The Baron Goes East (5 page)

“These are your two boys,” Phiroshah said. “You will find them useful. The taller is Amu, the shorter you will call Joseph. They are both Christians, I thought that wise. Catholics, perhaps, I should add. Amu!”

The taller “boy” turned and opened the door. Mannering glanced at him once, looked away, studied him more closely. He went with Lorna into the outer room of the suite, which was furnished as one might be in any European luxury hotel. Doors led to the right and left.

“Amu's English is better than Joseph's,” said Phiroshah. “He is intelligent, too. Don't worry about anything for the first few hours, please. I wish you good night.” He bowed, without attempting to shake hands, turned and went out. Mannering and Lorna stood together, watching him.

Amu approached and bowed.

Amu, the bearer, had called at the London boarding-house where Banu had stayed. Mannering had a photograph of him.

 

 

Amu's English was good, his voice soft.

“If the sahib or memsahib require anything, I shall obtain it.”

“Thank you. Anything, darling?”

“Just sleep,” said Lorna.

“We'll go to bed,” said Mannering. “Don't call us in the morning, Amu.”

“Very good, sahib. This way, please.”

The bedroom was vast; there were twin beds, brocaded easy chairs and a couch; everything resplendent. Doors leading off led on one side to a bathroom, on the other to a dressing-room. Amu guided them gravely from one to the other, went to the door and bowed himself out. Mannering and Lorna stood together at the foot of the beds; and Lorna laughed. It was a little shrill.

“Fantasy!”

“Just India,” said Mannering. “Feel like a bath?”

“I couldn't.” Her eyes looked heavy with tiredness, although they were so bright. “That boy who took—”

“Tomorrow,” said Mannering firmly.

Their nightclothes were in the pigskin bag. Lorna was in bed within ten minutes. Mannering went into the bathroom, leaving the door open; he could see the main door from there. He smoked a cigarette as he ran the bath-water; that would reassure Lorna. When he went back to the bedroom, Lorna was sleeping. He went to the door and locked it. There were two bolts, and he shot them. He went to the dressing-room, where a door led to a balcony. He locked both the balcony and dressing-room doors. There were no windows and only the one door into the bathroom. There was no need to lock anything there. He went and sat down on an armchair and looked at Lorna and contemplated the main bedroom door.

Amu would be in the suite.

Amu had been in London a week ago; Amu, or someone so like him that Mannering had been deceived. He took the photographs from a travel-fold in the pigskin case, studied one, and was quite convinced; it was either of Amu or his double.

Phiroshah had taught him a lesson; the direct approach was the good approach here. He felt tired, but doubted if he would sleep. He got into bed and lay on his back, with only the bed light on. At last he turned and switched it off and settled down.

 

“Darling,” Lorna said.

Mannering stirred.

“Darling.”

Mannering blinked.

“Why did you bolt the doors?”

Mannering sat up with a start.

“Do what?”

“Bolt the doors.”

“Oh, that,” said Mannering. “I felt nervous. It's the first time I've been robbed like that.”

“Just nerves?”

“I'm a bundle of them,” he said, and grinned. She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. She wore a nylon nightdress because they were easy to wash and she might be roughing it. He decided in favour of nylon nightdresses. He had slept with only a sheet over him; and even that made him feel too warm. He pushed it back.

“They were certainly waiting for us,” Lorna said. “Did you expect it?”

“The way of it surprised me,” Mannering said.

“Do you wish we hadn't come?”

“Not yet!”

There was a spell of silence.

Then: “It's hot,” said Lorna. “Is there a balcony?”

“Oh yes.”

“And do we get tea if we want it?”

“We're at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and we get everything,” said Mannering. “Personally, I'm going to have fruit juice.” He got out of bed, unbolted the door and turned the key, and looked outside. Joseph stood by the outer door; Amu wasn't in sight.

“Good morning, Joseph.”

“Good morning, sahib.”

“Orange juice and tea, please.”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Where is Amu?”

“Amu is pressing the sahib's clothes.” There wasn't much the matter with Joseph's English.

“All right. We'll be on the balcony.”

“Very good, sahib.”

