by Sandra Cox
“That you found him on the streets there as a child.”
Dark fragrant liquid poured into the cup as Tamara gracefully tipped the pot. “To my knowledge he has never told a living soul about his origins. Why I don’t know. It’s certainly nothing that Edward or I were ever ashamed of. But Christopher has always been protective of his and our privacy.
“No one besides Beatrice knows about Calcutta and now you.” Tamara didn’t actually come out and say it, she didn’t have to. Gabby understood. Guard the secret. Keep it to yourself.
“But that is only partially what I meant. Christopher is no saint,” she smiled at her words, “but he is honorable. Whatever he does there is a reason for.”
“Whatever his reason it’s wrong.” She waved her arms encompassing the room. “He surely doesn’t need the money. He’s your heir isn’t he?”
“Of course.”
“Then why steal?”
“Maybe that’s a question you should ask Christopher.” She added sugar and cream to her chicory then sipped daintily.
Gabby stared for a moment at the cup in the older lady’s hand. It was much like Tamara, delicate and timeless. Pale red roses were painted on porcelain so fine you could almost see through it.
Gabby brought her wandering mind back to the matter at hand. “You may be sure I shall. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Tiny frown lines formed between Gabby’s brows. “There’s no excuse for a man to steal, especially a rich man.”
Tamara nodded her head in approval. “Spoken like a policeman’s daughter. I would have expected no less.”
Gabby gave a conscious start. What a hypocrite I am. I couldn’t care less about Louie’s dubious business dealings. To me he’s a source. But the fact that Christopher is the premier cat burglar on the continent appalls me.
“Loxley.”
Gabby blinked. Whatever Tamara had said, she’d missed all but the tail end of it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said have you never heard the story of Robin of Loxley?”
Gabby stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You are comparing Christopher to Robin Hood?”
Tamara smiled in a noncommittal manner and sipped her chicory.
Gabby stood up, ignoring her thumping head as best she could. She walked to the door.
Tamara’s bell-like voice drifted across the room, causing Gabby to pause with her hand on the door. “So, Gabriella Bell, will you tame The Tiger or will you be eaten by him?”
For once all traces of the fluttery absentminded little old lady were gone. The violet eyes were shrewd as they searched Gabby’s.
“I don’t know,” she whispered then fled.
Chapter Thirty-One
A handsome Bengal walked down one of the less reputable streets in Calcutta. He wore the traditional white dhoti, a rectangular piece of cloth wrapped in a complex manner about the waist and legs and a kurta, a loose shirt that fell below his knee. The color of his skin was a lovely mahogany in startling contrast to perfect white teeth. His jet-black hair gleamed like a raven’s wing.
The smell of decay from rotting garbage mixed with the smell of engine fumes. Shouts and honks could be heard above the transistorized sounds of a sitar. The street darkened as dusk fell.
A beautiful young woman dressed in a red sari beckoned invitingly from an open doorway. A transparent red veil covered her hair and mouth. She looked to be no more than fifteen but her liquid brown eyes were old beyond her years.
Her keeper, a middle-aged Indian dressed in chinos and a silk shirt sat in the shadows drinking a canned cola.
Christopher stopped directly in front of her so her keeper could not see what passed between them. He handed her a twenty rupee banknote. “For your keeper.” He nodded toward the man in the corner. He pulled out a one hundred rupee banknote, “For you,” he said and tucked it into her palm. Even though the night was unusually warm, her hand was ice-cold.
She smiled, but her eyes were wary. “And what must I do to earn this?”
“I just need information. Is Lai back in Calcutta?”
The girl gave him a startled look. “Not that I’ve heard. But you might try Aamir. Just continue ’til the street ends and a new begins three times over.”
“Thank you, sister, does Aamir have a last name?”
The sari made a soft rustling sounds as she shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I think Dey.”
“And yours sister?”
“Ahsan.”
“Ah, beautiful.”
She bit her lips together. “You see my parents planned to sell me from birth. I am but a girl child, not highly valued by my father.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her keeper approach, apparently impatient with the length of time the transaction was taking.
“Hide your money. Tell him I lost my way and was asking for directions to Belvedere Road.” The sari rustled again as she slid the banknote inside it. He placed his hands on his forehead and nodded, preparing to leave. The long sleeves of his kurta fell back.
It was then she saw the ring. Her eyes widened. “Help me, Tiger. I beg.”
The man was getting closer.
“There is a small, select orphanage on the outside of town called the Shardul.” Christopher watched the man’s approach. His eyes alert.
She nodded. “The Tiger Orphanage.”
“You know of it?”
“Who doesn’t that lives in the pits of hell?”
“I have spent time in hell myself, sister. Go to it. I will let them know to expect you.”
She grabbed his hand and kissed. “I will serve you always.”
“Serve your people.”
He disappeared into the gathering gloom of night. Christopher watched as the man raised his arm to strike the young girl who had just lost a paying customer.
She said something and handed him the twenty rupee note. The man laughed.
Christopher grinned. He was a long way from Belvedere Road. The proprietor was no doubt laughing at his stupidity in wandering so far from it. The girl would be okay.
