Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2)

by Spencer, Sally

  Right, that was one more problem dealt with, Patterson told himself. Now he really must turn his mind to the elephant.

  ***

  Messages had been sent out to intercept the coach which had whisked the Maharaja’s son away, but though Blackstone had gone through the motions, he considered it a waste of effort. It was a slow, ponderous business, alerting all the coppers in London about anything, and by the time even half of them were informed, the kidnappers would probably have ditched the coach.

  There had to be an easier way to keep in touch, the Inspector thought. Perhaps someday all policemen would be taught Morse code, and would carry little telegraphy keys around with them. Then he shrugged his shoulders dismissively. In an ideal world such devices would appear like magic, but the world he inhabited was far from ideal, and he couldn’t imagine that anything so sophisticated would ever actually be developed.

  He turned his attention to the two constables, who were still waiting in trepidation for him to pass judgement on them. ‘I’m not blaming you lads for what happened,’ he said. ‘You’re not?’ Calvert said, with the gasp of a condemned man who’s just been told that the hanging’s off.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Blackstone reiterated. ‘You acted like a pair of bloody fools, right enough, but I’m not sure that anybody else put in the same position would have done any better.’

  The constables still looked dubious. This was not the kind of good luck which ever happened to people like them, their expressions seemed to say. But Blackstone meant it. When all was said and done, if the gang could run rings round him, then what chance did the ordinary copper on the street have?

  ‘So now I’ve put your minds at ease about that, let’s turn to more important matters,’ the Inspector continued. ‘Tell me something that will set me off on the right track.’

  The two constables tried to show their gratitude for their unexpected reprieve by making an ostentatious show of scouring their brains.

  ‘I’m not sure that the man with the elephant gun was a real nigger at all,’ Ruddick said.

  ‘Why should you think that? Wasn’t he dark enough?’

  ‘Oh, he was dark. Very dark. But after he’d shot the elephant an’ rescued the kid, I noticed that his face had gone a bit blotchy. It didn’t really register at the time, but lookin’ back on it, I think that his face may have been dyed, an’ that in all the excitement the dye might have started to run.’

  ‘What about the others? Did they all look as if they were in disguise as well?’

  The two constables shrugged helplessly. ‘It’s hard to say, sir,’ Calvert admitted. ‘You see, most of our attention was on the man with the gun.’

  Which was just what he’d wanted, Blackstone thought. One man had to be very much exposed by the nature of the task, but the less the constables saw of the others, the better it would be for the whole gang.

  ‘Describe the man with the gun to me,’ he said.

  ‘He was about six feet tall, an’ had dark eyes,’ Calvert told him.

  ‘Did he have a big nose?’

  ‘Not over-big, sir.’

  ‘Did he have a lot of hair, or was he going bald?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, sir. He was wearin’ one of them turban things.’

  ‘What about the rest of his face? His chin? His mouth?’

  ‘Couldn’t see much of them, sir,’ Calvert admitted. ‘He had this big bushy beard, you see.’

  ‘An’ now I think about it, that might have been false as well,’ Ruddick added helpfully.

  ***

  Patterson walked slowly around the fallen elephant. It was the fifth or sixth time he had circumnavigated the body looking for a solution to his problems, and each time the huge beast just seemed to get even bigger.

  It was a relief to see that Blackstone had finished talking to the constables, and was now headed in his direction. ‘Learn anything useful, sir?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I’ve learned that trained policemen are not much more use as witnesses than members of the general public. How are things going from your end?’

  Patterson looked down at the mountain of grey flesh. ‘I don’t know what to do with this elephant,’ he admitted. ‘I’m sure there isn’t a wagon in London big enough to put it on, so we’ll just have to use a large team of horses. But that’s only the start of our problems, isn’t it? Even if we succeed in dragging it away, where do we drag it to?’

  On a day which had started out badly—and could only get worse—Blackstone felt the sudden need for a little light relief.

  ‘The elephant’s evidence of a crime,’ he said, in a deeply official voice. ‘Which means, according to regulations, that it should be stored in the evidence room back at the Yard until it’s needed for further examination.’

  ‘The evidence room,’ Patterson repeated, recognizing Blackstone’s game and falling in with it. ‘That certainly might be one solution, sir. The only drawback to it I can see is that the elephant’s probably bigger than the room it’s supposed to be stored in.’

  ‘Couldn’t dump it in the Thames, could you?’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘I think somebody would probably notice, sir.’

  ‘Yes, there are far too many nosy buggers around in London these days.’ Blackstone thought for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what we could do—send one of the lads up to Smithfield.’

  ‘To the meat market?’

  ‘That’s right. Tell him to find half a dozen butchers who fancy the idea of facing a real challenge.’

  Patterson grinned, but only for a moment. ‘You’re completely serious!’ he said.

  ‘Can’t think what else we can do with the beast,’ Blackstone told his sergeant. He took out his pocket watch. ‘All hell will be breaking loose at the Yard just about now, so I suppose I’d better get back there.’

  ‘What do you want me to do here?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘Have a look at that van which your witnesses seem to think the tiger came out of. And see if you can find this Sergeant Simcox. Everybody’s been talking about him, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the bugger yet.’

