The Baron Goes East (9 page)

 

Mannering lowered Phiroshah gently to the ground and straightened up. Apparently the squatting man had not heard him. He was twenty yards away, a dark figure, staring into the water. The stars were bright above their heads, and the water was like a gigantic mirror. Coconut palms fringed the edges of the lake, but the bush was thinner there. The ground was damp, but the mud was crumbly.

Mannering crept forward.

He was twenty feet from the man when the squatting figure stood up, without any sign of haste or alarm, and stared across the water. Mannering could have shot him; he kept the gun trained and stepped nearer.

The man turned.

He saw Mannering and gave a choking gasp, stepped back – and slipped. He fell backwards into the water. The splashes reached Mannering's waist. The surface was suddenly churned with fury; the stars danced on it. The man's figure showed clearly as he surfaced. The lake was deep – much deeper than Mannering had expected. The man hadn't a chance. All Mannering had to do was wait for him to scramble ashore.

Mannering waited.

He saw nothing new at first; heard a sudden rush through the water followed by a wild scream. Then he saw two great jaws open, heard them snap. The man screamed again, and disappeared. The water was beaten as by a sudden, lashing tumult, then gradually settled.

Horror choked Mannering. The scream, the snapping jaws, the swift disappearance – it hadn't been real. But it had happened – a crocodile had taken a victim.

The water must be infested, even so close to the land as this.

Mannering's mouth was dry and his lips felt cracked. He saw a long, narrow boat, little more than a canoe, tied up to a jetty made of long, straight logs lashed with ropes. The boat was still.

There was no way to the mainland, which looked so near, except by water.

He peered into the dark surface, imagining shapes which probably weren't there. He looked across at the mainland again, where the starry tops of the palms were dark and peaceful against the stars. They rose high above the other trees. He could see no light, nothing to suggest life.

He went to the jetty, walked along it, felt some of the logs give a little; and the water was very deep beneath it. He knelt down cautiously by the side of the boat. There was room for two, perhaps three, people. There were two paddles, with wide blades. At the bottom was a little water and an old tin.

If he waited here, others would come. He had little ammunition. His one real chance was to get to the mainland at once. He didn't know where he was; it might be hundreds of miles from Bombay – a day and a night might have passed since he had been kidnapped. He stood up cautiously, but the jetty seemed to rock.

Phiroshah hadn't moved.

Mannering lifted him and carried him to the jetty. In spite of the warmth, he felt cold. He lowered Phiroshah carefully into the canoe. It swayed up and down against the jetty. He stepped in gingerly, and the boat veered over, under his weight.

He stood upright, with the canoe swaying and water lapping over the side. He waited until it steadied. He could hear a sound now – the thumping of his heart. He lowered himself to the single seat, two logs lashed together, and picked up the paddles. Then he realised that he hadn't untied the mooring rope; and he had to untie it, for he hadn't a knife. He could have had four.

The rope parted at last, and he fancied he saw a dark shape close to the surface; fancied he heard the swirling noise. He sat down again and picked up the paddles. He put one between his feet and used the other, paddling first this side, then that. The boat moved sluggishly and was low at the stern. He felt water splashing over it gently. The water ran to and fro, sometimes over the tops of his shoes. He tried to go more cautiously, to keep the canoe steady. In spite of the calm surface he failed. He saw water moving sluggishly about Phiroshah's body; it seemed to be creeping up.

The mainland had seemed near; now, it was apparently as far away as it had been when he had started. Was there a current?

He kept on, his teeth still clenched tightly, breathing heavily through his nostrils. The canoe seemed to be made of lead. His feet were in water all the time now.

Light suddenly attracted him.

It moved along the trees on the mainland – the headlamps of a car. It was travelling slowly, and the beams went up and down. They turned suddenly and shone out on to the lake. Lights rippled on the water, a hundred yards away from it. The shape of another jetty and more canoes showed up; then the figures of small men climbing from the jetty into a canoe.

The headlamps went out; so did the parking lights. Only the stars gave light now.

Mannering headed towards a small island, which gave him some cover, the new development giving him temporary respite from the closer fears of the water. He watched the other boat moving swiftly, heading for the island. They would make twice the speed he was making; would quickly discover what had happened and raise an alarm. Someone would have been left in charge of the car. He paddled slowly round the sheltering island, but had a new fear – of the noise that his paddle made.

The paddle touched bottom, and the canoe swung gently round. It was pointing towards the jetty, but at least a hundred yards away. The paddle touched the bottom again and again, then the canoe shuddered as it hit mud, tipped over, and flung him to one side.

