***
Given the huge amount of money involved, it was no surprise at all that the manager of the Anglo-Indian Bank had agreed to abandon his day off in favour of conducting business. Now, sitting behind his desk with his tie carelessly knotted and his boots clumsily laced, he was finding it hard to mask his excitement.
‘Twenty thousand pounds!’ he said with awe, as he helped Aggarwal to fill in the form. ‘And may I ask, sir, if I may be so bold, where such a fortune came from?’
‘I act on behalf of the Maharaja of Chandrapore,’ Aggarwal replied.
‘Of course! The Maharaja of Chandrapore! A most respected and valued client of the bank.’
The application was made, the money hastily deposited in the vault.
‘And now,’ Aggarwal said, ‘I would like to transfer the money by telegraph to an account in your Chandrapore branch.’
‘All of it?’ the manager asked, clearly disappointed. ‘Perhaps I will retain a pound, for appearance’s sake,’ Aggarwal told him.
‘The Maharaja should be made aware of the fact that this bank is as safe as any of our branches in India, and that should he wish guidance on investments, we are very well placed here to—’
‘I am instructed to transfer the money,’ Aggarwal said firmly.
And it was no more than the truth. He had been instructed to do so by a homicidal British army sergeant whom even the Afghans treated with kid gloves—a sergeant who might, at that very moment, have his hand resting on a knife or a pistol.
‘Very well, we will transfer the money as you requested,’ the manager said, attempting to put on a show of good grace. ‘If you would just give me the Maharaja’s account number—’
‘The money is not to go to the Maharaja’s account,’ Aggarwal interrupted.
‘Then to whose?’
Even at this late point, Aggarwal found himself wondering about his chances of making a break for freedom—but he quickly decided that they were not at all that good.
‘I wish to transfer the money to the account of Prince Nagesh,’ he said, swallowing hard.
Thirty-Six
The sole purpose behind Blackstone’s visit to the Anglo-Indian Bank on Lombard Street was to learn more about Aggarwal’s activities while he had been under Dyson and Tasker’s observation. Thus, it came as a surprise to be told that the secretary had made a second visit later in the day.
‘You’re sure it was the same Indian both times?’ he asked the manager.
‘I couldn’t swear to it, because I wasn’t here the first time, but my clerks are of the opinion that it was—and they’re trained to notice faces.’
‘But on the second occasion—if indeed, it was the second—he opened an account and placed a substantial amount of money in it?’
‘That’s correct. Twenty thousand pounds. All in Bank of England notes.’
‘And then he immediately had most of the money transferred by telegraphic exchange?’
‘Again, that is correct. The money was transferred to the account of a Prince Nagesh in our Chandrapore City branch.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Once his business was completed, the Indian gentleman left.’
‘Alone?’
‘Er…yes.’
‘Why the hesitation?’
‘Two other customers left at almost the same time. Or rather, two other men—because as far as I can ascertain, they’d didn’t actually do any business.’
‘Could you describe them to me?’ Blackstone asked hope-fully.
The manager thought for a moment. ‘Both big men. I’d estimate they were in their mid-thirties. Both quite well dressed—they’d never have been allowed through the door if they hadn’t been—but somehow they didn’t seem quite comfortable in good suits.’
‘You’re saying they’d have been happier in uniform?’
‘Possibly,’ the bank manager said.
‘Could you be a little more explicit about exactly how they made their exits?’
The manager frowned. ‘One was standing to the left of the main door, the other to the right. When Mr Aggarwal reached the door, they fell in beside him.’
‘Like an escort.’
‘I suppose it was rather like that.’
What a fool I’ve been! Blackstone thought angrily.
His working assumption had been that if soldiers were involved in the plot, they were driven purely by mercenary motives. But that assumption had been totally wrong! If personal gain were their only aim, why would they have overseen the transferral of funds to Prince Nagesh? There was a deeper, darker plot at work, and because he had allowed himself to be side-tracked by thinking of the soldiers as ordinary criminals, he was only now starting to get the first glimmerings of what that plot might be.
