by John Creasey
“So you saw Patandi,” said Phiroshah promptly.
“Did Joseph tell you?”
“Yes. I’m not sure that you should do that kind of thing yourself. These men can be dangerous, and you have much more important things to do.”
Mannering said mildly: “Could they be more important than getting the name of Imannati Patel?”
Phiroshah said very softly: “Imannati Patel?”
“Of course, the bookseller could have lied.”
“Yes,” said Phiroshah, “but I doubt if he would have named the man unless it were true. How did you do it?”
“He had a guilty secret in his back room,” said Mannering. “I don’t know what it was, but made him think that I did. So Imannati’s a known bad man.”
“Imannati Patel is as evil a man as I know in Bombay,” said Phiroshah with quiet vehemence. “Evil and dangerous. I did not know that he was interested in jewels. In drugs, yes. Not jewels. Always in drugs.” He frowned as he walked slowly about the room. “So – if the Bundi used such a man, the Bundi is no group of high-minded patriots.”
“Can he be frightened?” asked Mannering.
“No. You cannot deal with Patel as you did with the bookseller. Don’t attempt to tackle Patel yourself.”
Mannering sat down.
“I’m at a disadvantage because I don’t know how the methods work over here, and don’t really know the temperament, but that’s a double-edged sword,” Mannering said. “Or it could be. They aren’t familiar with my methods and the direct approach could disconcert them. Think about it. I’d say that I ought to see Patel soon.”
Phiroshah said: “I am afraid that you will, however I advise you.”
“If I go openly, and have Amu and Joseph waiting for me outside, what can go wrong?”
“It is not the immediate danger but the danger that lies in wait. Against men like Patel – forgive me – you are as a nymph to a serpent. Let us be very cautious.”
He broke off.
There was a sound outside. Amu’s voice was raised, then a woman’s. The wailing grew louder, laden with anguish. Amu spoke roughly, but couldn’t stop it. Phiroshah stepped towards the door, opened it an inch, and looked out. Mannering was able to see over his head.
A woman was on her knees in front of Amu, hands stretched out in supplication. The wailing ceased; she talked in a low-pitched voice.
Amu stepped away from her, stern-faced, but unable to stop the flow. Phiroshah drew back into the room and closed the door. The wailing started afresh.
Mannering said: “What did she say?”
“My friend, she said that I am right and that you would be foolish to go to Patel, to let Patel know that Patandi talked to you. She is Patandi’s wife, his favourite wife. She is mourning him, and more than that – she has been persuaded to come and see you, bringing a grimmer warning than Patandi’s.”
Mannering echoed: “Mourning him.”
“She told Amu that the bookseller was killed soon after you left the shop,” said Phiroshah. “His throat was cut.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MR. IMANNATI PATEL
Lorna was at the balcony window, books propped up to make a drawing-board, pencil busy. Mannering stood by the door, watching her complete absorption. Pencil and brush, paper and canvas, were to her what jewels were to him. He would risk his neck for jewels; their lure made danger fade, dulled his mind alike to risk and to the affairs of daily life. The beauty of the stones was a magnet and he could never wholly resist it.
Lorna couldn’t resist the spell of India. It brought to her art new virile life; obsessing her.
She finished a sketch and leaned back, stared down at the pencilled lines, actually smiled. Mannering tiptoed across the carpeted floor and kissed the nape of her neck.
She started. “John!”
“Dream-world,” said Mannering. “Go back; my sweet, you look at your loveliest in it.”
“I’ve finished.” She looked at the sketch critically, yet not dissatisfied. Mannering, hands on her shoulders, peered at it. His heart contracted, for the dead Patandi looked up at him in black and white. Patandi with his great wondering eyes which yet held a hint of cruelty; with his little rosebud of a mouth, his fat cheeks, his buried chin. Lorna lifted the sheet; beneath it was another Patandi, smiling with all the childish intensity of the world, eager, aggressive; and the hint of cruelty also showed there. Another sheet, and Patandi appeared with narrowed eyes, chin thrust forward, threat in his expression – the earnest Patandi who had tried to frighten them.
Lorna put the sheets on top of one another and shook them into position.
“Do you really think he’ll sit for me?”
Mannering pressed her shoulders gently.
“Not now,” he said.
He felt her stiffen. She turned her head sharply. She read the truth, and shivered as she stood up.
“What happened?”
“He was killed.”
“Oh, God!” Lorna said, and torment tore at her voice. “Why did that have to happen? Why did it have to happen now? Why couldn’t we have a few days of calm?” She looked at the sketch of the dead man on top of the others. “We shouldn’t have come. I oughtn’t to have made you. There’s evil here. Beneath the beauty and the colour and the heat there’s cruelty. It wraps itself round one, it touches everybody. We must go back.”
Mannering said: “It’s not all so cruel.”
He had seen her in these moods before, without quite understanding them. Now, shock had quenched her blazing enthusiasm, and she was stricken. She had barely touched the pulse of the city, but she knew the symptoms and had seen beneath the surface. There was the cruelty of indifference to human suffering, and she was too sensitive to remain unaware of it for long. Probably she had consciously accepted it but fought it back, excited by the opportunities which the beauty gave her.