Christopher walked with long, unhurried strides, sidestepping a cow walking down the sidewalk. He crossed three streets. Aamir’s turf should be straight ahead.
At the corner a man leaned against a lamppost smoking. He wore baggy white pants and a light blue kurta.
Christopher approached him. He spoke Hindi. “I wish to see Aamir.”
The man looked him over in an insolent fashion. “And why do you wish to see Aamir, pretty boy?”
Christopher smiled lazily. A smile that did not reach his eyes and made people that knew him tremble. In a flash, he grabbed the man by his throat, bunching his kurta in his fists. The other hand held a thin stiletto, with emeralds winking on the hilt that he pressed against the man’s cheek. The man’s cigarette dropped from his fingers sending a shower of orange embers to the ground where one by one they winked out.
“Son of a rat, must I repeat my question?” The sleeves of Christopher’s kurta fell back revealing his ring.
His victim’s pupils dilated with fear. “I meant no disrespect, Shardul, I did not know. No one knows The Tiger is in Calcutta. And you are said to have a hundred disguises. How could a poor, uneducated man such as myself recognize the great Shardul?” he whined.
“Well now that you do, little rat, take me to your leader.”
It took only a moment for the man to reach his decision. He whispered, “Aamir might not be pleased but he will let me live. I have no desire to become tiger meat tonight.” He gasped out, his face purpling. “I live but to serve you, oh great Shardul.”
Christopher let go of the kurta.
The man gulped in air and loosened the kurta still tangled around his neck.
“Please follow me.” They walked down the street and stopped in front of an unassuming brick building. Next to the door were steps leading to a basement with an outside door. The man took the steps. Christopher followed.
He opened the door
to a darkened café. A young man played a sitar, while a veiled woman draped in sheer rainbow fabric danced.
The man led him to a table deep in shadows in the corner. He bowed in front of a stranger with a pock-marked face. A woman wearing a long fitted black dress sat beside him.
“Aamir?” Christopher looked down at the occupants of the table.
Aamir looked at his trembling employee and then at the stranger who stood before him, alert and confident. He motioned the woman and the man away. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Christopher pulled out a chair. “May I join you?”
Aamir motioned with his palm. “Of course and you are?”
“Sometimes one is safer not knowing names.”
Aamir nodded.
Christopher pulled out a one hundred rupee banknote and laid it on the table.
“What may I do for you?”
“Where is Lai?”
Aamir tensed. “To tell you would be more than my life is worth.”
Christopher leaned forward and said softly. “Can you swim?”
Aamir’s hand tightened on his glass of wine. “A strange question.”
“Can you swim without hands in the Hooghly?”
A fine bead of perspiration dotted Aamir’s forehead. He looked into Christopher’s cold eyes then stared like a rabbit paralyzed by a snake as Christopher slowly brought his hand up from under the table. The emerald in The Tiger’s eye glittered. In the gloom, the silver tiger on the ring looked ready to pounce. “Aiee, I am caught between a cobra and a tiger.”
The sitar wailed an eerie sensual lament in the background. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. Rumor is she is in America.”
“Where in America?”
“I don’t know.”
Christopher smiled, a smile that bared his teeth and didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe we should step outside and enjoy the evening.”
“I really don’t know.” Aamir’s eyes darted about nervously. “But I have a friend, who has a friend. I may be able to find out.”
“Don’t fail me.” The chair scraped as Christopher got up. He turned his back on Aamir and walked out of the café.
Aamir drew back his hand as if to reach under the table.
Like lightning Christopher’s hand came down atop his, pushing it against the smooth hard wood of the table.
Aamir’s body relaxed, though his eyes remained alert. “I am not foolish enough to try to bring down a tiger.”
Christopher removed his hands and shifted slightly to the left where he could see the rest of the café and Aamir. “I trust your friends are wise as well.”
“My friends are sheep. But I need not remind you that the café has a thousand eyes and ears.”
“Can you find out what I asked?”
“If it is the gods’ will.”
Christopher’s robe rustled as he leaned forward. “You have twenty-four hours. I will return at midnight tomorrow night. If the gods’ will coincides with mine you will become a rich man. If not I would suggest cleansing your soul before you begin your journey to meet them.” His voice was low, his face expressionless, but his eyes held a menace impossible to ignore. “I will return tomorrow night at midnight.”
Aamir’s features tightened. “Is that wise?”
“You tell me, O son of a jackal.”
“I will be here. If it is the gods’ will that I be bitten by the snake then I will accept it.”
“A wise choice.”
Christopher turned and wound through the tables. As he neared the stage the dancer’s movements became more languid and erotic. If Christopher noticed the blatant invitation he ignored it. The eyes of the dancing girl followed him as he left the café.
* * * * *
The next evening at midnight an old man shuffled into the underground café. He wore a turban and his once white robe was now gray. Leaning on a sleek wooden staff, he hobbled to Aamir’s table.
Aamir sipped a cup of tea whose light teasing fragrance was lost in the heavy smell of incense. He set the white cup on the table and looked up. “Go away, old man, if you value your life.”
