The Baron Goes East (6 page)

 

Mannering heard the doors opening behind him, and the rush of feet. Before he could reach his victim, two servants were standing over the man. Phiroshah spoke gently, without any sign of flurry. They lifted the naked man, one taking the shoulders and the other the legs, and carried him out.

Blood dripped on the polished floor from the wound; a servant wiped it up.

The doors closed.

Phiroshah said: “I was in your debt when you agreed to come and help me, Mannering. Now I owe you my life.”

Mannering didn't speak.

“Did you see him?” asked the old man.

“I saw the curtains bulge.”

“I am getting too old,” said Phiroshah. “And one of my servants is disloyal, or the man could not have found a way in. Please sit down.” Mannering sat down in an easy chair overlooking the bay, taking his hand out of his pocket; there was a small bullet hole, which had frayed the cloth. “If he lives, they will try to make him talk, but it will not be easy. Probably he was just ordered to come here and kill me. If necessary, I will see him myself.”

“The police might even be interested.”

Phiroshah smiled. He had good teeth and they looked natural.

“They will deal with him later. They are my good friends, Mannering, although they know nothing of the blue diamonds. There is a question burning in your mind. What is it?”

They could talk about the attack later.

Mannering said: “Why send for me? I don't know the criminals here, the ways of the criminals, the law—anything. I can only work blindly.”

“As you have this morning!”

“That was luck.”

“Haven't I heard you called Lucky John Mannering? You may know something of this already. You are not a man to act blindly. I know your love of jewels and your skill in probing for the truth. I am in great personal difficulty, because of my grievous losses and—uncertainty. You read of the Rangipore jewels, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know that it is said that a group of fanatical patriots who do not think our Government's attitude towards certain princes is strong enough have appointed themselves judges and executors. They have stolen – taken – jewels from many of our princes who live much of the time out of India. They
say
that these jewels will be sold to alleviate distress in the famine states, but there is no evidence of this yet. I doubt their honesty of purpose. They could be murderous thieves. The police have had no success against them. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now I, who have suffered so much, begin to wonder if these men have some leader whom no one suspects, who has a form of protection – such as a high position in government. That is one aspect. The other is this. The Maharajah of Ganpore has a very fine collection of jewels including the blue diamonds. He wishes to sell them, and is nervous about the fanatics. Already the murder of my sons suggests that the group is after the blue diamonds. Now! I have suggested to the Maharajah that you could dispose of them for him, and could help to outwit and uncover the fanatics – find out the truth. I tell you, Mannering, I am not sure that anyone here
wants
to know the truth.”

Mannering said evenly: “Let me get this straight. I am to act as agent for the Maharajah of Ganpore, taking the risk of a head-on clash with the fanatics who use dacoit methods. I'm to smuggle, or find a way of smuggling—”

“No, it is not a question of smuggling. There is no law to prevent the Maharajah sending or taking all his jewels out of the country. The fanatics – shall we give them a name? the Bundi, as they are known – make the danger.”

“Why Bundi?”

“After their leader, it is said. A figurehead – a man who was prominent in anti-British political circles years ago and transferred his hatred to the pro-British princes. He is dead.”

“Bundi is dead, long live the Bundi! And the Bundi is after the Maharajah of Ganpore.” Mannering watched the saintly face and wondered what went on behind the friendly brown eyes. “Tell me more about the Maharajah.”

“He is extremely wealthy – and has fifty of the blue diamonds.”

Mannering drew in his breath.

“You are astounded, of course. Yes, in all there are fifty-one. They are set in jewellery which has no equal in India – in brooches, pendants, ear-rings, tiaras, bracelets, necklets. They were collected centuries ago by the first Maharajah of Ganpore for his wife, and they were buried with her in a tomb which is second, I think, only to the Taj Mahal.” Phiroshah stood up, went across to a cabinet and with great deliberation poured out a whisky and brought it to Mannering on a tray, with water and soda.

