Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe looked at him closely. There was no hint of suspicion or suggestion in the bland, dark eyes.

  ‘Who collects the contents of the blue box, Robertson?’

  ‘No one I know. It’s a different messenger each time. An Indian. I suspect just someone picked up in the bazaar and given this task for a few annas. I have no doubt the messenger is carefully watched, of course, but as to the identity of the watcher or indeed the destination of the blue box, I have no idea. My responsibility ends when the box leaves here.’

  ‘Have you a feeling about all this?’ asked Charlie. ‘Share your thoughts with us. You must have formed some kind of theory about the exchange. Embezzlement? Extortion? Blackmail? Generous donations to an anonymous recipient?’

  Robertson’s eyes gleamed for a moment. ‘Probably two out of the four,’ he said and appeared to be unwilling to take the thought further. ‘You may be interested,’ he went on after a slight pause, ‘in seeing this. It was put through my door this morning.’

  He handed Carter an envelope. With an exclamation of dismay, Carter took it carefully by the edges.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about obliterating any useful fingerprints,’ said Joe. ‘The world and his wife will have handled it by now – everyone, I would expect, apart from our, er, customer. He’s not going to make the mistake of leaving prints on it. Go ahead. Open it.’

  ‘Let’s see. “Mrs S. will buy more jewels. Value five thousand rupees. Same arrangements.” Mmm… price has increased significantly. I take it Mrs Sharpe hasn’t appeared yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, she has. She came in very early – about half an hour before your good selves. She chose a diamond solitaire ring and she gave me a banker’s draft in payment. And I have completed my arrangements in regard to the second part of the transaction.’

  ‘Would you show us the routine with the blue box then, if you’ve prepared it?’

  They went back into the shop and Robertson took a small velvet box from a drawer underneath the counter. They peered inside. Coiled in the bottom and glittering even in the half light was a diamond necklace.

  ‘Very simple. Practically unrecognizable. Easy to break up and sell as individual stones,’ Carter commented.

  ‘Look,’ said Joe, ‘Robertson, would you have any objection to varying the routine a little? We desperately need to know – as I’m sure you’ve guessed – the identity of the person who is the recipient of the contents of the box. Mrs Sharpe’s peace of mind, to put it simply, is at stake.’

  Robertson nodded his agreement.

  ‘What I want you to do is change these diamonds for something a lot more distinctive. Something so unique and decorative that wherever it appears again – if ever it does resurface – any jeweller would recognize it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Robertson. ‘And then, delivery safely accomplished, the Simla police circulate a description of a certain piece of stolen jewellery so unmistakable that it cannot safely be worn or sold without word getting back?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Joe.

  ‘What if he objects?’ asked Carter. ‘Of course,’ he added, answering his own question, ‘then he contacts Robertson again and perhaps in his anger gives away more than he meant to? At least we’d have another handle on this discreet charmer. Come on – what have you got to show us, Robertson?’

  Robertson hesitated then with a conspiratorial smile went into the back room and emerged a few minutes later. ‘I think you would agree that this fulfils your requirements,’ he said.

  Joe and Carter looked and gasped.

  ‘It’s perfectly lovely,’ said Carter, ‘but it won’t do! Nothing approaching the value you’re supposed to supply. I mean – it’s… it’s… what do the ladies call something like this? – costume jewellery, yes, costume jewellery.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen something like this before… on a portrait perhaps?’

  Robertson smiled and nodded. ‘You have it. On a portrait by Hans Holbein. Sixteenth-century German portrait painter. The Tudor royal family were much painted by him. They liked to be seen wearing rather spectacular jewels, like this one.’

  They looked again. The whole arrangement was perhaps four inches across and five inches long. At its centre glowed a stone which could have been a ruby, Joe thought, had it not been so large. It was surrounded by a gold circlet inlaid with bright enamels in the form of Tudor roses and posies of glittering clear stones which Joe would have sworn were diamonds.

