Ragtime in Simla Page 13

  ‘I’ll take Johnny Bristow and you can have Jackie Carlisle,’ said Carter with relish.

  ‘I shall be very surprised if there isn’t a gap or two. Not sure I believed a word he said.’

  ‘And then there’s the guns! I’ll get them examined as soon as we get to the station. Tomorrow we’ll fire off a few rounds and send the results to Calcutta.’

  ‘Fingerprinting?’ said Joe. ‘Are you all right for fingerprinting? I can — ’

  ‘Got everything we need,’ said Carter confidently.

  ‘And what did you make of Flora’s fingering her partner for the double murder? Does she perhaps want him out of the way? Is she really afraid of him? You seem to know her pretty well?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say that,’ said Carter uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think anyone really knows her. And as for being afraid – don’t be taken in! Is a crocodile afraid of a rabbit? I can tell you, Sandilands, if I had to encounter one or other of them in a dark alley I’d choose Troop every time!’

  ‘Still, there was something,’ said Joe slowly, ‘the wistful way she said she couldn’t move about in the same circles, have the same influence as Troop… there was a genuine uncertainty there and perhaps fear? Don’t you think?’

  ‘Come down to earth!’ said Carter derisively. ‘Flora has lots of charm and poise and stunning looks with a certain amount of sexual magnetism – to which many fall prey. And, speaking of which – how’s your blood pressure, heart rate and respiration? But don’t forget she runs a grossly immoral business. She stays inside the law but she goes along with me because I could close her down – and there’s a lot to be said for an establishment of that sort in a town of this sort. It’s an alliance perhaps but not a friendship. I’m sure I don’t need to say any of this – but, have a care, Joe! Have a care! Put your loose change and six-shooter under the pillow!’

  ‘Oh, come now! I didn’t think she was particularly setting out to charm and, anyway, I’m charm-proof!’

  ‘I think she batted a pair of dampened eyelashes at you and you melted! I can see I shall have to watch your back for you, Sandilands! Now, I’ll get the chaps to drop these guns off at the station and head for home. Meg will be pleased to see me. If you don’t hang about you might get back to the Governor’s house in time for dessert. Always assuming he’s there, of course, and not out roistering at Flora’s!’ He laughed. ‘She did say she was expecting some top brass this evening! Pity we’ll never know exactly who.’

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  « ^ »

  A little unsure of his welcome, Joe duly presented himself at the Residency. He couldn’t remember whether Sir George had been expecting him back for dinner and it was now half-past nine. But, hospitable to the last, Sir George greeted him with a cheerful bellow as he walked across the hallway and into the dining room.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear fellow! I understood that you had last been seen making your way under police escort into Madame Flora’s. Shan’t see him until morning! I thought. Boys will be boys! And worse – in Simla, men will be boys! What have you been up to, Joe?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Joe, ‘how on earth your information service works! How the deuce could you possibly know that I’d visited Madame Flora? I only left there ten minutes ago.’

  ‘It’s very simple,’ said Sir George. ‘People like to keep in with me – they know I like to have information of all sorts and no better way of keeping in with me than by bringing me news as it arises. Anyway – so you’ve seen Madame Flora?’

  ‘I’ve seen her, I’ve seen the charming Captain Troop and I spent quite a lot of time earlier with Alice Conyers-Sharpe and, as no doubt you already know, I had lunch with Meg and Charlie Carter.’

  ‘Tell me – Alice – what about Alice?’

  ‘She has all the charm, all the elegance, all the competence – a sort of ruthless competence – and she has glittering success. Popular, you might say, with all classes of the community, including yourself, unless I’m mistaken.’

  ‘That’s all very fine, Joe, but your next sentence is going to start with the word “but”. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe reluctantly, ‘you’re right. But there is something there I can’t get hold of. I’m absolutely convinced that there is some connection between her and Korsovsky. I believe there is some connection between her and Reggie Sharpe and Edgar Troop. I’m increasingly of the opinion that Troop knows a very great deal more about these killings than he is saying.’

  Joe explained his suspicions concerning the .303 rifle.