“There is still prohibition in Bombay; it is better not to have the servants see this. Now, please follow me carefully. A year ago, the tomb of the first Ranee was broken open. Such an abominable sacrilege! There is untold wealth in the tombs in India, but pillage such as this has seldom been known. The Bundi was named – quietly, in whispers. The Maharajah recovered the jewels. He foresaw a future in which there would be great changes, reasoned that one day even the sanctity of tombs would be ravaged by the Government. More – he saw the evil of famine and poverty existing by the side of entombed and wasted wealth. He decided – so he has told me – to sell them and use the proceeds to help the people of his own state.”

Phiroshah paused again. Mannering sipped his whisky and studied the old man's face. Phiroshah seemed to feel the story deeply.

“The Maharajah called for me, because I have sold many of his jewels to America, a few elsewhere. They must be taken overseas to get the most for them. Understand, the Maharajah does not like the new form of government and the loss of autonomy of the states, but he has been loyal. Ganpore is a small state, not easily accessible, and is run well. Among other things, he installed a system of dams and irrigation; there is no famine. He is respected by the Government. No man should be so safe from the Bundi. The attempts on his jewels make me doubt the motives of the Bundi. Of course, I am hated by them. I serve the princes.”

Mannering studied the profile against the brightness of the sky, and wondered.

“Now please, your questions,” Phiroshah said gently.

Mannering leaned back, very thoughtfully.

“Other things first. The Bundi is after the blue diamonds, knows your part in it, killed your sons, followed your daughter, raided my shop. They're strong, they're ruthless. You'd suffered so much already. Why risk Shani?”

Phiroshah sat very still.

“Well, why?” Mannering's voice was harsh.

“She was well-guarded,” Phiroshah said. “She is like a son. I am too old, and I could trust no one else with the story. Her guards had to protect her; they know nothing about the blue diamond.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mannering.”

“You trust Shani?”

“With my life.”

“She saw a man connected with those who raided my shop afterwards. A man named Banu. So did my bearer, Amu.”

Phiroshah smiled faintly. Admiringly? “You are a remarkable man. Yes, she did. Banu is not one of my servants, but is an acquaintance. Amu told me that Banu worked against you. Shani saw him, to lull any suspicions he might have of her knowledge. Amu cabled me the information, but if Banu has returned to India, it is secretly; I have not been able to trace him. He could well be with the Bundi. He was prominent in anti-British societies. But Banu is insignificant. You might get at the truth through him, but there are others, more important men.”

Mannering said: “I don't get it, Phiroshah. The police—”

“The police have tried. I do not believe they tolerate the Bundi, although certain highly placed people do. But the Bundi has adherents everywhere. The Maharajah has become desperately anxious to sell, to be free from trouble. I recommended you. When you did not answer his letters, he tried elsewhere. Several dealers from America and Europe are at or on their way to Ganpore now. I was not satisfied, so—I sent Shani and the diamond. Now—”

Mannering said: “So there is competition.”

“If you can call it that.” Phiroshah smiled. “Knowing they were coming made me more anxious to have you here. I decided that I would succeed where the Maharajah had failed. You say that I judged you by your newspaper reputation.” The smile was one of mild amusement. “Not that alone, my friend. I had met you, I had seen you work. I could well imagine that you would not be prepared to come to India simply to bid against other dealers—but there was a way to bring you here. I promised the Maharajah that I would succeed where he had failed, and—”

Mannering said: “The Maharajah didn't approach me.”

“My friend, he wrote to you!”

“I didn't get a letter.”

“You can be sure he wrote. I was puzzled when you didn't answer.” Phiroshah paused, then went on softly: “The letter was intercepted, then, by someone who wanted to prevent you from coming.”

“Who knew that he had written to me?” Mannering asked.

 

 

Phiroshah walked towards the window and looked out. Excitement glowed in his eyes, the excitement of hope. It was a long time before he answered and then he seemed to speak to himself.