  ‘The style became very popular again in Europe some years ago and these pieces began to be produced with showy semiprecious stones like peridots at the centre. They’re called “Holbeinesque” in the trade.’ He paused for a moment, looking at the brooch in rapt admiration. ‘But there’s nothing “-esque” about this one. This is a genuine sixteenth-century item. Any jeweller would recognize it if it passed through his hands. It’s the Duke of Clarence Ruby.’

  ‘If that’s a ruby, isn’t it a little over the mark?’ Carter wanted to know.

  ‘Yes. Far over. But in the interests of saving Mrs Sharpe even a minute’s concern, I’m sure it is worth the sacrifice,’ he said with his deprecatory smile. ‘And besides I did pick it up as rather a bargain. It was the property of a prince. He bought it in London and gave it to his senior wife. She was not grateful. She hated it. Couldn’t see the point of it and came and ordered me to swap it for a gold necklace she’d seen and matching ear-rings. I was happy to do so. Buy, sell or exchange, I get my commission, you know. But of course, if I were ever to sell it on the open market and it were to appear on the bosom of – let’s say the Vicereine – there might be problems.’

  ‘I see,’ said Carter. ‘In that case, it’s perfect. Any means we have of flushing out Mrs Sharpe’s unknown correspondent must be made use of, Robertson. I’m sure you understand. We’re grateful for your co-operation and, look here, one more thing you can do to help – it’s just a small thing – we’ve got the shop under discreet surveillance. When a messenger comes in for the box could you alert my men? Give them some sort of a signal?’

  Robertson smiled and nodded compliance. Joe had little doubt that he was aware of Carter’s discreet surveillance. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Nothing simpler. The window lights are normally switched on. When the messenger asks for the box I will switch them off. The switch is here to hand under the counter.’

  ‘That will do well,’ said Carter.

  With mutual assurances of esteem, they left Robertson and went out into the street. Blinking in the sharp sunlight, Joe screwed up his eyes and surreptitiously glanced up and down the Mall in an attempt to locate Carter’s surveillance team. He saw the usual bustle of European shoppers, Indian servants and street urchins. Two nursemaids walked by chattering and scolding. A Hindu holy man sat patiently opposite, cross-legged, with his begging bowl in front of him. Hesitating on the pavement’s edge, Carter waved away two rickshaws competing for their custom. Avoiding them, he stepped off the pavement into a puddle left over from a late night shower.

  ‘Drat!’ he exclaimed, running a fastidious eye over the spatters on his smart boots.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ said Joe, pointing across the street. ‘Look there!’

  They crossed over to a boot black’s stand and Carter greeted the swarm of little Indian boys who appeared to be loosely in charge of it. He settled into the chair and stuck out his feet.

  ‘Clever chaps, these young ’uns,’ he said. ‘Movable stand, you see. They roll it around and set up shop wherever they see a puddle. Never entirely sure they don’t actually create the puddles!’

  Five minutes later the chattering group were prepared to release Carter’s feet, now sporting boots a platoon-sergeant would have passed as acceptable. Carter offered a handful of annas to the oldest boy and, laughing, spoke to him briefly in Hindustani. They strolled on, dropping into two or three more shops on their way back to police headquarters.

  Seated once again in Carter’s office, Joe remarked, ‘I didn’t
spot your men!’

  ‘Yes, you did!’ said Carter cheerily. ‘There were six of them. The tallest came up to your belt and you gave them each a cigarette!’

  ‘The shoe blacks!’ Joe began to laugh. ‘What is this? Simla’s answer to the Baker Street Irregulars?’

  ‘Just that! They’re actually all the sons of Sir George’s head gardener. Sir George set them up with the equipment and they’re doing well – they make a decent living at the shoe blacking and then they’re on a police retainer. It’s amazing what they get to hear! People, even those you’d think would know better, seem to assume that young Indian shoe blacks must be deaf and stupid. Not at all! They’re as smart as whips! And they can go practically anywhere and no one notices them. It’s a good arrangement.’

