The Baron Goes East

by John Creasey

  “Welcome—doubly welcome,” said Phiroshah. “I do not know what you have in mind to do, Mr. Mannering, but for the first few days you had better stay here in Bombay. I have seen the suite reserved for you at the Taj Mahal Hotel. You will also use my house as if it were your own, but in the beginning you will be happier at the hotel. You will have the opportunity to adjust yourselves. We will talk later. You will wish to look about you.”

  He had made sure that they had window seats, and he was in the middle. He must have been told of the incident at the airport, but hadn’t referred to it. They looked out of the windows into a new world.

  They went through narrow streets with shops open on either side – only a shop here and there, but it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Dhoti-clad figures squatted at the shop entrances. Flares burned – mostly old-fashioned napthalene flares or candles, with here and there an electric light. The sidewalks were crowded. Small men and small women walked to and fro, some with children. There were long bundles of rags on the pavement and in the gutter. People stepped over them indifferently. A bundle stirred; a man’s head appeared, then a hand; the hand clutched the blanket and pulled it over the head, and the blanket became a bundle of rags again.

  “It is not all like this,” said Phiroshah.

  They sat and watched – and Mannering found his mind numbed. Just tiredness? He gave up trying to think of it.

  They passed tall, white modern buildings, and others with onion-shaped domes, black against the stars. Everywhere, the bundles of rags were on the sidewalk and in the gutters. Little stalls were filled with foodstuffs they didn’t recognise. The Daimler purred along, made several turnings once they had reached the heart of the city, then drew up outside an imposing building. Opposite was the harbour, and the stars glistened on the unruffled surface of the water.

  “I shall come to your room with you, and then leave you,” Phiroshah said. “There is time to talk tomorrow.” He smiled. “Thank you for the diamond, which was delivered to me by the airline officials to whom you wisely entrusted it. We shall perhaps find your brief-case.”

  Mannering said: “The diamond could have been in it.”

  The smile deepened.

  “I do not believe that you would have carried it in such a careless way, my friend. I am not troubled.”

  They climbed out. A dozen small boys rushed to them, begging alms. Phiroshah said something in their own tongue, and they backed away. Servants came out – four of them, all dressed in white.

  The entrance was spacious, the lift smooth. They were on the third floor, where the passages were wide and there was an atmosphere of luxury. Phiroshah led the way, his little legs moving two steps to their one. He turned a corner. Two white-clad men, turbanned, dark-faced, stood at attention outside a door.

  “These are your two boys,” Phiroshah said. “You will find them useful. The taller is Amu, the shorter you will call Joseph. They are both Christians, I thought that wise. Catholics, perhaps, I should add. Amu!”

  The taller “boy” turned and opened the door. Mannering glanced at him once, looked away, studied him more closely. He went with Lorna into the outer room of the suite, which was furnished as one might be in any European luxury hotel. Doors led to the right and left.

  “Amu’s English is better than Joseph’s,” said Phiroshah. “He is intelligent, too. Don’t worry about anything for the first few hours, please. I wish you good night.” He bowed, without attempting to shake hands, turned and went out. Mannering and Lorna stood together, watching him.

  Amu approached and bowed.

  Amu, the bearer, had called at the London boarding-house where Banu had stayed. Mannering had a photograph of him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AMU THE SERVANT

  Amu’s English was good, his voice soft.

  “If the sahib or memsahib require anything, I shall obtain it.”

  “Thank you. Anything, darling?”

  “Just sleep,” said Lorna.

  “We’ll go to bed,” said Mannering. “Don’t call us in the morning, Amu.”

  “Very good, sahib. This way, please.”

  The bedroom was vast; there were twin beds, brocaded easy chairs and a couch; everything resplendent. Doors leading off led on one side to a bathroom, on the other to a dressing-room. Amu guided them gravely from one to the other, went to the door and bowed himself out. Mannering and Lorna stood together at the foot of the beds; and Lorna laughed. It was a little shrill.

  “Fantasy!”

  “Just India,” said Mannering. “Feel like a bath?”

  “I couldn’t.” Her eyes looked heavy with tiredness, although they were so bright. “That boy who took—”

  “Tomorrow,” said Mannering firmly.

  Their nightclothes were in the pigskin bag. Lorna was in bed within ten minutes. Mannering went into the bathroom, leaving the door open; he could see the main door from there. He smoked a cigarette as he ran the bath-water; that would reassure Lorna. When he went back to the bedroom, Lorna was sleeping. He went to the door and locked it. There were two bolts, and he shot them. He went to the dressing-room, where a door led to a balcony. He locked both the balcony and dressing-room doors. There were no windows and only the one door into the bathroom. There was no need to lock anything there. He went and sat down on an armchair and looked at Lorna and contemplated the main bedroom door.

  Amu would be in the suite.

  Amu had been in London a week ago; Amu, or someone so like him that Mannering had been deceived. He took the photographs from a travel-fold in the pigskin case, studied one, and was quite convinced; it was either of Amu or his double.

  Phiroshah had taught him a lesson; the direct approach was the good approach here. He felt tired, but doubted if he would sleep. He got into bed and lay on his back, with only the bed light on. At last he turned and switched it off and settled down.