  As he spoke a procession entered the room. A tray bearing a bowl of soup, a chapatti, a cold roast grouse and, on the side, a green salad.

  ‘I guessed,’ said Sir George, ‘in the light of your busy evening that you hadn’t had anything to eat. Will this do you? There’s a good Stilton out there – shall I send for it?’

  ‘No. This’ll do me fine,’ said Joe. ‘Absolutely fine.’ And he continued his account.

  ‘I have a very strong feeling that some part of the secrets arise and are connected with the Beaune railway crash,’ he said, telling Sir George about the newspaper he’d found in Korsovsky’s luggage. ‘Alice remembers practically nothing about it. She was knocked cold by the first impact apparently but remembers coming round in hospital in Beaune. It’s always been said that she was the sole survivor and so she believes but we’ve discovered that that’s not true. According to Le Matin, there was a British officer on the train, name of Simpson, very badly wounded in the war and badly damaged in the crash. We’re trying to run him to earth to see what he has to tell us. Probably nothing to the point.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Sir George. “That’s something, in spite of my impeccable information service, that I didn’t know! One more survivor, eh?’

  ‘And I have one other possible source: she’s not exactly a survivor, nor yet is she a witness, but there is someone who may have some information that is of value to us… I’m referring to Marie-Jeanne Pitiot. She’s right here in Simla.’

  ‘I know who you mean. Frenchwoman – another one. Runs a dress shop. Very successful, I believe. Why might she know anything about it?’

  ‘She’s probably the person who knows Alice better than anyone, I’m told, and she was with her right after the crash that seems to have had such significance for Korsovsky. I’m planning to call on her. Not quite sure how I can question her without seeming to breach Alice’s confidence, but there it is.’

  I’m confident that you will handle the interview with aplomb,‘ said George. ‘You’ll find La Belle Epoque couldn’t be more different from the other French-run place in town! Height of elegance. Everything above board. Best clientele. Marie-Jeanne Pitiot has always seemed a bit mysterious to me, though,’ he added.

  ‘The ex-nurse?’

  ‘Yes. Seems a well-bred sort of woman. Good Catholic family, I understand. Parents wanted her to be a nun. That wasn’t Marie-Jeanne’s intention at all and they compromised on nursing. Rather a plain girl – gawky, that’s the word. I gather that marriage was not seen as much of an option.’

  ‘Has she kept up her friendship with Alice since they arrived here?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d say they were very thick. She seems always to be on hand to support Alice in her more tense moments. She was with Alice at the shooting competition last year the day young Conyers was killed and it was Marie-Jeanne, I couldn’t help noticing, not Reggie to whom Alice turned for comfort when they broke the news of Lionel’s death. Now finish that up and have a glass of port. I’ll join you. We might go into the library – it’s rather more comfortable in there. Koi hai!’

  They carried their glasses into the other room.

  ‘I like this room,’ said George. ‘More friendly. The rooms on the floor above, of course, are supposed to be for entertaining but you can’t really relax with a fifteen-foot ceiling, at least I can’t. Take the big chair by the window, have another glass and tell me, if you can, what poss
ible motive do you ascribe to Edgar Troop? Why would he want to shoot Conyers and why Korsovsky? What gain could there possibly be for him unless you’re going to suggest that somebody employed him to do the dirty deed. (That’s not impossible, by the way.)’

  ‘I hadn’t told you that I suspected Edgar Troop but I won’t deny it – I do! It may simply be because I think he’s a nasty piece of work and I know that oughtn’t to influence me but it does. He’s just the sort of man I don’t like though I have to admit that he answered all Charlie Carter’s questions with manly frankness.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself that you saw the whole of Flora’s establishment,’ said George. ‘I understand it goes for miles. It’s one of the oldest houses in Simla. It climbs the hill, it goes into the hill, they tell me – “caverns measureless to man” you might say. I think there are about six exits; there may be as many as thirty rooms. Impossible to raid even if you wanted to. I haven’t been worried about the place. You might say it serves a useful social function and gives no cause for concern – at least until recently.’

  ‘Recently?’ Joe asked.