He gasped aloud.

As he grabbed the side with one hand, the other slipped and went deep into the water. He snatched it out, his heart thumping wildly. The canoe steadied, but still had a list. He sat motionless, with sweat oozing from every pore, and it was a long time before he could bring himself to move again.

They were firmly stuck. He climbed out on the landward side, and was nearly knee deep in water that seemed warm. He didn't try to pull the canoe further in, but, with his feet sinking into the mud, lifted Phiroshah and started towards land. Every step was an effort and an ordeal, but the land was near.

He reached grass.

He staggered away until he found a path with coconut palms on either side. He walked until he judged that he was nearly level with the jetty and the car, put Phiroshah down on the grass, and straightened up to ease his cramped back. He stepped through the trees and saw the shape of the car twenty yards away from him.

He edged his way towards the car, looking for a guard. He saw no one this side, and went to the other. A man was lying on the damp ground, a blanket covering him up to his chin, apparently asleep. Mannering crept nearer. The man didn't stir when Mannering hit him on the side of the jaw.

 

The car was an old Buick; the keys were in the ignition.

 

It was a nightmare drive. First along an unmade road, with the lake on one side and wooded hills on the other. At least he couldn't miss his way – there was only the one road. Then on to a gravel path which bumped him from side to side, worried him for Phiroshah; then on to tarmac, through the dark countryside, past the walking figures of the natives, past little shops where lights still burned. He didn't stop to ask the way; the road would take him somewhere.

Suddenly, the headlights shone on a signpost. He saw one finger, reading:
Bombay
.

Nearly an hour later he pulled up outside Phiroshah's bungalow.

 

The door opened as the car came to a standstill, and men ran down the steps, Amu and Joseph among them. They ought to be with Lorna, looking after her, thought Mannering; they oughtn't to be here. He saw Shani, then Lorna just behind her.

Shani stayed at the top of the steps, Lorna hurried down.

He called out hoarsely: “I'm all right.”

He staggered out and would have fallen but for Amu's help. Lorna reached him and gripped his arm. He didn't speak to Amu, knew that the bearers were getting Phiroshah out of the back of the car. With Lorna on one side and a bearer on the other, he started up the steps. He swayed in the entrance of the hall and nearly fell again.

“Crazy,” he muttered.

“You always were,” Lorna said in a choky voice.

He saw Shani.

“Both of us,” he said. “Your father's all right, Shani. Doctor wanted, though. I need—a drink.”

“I know what you need,” Lorna said.

Everything that followed was vague. The lights were too bright and hurt his eyes, but he didn't complain. Lorna and a bearer took him to a bedroom. There was a big divan bed – the most inviting bed in the world. He sat on the edge, and Lorna undressed him. A servant came in with hot soup. He had a little, waved it away, and sank back on the pillows. He had a confused mental picture of a dark tunnel and swirling water and snapping jaws.

Then he faded into sleep.

It was dark when he woke, but not with the darkness of the night. Venetian blinds were drawn at the big windows of the bedroom. A fan was whirring, but there was no other sound. The room was unfamiliar. Slowly he recalled what had happened, where he was. His mouth was dry and his head ached dully, but apart from that and stiffness he judged himself fit enough. He sat up cautiously and put a hand to his head. There was a patch of sticking-plaster.

He wondered how Phiroshah was.

He looked at the bedside table and saw a handbell of brass, inlaid with enamel. He rang it, and the tingling sound seemed too soft to reach anyone outside the room, but the door opened almost at once and Shani came in.

She wore blue. She looked young and fresh and untroubled. She smiled as she approached, and he saw a bearer moving away from her. She reached the bed and went down on her knees beside it.

“So he's all right,” Mannering said.

“He will recover, with care,” said Shani. “And so for the second time he owes you—”

“Forget it, please.”

“How can we forget? He doesn't know what happened, but when he learns he will have a deeper gratitude than ever.” She looked up into his face, and he felt the simplicity of her being.

He heard a movement, and Lorna came in, Lorna in a white linen suit, dark hair a mass of waves, eyes bright as they had ever been. Mannering felt his spirits rising. Shani stood up and went without a word. Lorna sat on the side of the bed and gripped his hands.

“All right,” he said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“I suppose so. I—but you need something to eat. They seldom cook food our way here, but I've been given the run of the kitchen. Darling—”

“Hm-hm?”

“They haven't told the police. Are you going to?”