  “Darling,” Lorna said.

  Mannering stirred.

  “Darling.”

  Mannering blinked.

  “Why did you bolt the doors?”

  Mannering sat up with a start.

  “Do what?”

  “Bolt the doors.”

  “Oh, that,” said Mannering. “I felt nervous. It’s the first time I’ve been robbed like that.”

  “Just nerves?”

  “I’m a bundle of them,” he said, and grinned. She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. She wore a nylon nightdress because they were easy to wash and she might be roughing it. He decided in favour of nylon nightdresses. He had slept with only a sheet over him; and even that made him feel too warm. He pushed it back.

  “They were certainly waiting for us,” Lorna said. “Did you expect it?”

  “The way of it surprised me,” Mannering said.

  “Do you wish we hadn’t come?”

  “Not yet!”

  There was a spell of silence.

  Then: “It’s hot,” said Lorna. “Is there a balcony?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And do we get tea if we want it?”

  “We’re at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and we get everything,” said Mannering. “Personally, I’m going to have fruit juice.” He got out of bed, unbolted the door and turned the key, and looked outside. Joseph stood by the outer door; Amu wasn’t in sight.

  “Good morning, Joseph.”

  “Good morning, sahib.”

  “Orange juice and tea, please.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Where is Amu?”

  “Amu is pressing the sahib’s clothes.” There wasn’t much the matter with Joseph’s English.

  “All right. We’ll be on the balcony.”

  “Very good, sahib.”

  Lorna, with a light scarf round her shoulders, was on th
e balcony. The harbour was calm, the morning sun sparkled on it like diamonds. Yachts at anchor to their left rose and fell gently. Almost in front of them was the massive stonework of the Gateway of India. Beggars and pedlars and tourists were already there; two women were taking photographs. A gharry with a sorrowful-looking horse and a fat driver stood waiting for them. Most of the Indians who passed were men; and most wore dhotis, some with a linen jacket over them, others with the ample folds of muslin. Now and again a woman in a bright sari passed.

  Joseph brought in tea and orange juice for two.

  “We’ll breakfast up here,” said Mannering.

  “Very good, sahib.” Joseph paused. “When the sahib is ready, please say. I will bring him.”

  Mannering looked puzzled. “Bring who?”

  “There is a man desiring to speak.”

  “Oh,” said Mannering. “English?”

  “No, sahib.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He gives no name.”

  “How long has he been here?” asked Lorna.

  “Two hours,” said Joseph. “He will not go; he will wait if needs be, all day.”

  It was half-past ten.

  Mannering said: “Tell him I won’t see him.”

  “Very good, sahib.”

  Lorna looked her protest, but waited until Joseph had gone.

  “You don’t know who he is or what he wants.”

  Mannering smiled. “If he’s Indian, he won’t go away because of a first refusal, and he’ll probably send in a little more information about himself. Tea or orange juice?”

  “Tea,” said Lorna.

  Joseph came back in ten minutes with a card. He handed it to Mannering and stood back. The card was printed in English, and announced that Mr. I. Patandi, of Bombay, was a dealer in books in all languages, ancient and modern. There was a message scribbled in a bold, boyish hand.

  “Please, Mr. Mannering, most important. Not business only.”

  “Is this the man who’s been waiting?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Has Amu seen him?”

  “Amu sent him away. He would not go.”

  “I see,” said Mannering. “All right. Tell him I’ll see him for five minutes, between now and one o’clock. I can’t be sure what time. And I’m not interested in business.”

  “Please,” said Joseph. “What did the sahib say?”

  Amu appeared at the doorway of the balcony, spoke swiftly to the other boy in Hindi, advanced a step, apologised to Mannering because he had not been on duty when the sahib and memsahib had woken. He understood the message and would tell the man. He went out.

  “John,” said Lorna. “Aren’t you being a bit high-handed? India belongs to the Indians now.”

  “I can’t imagine what Mr. Patandi wants, but we’ll find out whether he’s eager enough to wait for another two hours,” Mannering said. “Probably he wants to sell us books, in spite of the ‘not business only’.”

  “I suppose nothing I say will change you. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”

  “Patandi? Haven’t seen the chap.”

  “Amu.”

  “Oh, there are hundreds like him,” said Mannering. “Don’t start seeing every face on canvas. Wait until you’ve had a good survey.”

  “Or stick to camels,” said Lorna. “I’ve said it for you. John, why did you lock and bolt the doors?”

  He didn’t joke, and didn’t explain.

  “I think it’s a good thing to start. We ought to do it everywhere, like locking a car door. We might forget when it really matters, otherwise.”

  She wasn’t wholly satisfied but accepted the answer, finished her tea and brushed her forehead.

  “Sticky?” asked Mannering.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tea’s a cooling drink, after the first few minutes.”

  Mannering grimaced at her.

  “Don’t keep Patandi waiting too long,” pleaded Lorna, as she got up. “I’m anxious to see what he looks like.”