Lorna, with a light scarf round her shoulders, was on the balcony. The harbour was calm, the morning sun sparkled on it like diamonds. Yachts at anchor to their left rose and fell gently. Almost in front of them was the massive stonework of the Gateway of India. Beggars and pedlars and tourists were already there; two women were taking photographs. A gharry with a sorrowful-looking horse and a fat driver stood waiting for them. Most of the Indians who passed were men; and most wore dhotis, some with a linen jacket over them, others with the ample folds of muslin. Now and again a woman in a bright sari passed.

Joseph brought in tea and orange juice for two.

“We'll breakfast up here,” said Mannering.

“Very good, sahib.” Joseph paused. “When the sahib is ready, please say. I will bring him.”

Mannering looked puzzled. “Bring who?”

“There is a man desiring to speak.”

“Oh,” said Mannering. “English?”

“No, sahib.”

“What's his name?”

“He gives no name.”

“How long has he been here?” asked Lorna.

“Two hours,” said Joseph. “He will not go; he will wait if needs be, all day.”

It was half-past ten.

Mannering said: “Tell him I won't see him.”

“Very good, sahib.”

Lorna looked her protest, but waited until Joseph had gone.

“You don't know who he is or what he wants.”

Mannering smiled. “If he's Indian, he won't go away because of a first refusal, and he'll probably send in a little more information about himself. Tea or orange juice?”

“Tea,” said Lorna.

Joseph came back in ten minutes with a card. He handed it to Mannering and stood back. The card was printed in English, and announced that Mr. I. Patandi, of Bombay, was a dealer in books in all languages, ancient and modern. There was a message scribbled in a bold, boyish hand.

“
Please, Mr. Mannering, most important. Not business only.
”

“Is this the man who's been waiting?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Has Amu seen him?”

“Amu sent him away. He would not go.”

“I see,” said Mannering. “All right. Tell him I'll see him for five minutes, between now and one o'clock. I can't be sure what time. And I'm not interested in business.”

“Please,” said Joseph. “What did the sahib say?”

Amu appeared at the doorway of the balcony, spoke swiftly to the other boy in Hindi, advanced a step, apologised to Mannering because he had not been on duty when the sahib and memsahib had woken. He understood the message and would tell the man. He went out.

“John,” said Lorna. “Aren't you being a bit high-handed? India belongs to the Indians now.”

“I can't imagine what Mr. Patandi wants, but we'll find out whether he's eager enough to wait for another two hours,” Mannering said. “Probably he wants to sell us books, in spite of the ‘not business only'.”

“I suppose nothing I say will change you. He's very good-looking, isn't he?”

“Patandi? Haven't seen the chap.”

“Amu.”

“Oh, there are hundreds like him,” said Mannering. “Don't start seeing every face on canvas. Wait until you've had a good survey.”

“Or stick to camels,” said Lorna. “I've said it for you. John, why did you lock and bolt the doors?”

He didn't joke, and didn't explain.

“I think it's a good thing to start. We ought to do it everywhere, like locking a car door. We might forget when it really matters, otherwise.”

She wasn't wholly satisfied but accepted the answer, finished her tea and brushed her forehead.

“Sticky?” asked Mannering.

“Don't be ridiculous. Tea's a cooling drink, after the first few minutes.”

Mannering grimaced at her.

“Don't keep Patandi waiting too long,” pleaded Lorna, as she got up. “I'm anxious to see what he looks like.”

 

They had bathed and finished breakfast by half-past eleven. The only coolness was in the rooms, and there it was illusory, the big fans stirring the hot air. Outside, it was roasting hot; or boiling hot, humid enough to make them sticky after any slight movement. Amu and Joseph had waited on them in a style which was barely remembered in England; they were silent and efficient.

At twenty-five to twelve Mannering rang a small handbell and Amu appeared almost on the instant.

“Is Patandi still there, Amu?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“We'll see him,” said Mannering.

“Very good, sahib.” The “sahib” always came after the shortest phrase. Amu went out. Lorna dabbed a little powder on her nose. Both were pretending to look towards the open door which led to the balcony when Mr. I. Patandi came in.

They did not pretend for long.

