Barbara Cleverly (7 page)

‘Well, aren’t you the careless one! If I had a gun like this I wouldn’t let it out of my sight!’ said an Indian voice speaking in cultured and fast English. The voice was male, young, unbroken. A child?

Breaking free from the hypnotic fascination of the barrel, Joe looked along it to the small brown hand holding it so unwaveringly steady. Beyond that, an impish face looked back at him with scorn. A boy of ten or eleven, Joe guessed, dressed in a white silk buttoned coat, white trousers and a blue and white striped silk turban.

‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman, they tell me!’

‘And what are you supposed to be?’ said Joe, annoyed. ‘A burglar? The palace dacoit? No, I know what you are - you’re one of those thieving monkeys that break into guests’ rooms and steal their hairbrushes! Well, you left the window open, monkey!’

Surprised, the boy looked sideways at the window and opened his mouth to make a rude reply, distraction enough for Joe to knock his hand away, grasp his wrist and with a quick heave, flip his slight frame over the bed, grabbing the gun from him as he rolled.

‘Get up, monkey, and sit down in that chair!’ Joe snapped.

The boy picked himself up, straightened his turban and sat down, eyes fixed on the gun.

‘Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill him,’ said Joe, ‘even if, like this one, it is unloaded! And never pause to have a conversation with your victim. It shows you’re not serious. Anyone who needs to hold a gun to a feller’s head to make him listen is likely to bore his target to death rather than fill him full of lead.’

The boy swallowed, glared at Joe and said haughtily, ‘As you are speaking to me at some length, though I would hardly call it a conversation, I assume that you have not been sent to murder me?’

‘Sent to murder you?’ Joe was stunned. ‘Who are you? And, perhaps more important, just what do you take me for?’

‘My name is Bahadur Singh. I am the son of Maharaja Udai Singh. The third son,’ he said with a pride that could not be concealed even by his obvious terror. ‘Bishan is dead and now Prithvi is dead. I am the next son. I think you have been sent to kill me.’

‘Why on earth should you think that?’ said Joe, putting the gun down on a small table by the door.

‘I searched your luggage and found the gun hidden. Who but a hired assassin would hide his gun?’

‘Is it a custom of yours to go through guests’ things?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the boy, puzzled. ‘How else can I decide who I am going to like? Shall I tell you,’ he said, relaxing now that the gun had been put out of reach, his tone changing to one of confidence, ‘what Sir Hector Munro has in his smallest black bag?’

‘No!’

‘Well, then, what Mr Troop keeps in his shaving kit?’

Joe was ashamed that his second ‘No!’ was a betraying split second slow.

‘And besides,’ the boy went on cheerfully, ‘you have the face of a killer.’

Joe must have registered dismay at being so described because the boy hurried to add, ‘Oh, it’s a nice face. A very nice face but you look as though you are accustomed to fighting. Like Yashastilak.’

‘Yasha who? Who’s that?’ Joe felt he was beginning to lose the thread and the initiative in this exchange.

‘Yashastilak. My father’s favourite fighting elephant. He is old and ugly with many scars but he has won a hundred fights!’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ said Joe. He grinned, sat down on the bed and put his hands on his knees in an unthreatening posture. ‘And you’re not far wrong. I was a soldier, Bahadur, in the recent war in Europe. A piece of shrapnel - that’s the casing of a shell - sliced through my face

here.’ He touched the unsightly scar which cut through his eyebrow and skewed the left side of his face. ‘And now I have to be careful not to scare the horses but that doesn’t make me a killer. I’ve killed men. But I’m no threat to boys who behave themselves. I’m here, if anything, to protect you. Sir George Jardine sent me and he asks to be remembered to you.’

‘Sir George! I have only met him once when he visited my father last year but I know he is my friend,’ said Bahadur. ‘I wish he would come again. He knows nearly as much about astronomy as I do and he taught me conjuring tricks.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Joe drily, ‘he does that to us all!’

‘And he is very jolly!’ Bahadur went on with enthusiasm. ‘And full of mischief, my nanny says. He took a pot of treacle and a pot of honey to the top of the palace and poured them both out into the courtyard. He made me stand below and note what happened. The treacle won the race. It fell on to my turban! The purdah ladies in the zenana were watching and laughing. I told them it was a scientific experiment but they thought it was just a bit of fun.’