  ‘Will they know what to do?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I passed them the word about the shop light signal. They’ll follow whoever comes out with the blue box to the ends of the earth if they have to. All we have to do now is wait.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have to wait long,’ said Joe. ‘There’s an urgency about this last demand – don’t you think? A huge amount called for… I’d say this could well be a last request before he calls it a day. Rumours, uncertainties may have got to his ears. I think, Carter, our man is planning to grab his loot and run. And, I’ll tell you something else – Alice seems to have been caught up in the urgency too. She was out and about pretty early this morning, wasn’t she? She must have got her demand note at crack of dawn, or perhaps even during the night, and gone straight off to Robertson’s shop.’

  ‘And now I’ll tell you something, Sandilands,’ said Carter. ‘Before she was at the jeweller’s she was here. We’d hardly opened up when she came in asking to see me. Rather an odd request. I was hoping you could shed some light on it as you seem to have got so close to her last night. She wanted to cast an eye over the newspaper list of the Beaune casualties. She said that you’d told her she could.’

  ‘Did she now?’ said Joe, an edge of concern in his voice. ‘I don’t like this, Carter. She’s moving too fast for us. You didn’t let her take it away, did you?’

  ‘Of course not! In fact I was so suspicious of her intentions I sat with her and watched her closely while she read it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Very interesting! She pretended to read the news report of the crash first but it was clear to me that it was the list of the casualties she had really come to check on. Her eyes were continually veering sideways to the right-hand side of the page where the lists are printed.’

  Carter got up and retrieved the paper from a locked file. He spread it out on the table between them. ‘Now, whatever she saw printed there had quite an effect on her. She turned pale, she started to breathe faster, she was agitated. No doubt about that. I had to send for a glass of water for her. Look at it more closely, Joe. I’ve had another look and I must say no name leaps out at me. What do you see?’

  Joe looked again. Somewhere concealed in this list of English and French casualties was a name which had dramatic importance for Isobel Newton. But surely not? How could she be threatened by someone who had died so long ago? None of these names had any power to harm her. So what then had she seen in these lists?

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Joe groaned. ‘What bloody idiots we’ve been! Charlie! I now know what people mean when they call us the Defective Force! Get Simpson here! Where the devil is Simpson? You’ve not let him go back to Delhi, have you? We must see him!’

  ‘No, it’s all right, Joe,’ said Carter in puzzlement. ‘I decided it might not be quite safe to put him in the hotel after all – I put him up with me and Meg. He’s at my bungalow helping Meg to peg a rug. Hang on – I’ll give Meg a ring. We’ve got a telephone installed. We can get him over here in a few minutes. I’ll send a sergeant over with a rickshaw. But tell me, Joe, what have you seen? What did Alice see?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘And that’s the whole point. It’s what she didn’t see that’s important!’

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  « ^ »

  Ten-year-old Raghu Mitra stubbed out his cigarette and handed his tin of polish and his brushes and his polishing cloth to a smaller brother. Without a word spoken the two youngest boys took charge of the shoe black stall and the four bigger ones, apparently bored with the business for the moment, took out a yellow ball and began to play catch across the street to the vociferous objections of the rickshaw runners passing between them. Seconds ago the lights had gone out in the window of the jeweller’s shop just as Carter Sahib had said they would.

  A man emerged from the shop and set off down the Mall in an easterly direction. A Hindu in white turban, white baggy trousers and white overshirt, he strode out, looking neither to left nor right, unconcerned and unafraid. A man on legitimate business. A man of the bazaar, Raghu guessed, commissioned to carry a parcel which Carter Sahib was very interested in. And that bulge over his right hip would no doubt be the parcel in question. Whooping and hollering and bumping into the messenger, the boys chased their ball down the street. An observant onlooker might have noticed that while two boys ran ahead of their quarry, in whom they showed not the slightest interest, two lagged behind. But he would have had to be a very observant onlooker.