  ‘There’s a very faint suspicion,’ said George. ‘We’re not far from the frontier here and, of course, smuggling is a way of life, smuggling anything – gold, firearms, women. It’s as old as the frontier itself but just lately it has seemed as if it’s been not only more widespread but better organized. There are an awful lot of rifles washing about in the world – British Army surplus, French Army surplus, German rifles (much in demand) – the demand has always been there and now you might say the supply has caught up with it. And the collapse of the Turkish Empire has had its effect and the Arab states – not so meticulous, not above a little slavery, it would appear.’

  ‘And if you had to pinpoint the marketplace for all this trade in Simla you’d say – Flora’s?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  Joe frowned. ‘Everywhere I turn in this investigation I confront – at the end of the passage as it were – an elegant, cooperative and even talkative woman. Eager to tell me all. And each with a faithful if mysterious gentleman friend in the background. Note this – we have Alice so eager to help, with the faithful Rheza Khan waiting in the wings to do her bidding. There is likewise the friendly but notably shady Flora, supported as far as we can tell by the no less shady Edgar Troop. And let’s not forget Claudio who will, we are assured, be prepared to fetch and carry. And linking the two we have the determination on the part of both of them, it would seem, to push Troop off the back of the sledge into the jaws of the pursuing wolves – that’s you, me and Carter!’

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  « ^ »

  It was early on Wednesday morning and Carter looked as though he’d been at his desk for hours. He was bubbling with information. ‘Lots to report! Sit down, Joe, and hear this! Koi hai! We’ll have some tea, please. And bring us some of those little Greek pastries.’

  Carter’s welcome washed around Joe and he wondered whether the time would ever come when he would not feel the need to question it. His fast rise to his present high position in the force had engendered suspicion and jealousy on the part of his colleagues in England and he had learned to ride the waves of mistrust and misunderstanding using only the strength of his ability to support him. His record spoke for itself. But here was a provincial policeman with no knowledge of Joe’s past successes, his outstanding war record, his good family connections, accepting him for what he was – a fellow professional working to the same ends as himself with no suggestion of backbiting or rivalry.

  Joe settled down for a happy exchange of information.

  ‘Worst things first, I always say. So here’s the bad news.’ Carter handed a telegram to Joe. ‘Korsovsky’s agent – G.M. He’s out of the country. We sent our telegram to his Paris office but they say he’s on his way to Prague. They’re sending it on. Do they have telegram facilities in Prague, do you suppose? Where is it anyway?’

  ‘Czechoslovakia. Important cultural centre – they’ve got the telegraph all right but we may have to wait a day or two. Infernal nuisance!’

  ‘Well, Korsovsky can’t wait even two or three days, I’m afraid. I’ve ordered the funeral for tomorrow at Christ Church. We’ll just have to hope the chap wasn’t a Muslim or a Zoroastrian.’

  ‘Have you got any further with the guns?’

  ‘Yes, we have. We’ve fired the rounds, got samples to compare with the fatal rounds extracted from the Governor’s upholstery and they’re, as we speak, on their way to Calcutta. We’ve fingerprinted them. Lots of dabs on the two rifles that were in the glass cupboard – the two that Troop described to us. And, of course, the likelihood is that they’re all his. I’ve sent a chap over to Flora’s to get samples of his fingerprints and then we’ll see. The other gun – the one in the oily rag – is a bit of a mystery. It had been wiped clean. Not a trace of a dab on it anywhere. What’s the betting that’s our weapon?’

  Carter poured out two welcome cups of Assam tea and crunched his way noisily through a pastry.

  ‘This is the best bit,’ he said handing another telegram over. ‘Simpson? Remember Simpson? We’ve got him! The King’s Own wired me to say that he’d been demobbed from the regiment three years ago but hadn’t left India. Our bloke took up a job with the Delhi Advertiser. He’s a newspaper sub-editor. I got straight on to the paper and confirmed this. Said I wanted to talk to him about the Beaune rail disaster. Well, blow me! Five minutes later he’s on the phone. Very eager to talk about it! It seems our Captain Simpson hasn’t taken any leave for three years and is due some. He offered to get on the next train and come up here to Simla to meet us. Says he has something he wants to talk about concerning the crash. Of course, I agreed to this. I’ve booked a room at the Cecil and we can expect him here tomorrow.’