  They had bathed and finished breakfast by half-past eleven. The only coolness was in the rooms, and there it was illusory, the big fans stirring the hot air. Outside, it was roasting hot; or boiling hot, humid enough to make them sticky after any slight movement. Amu and Joseph had waited on them in a style which was barely remembered in England; they were silent and efficient.

  At twenty-five to twelve Mannering rang a small handbell and Amu appeared almost on the instant.

  “Is Patandi still there, Amu?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “We’ll see him,” said Mannering.

  “Very good, sahib.” The “sahib” always came after the shortest phrase. Amu went out. Lorna dabbed a little powder on her nose. Both were pretending to look towards the open door which led to the balcony when Mr. I. Patandi came in.

  They did not pretend for long.

  Patandi was a big man; not only fat, but tall, six foot three or four, Mannering judged. He wore a dhoti, and the thick calves of his brown legs stuck out from it. His sandals had rope soles. He wore a little black turban and carried a brief-case.

  It was Mannering’s brief-case.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE GARRULOUS BOOKSELLER

  “Gentleman!” cried Patandi. “Lady!” He bowed, and the brief-case swung in front of him. “You are goodness itself to spare me your good time. Thank you.” He straightened up and beamed at them. Lorna sat absolutely still, looking at the case. Mannering appeared not to notice the case, and murmured: “Five minutes is all I can manage, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand, and it is sufficient. I thank you for it.” Patandi held tightly on to the brief-case. “I welcome you to wonderful India. It is your first visit, yes? Yes!” He nodded vigorously. “Such a wonderful place, so much beauty, I can show you everything. Everything. I, Patandi, am the best guide in all India. Yes?”

  “Probably,” said Mannering mildly.

  “You will find out I talk only the truth,” said Patandi. “Yes. Such a famous man and famous lady, they must see only everything of the best. I show it to them.” He leaned forward and breathed aniseed into Mannering’s face. “I show it better than any guide in India. My English, it is perfect. Years ago I was a guide, now I am a bookseller, selling only the best books. But I have assistants – they can sell books; I have more important work to do.”

  “You’re very good, but—”

  “And cheap!” cried Patandi. “So cheap you don’t know. I show you Indian rope trick. Elephant walking over man. Sensational things only. Things very few white people see. You have just and only one week; that is time enough for me to show you – if you fly. You are not afraid to fly? To see India in one week, it is ridiculous, unless you fly. Taj Mahal, the forts, mosques, everything. Himalayas? Darjeeling? Yes, it can all be done in one week, everything. I, Patandi, say so.”

  “We may be here longer,” said Mannering.

  Patandi frowned. Patandi frowning was a sight to see. He leaned forward and tapped Mannering’s shoulder confidentially. His teeth looked good, but were stained red from chewing betel nut, and the aniseed was thick on his breath. His eyes were dark as olives, and intent and serious.

  “You have one week.” He lowered his voice. “No more. After that, you go. Gentleman, I look at you when I come in. In one minute I say to myself, this is a very wise gentleman. Like all the English. Very wise. One week, and it is enough. One week, and this English gentleman who is famous – and famous lady also – will know he wishes no more to see in India. Too dirty. Smelly. Not for famous English gentleman. And lady. One week, that is all, Mr. Mannering.”

  He squeezed Mannering’s shoulder.

  “I may want to stay a month. Two months.”

  Patandi shook his head. No o
ne could mistake his earnestness.

  “One week only, gentleman. That is final. Understand, India is unhealthy place. Smallpox. Cholera. Everything!” He narrowed his eyes. “Dacoits. You know dacoits? Armed robbers, so!” He made a gesture with his hand; the fingers clenched as if holding the handle of a knife, the thrust towards Mannering’s stomach. Lorna exclaimed involuntarily. Patandi turned, unimpeded by his bulk, bowed and looked the picture of consternation and remorse.

  “Famous lady, I am very sorry, I did not wish to alarm you. Ridiculous. I only tell you what can happen in India. Yes. India . . .” He clutched Lorna’s shoulder and leaned towards her. “Old India good, new India bad. In old India, Europeans and English safe. I, Patandi, am great friend of the English. I hate to see them go, but—no politician. If a politician—” He drew back, then up to his great height, held his head back, then with a swift movement ran his forefinger across his throat and made a choking noise.

  Lorna was pale.

  Patandi bobbed his head forward again and beamed.

  “Old India good for English people, Americans, everyone. New India, very bad. Not safe. Safe with Patandi for one week only. I regret, after that I must sell my books. The fools I leave to sell them for me will charge half the price or run away with all the money. You see the great sacrifice I make for you?”

  He beamed like a happy child.

  “Yes, I see,” said Mannering. “Let me think about it, Patandi. Where can I find you?”

  Patandi was proud.

  “My shops,” he announced. “Everywhere. Good books, ancient and modern. I have seven and there are also Greek. In Greek. Many Latin. All Indian cultures, also. I do everything, but you have only one week in India, so I give it all up.”

  He turned a bow into a salaam and brought the brief-case between his knees. Straightening up, he looked at it as if surprised at seeing it, and then his eyes widened and glowed and he held the case out to Mannering, as a magician might present a rabbit.