Patandi was a big man; not only fat, but tall, six foot three or four, Mannering judged. He wore a dhoti, and the thick calves of his brown legs stuck out from it. His sandals had rope soles. He wore a little black turban and carried a brief-case.

It was Mannering's brief-case.

 

 

“Gentleman!” cried Patandi. “Lady!” He bowed, and the brief-case swung in front of him. “You are goodness itself to spare me your good time. Thank you.” He straightened up and beamed at them. Lorna sat absolutely still, looking at the case. Mannering appeared not to notice the case, and murmured: “Five minutes is all I can manage, I'm afraid.”

“I understand, and it is sufficient. I thank you for it.” Patandi held tightly on to the brief-case. “I welcome you to wonderful India. It is your first visit, yes? Yes!” He nodded vigorously. “Such a wonderful place, so much beauty, I can show you everything. Everything. I, Patandi, am the best guide in all India. Yes?”

“Probably,” said Mannering mildly.

“You will find out I talk only the truth,” said Patandi. “Yes. Such a famous man and famous lady, they must see only everything of the best. I show it to them.” He leaned forward and breathed aniseed into Mannering's face. “I show it better than any guide in India. My English, it is perfect. Years ago I was a guide, now I am a bookseller, selling only the best books. But I have assistants – they can sell books; I have more important work to do.”

“You're very good, but—”

“And cheap!” cried Patandi. “So cheap you don't know. I show you Indian rope trick. Elephant walking over man. Sensational things only. Things very few white people see. You have just and only one week; that is time enough for me to show you – if you fly. You are not afraid to fly? To see India in one week, it is ridiculous, unless you fly. Taj Mahal, the forts, mosques, everything. Himalayas? Darjeeling? Yes, it can all be done in one week, everything. I, Patandi, say so.”

“We may be here longer,” said Mannering.

Patandi frowned. Patandi frowning was a sight to see. He leaned forward and tapped Mannering's shoulder confidentially. His teeth looked good, but were stained red from chewing betel nut, and the aniseed was thick on his breath. His eyes were dark as olives, and intent and serious.

“You have one week.” He lowered his voice. “No more. After that, you go. Gentleman, I look at you when I come in. In one minute I say to myself, this is a very wise gentleman. Like all the English.
Very
wise. One week, and it is enough. One week, and this English gentleman who is famous – and famous lady also – will know he wishes no more to see in India. Too dirty. Smelly. Not for famous English gentleman. And lady. One week, that is
all
, Mr. Mannering.”

He squeezed Mannering's shoulder.

“I may want to stay a month. Two months.”

Patandi shook his head. No one could mistake his earnestness.

“One week
only
, gentleman. That is final. Understand, India is unhealthy place. Smallpox. Cholera. Everything!” He narrowed his eyes. “Dacoits. You know dacoits? Armed robbers, so!” He made a gesture with his hand; the fingers clenched as if holding the handle of a knife, the thrust towards Mannering's stomach. Lorna exclaimed involuntarily. Patandi turned, unimpeded by his bulk, bowed and looked the picture of consternation and remorse.

“Famous lady, I am very sorry, I did not wish to alarm you. Ridiculous. I only tell you what can happen in India. Yes. India . . .” He clutched Lorna's shoulder and leaned towards her. “Old India good, new India bad. In old India, Europeans and English safe. I, Patandi, am great friend of the English. I hate to see them go, but—no politician. If a politician—” He drew back, then up to his great height, held his head back, then with a swift movement ran his forefinger across his throat and made a choking noise.

Lorna was pale.

Patandi bobbed his head forward again and beamed.

“Old India good for English people, Americans, everyone. New India,
very
bad. Not safe. Safe with Patandi for one week only. I regret, after that I must sell my books. The fools I leave to sell them for me will charge half the price or run away with all the money. You see the great sacrifice I make for you?”

He beamed like a happy child.

“Yes, I see,” said Mannering. “Let me think about it, Patandi. Where can I find you?”

Patandi was proud.

“My shops,” he announced. “Everywhere. Good books, ancient and modern. I have seven and there are also Greek.
In
Greek. Many Latin. All Indian cultures, also. I do everything, but you have only one week in India, so I give it all up.”