  Joe looked at him anxiously.

  ‘It’s all right!’ said Carter cheerfully. ‘I warned him to be sure to take the Toy Train and on no account to come up in a tonga!

  ‘And now, Joe, tell me what you’ve been up to. Loafing about Simla? Doing a spot of window shopping?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Joe smiled. ‘Loafing about on the Mall with the louche of the town. And, speaking of the louche of the town, don’t we have an appointment to interview one or two of them this morning?’

  Carter grinned with anticipation. ‘So we have! At least not an appointment because I certainly haven’t warned them that we’re coming. Johnny and Bertie and Jackie and whoever else is crawling about in that gypsy encampment they call a “chummery”! Come on then, we’ll walk there!’

  They walked together past the Cecil Hotel and on towards Mount Pleasant and here they were confronted by a large pale corner house where Edgar Troop and others had allegedly spent the afternoon of the murder playing snooker.

  The house was large and, indeed, pretentious but woefully run-down and out at elbows. Joe could not help comparing it to the splendour of Sir George’s Residence and to the Anglicized charm of Charlie Carter’s house under the rule of Meg Carter. The house before Joe seemed to belong to another age, an age before the dominance of the Indian Civil Service. To the days of irresponsible John Company officers with their Indian mistresses tucked away in the mysterious zenana, discreetly amassing a respectable fortune to take home on the side. This, it seemed to Joe, was India before the opening of the Suez Canal, the India of brandy pawnee and chota hazri washed down with a jug of claret.

  To the right of the crumbling façade were double gates leading to a stable yard and coach house. Joe heard the clank of buckets and the restive clip of hooves on cobbles. ‘Always a few horses here,’ said Carter. ‘They’re not above a little gentlemanly horse-coping. All the old screws in Simla pass through their hands sooner or later.’

  The garden was unkempt. A large car with its doors open was carelessly parked aslant in the driveway. Some window shutters were open and others closed and one or two hung on a single hinge. The honky-tonk of a tinny gramophon
e played from within. Servants there were aplenty but they lacked the servile discretion which Joe found he had come to expect.

  As Joe stood for a moment in indecision, Carter’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Come on, we can’t stand here loitering with intent. Let’s have our chat with the chaps in the chummery! Why don’t we step inside? It looks as though we’re going to have to announce ourselves. The servants are as alert and welcoming as their masters, you’ll find.’

  At the door they were confronted by a tall figure in a crumpled white suit and with a solar topee somewhat askew. A silver-mounted walking-stick in his hand supported a lame foot.

  ‘Yes?’ he said without welcome.

  Carter looked him up and down. ‘Johnny Bristow!’ he said. ‘Charmin’ to see you again. And are Jackie Carlisle and Bertie Hearn-Robinson at home?’

  ‘May be. Not sure they’d want to see you. Or your friend. Who’s this?’ he asked, looking suspiciously at Joe.

  ‘May I introduce Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard?’

  Joe had met men who were more impressed by the mention of his title. Johnny Bristow sighed with irritation and said, ‘I suppose you’d better come in, though what you think any of us will be able to tell you about anything I can’t imagine. Shouldn’t you be rounding up monkeys or something?’

  Joe’s impression of Old India was reinforced as they entered the house. The furniture was European but shabby and knocked about. Bills and invitation cards jostled each other on the mantelpiece; not a few of these were over a year old. Inevitably, the prints of the ‘Midnight Steeplechase’ hung on the wall, along with a fine leopard skin and the head of a markhor. A fencing mask and crossed foils added a note of gentlemanly athleticism and there were whips, boots, boxing gloves, boxes of ammunition, not-well-secured gun cupboards, boxes of cigars sealed and opened, the remains of what had obviously been a copious breakfast amongst the debris of which could be seen a bottle of gin and a bottle of Angostura bitters.