“His son and his secretary knew.”

“A European?”

“No. An Indian.”

“No one else.”

“No one who should have known,” said Phiroshah. “Is it possible, Mannering? That the letter was never sent?”

“Probable.”

“You will admit that I was right in wanting you here.”

Mannering smiled. “I'm not complaining, although I've been given plenty of notice that I'm not wanted. I had ‘Don't go' notes in London and on the aeroplane, and ‘Go back' notes when I reached here.”

Phiroshah asked softly: “How frightened they are of you!”

“Or how careful.” Mannering lit another cigarette. “Do you know a bookseller named Patandi?”

“I know of him, yes. He is a rogue.”

“He had my brief-case,” said Mannering, and explained. Phiroshah listened without expression, but anger soon sparked in his eyes.

“You handled that situation well. Patandi is a rogue, and can be bought by anyone's money. We must try to find out who paid him for this. He is a coward, also, and might yield under pressure.”

“Not yet,” said Mannering. “And if he'll take anyone's money, he'll take mine.”

“Mine,” corrected Phiroshah. “Now, Mannering, what do you think of this? Are you glad you came?”

“I'm warming up,” said Mannering. He looked quite detached as he finished his whisky and soda. “So there's a house party at the palace, with some dealers on the way, and me to follow. Who are the others?”

“Petter and Kyneton of New York, Duval of Paris and van Groot of Amsterdam.”

“Not a bad assortment,” Mannering said. “When is the auction to start?”

“Three days from now. Two of them are going by train, and that takes two full days. The others are flying—may already be there, in fact. You will fly?”

“I'll think about it,” Mannering said. “Someone is so anxious to keep me away that it might be an idea to let the world think I'm not going.”

Nothing stirred outside; there was only the beauty of the sun on the water. The tide was coming in and all but the higher rocks were covered.

“I could go as a bearer or a servant—with you,” said Mannering. “There are tall Hindus. Patandi, for instance. The snag will be the language, so the big bearer will have to be dumb. Make-up shouldn't be difficult. I'm fairly well-tanned, and with some careful work I can have the right complexion. A turban and a dhoti – although I'm not sure that I could manage a dhoti. It would show too much leg, anyhow.” His eyes were half closed and he spoke dreamily. “Sikhs are big chaps usually, aren't they? A lot of them wear long breeches, too. Hot, but I can stand that. I can fix a beard, too – their religion forbids them to cut their hair, doesn't it? Yes, a Sikh. The question would be whether to tell the Maharajah. Let's think about it – whether I'm to go as myself or in disguise.” Phiroshah was smiling. “What will your wife say?”

“Go as myself, or she can't go,” said Mannering promptly. “We'll see.”

Phiroshah said: “You are a most remarkable man, with an equally remarkable wife.”

Ten minutes later Lorna was ushered in. She looked flushed with the heat, but there was rapture in her eyes. She squeezed Phiroshah's hands in greeting. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“I hope you will always feel like that,” said the old man.

“Now, we shall have lunch.”

 

They left Phiroshah's bungalow a little after three. Lorna wilted in the heat, and Mannering went back with her to the hotel. She took a shower and rested, with a magazine. Mannering dressed again after his shower in a suit of cream linen.

Lorna looked at him from the bed. “Fantastic's the word for you,” she said. “Don't you feel the heat?”

“It's tolerable.”

“Where are you going?”

“I thought a chat with Mr. Patandi wouldn't be a bad idea.”

Lorna knew everything – except about the attack on Phiroshah. The old man had not broached the subject again. Lorna said: “Be careful.”

“We've that week's grace, remember.”

She stretched out an arm to make the electric fan go faster. It stirred her hair without really making her cool.

“Don't take too much for granted,” she said.