‘I should have kept my mind focused on the tiger,’ he said aloud.
‘What was that you said?’ the bank manager asked.
‘The tiger!’ Blackstone repeated. ‘I shouldn’t have given up wondering about why they used the tiger!’
***
Though he was not accustomed to queuing, General Sir Harold Templeton Harcourt recognized that, as long as he was going under the name of Jones, it might be prudent to act as if he were no more than a member of the common herd. Thus, as he stood in line at the telegraph desk, he showed none of the impatience that those under his command had soon learned to know and fear.
The telegraph, Harcourt had long ago decided, was the greatest invention man had ever known—or was ever likely to know. Without steam power, factories could easily be run by sheer brute force. Without rifles, the ordinary soldier could fight with sword and spear, as his ancestors had done. But without the telegraph—without the rapid communications it facilitated—there would have been a limit to the growth of the British Empire, just as there had been limits to the growth of all the mighty empires which had preceded it.
Harcourt pictured the world as it had been when he’d joined the Army and contrasted it with the world as it stood at that moment. With every drop of British blood spilled, the map had grown redder and redder, until now the Queen reigned over a third of the globe.
And there was no reason why it should stop there!
Britain could never conquer the rest of Europe, and only a fool would believe that she would ever recapture her American colonies—but most of the rest of the world was still up for grabs. And Harcourt saw it as his duty to do all he could to ensure that the grabbing was done by the country he had sworn to defend with his life.
He had reached the head of the queue at last, and reached into his pocket for the two telegrams he had written earlier.
‘Hurry up!’ the clerk said imperiously. ‘There’s other people waiting.’
Indeed there were, Harcourt thought. But not one of them had a telegram to send which was of a millionth the importance of the ones which he now held in his hand.
He slid the forms under the grille. ‘They are both for India,’ he said.
‘Issuin’ the Viceroy with his weekly instructions, are you?’ the clerk asked jovially.
As Harcourt, the General damned the man’s impudence. But as Jones, he smiled as though he was genuinely amused and said, ‘No, I thought I’d give the Viceroy a miss this week.’
The operator ran his eyes quickly over the messages. ‘One’s to this Prince Nagesh and the other’s to a General Greer,’ he said. ‘Have I got that right?’
‘Yes, you’ve got it right,’ Harcourt agreed.
One for the pampered prince with the heart of a snake, the other for the general with the instincts of a mad bull. There was one more message to be sent—that one delivered by hand—and the job would be over.
‘If you want to, you can pay for the replies in advance,’ the operator advised him.
‘I’m not expecting any replies,’ Harcourt said.
Nor was he. The moment the prince and the General had read their telegrams, they would he far too occupied with other matters to think about res
ponding to his warnings.
***
Aggarwal sat in the back of the cab, with the soldiers—Brown and Green—on either side of him. He had no idea where he was, for the blinds on the windows were pulled firmly down. What he did know was that they had been travelling for at least half an hour, and that while there had been other noises outside to distract him at the start of the journey, there was now only the clip-clop of hooves from the horses pulling the cab.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked, for perhaps the tenth time. ‘Mr Jones promised me that I would be released once I had completed my task in the bank.’
‘An’ you are bein’ released,’ said the sergeant who called himself Brown.
‘Then I will get out of the cab now,’ Aggarwal said, trying—in vain—to squeeze himself from the wedge in which he was held.
‘We’re not to let you go until we reach your hotel.’
‘Is that where we are going? To my hotel?’
‘Yes.’
But if that is my destination, we should have been there by now.’
Brown sighed. ‘That’s the trouble with you niggers. We try to make things easier for you, but you won’t have it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Aggarwal asked, noticing how his voice trembled.
‘Ignorance is bliss,’ the sergeant said. ‘If somethin’ nasty is goin’ to happen to you, it’s best not to know about it in advance.’