He turned a bow into a salaam and brought the brief-case between his knees. Straightening up, he looked at it as if surprised at seeing it, and then his eyes widened and glowed and he held the case out to Mannering, as a magician might present a rabbit.

“Famous Mr. Mannering, this is
yours
.”

Mannering said: “That's right.”

“Where did you get it?” Lorna demanded sharply.

“Lady, ask no questions, hear no lies,” said Patandi, and roared with laughter. “I tell you. These boys, they will beg, rob, steal, do anything, yes. They climb through to the airfield, they attack last night, isn't that so? They take the case to the old man who employs them. A bad old man, yes. He sends it with a boy to me. You ask, why to me? I tell you. I sell many things. Bags, cases – very fine lady's crocodile, tiger-skin handbags, lady, best in India; you must come and see for yourself, please. New, second-hand. I pay twenty rupees for this bag, the boy goes, I open it—and what do I find? Your name, Mr. Mannering. So, I am an honest man. Twenty rupees – what is it? The price of honour? Too cheap. I give it back to you.”

He held the case on the palms of his hands and thrust it in front of Mannering. His smile was gentle now, as if appealing for praise. Mannering, who had looked at him throughout the last ten minutes with dull eyes and without moving, took it and smiled thinly.

“Very kind of you. Thanks.”

“Sir, it is my duty,” said Patandi. “An honest man returns to its rightful owner any article which strays into his possession. Not all poor men are dishonest. When will you come to see me?”

“This afternoon.”

“Come to any of my shops, say you wish to see me, they will send for me at once. Five minutes, ten minutes, and I will be with you. Famous English gentleman,
au revoir
.”
He turned massively, then darted a glance at Lorna. “And famous lady.”

He reached the door.

It opened, and Amu appeared, looking at Patandi with sneering contempt. Patandi stalked out. Amu closed the door silently. Mannering sat without moving. Lorna lit a cigarette, stood up and began to walk restlessly about the room. She started to speak, looked at him and stopped.

He picked up the brief-case, opened it deliberately, and took out the contents. From one section, three novels; from another, two slim volumes of Browning and Keats; from the third, a package which looked like a book. He opened this. There were no leaves, but a small, sealed brown paper packet was inside. The seal had been neatly broken, as neatly re-joined. Lorna moved towards him and rested a hand on his shoulder as she looked down. He unwrapped the package and came to a thick cardboard box, opened this to the cotton wool, pulled the cotton wool aside, and found a blue diamond.

It was the replica that Gall had made for him.

The surface was scratched and he peered at it closely, then took a small magnifying lens out of his pocket and peered through it. He gave a quick, gusty laugh.

“What is it?” Lorna demanded.

“They're good. They're very good.” He handed her the glass and the paste diamond. After a pause, she read out slowly: “
Go back
.”

She lowered the glass.

“We can have a week of sightseeing and then we have to go back,” murmured Mannering. “Orders.”

“I think I'm going to be frightened,” Lorna said. “There was a note on your seat at Karachi, wasn't there?”

“And I thought I'd fooled you!”

“What did it say?”

“ ‘Go back'.”

“Had there been anything else?”

“A series of cryptic orders not to come.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You weren't in a mood to heed the instruction. Nor was I.” Mannering leaned back and stretched out his legs, lit a cigarette, and looked at Lorna. Her nose was a little shiny, and there was perspiration at her eyelids; neither stopped her from looking lovely, and uncertainty had put a new, provocative light into her eyes. “The case was snatched at the airfield because they hoped the real diamond would be in it, but there were side-issues. The small boy could have used a knife as easily as he used his fist, so I know what to expect. Patandi comes and allows me a week. If I stay longer, there will be trouble – worse trouble than at the airport. Clever Patandi.”

Lorna said: “He could be a devil.”

“Oh yes. He wrapped the threat up beautifully so that we knew what he meant and yet it could be taken so innocently.” Mannering chuckled. “I suppose we ought to be thankful that they've given us a week's grace.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have a heart-to-heart talk with old Phiro while you see the sights of Bombay,” said Mannering. He rang the hand bell, and Amu appeared, like a spirit at the rub of a lamp.