“We must go back, John.” She spoke more normally. “It’s my fault that we came. You didn’t really want to. I told myself that you were fooling, but I can see it now. You weren’t certain of yourself, weren’t certain that it was the right place. It isn’t.”
“Once Phiroshah’s problems are over, it’ll be smooth sailing,” Mannering said, “and you’ll see the good with the bad. The Maharajah, for instance, and his good work in Ganpore.” He smiled and held her shoulders firmly. “We’ve a lot to do. Patandi named a man I’m going to see right away. Afterwards, we may have to leave quickly. Probably I’ll have to do the disappearing trick.”
She didn’t speak.
“And rely on Phiroshah,” Mannering said.
Phiroshah was squatting on a low, tapestry-covered stool, legs crossed beneath him. He looked troubled. Mannering found himself lighting a cigarette and avoiding the old man’s eyes.
“I’m going to see Patel,” he announced.
Phiroshah nodded.
“I’d like Amu to stay here and look after my wife. Can you let me have another man to come with me and Joseph?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Or rather, come after me,” said Mannering. “I’ll go ahead, with Joseph, and the other man will follow, to make sure whether I’m followed. I can’t tell one man from another – they look so much alike.”
“You’ll learn to distinguish them.”
“I hope so. What happened to that man I shot?”
Phiroshah didn’t answer.
Mannering said jerkily: “If I can’t be sure that you’re going to tell me everything, I might as well give up. Why did he try to kill you? Where did he go? Have the police been told? Has he talked?”
“He died without talking,” said Phiroshah.
Mannering felt as if sharp claws had jagged into him.
“I interrogated each one of my servants closely, and th
e man who had let him in confessed. He was bribed to allow the assailant in. He swears that he did not think there would be an attempt to kill me. He also named the man who bribed him. Not everyone would know, but I can tell you that the man who bribed him is in Patel’s employ.”
Mannering said: “Another good reason for seeing Patel.”
“A better one for keeping away from him,” said Phiroshah. “My friend, you have to prepare against deadly methods and great cunning. I have told the police what happened at my house but did not say that you shot the man. I said that he attacked me and I shot him myself. There will be no unpleasantness. The man was a hired thug; they’re glad he’s dead. But there may be others who will talk to Patel. They may tell Patel that you killed the man. Patel could use that against you. Mannering, I think you should keep away from Patel. The quicker you leave Bombay for Ganpore—” He broke off, slid off the stool and walked close to Mannering, and the dignity of his bearing made Mannering forget his small stature. “Of course I shall understand it if you prefer to return to England.”
Mannering said woodenly: “Is anyone reliable?”
“Many, but – there is always the weak link in the chain.”
“Can you find a man who will help me with my make-up? Get me the clothes, show me how to work quick changes? If it isn’t a man who can be relied on not to talk I’ll manage myself.”
“I can find the man you want,” Phiroshah said. “Do you want him now?”
“Tonight,” said Mannering, “and again tomorrow, so that we can work in daylight as well as artificial. I’d better go to him.”
“I will arrange it,” said Phiroshah. “And Patel?”
Mannering lit another cigarette, relaxed, looked as if he hadn’t a worry in the world.
“I’ll go to him right away,” he said.
Woodham Road was not far from the bustling heart of the city, a backwater where few people walked, few cars passed. There was ample parking space on either side of the road. As Mannering walked along the street, with Joseph just behind him, he seemed to be in a European city. The houses, standing back from the road, were more European than Indian; only the palm trees and unfamiliar shrubs in some of the gardens made it different. He reached No. 81, walked past and crossed the road, then passed again on the other side. The house was old and looked dilapidated. The drive was untidy, the paintwork needed another coat.
Phiroshah’s other bearer walked past on the far side of the road as Mannering approached No. 81. The man would have spoken to Joseph had they been followed. Joseph waited outside, and Mannering walked up the drive. The main door was at the side. Bougainvillaea grew wild over the wall; the gravel of the path was muddy and untended. The brass bell and knocker needed cleaning. Mannering pulled the bell, heard it clanging, stood listening. After a long time, soft footsteps sounded on the other side of the door.
A servant dressed in grubby-looking white clothes, long coat and baggy trousers opened the door a few inches and peered out. His dark eyes seemed nervous.
“Sahib?” he whispered.
Mannering put his foot against the door.
“I want to see the master, Imannati Patel,” Mannering said.
“Sahib?” The eyes looked blank.
“Mr. Patel,” said Mannering. “I must see him. Take me to him.”
“Please,” said the boy. He opened the door a little more, and Mannering stepped through. The hall was narrow and dark. Old furniture, thick with dust, lined the walls in no sort of order. A big glass showcase stood in one corner, empty apart from baize-lined shelves. The windows were of coloured glass, keeping out the light. A staircase ran from the hall, a narrow passage alongside it.
“Please,” repeated the boy.