‘And…and is something nasty going to happen to me?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I promise you that if you release me now—’
‘You’ve seen too much. You know too much.’
‘I will scream!’ Aggarwal threatened. ‘I will call for help until someone comes.’
‘Scream as much as you like,’ Brown told him. ‘We should be at the East India Docks by now. When people hear a scream down here, they turn around and head in the other direction.’
‘Please…’ Aggarwal begged.
‘I’m gettin’ sick of this nigger’s whinin’, Sarge,’ Green said. ‘Can’t we finish him off now?’
‘What! An’ have him bleed over all this nice leather upholstery?’ Brown asked. ‘Have a bit of decency, lad.’
Thirty-Seven
Sitting in the saloon bar of the Crown and Anchor, Blackstone checked his pocket watch. It was an hour to closing time. If things had gone according to plan, Patterson should already have been sitting opposite him and providing him with the missing pieces of information which would almost magically shine a bright light into all the dark corners of the investigation. But Patterson wasn’t there, and in his absence Blackstone found himself involved in a solitary mental wrestling match.
Part of the puzzle already had been explained. He knew what the kidnappers had done with the twenty thousand pounds, and, more importantly, why they had done it. But he still couldn’t quite see why the tiger had been used—could not quite understand what it had to do with the events which had already begun unfolding in Chandrapore.
The door opened, and Patterson made his entrance. The sergeant weaved his way erratically to the bar and fumbled in his pocket for some loose change. It was a good thing that the drinkers in this pub knew he was a policeman, Blackstone thought—because if they hadn’t, at least one of the men he’d bumped into would have taken a swing at him.
Pint in hand, the sergeant walked over to his boss’s table, the concentration on his face at least equivalent to that of a tightrope walker caught in a sudden high wind. Even when he had reached his destination without major incident, Patterson’s problems were not over. For at least half a minute he stood there gently swaying, as he pondered on which manoeuvre to attempt next. Finally—and sensibly—he decided that he would first place his drink on the table, and then risk trying to sit down.
‘You look a bit the worse for wear,’ Blackstone said, as his sergeant established a precarious balance on his seat.
Patterson giggled. ‘If I don’t, I’m suing that bloody brewery,’ he said. ‘Thing is, sir…thing is…it was all in the line of duty.’
Blackstone nodded sympathetically. ‘Let me guess what happened. You met the blokes from the India Office as you’d agreed.’
‘Perfec’ly correct.’
‘They were more than willing to talk about their work, but only to their pals—and by that they meant their drinking pals.’
‘Their heavy drinking pals,’ Patterson said resentfully. ‘Their very heavy drinking pals.’
‘So you’ve had a skinful?’
‘Yes, if the skin in question belonged to an elephant. I’ll tell you something, sir—I wouldn’t like to be me at about three o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Blackstone patted his sergeant on the shoulder, only to regret it when Patterson winced.
‘I hope that you learned something useful to compensate you for your suffering,’ he said.
Patterson tried a nod, then thought better of it. ‘Kept nipping out during the session and making notes, just in case the alcohol drowned my brain quicker than I expected it to. Got it all written down. Want to read it?’
‘Maybe later,’ Blackstone said. ‘At the moment, I’ll settle for what you remember.’
‘Remember?’ Patterson said, as if he’d completely forgotten what it was that he was supposed to be recalling.
‘General Pugh,’ Blackstone prompted him.
‘Highly thought of both by the Army and by the government. Was a sple…a splendid commander, never reluctant to put himself on the front line.’ The sergeant swayed on his chair a little. ‘Greatly missed by all now that he’s retired.’
‘Was there any suggestion that he might once have been involved in something corrupt?’
‘None at all.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absol…absol…definitely.’
Blackstone stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yet if he was as dirty as Major Walsh claims he was, you’d have thought there’d have been at least a whiff of a suspicion,’ he mused.
