The Mystery of the Vanished Victim (4 page)

Prema stopped in front of the All-India Restaurant, and Gully jumped forward to open the door. This time it was Gully’s turn to gape. The first thing he saw was a large marble sink with bright brass fixtures in the restaurant’s entry hall. Prema went to the sink, turned on the water—which came out of a faucet shaped like a serpent’s mouth—and washed her hands. Balbir did the same. Noticing Gully’s puzzled look, Prema smiled and explained that a public sink was a standard fixture in Indian restaurants, since the Hindu religion required washing before and after eating. Balbir told Gully that in this respect his Sikh religion agreed with the Hindu. Gully, who had not even known that Sikhism was a religion, could only nod and politely follow suit.

An Indian waiter with a friendly manner offered menus, but Prema waved them aside.

“I’ll order. I want Gully to have a good sampling of Indian cooking.”

While Gully sat apprehensively toying with his napkin, Prema and the waiter rattled on in Hindi. Once Balbir interrupted, apparently with a suggestion. When the waiter hurried off, Gully gulped, wondering just how strange an experience this lunch was going to be.

Balbir was looking around. Suddenly his glance came to rest on an enormous man in a yellow turban. He was sitting, with the ramrod posture of a drill sergeant, at a table halfway across the room.

“There is Thakur Bedkar! He is an acquaintance of my father’s. Perhaps he can help us.”

Before Gully could rise, Balbir was striding toward the man’s table. He bowed respectfully and said something. The man swung around in his chair. Even seated as he was, his head was almost level with Balbir’s.

Balbir sighed when he came back. “Thakur was to have met my father for lunch here at one-thirty yesterday, but my father never came.”

“Is your father usually on time for appointments?” Gully asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ve learned something!” Gully exclaimed. “Mr. Singh disappeared some time between eleven and one-thirty.” He made a note of this new fact in his little red book. “Did Mr. Bedkar have anything else to say, Balbir?”

“Only that another friend might have seen my father,” Balbir replied. “They often play chess together, and Thakur Bedkar says the man should be here soon.”

“Meanwhile, let’s begin Gully’s education in Indian food,” Prema said as the waiter lowered a well-filled tray to a stand near their table. “Here’s our first course, Gully. Fried shrimp with
poorie
.”

Gully found the unfamiliar food not half as bad as he had expected. The
poorie
turned out to be a sort of warm brown puffed-up bread that was delicious. The
mulligatawny
soup that followed was like a vegetable soup with an odd flavor—Prema said it was because there was curry in it—and he actually liked the three round, darkish balls in the soup, called
bhujia
, which Balbir assured him were an Indian version of vegetable fritters. There was something called
kofta
curry that looked like meatballs, the first bite of which set Gully’s mouth on fire and made him reach frantically for water, to Prema’s amusement; but he enjoyed the chicken
kurma
curry and the lamb
kurma
in
dhal
gravy—especially the gravy, which his two friends instructed him to sop up with a kind of light, flaky bread they called
paratha
. He did have to reach often, however, for his water glass.

Suddenly a drum throbbed, and two Indian musicians marched onto the small cleared space in the middle of the restaurant. They wore red pantaloons, and their chests were bare except for heavy silver necklaces. One musician thumped a small drum. The other, barefooted, was playing an odd-looking stringed instrument with a bow.

“We’re lucky!” Prema cried. “The dancers are here today.”

The restaurant darkened, a spotlight shone on the floor, and two Indian women strode into the light. They, too, wore bright pantaloons, and yellow blouses with short sleeves. At each step, their metal anklets jingled rhythmically. But as they began to dance, it was their hands that fascinated Gully. Their fingers parted, joined, pointed, spread, and touched in intricate movements.

“Their fingers express their feelings, Gully,” Prema explained. “It’s a sort of sign language—called
mudras
.”

The dancers’ hands told a story, Prema whispered, that their faces and bodies only emphasized. When the lights came on, Gully sat motionless in wonder.

Prema smiled. “Would you like me to teach you a few of the
mudras
signs, Gully?”

Without waiting for his answer, she took Gully’s hand and bent, twisted, pulled, and prodded his long fingers, showing him the meanings of a dozen different signs. Then the Jalpuri girl insisted that he repeat them, to prove that he had really learned them.