  Thirteen

  The two men were waiting for Blackstone in his office. They were both total strangers to him. He hadn’t invited them to be there. And he certainly hadn’t given them permission to sit behind his desk.

  One of the unexpected—and unwelcome—visitors was a tall man with a military bearing which was apparent even though he was sitting down. He had grey intelligent eyes and a greying clipped moustache. He must once have been a very dashing man, though the broken veins in his cheeks were evidence to the fact that hard drinking had ceased to be a diversion and was now a full-time occupation.

  The other man was smaller and rounder. His frock coat had obviously come from Savile Row, the diamond in his tiepin would not have looked out of place on a princess’s finger. He had brown eyes which were not so much hard as sulky. He looked, Blackstone decided, like a man who resented having been born with a mere silver spoon in his mouth, while most of the men he constantly rubbed shoulders with had come into the world with a whole canteen of cutlery in theirs.

  Blackstone walked over to the coat rack and hung up his hat. So far, no one in the room had said a word. The visitors were obviously expecting him to speak first—if only to comment on the fact that his position had been usurped—but the rabbit does not make its move until it has divined the stoat’s intentions.

  The Inspector turned, walked over to his desk, pulled out a visitor’s chair, and sat down. From the look on the round man’s face, it was clear that he thought Blackstone would now have no option but to speak—so it must have come as some disappointment when, instead, the Inspector merely took out his cigarette case. The round man coughed, and even in that he managed to convey resentment of the world in general, and Blackstone in particular.

  ‘My name is Sir Horace Fullerton-Smythe,’ he said. ‘My companion here is Major Cedric Walsh, retired.’

 
; Blackstone lit up his cigarette. He inhaled, and let the smoke tickle his lungs before blowing it out through his mouth again.

  ‘I’m Sam Blackstone,’ he said, ‘and, until very recently, I was under the impression that this was my office.’

  Fullerton-Smythe frowned sulkily, but Walsh seemed to find the comment amusing.

  ‘You are probably wondering why we’re here,’ Fullerton-Smythe said.

  No I’m bloody not, Blackstone thought. You’re here because you want to stick your noses into matters which you know bugger all about—and I’ve probably got no choice but to let you do just that.

  ‘I am here as a representative of the India Office,’ Fullerton-Smythe continued. ‘Major Walsh is in attendance because he has some local knowledge of Chandrapore and its ruler.’

  It must have been hard to make Walsh’s Indian experience sound like little more than an insult, the Inspector thought, yet Fullerton-Smythe had somehow managed it.

  Blackstone studied the Major’s face. Either Walsh felt himself to be above such disparaging remarks, he decided, or else he no longer cared.

  ‘You should be made aware of the fact that we, in the government, consider this situation with the Maharaja’s son to be extremely grave,’ Fullerton-Smythe continued. ‘And as a consequence of that, we desire—nay, we insist on—a speedy resolution to the problem.’

  ‘You can insist all you like, Sir Horace,’ Walsh said, ‘but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’

  ‘And how am I to interpret that particular remark?’ Fullerton-Smythe asked haughtily.

  ‘Forget it,’ Walsh said.

  ‘No, I will net forget it. What did you mean?’

  Walsh shrugged. ‘I know Indian bandits better that any man alive,’ he said. ‘When I was a political agent, I rode with them for several months and—’

  ‘We are not here to listen to your reminiscences of your glory-days in India,’ Fullerton-Smythe said cuttingly.

  ‘I rode with them for months,’ Walsh repeated, as though the other man had never spoken. ‘I developed a grudging respect for both their nerve and their cunning, but even so I doubt if they could have carried out any operation as imaginative and disciplined as this kidnapping.’

  But that’s neither here nor there, is it?’ Fullerton-Smythe asked, both exasperated and puzzled. ‘We are not in India. This is England.’

  ‘True,’ Walsh agreed.

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘I suspect there is not much difference between the average Indian criminal and the average British criminal.’

  ‘You can’t compare niggers with Britons,’ Fullerton-Smythe said dismissively. ‘The Indians are a very primitive people.’

  ‘A very primitive people who nevertheless constructed the wonder that is the Taj Mahal.’

  Fullerton-Smythe turned to Blackstone. ‘Tell the Major he’s talking nonsense,’ he demanded.

  Blackstone forced himself to hide his smile. ‘Since I’m a patriot, I like to think that English criminals are the best robbers and cut-throats in the world,’ he said. ‘But on this occasion, I’m forced to agree with Major Walsh. There’s not a gang in London who could have pulled off this particular job.’

  ‘Then who is responsible?’ Fullerton-Smythe asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Blackstone admitted, ‘but whoever it is, they won’t be easy to track down.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like your defeatist attitude, Inspector,’ Fullerton-Smythe said.

  ‘And I’m not sure I can do anything about that, Sir Horace,’ Blackstone countered.

  The politician flushed and ran his index finger around the edge of his starched collar.

  ‘Perhaps I should consider asking for this case to be reassigned to a more experienced and forceful officer,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘I am serious about that, you know, Inspector Blackstone!’