Mannering laughed, and went out, spoke to Amu, and walked downstairs with Joseph. The sun was glaring down, but not far off was a bank of heavy cloud. Everyone, even beggars, stood about listlessly in what shade they could find. A party of tourists stopped outside the Gateway and looked as if they couldn't have cared less had they been in hell. It burned like that. In a little patch of shade not far along three venerable gharry drivers were standing by their gharries; the horses drooped.

“We'll take one of those,” Mannering said.

“Yes, sahib.” Joseph went quickly to the nearest gharry and Mannering studied the people lounging near. One looked very much like another. He tried to photograph them on his memory as he climbed into the gharry. Joseph sat beside the squatting driver.

No one hurried, but the city streets were crowded. Shopkeepers kept inside their little shops. Through the doorways of the larger shops and offices people were waiting in the comparative coolness, glad to be out of the sun. Only a few Europeans were about, the women carrying parasols.

They turned off a wide street into a narrow one with a cobbled roadway. Cars were parked on one side, and heat radiated from them. White-clad Hindus moved slowly, sluggishly across the road. They turned into a still narrower street, where there was hardly room for two cars to pass. The clip-clop of the horse's hooves made almost the only sound. Native shops were on either side – tiny places, no more than holes in the wall, filled with merchandise. A carpenter sat outside a shop sawing, the only sign of activity.

The sun was blotted out, but the heat seemed worse. Mannering's body was damp from head to foot.

The gharry stopped as a few drops of heavy rain fell. Immediately alongside was a tiny shop with the name
I.
P
atandi
above it. Books were crammed in one window, mostly second-hand and poor-looking volumes. Leather goods and carvings, all cheap souvenirs, filled the other window. Mannering climbed down from the gharry as the rain belched out of the skies; his coat was damp before he reached the shop. Joseph paid off the driver and waited in a nearby alley.

There was room for a single counter in the middle of the shop, crammed with books and nicknacks, and for three people to move; that was all. The shelves were filled with junk from floor to ceiling.

A little old man in European clothes came up from a corner.

“Mr. Patandi is expecting me,” Mannering said. “My name is Mannering.”

“Yes, sahib,” the little man said, and disappeared into the back of the shop through a tiny doorway. There was whispering and scuffling; then a boy of nine or ten came out, darted past Mannering and raced off into the rain. It was so hot that Mannering went to the door. Water splashed up at him, but at least it gave an illusion of coolness. Several Indians were taking what shelter they could. He didn't see one he recognised, except Joseph, who was in the dry.

The little old man was near.

“Beautiful books, sahib; very beautiful books. Very beautiful.”

“No thanks,” said Mannering.

The soft, pleading voice went on and on. “Books, souvenirs, hand-beaten copper, Kashmir inlay.” Mannering didn't answer again, just stared at the teeming rain. Was he being watched, or just noticed? He waited for seven or eight minutes, until the boy turned the corner, splashing through water which was now several inches deep in the steep gutters. Immediately behind him came an unbelievable figure – Patandi, carrying an umbrella.

Patandi stepped through puddles with fastidious care, holding the black umbrella high above his head; it made him look a giant. He glanced up, saw Mannering and waved joyously – and stepped into a puddle, which splashed up to his knees. He laughed until his whole body shook, and the laughter seemed to waft him to the doorstep. Mannering stepped inside and Patandi squeezed through.

He beamed.

“The wise Englishman, how quickly you come! I congratulate you. The rain is just a little storm; it will soon pass and we shall start, yes? With the famous lady? Or . . .” His aniseed-breath swept over Mannering, and he gave an obscene wink, “we start alone, sir? Just you and me? Oh, the things I can show you, the—”

“We start by sending everyone but you and me out of the shop,” said Mannering. “Out of the back of the shop, too.”

Patandi's eyes widened. He looked puzzled, and he hesitated. Mannering went to the back of the shop and bent down to look through the tiny doorway.

“No!” cried Patandi, and hurled himself at Mannering and dragged him away.