“If you can make the signs, you can understand them. And next time, you’ll enjoy the dancing that much more.”

Balbir grinned sympathetically as Gully reviewed
mudras
signs till dessert was brought to the table. He had just put a piece of mango into his mouth when Balbir cried out, jumped up, and rushed toward an elderly Sikh gentleman who had just entered the restaurant. When he returned, he was bursting with news.

“He
did
see my father! They played chess together in Central Park. He left shortly after noon, but my father stayed to watch the others play.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Prema said with satisfaction.

“We certainly are,” Gully said. “We’ve narrowed the disappearance period by over an hour!”

Balbir’s face brightened hopefully as Gully made the new entry in his notebook. Gully was just finishing when he heard Prema utter a startled cry.

He looked up. Looming above Ambassador Jind’s daughter was a dark and very large East Indian with menacing little eyes. His powerful hand came down to grip Prema’s shoulder.

“I have been looking for you,” the stranger said in a gruff deep voice. “Come!”

B
ALBIR
sprang from his chair. But before he could hurl himself at the stranger, the man—with a flick of his wrist—snapped Balbir’s head back. The Sikh boy fell into his chair with a thud, looking dazed. Gully jumped to his feet, but Prema pulled him down with surprising strength.

“No, Gully, you sit there. You, too, Balbir!” Prema’s liquid voice froze as she turned to the stranger. “Who are you,” she demanded, “and why do you threaten my friends?”

“I am Dhavata, new guard for your father the ambassador,” the man growled. “Dr. Jind has commanded me to find you and bring you back. My orders were to permit no interference.”

“How do you know who he is, Prema?” Gully said swiftly. “Don’t go with him—I’ll get a policeman!”

She put her little hand on his arm. “Wait, Gully,” she said softly. To the man she said, “My father would not have expected me to go with a stranger. Show me some identification.”

A glint of respect shone momentarily in the man’s small eyes. He took from his pocket a blue envelope and handed it to Prema. She opened it and scanned its contents.

“It’s from my father, all right. I’m afraid I’ll have to go with him.”

“You’re positive that note is from your father, Prema?” Gully asked.

“Yes. It’s in Father’s handwriting.” Prema signaled the waiter, saying something in Hindi. The waiter bowed and presented her with the check on a small tray.

“I’ll take that,” Gully said, reaching for it.

But the Jalpuri girl was quicker. “No, Gully, you’re my guest. Remember?”

“But to let a girl pay—”

“I’m just going to sign for it, silly. My father will pay. He’d want it that way.”

Gully shook his head dubiously, but he said nothing more. While they were following Prema and Dhavata, the new guard, to the door, he said to Balbir, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” Balbir muttered. “But a new guard … that must mean—”

“It doesn’t mean any such thing,” Gully told his friend with an assurance he wished were genuine. “Ambassador Jind has to have a bodyguard until your father’s found, doesn’t he?”

Balbir did not reply.

The ambassador’s long black limousine was already occupied by Prema, and the guard Dhavata was holding the door open for the boys. He shut the door after them and got in beside the uniformed chauffeur.

“To the embassy residence,” Dhavata said curtly, and the big car eased into the thick of the early afternoon traffic. Its Jaipur pennon fluttered above the right front fender.

“A new chauffeur, too,” Balbir said; his voice was hard.

“What is
your
name?” Prema asked the chauffeur, a thin little man.

“Srigar,” the man said. His tone was respectful, but for some reason Gully took a dislike to him.

The trip was completed in silence.

At the embassy residence Prema made directly for her father’s study, dark eyes glittering ominously.

“Ah! You have returned,” Dr. Jind murmured, putting down some papers he had been reading at his red lacquered desk.

“Of course, Father!” Prema stormed. “Did you expect me to make a scene in public and fight off that ill-mannered thug you sent after me?”

“And how did your young American friend enjoy our native cuisine?” the ambassador asked blandly.

Gully started to answer, but Prema silenced him with a look. “So you knew where we were all the time,” Prema said cuttingly. “Spying on your own daughter!”

“Why, you are wearing my favorite
sari
. Let me see … That is the
sari
I sent to you at school last spring, is it not?”

“You know perfectly well it is. Father, why did you have that—that beast
humiliate
me—”

“It is beautiful, daughter. But not half so beautiful as its wearer.”