  Nearing Christ Church, the boys put away their ball and began to play tag, weaving in and out of the crowds but always keeping their man loosely in the centre of their group, prepared to wheel and turn and change direction like leaves in the wind. Their target made straight for the big main doors of the cathedral and went unhesitatingly in. Raghu made to follow him but was chased away by a doorman. He and one brother remained playing around the doors while the two remaining boys circled the cathedral, keeping an eye on the rear doorway.

  Two minutes later the Indian they had followed came out, blinking, into the sunlight. The bulge at his right hip had disappeared. At a flick of Raghu’s hand, his second brother set off to follow the man. Raghu waited. After a while three Europeans came out. Two of them, a sahib and memsahib and tourists by the look of them, wandered off in the direction of the Mall. The third paused, looked to left and right, scanning the large paved concourse in front of the church, and then started to walk casually away. He had a bulge in the left pocket of his smartly cut trousers, Raghu noticed. With a piercing whistle to summon his brothers from the rear door, he set off, trotting ahead of the man back down the Mall. They were following a well-rehearsed surveillance drill devised by Charlie Carter’s Havildar of Police.

  As he scampered along he committed to memory the appearance of the European. Carter Sahib himself had taught him this drill. Height: medium, as tall as Raghu’s father. Hair: dark and shiny. Eyes: he hadn’t been close enough to see but he guessed black. Clothes: sahib clothes. Not military. Age: always a problem to guess the age of a European but he would have thought young – in his early twenties.

  A quick glance behind reassured him that his brothers were following on. Raghu sat on a wall and waited until the European drew level. He shouted a greeting to the man and with gestures indicated that he thought it would be an excellent idea if the gentleman gave him a cigarette. The young man swatted him away and crossed the road. The two younger brothers now moved swiftly ahead and Raghu trailed behind. The man moved within his unseen box down the Mall and turned off into a narrow alleyway leading towards the bazaar.

  This was dangerous. The shoeshine boys closed in, knowing that it took a split second of inattention to lose someone in this twisting maze of streets, though they all knew the bazaar like their own playground. The bazaar was their playground. But the man was hurrying now, not growing careless but confident with the confidence of someone who is on his own ground. Raghu guessed that the man was approaching his bolt hole. A turn to the left and one more to the right.

  Rounding the corner, the leading brother signalled that the quarry had been lost. Raghu ran up and scanned the alley. He ran swiftly to the end and looked up and down. Retracing his tr
acks he pointed to a door in the creeper-hung wall. All the boys noted the door and its exact location. They began to giggle.

  Raghu with a gesture indicated that they should return to base as fast as they could. And, stifling their laughter, they raced up the winding streets to the Mall, taking a roundabout way back to police headquarters.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  « ^ »

  Joe and Carter sat side by side on the balcony, their feet on the balustrade, and settled themselves to wait.

  ‘At last!’ said Carter. ‘A perfectly logical explanation which doesn’t depend on anyone’s arising from the dead in a cloud of sulphur and uttering terrible curses! Much more my sort of thing!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Joe. ‘If anything it’s worse! It would terrify me, I can tell you! No wonder Alice Conyers looked a little pale.’

  ‘We ought to have thought of this, don’t you agree?’ Carter mused. ‘I mean – given all the accounts, all the evidence.’

  ‘No. Come on, let’s forgive ourselves this much. I don’t believe anyone could have guessed at it from the information we had. And never forget that it hadn’t even occurred to Alice herself. I think I witnessed her reaction when the awful thought first came to her but made nothing of it. It only began to cast a shadow in my mind when I noticed her unnatural interest in that list. And then it’s just a question of logic. If she wasn’t disturbed by the name of a person who had been killed, then what had she seen that had so profoundly shaken her? A gap, that’s what! No name where a name should have been! But we’ll try it out on Simpson when he gets here. Let him be the judge.’

  Half an hour later a police tonga dropped Simpson at the door of the station and Carter hailed him. ‘Come on up and we’ll see if we can surprise you!’