He turned and walked up the stairs, glancing back to make sure that Mannering followed him. The first landing was dark and shadowy. There were pieces of tall furniture, large enough to hide a man; easily large enough to hide a small man such as Phiroshah’s attacker. Apart from the padding sound of the boy’s footsteps, there was no sound. Mannering felt the eeriness.
A door stood open, showing a large room furnished like a Paris salon. The furniture looked so old and neglected that it might really be Louis Quinze; everything was faded and seemed dirty. The Venetian blinds were drawn down at all the windows, allowing only a little light through the wooden slats.
The boy padded on.
He stopped at an open door, bowed, and held his hands out, in invitation to Mannering. Mannering felt his fingers tighten instinctively about his gun as he stepped through.
This was a big, high-ceilinged room. Furniture was placed without order at the walls. In the middle was a large brass bedstead, with a bamboo table at one side. On the table were several bottles, one of white tablets, a cracked cup, a glass of pink liquid with a thermometer sticking out of it.
A man lay on the bed, with his back to this door.
Mannering saw the almost bald head through the bars of the bedstead. The sheet covering the man’s body showed that he was big and tall. One big hand, brown and spotted and deeply veined, lay on the sheet. The boy didn’t call out, did nothing to announce Mannering, just stood by the door. Mannering passed the head of the bed and looked down. The man on the bed had his eyes closed. The eyeballs were pressing against the veined lids, giving them an unnatural look. He had the curiously browny-pallid complexion of a Parsee. His face was lined, and the lines across his forehead were deep and dark. The bones stood out against the skin; it was a death’s head of a face.
Mannering moved further away, stood by the head of the bed, looking down, watched by the boy, whose hands had disappeared into the sleeves of his coat.
The old man breathed softly.
Mannering saw two doors, as well as that through which he had come; both were ajar. He moved towards the nearest, holding his gun tightly. He opened it, and it squeaked. The room beyond was practically empty. A threadbare carpet covered the floor; there were small tables, two chairs and several cushions; and some old, seared prints on the wall – the glass in the frames of two of them was broken. Another open door was on the other side of the room. The bedroom could be approached from three directions. There was no way of watching all the doors at once. Mannering turned from this and walked past the foot of the bed to another opposite; it was also ajar. He pushed it wider – and backed away sharply, kicked against a table and sent a china ornament crashing to the floor. The noise of its breaking seemed like a gunshot.
In the other room, squatting, knees crossed, hands inside the sleeves of his jacket, was an old man, a very old man, turbanned, dressed in white. His black eyes were like ebony as he stared unblinkingly at Mannering.
The springs of the bed creaked.
“Who is it?” croaked the man on the bed. “Who is it?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“GO BACK”
The prominent eyes were open now and staring. The old man looked towards the side of the bed and his gaze moved slowly until he saw Mannering. He stopped moving his head, but didn’t speak. The man in the next room sat unmoving. Mannering felt his fingers clammy round the steel of his gun. The old man’s mouth moved; a big mouth, with almost shapeless lips. He bared yellow, wide-spaced teeth and spoke again in the croaking voice.
“Come here.”
Mannering went a little nearer.
“Nearer.” The invalid spoke in English. Would he speak in English if he didn’t know who was present? “Here!” He raised his right hand and touched the side of the bed. His movements were slow and deliberate. Mannering had never felt himself so close to the presence of death.
He obeyed.
The other’s eyes were light brown, seemed to be covered with a muddy film. He bared his teeth again.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Mannering said: “I’m Mannering. John Manneri
ng.” He had been fooled. This wasn’t Imannati Patel; it couldn’t be.
The man on the bed said: “So Patandi told you.”
Mannering felt as if he had been slashed by a whip. He shifted his position while the other eyed him with piercing appraisal. Now and again the man licked his lips. Then: “Sit down,” he said.
An upright chair stood against the wall, just behind Mannering. He pulled it up and sat down. The other did not look away from him; seemed as if he were trying to read his thoughts. The silence dragged on.
“What do you want with me?” asked Patel abruptly.
Mannering said slowly: “I’m interested in murderers.”
Seconds passed before Patel spoke again.
“Fool,” he said. “Just a fool. I told you not to come. I could not have told you more plainly. Go back. Take your wife with you.”
“I’ve a job to do,” said Mannering.
“Not yours,” said Patel hoarsely. “Nothing to do with you. Go back where you came from. Leave our affairs—to us. Don’t be fooled by that old liar, Phiroshah. Only an idiot would listen to him.”
It was bizarre enough in itself – the scene, the watching eyes, the sick man. The natural idiom in which Patel spoke, as if English were his mother tongue, heightened that, made everything more unreal. The flat statements, made as if there was no possible chance that he was wrong, spread doubts and uncertainty.
“I’ve a job to do,” said Mannering. “I’ll finish it.”
“It will finish you,” said Patel. “You and your wife. I told you what to do. Told Patandi to tell you. He did, didn’t he?” Patel paused between each short sentence, as if talking and breathing both hurt him. “Have a week’s holiday. See what you can. Go back. You won’t run into trouble then. You’ll be in trouble if—if you go to Ganpore. Only a fool would go to Ganpore; a bigger one would take his wife with him. Go back.”