘You’ll find they’re overruled without much fuss.’

  ‘The point is, sir, I shouldn’t want them overruled.’

  ‘Well that does you credit. One becomes attached to one’s own unit. But I imagine you’ll bow to the inevitable with more equanimity than our friend Purvis. Let’s not keep Miss Layton waiting any longer.’

  Perron picked up the bottle and went to Purvis’s room to collect his pack. Back in the corrido
r he found Merrick instructing the bearer to leave everything as it was until morning. Perron preceded him through the open door, waited for him and then followed him downstairs. Just short of the door of the flat, which was ajar, Merrick said, ‘I’ll relieve you of that, shall I?’ and took the bottle.

  Going in, Merrick called, ‘Sarah? I’ve got Sergeant Perron here.’

  Perron followed. In layout the flat was a mirror-duplicate of the one upstairs. She was coming through the dining-room area towards them.

  ‘Hello. Are you all right?’

  ‘I think he’s still a bit groggy,’ Merrick said before Perron could answer.

  ‘If you are I don’t wonder. I’ll show you where you can relax and freshen up. Ronald, you go and sit down.’

  Her manner was brisk but sympathetic. The bedroom she took him to corresponded with the one Purvis had occupied upstairs but was properly furnished. The light and the ceiling fan were already on. There were two beds; between them a writing-table and a chair with an officer’s bush-shirt draped over its back. The bush-shirt looked brand new. The woven shoulder-tabs were those of a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Pankot Rifles.

  The door to the bathroom was open and the light switched on. She said, ‘Do bathe or shower if you want to. You’ll find a large green towel on the rail that hasn’t been used.’ She had made simple but efficient preparations. She looked at his damp uniform. ‘I know father wouldn’t mind your borrowing his dressing-gown if you want to have anything dried out and pressed quickly.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Miss Layton, but I’ve got a change of clothes in here.’ He indicated the pack. ‘My correct uniform. The one you saw me in this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll leave you to it, then. How hungry are you?’

  ‘I’m not at all hungry but I suppose I ought to eat something.’