“Oh, you’re just trying to make me forget why I’m angry!” But Gully noticed that Prema was beginning to smile.

“Of course,” Dr. Jind said. “Because I am afraid.”

Prema was astonished. “You, Father? Afraid? Of what?”

“Of you,” the Jalpuri ambassador said with a smile. “Do not the Chinese have a saying, ‘Beware the anger of the dove’? Come here, my dove.”

Prema collapsed in helpless laughter and ran to her father. He put his arm about her waist, and she kissed the top of his head. Gully could only admire the clever way in which Dr. Jind had turned Prema’s indignation aside. No wonder he was considered one of the smoothest diplomats at the UN!

“You don’t have to worry about me, Father,” Prema said tenderly.

Gully saw the ambassador’s arm tighten about his daughter’s waist. “Until we learn why and how Shamshir vanished, daughter, I wish to know where you are at all times. I must go now to change my clothing. I am to speak at the United Nations this afternoon, and I cannot be thinking of family problems when I should be considering the problems of the family of nations. Prema, you will remain here until I return. Do you understand?”

Prema lowered her eyes as her father squeezed her hand. Then, with a smile to Balbir and Gully, Dr. Jind rose and left. Prema seemed on the verge of tears.

“How’s the mynah bird, Balbir?” Gully asked diplomatically.

“Come see for yourself. Will you join us, Prema?” Balbir was quick to follow Gully’s lead.

“I might as well,” she sighed.

The three teenagers trooped downstairs to the basement hallway. As they approached Shamshir Singh’s rooms, Gully could not avoid stealing a glance at the bloodstains on the mat before the outside door. He quickly looked away, hoping Balbir had not noticed.

The tall stand had been moved into the sitting room and the wattled bird was hopping from perch to perch in its big wicker cage. Suddenly the mynah’s yellow beak parted. “’Tective! ’Tective!”

“See, Gully! Rajah recognizes you!” Balbir said proudly.

Gully ran a finger across the bars of the tall cage. The bird watched him with its bright eyes. “’Tective! ’Tective!”

“Gosh, Balbir, is this just coincidence, or is Rajah really that smart?”

“Once he has seen a face or heard a voice and associated a name or a word with it, he will always call out that word when the person appears.”

“’Tective! ’Tective!” Rajah repeated.

“Seems to me, Gully,” Prema said, “you aren’t living up to the title. Where is Balbir’s father?”

“Prema, you know I just—”

“Write down facts for your uncle?”

Gully flushed at the girl’s teasing tone. “We
have
learned a lot today. We know now that Mr. Singh disappeared a little past noon, but before his lunch date at one-thirty. We have to figure out where he was during that hour and a half.”

“Well, we know my father did come back here—”

“Right, Balbir. The fight indicates that. But where could he have gone after he played chess in the park? Or did he come directly back here?”

Once again Gully paced. “Balbir,” he said suddenly, coming to a halt. “Does your father ever use the ambassador’s car on his days off?”

“Dr. Jind graciously permits him to use it when there is no official need for it,” Balbir answered in his quaintly formal English.

“Did your father take that car out this last time—the day he disappeared?”

“I believe he did,” Balbir said, puzzled. “Why, Gully?”

“Because maybe he kept a record of where he went.”

Balbir smacked his own forehead with his palm, knocking his turban askew. “Gully, you are a genius! Of course—I forgot! My father has always noted down the mileage, destination, and so forth of each trip in a special car log.”

“Where is it, Balbir?”

“In the limousine’s glove compartment!”

“Oh.” Gully looked disappointed. “Well, we’ll have to wait for Dr. Jind to get back from the UN session.”

“I doubt if Father has left the building yet,” Prema said swiftly. Her eyes were shining. “Come on!”

They sped toward the embassy residence garage like three arrows. Sure enough, the official black limousine was still there. Beside it stood an enormous white touring convertible.

“I haven’t seen a four-door convertible for years,” Gully exclaimed, for the moment forgetting their mission. “Whose is it, Prema?”

“The Jalpuri government supplied it for the use of our UN delegation,” Prema replied. “But my father’s so darned conservative he won’t allow it to be taken out of the garage. And I’ve been simply perishing to take a ride in it—”