Patterson burped. ‘Found out about Walsh, as well. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t ask. Just came up in the conversation.’
‘Go on.’
‘Everybody agrees that right from the start he was a brilliant man. Excellent soldier, very good leader. Picks up all the local languages at the drop of a hat, if not sooner. Had a golden future ahead of him. Natural choice to send to a ticklish place like Chandrapore. Just the kind of chap you’d want handling a difficult character like the Maharaja. So that’s where he’s sent. To Chandrapore. Does very well, at first.’
‘At first?’
‘Maharaja isn’t married then. Gets Walsh involved in the process of finding him a bride.’
‘Walsh mentioned that. And she had to be the right kind of bride, didn’t she?’
‘Exac’…exac’ly. Chaps like the Maharaja don’t marry for love—marry for political considerations. Walsh travels all over India on the Maharaja’s account—and on our account as well, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Visits every Indian ruler with a child of marriageable age. Eventually narrows the choices down to one. Beautiful creature. Well educated, too, for a woman. Most important of all, from our point of view, her father’s known to be pro-British. Marriage takes place. Maharaja very pleased. Viceroy very pleased. India Office very pleased. Walsh riding on the crest of a wave.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Maharani gives birth to a child. Dies in the process, but succession is assured. Maharaja very pleased. Viceroy very pleased. India Office—’
‘I get the picture. Walsh was fulfilling all expectations. So what went wrong?’
‘Shortly after the young prince is born, Walsh starts drinking. Powers-that-be try to ignore it at first—brilliant young officer, great promise, etc.—but the drinking gets worse and worse. Soon Walsh is no good to man nor beast. People start to worry he might do something disastrous. Throw up on the Maharaja’s throne, f’r instance. Get in a fight with
the palace guard f’r example. That kind of thing. Anyway, he’s called back to London, and since he’s supposed to be an expert on that part of India, he’s attached to the India Office. Doesn’t do much there—more a case of being rewarded for his past achievements than being paid for what he’s doing now. Still, nobody seems to mind that. Glad to hear what he has to say when he’s there, get along fine without him when he isn’t. Then the young prince is kidnapped.’
‘And Walsh isn’t just an expert any more, he’s the expert.’
‘Quite so. Told to work with us. Comes to see you. And there we are—bang up to date.’ Patterson clapped his hand over his mouth. ‘Mind if I go to the lavatory, sir?’ he mumbled.
‘No,’ Blackstone said quickly. ‘In fact, I think it’s a very good idea.’
The Inspector watched his sergeant stagger to the door, then took a thoughtful sip of his pint. He’d been quite prepared to accept Walsh’s assessment of General Pugh at face value initially. Then he’d met the General, who’d seemed both open and honest. And now that impression had been confirmed by Patterson’s friends at the India Office.
So what was the truth? Was Pugh the smartest dissembler Blackstone had ever encountered? Or had drink destroyed more of Walsh’s brain cells than even he’d realized’?
The familiar smell of a cheroot drifted under Blackstone’s nose. He looked up, half-expecting to see Major Walsh standing there, but instead the smoker was a local pawnbroker.
It was odd that Walsh should smoke cheroots rather than cigars. Perhaps it was a habit he’d picked up in India. Or perhaps, now that he was no longer a high-flyer, it was all that he could afford.
The sound of breaking glass announced the fact that Patterson was back, and had barrelled into a waiter carrying a full tray. He really must do something about sobering the lad up in a minute, Blackstone told himself.
He let his mind drift—as lazily as smoke itself—back to Walsh. The man was obviously almost as addicted to cheroots as he was to alcohol, he thought, remembering how irritable and nervous Walsh had been when he’d misplaced his cheroots on the way to Amritsar Lodge.
Patterson—after having apologized to the waiter for crashing into him and being assured that he would be more hindrance than help in picking up the mess—had finally returned to the table.
Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2) Page 19