“One can learn much wisdom from those who have lived long upon this earth.”
Aamir’s breath went out in a hiss. “You! I was told The Tiger changes identity as easily as his clothes. In future, I will be careful what women I pick up. I meant no disrespect.”
Christopher lowered himself into the chair. “Does this mean you have information for me and will live to pick up women?”
Aamir was not a coward. Nor was he a fool. “The…”
Christopher motioned for him to come closer. He raised his voice. “I am old and hard of hearing please speak directly into my ear.”
A man sitting at the other table glanced curiously in his direction then returned to watching a sitar player on stage.
Aamir breathed into his ear, “I pray I live to see the dawn. Your package is in New Orleans.”
Not so much as by a glance or a stiffening of his body did Christopher show his alarm. “Thank you good sir. Perhaps you could spare a few coins for a cup of tea.”
Aamir reached beneath the long folds of the kurta for some small rupees. His fingers rubbed against several smooth surfaced bills. He nodded his thanks.
“Go now.”
Christopher sat staring at his tea, to all appearances a befuddled old man lost in memory. His mind raced, Lai was in New Orleans. Why? Why hadn’t she taken the crystal and flown back to India? Because she knew it would be the first place he would look or because she wanted to punish him for rejecting her? His knuckles whitened as his hand tightened around the cup. He knew what form of punishment Lai’s revenge would take, Gabriella. Cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
He brought the tea to his lips, inhaling its bracing fragrance, but never drank it. The Tiger was nothing if not cautious. There was one last thing he had to do before he left India and that would have to wait ’til the morning, this morning as it was already past midnight.
Christopher picked up his cane and rose stiffly to his feet. He placed a gnarled hand on his back, as if it pained him and leaned on the smooth wooden cane with the other.
He shuffled to the door and stopped to examine his cane. A small mirror embedded in the smooth wood showed two men had stood up moments after he had. The mirror winked in the candlelight.
Christopher walked outside and turned down a dark alley. Smells of rotting food and cow dung assailed him. He stepped deep into the shadows and waited.
The two men stopped in front of the alley. They looked up and down the street, illuminated by the lamplight. Both wore modified white kurtas and jeans. Neither was as tall as Christopher. They walked with a confident swagger, men who knew how to protect themselves. “Where do you think the old fool went?” The man had the raspy voice of a smoker and spoke Bengali. He was an inch or two shorter than his companion.
“Maybe into the alley to relieve himself. By the odor, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
They passed Christopher, flattened against a wooden building, its paint peeling. He waited until they nearly reached its end then glided silently after them, a deadly cat on the prowl.
He straightened, all signs of the old man gone. He held the cane horizontally, one hand wrapped around the handle, the other near the smooth surfaced end. “Are you looking for me, O sons of jackals?” He spoke in Bengali.
Both men whirled around. The shorter of the two visibly started. They looked at each other uneasily. One whispered to the other, “It is the same old man, but different somehow. He is taller with none of the visible signs of frailty that he’d shown before.”
Christopher twirled the staff in his right hand then began to toss it back and forth. His lip curled. “What’s the matter, dogs, afraid of a harmless old man?”
They rushed him.
He stepped forward to meet them, staff raised.
They came at him from each side. In a whirling motion that was almost too fast
to see, he hit the shorter man in the head. The cane made a cracking sound as it came in contact with the man’s forehead. His legs crumbled and he dropped silently to the ground.
The other had reached in his kurta for a knife, but before he could throw it, Christopher pulled on the handle of the cane. The long blade gleamed in the dark like King Arthur’s sword Excalibur. He skewered the hand of the man holding the knife. The assailant screamed in pain.
“Be still before half your hand is sliced off,” Christopher commanded.
The man tried to draw his hand away.
Christopher made a small movement with the blade.
The man immediately stopped. “Please,” he whimpered.
“Who do you work for?”
“Lai.” The man’s face contorted with pain. He might die a slow death if she found out his betrayal but he was faced with the certainty of losing his hand if not. Loyalty between thieves was a myth.
“Where is Lai?”
“She’s out of the country.” Blood seeped from the sword in deep dark blobs and dropped at his feet.
So Aamir had told the truth. “Why were you following me?”
The man stood trembling like a leaf. He wasn’t far from passing out from pain and shock. “We were keeping an eye on Aamir. He talked to a stranger last night. Then you showed up tonight and looked like easy pickings.”
Christopher’s white teeth gleamed against his dark face in an unpleasant smile. He withdrew the sword in a swift motion then wiped his blade on the unconscious assailant lying at his feet.
“Who are you?” the man whispered cradling his bleeding hand against his body.
As Christopher sheathed his sword in its cylindrical nest the long sleeve of his kurta fell away from his hand.
The Tiger snarled from the ring as if ready to pounce. The emerald eye seemed to gleam with rage.
“Aiee” the man wailed and dropped to his knees. “I meant no offense, Tiger. Never in a million years would I have tried to harm you.”
“As if you could.” Christopher’s lip curled in a sneer of disdain. “If I hear you have attacked anyone else too frail and helpless to defend themselves, I will come back and cut out your heart. Do you hear me, dog?”