“Memsahib will have a drive round the city,” Mannering said. “You'll go with her, Amu.”

“Yes, sahib.”

“I am going to see Mr. Phiroshah.”

“Mr. Phiroshah, sahib, will come to see you at noon, if that is convenient.”

“Just right,” said Mannering. “Get a taxi and—”

“The car is waiting, with Mr. Phiroshah's chauffeur.”

“Better,” said Mannering appreciatively.

He stood on the steps of the hotel, watching Lorna being driven off. Amu sat in front, next to the driver. The excitement was back in Lorna's eyes; he hadn't thought that Patandi would drive it away for long. The threat hadn't yet become imminent. He lit a cigarette and strolled across the road, walked through the Gateway of India, with boys rubbing their stomachs in front of him, old men selling foreign stamps, others selling postcards. A brisk youth in European clothes and carrying a Gladstone bag saluted smartly as Mannering leaned against the parapet and looked out at the harbour and the small yachts.

“Cut corns, mister? Fully qualified chiropodist, mister.”

Mannering grinned. “No corns, thanks.”

“Stop corns coming, mister. Fully qualified chiropodist. Very cheap.”

“No, thanks.”

The youth drew nearer and lowered his voice.

“Dirty postcards, mister; very cheap. They—”

A soft voice sounded nearby, two or three words which had an electrifying effect on the qualified chiropodist. He tucked the postcards away and hurried off, while Phiroshah, dressed exactly as he had been the night before and with the sun making his dhoti look snowy-white, smiled up at Mannering. Mannering, in light-grey tropicals, was more than a head taller.

“Good morning, my friend. You will have to learn the few words that will show them you're not just another tourist.”

“Good morning,” said Mannering. ‘They'd pick me out a mile away, and my accent would be my downfall. How are you?”

“Happier because you are here.”

“Where can we talk?”

“We will go to my bungalow,” said Phiroshah. “I have told my chauffeur to take Mrs. Mannering there when she has finished her drive.”

They walked towards another Daimler. As they drove through the city, Mannering felt the fascination of the hordes of people, the thronging roads, the reckless traffic, the careless gharry-drivers. Horns blared incessantly. Policemen gave vigorous signals which some motorists actually obeyed. Phiroshah sat back, smiling, untroubled, while Mannering looked about him.

They turned into the Marine Drive. The tide was out, rocks showed above the surface of the water. Hotels and tall houses ringed the bay. A few people walked along the wide promenade. There was little traffic here, and for some distance it was a dual carriageway. They turned left with the drive, then uphill, then sharply to the right up a steep hill. Large houses were on either side, most of them hidden by trees. They turned into a gateway, and a big, old-fashioned house, with ornate carving and narrow windows, stood at the end of the drive.

Mannering had pictured a single-storey building; this “bungalow” was at least three storeys high.

White-clad boys were at the door.

Phiroshah led Mannering across a spacious, barely furnished hall towards double-doors which stood wide open. These led into a long, narrow room. The floor was polished, and there were some skin rugs. Silken cushions were on the floor, but there were also couches and easy chairs. Heavy silken draperies hung from the wide window overlooking the harbour, and from the doors.

They rustled at one door as if in the wind.

The double-doors through which they had come were closed. The boys stayed outside. Phiroshah led the way to chairs in front of the window. The view was magnificent; the water of the bay had the pure blue of the sky.

“Now we can talk freely,” Phiroshah said. “I can see that you are worried, and—”

Mannering said: “Not very worried, yet, but I think I'm going to be.” He glanced at the doorway where the curtains had rustled. They were still, but something behind them prevented them from hanging straight. He took a step forward.

The curtains were convulsed as if by a high wind. A small, dark figure, naked except for a loin cloth, darted out. The knife in his hand was curved, cruel. Mannering shot out a foot, the man leapt over it and hurled himself towards Phiroshah with the knife raised.

Mannering's hand was in his pocket, fingers about a gun.

He fired through his pocket. The naked man coughed and sprawled forward. The knife slipped out of his hand and fell at Phiroshah's feet.