“Problem,” said Mannering. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene on the island and those snapping jaws. He opened his eyes again. “Let's think about it. There isn't any hurry. Nothing else has happened, has it?”

“Nothing that matters,” she said, and hurried out.

He lay back, wondering what she had meant. Then he began to wonder where he had been, where the crocodile-infested lakes were. He remembered Phiroshah asking him whether he had been known as Lucky John Mannering. He was smiling when Lorna came back with a tray. She put the tray down. To bring it in here by herself without having a bearer carry it for her was an achievement of its own.

“What's the thing that doesn't matter?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing.” She grimaced at him. “Except that Imannati Patel died last night. Oh, and the son of the Maharajah of Ganpore is here and has a ridiculous idea that he's going to talk to you this morning.”

 

 

Patel, who had called Mannering a fool and Phiroshah a liar, was dead. The man Phiroshah feared, the man who admitted that he was after the blue diamonds, was no longer a threat. Mannering pondered over this as he had a light breakfast and drank a lot of coffee. Lorna moved about the room, touching this, fiddling with that, trying not to break the train of his thoughts. She had recovered from the shock after Patandi's death, and was probably resigned to the fact that nothing would take Mannering away.

“Like the son of the Maharajah?” Mannering asked her.

“I haven't seen much of him,” said Lorna. “He looks like an immaculate Frenchman with a dark skin. All gallantry, polish and
sang-froid
.
He talks in perfect English to me and in French to Shani.”

“Age?”

“It's always difficult to tell. Twenty-three or four, perhaps a year or two older.”

“And I suppose they knew each other. Shani and the son of the Maharajah, I mean. What's his name, my sweet?” He finished his third cup of coffee, leaned back on the pillows and enjoyed looking at Lorna as she sat on the hide-covered pouf, hugging her knees, her head raised, and the wind from the fan ruffling her hair.

“Oh, they've met before. And his name's Jagat. J-A-G-A-T, I think.”

Mannering murmured: “Could there be romance?”

“If they were English I'd make a guess, but I'm not going to try. They hide their feelings so well. The trouble is that they all look as if they have no feeling. What made you ask?”

“A leakage at the Maharajah's palace and a leakage here,” said Mannering. “Still faithful to the innocence of Shani?”

Lorna considered him almost with distaste.

“Of course I am. But I know I shouldn't be.”

Mannering laughed, and a streak of pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes, heard a sound at the door, and then a murmuring. He opened his eyes a little. Joseph, with a black eye and a cut on his right cheek which looked angry and sore, was holding the door as a white man of medium height, inclined to plumpness, grey-haired and wearing glasses with thick lenses, came in breezily. He carried a brown bag. The door closed as Lorna stood up.

“Well, now, how is der invalid?” The newcomer had an accent. “Not so bad, eh?” He rubbed his hands together and smiled. He wasn't good-looking, but he had a certain breezy charm. His nose was rather too small for the rest of his face, giving him a slightly comical look. He held out his right hand. “I am Dr. Weiner. How are you, how are you?” He sat on the side of the bed and opened his case, then shook hands as if by an afterthought. “What a wonderful old man your host is, eh? Any other man of his age would be dead. Do you know how old he iss? Eighty-three. Yes,
eighty-
three. Kidnapped from his own car in a dark street, injured, and now sitting up and giving orders already. Isn't it wonderful? Now just undo der top buttons.” His cool fingers had felt Mannering's pulse; he took out his stethoscope. “Now just keep quiet a minute while I see how near der grave you are.” He beamed; he had small, very white teeth. “Just keep quiet.” The metal top of the stethoscope wasn't really cold. “Ah, that's all right. You married an ox, Mrs. Mannering. Constitutionally, I mean – don't misunderstand me!” His accent and his manner made everything attractive. “No need to look at the head, I don't think. It will be all right if it is dressed again tomorrow. Bed, today, if you're a wise man, and if you're not, don't go running about. Now, tell me, what happened?”

Lorna said: “Dr. Weiner is a family friend of Phiro's, John.”

“Ach, yes, for generations,” said Weiner. “Without me, the old man wouldn't have had one of his children!” He roared with laughter. “But I must be serious.” A frown wrinkled his brow alarmingly. “It is a ver' sad story. Phiroshah was proud of his children, and they were good children. Yusuf and Ali, especially. He had three favourites, now only Shani. When you help him, you help a good man.”

“That's how it seemed to me,” said Mannering.

“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 killed. 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?”