  ‘So am I. I’ve never been one to pick up the poisoned chalice when I didn’t have to—and this case is a poisoned chalice if ever I saw one.’

  Fullerton-Smythe rose heavily and portentously to his feet. ‘I intend to talk to your superiors immediately,’ he said. ‘You’ll be hearing more—much more—of this in due course, Inspector Blackstone.’ He turned to face the Major. ‘Are you coming, Walsh?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be of much use to you at this particular moment, Sir Horace,’ the Major replied. ‘You’re the man with the political influence necessary to make any changes in how the investigation is run. All I have to offer is some local knowledge of Chandrapore and its ruler.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Fullerton-Smythe agreed, missing the point entirely. ‘But there may be other matters for which I need to draw on your expertise. I will see you back at the India Office in two hours. And I mean two hours, Major. Do not be diverted by any drinking establishments on the way.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Walsh promised.

  Ignoring Blackstone, Fullerton-Smythe squeezed around the desk, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Once he had gone, Major Walsh stretched out his legs as if he could finally make himself at home.

  ‘It’s comforting to think that while our lads are out risking their lives in India, they have the backing of such a wise and strong man as Sir Horace Fullerton-Smythe,’ he said. He pulled out his cigarette case, and with hands which trembled slightly, lit up a cheroot. ‘Perhaps now that the idiot is gone, we can adjourn to the nearest convenient pub, and I can brief you on the situation as I see it.’

  ‘I don’t think there’d be much point in that, since the chances are I’ll be off the case within the hour,’ Blackstone said.

  Walsh smiled broadly, as if he considered the comment hugely amusing. ‘Do you want to be off the case?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a poisoned chalice.’

  ‘I asked a direct question,’ Walsh pointed out. ‘You didn’t give me a direct answer.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, did I,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘I’ve known men—and I was one of them—who’d volunteer for duties that most other soldiers would refuse to undertake even if the only alternative was a court martial. Now why do you think that was?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Because what one man sees as a suicide mission, another will view merely as a challenge. And you’re one of the latter breed, Inspector. You like a good challenge.’

  Blackstone could see no reason why he should feel unnerved by Walsh, but he most certainly did.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Major—considering we’ve only just met,’ he said.

  Walsh smiled again, sadly this time. ‘Don’t fall into the same trap as that stuffed-shirt Sir Horace Fullerton-Smythe did,’ he warned.

  ‘And what trap might that be?’

  ‘Don’t assume that because I’ve seen better days I’m now of no more use than a broken chair. There are still people of importance who are wise enough to both seek my advice and to confide in me.’

  ‘I’m sure there are,’ Blackstone said hurriedly.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Walsh corrected him. ‘You’re not sure at all. But at least your mind—unlike the one which passes for a mind in Sir Horace Fullerton-Smythe’s balloon of a head—is open to the possibility that what I say may be true.’

  ‘Go on,’ Blackstone told him.

  ‘A little while ago, you were involved in the case of a young man of good background who was found floating in the Thames with his throat cut. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘It may be.’

  But it didn’t take a smart chap like you long to realize that this was not a straightforward murder—that there were, in fact, serious political ramifications to the case. And not only domestic ramifications. Foreign powers were involved. Well?’

  ‘You wouldn’t expect me to confirm that, would you?’

  ‘No, but I note you are not denying it, either.’ Walsh smiled again. ‘Let me tell you something you don’t
know. Your participation in that particular affair is too sensitive ever to become public knowledge, but given the great service you did for your country, there is some serious talk in the corridors of power about awarding you a medal in secret.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Not at all. It is perfectly true. Of course, Sir Horace Windbag, for all his self-importance, knows nothing of this. But even he may begin to suspect he’s not being given the whole picture when he’s told that, despite his objections to you, you are to remain in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘And you really think that’s what will happen, do you?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘I’m sure of it. What does the opinion of some jack-in-office matter, when weighed against the wishes of the two very important people who are convinced you are the right man for the job?’

  ‘And who might these two very important people be?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Or is it a secret?’

  ‘No secret at all—at least, from you,’ Walsh replied. ‘You have the strongest possible backing from both the Queen and the Prime Minister. Shall we go and have that drink now?’

  Fourteen

  The Horse Guards had returned to their barracks and the uniformed branch had cleared the area of sightseers. Patterson cut a solitary figure on the street, though he felt far from alone considering the dozen or so unanswered questions he had to keep him company.

  At that particular moment he was wondering about the Black Marias. Were they genuine, or were they fake? If genuine, how had the kidnappers got hold of them? And why two? There had, after all, only been one tiger.

  He stepped back, and the answer to this last question soon became obvious to him. The second Black Maria had a definite purpose, but that purpose had nothing to do with transporting anything. The van was there to complete the blocking off of Charles II Street—to ensure that when the tiger emerged, there was only one direction in which it could go.

  A smile of quiet triumph came to Patterson’s face, only to quickly melt away again as a new question popped into his head.

  Why should the tiger have wanted to go anywhere? he wondered. The brute had been drugged—almost everyone he’d spoken to had agreed about that—so why hadn’t it simply remained inside the van?