‘No reason why it can’t be both,’ said Joe.

There was a catch in the boy’s voice as the memory of the past faded and the seriousness of his present situation came back to him. ‘I think I would feel safer if Sir George were here! You say you are his friend but how am I to know that is true?’

‘Sensible of you to ask the question,’ Joe remarked. ‘Look, I’ve got something in my bag for you. George sent it and he’s signed his name in the front.’ He unbuckled his bag and produced a book. One Thousand and One Cunning Card Tricks for Clever Boys, was its whimsical title.

It seemed to work its magic as Bahadur’s next question was, ‘If it’s not you, then is it Edgar Troop who’s going to kill me?’

Joe could only guess at the depths of insecurity, the loneliness and the fear behind the question, and his sympathy and his heart went out to the boy. Soon he would be fatherless - did he know that? - and he would be surrounded by people out to manipulate him, perhaps even get rid of him. What reassurance could Joe give - a stranger in the palace? A ferret being thrust down an unexplored rat-hole where any menace might lurk? The next Heatstroke Express might be ferrying a hired gun to the palace, though he might well be already in place. And, Joe supposed, there was no lack of home-grown talent who might oblige.

‘Not Edgar,’ he said. ‘No, not Edgar. He works for Sir George too. We’re both here to help you and to find out what happened to your brothers. I’ve no idea yet what’s going on here in Ranipur but there is something wrong. You seem to have the run of the palace,’ he added speculatively. ‘Help me to find out what’s happening as far as you can - without putting yourself into danger, that is. Breaking into strangers’ rooms and sticking a gun in their face is a good way to get yourself killed!’

He was struck by a worrying thought. ‘Bahadur, tell me, whereabouts do you live in the palace? Have you got, er, safe living quarters?’

The boy shook his head. ‘This is a problem for me. I will tell you that there is nowhere that is safe. I have been living, as do all young boys of the princely family, in the zenana but I do not like it and I have left that place. My mother has her own apartment there but it is very crowded. The maharanees also have their apartments in the zenana. Their sons sit higher on the carpet than I do and they despise me. When Bishan died his mother, First Her Highness, was heard to say that it was unfair that her son, the rightful heir, the Maharaj Kumar, had died when “that little low-born, crawling insect” was still alive. She was speaking of me. And now Second Her Highness will say the same thing. Their Highnesses are not friendly with each other in normal times but I think that now they have both lost sons their hatred will combine and fix on me. They will do whatever is in their power to keep me from sitting on the gaddi.’

‘Gaddi?’

‘You would say throne. The ceremonial cushion the ruler sits on.’

‘But would ladies of their station - maharanees both - stoop to kill a child?’

Bahadur gave him an astonished look. ‘Oh, yes. They have tried to have my mother killed many times. But my mother is clever and well served by the palace servants who always bring warning. She is called Lai Bai. They hate her because she is a village girl and speaks only her village tongue but mainly they hate her because my father has always spent much time with her.’ Bahadur looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Until Third Her Highness came to live here. That was a year ago and my mother and I have seen very little of my father since then.’

‘So, where have you found a billet? Where do you sleep?’

‘I sleep anywhere and everywhere. Never in the same place twice.’

He paused and looked at Joe, wondering how far to trust him. Joe arranged the features of his killer’s face into what he hoped was a reassuring and receptive expression and waited.

‘There are people watching me. Everywhere I go I feel I am being followed. I hear footsteps behind me in the corridors and when I turn, there is no one there. Figures I have noticed ahead of me disappear. In the night, I hear noises I don’t understand. Govind finds me places. There are many rooms only he knows about. Sometimes I sleep in the elephant pens. They keep watch over me. There are ninety-five elephants and I know every one of them. They know me.’

‘So, that’s Govind and the elephants. Anyone else you can rely on?’

‘Yes. There is a forester, an old man who has always cared for me. And I like the airman, Captain Mercer. He is very friendly and says one day he will teach me to fly. He lets me stay in the hangar whenever I like and he never gives me away. But my best friend in the palace is a good man who is staying with my father. A tiger hunter. He has taught me all his skills. His name is Colin O’Connor. I go out into the jangal with him as often as he will take me.’

‘Mmm

Doesn’t sound all that secure to me, roving round the jungle with a tiger hunter,’ said Joe. ‘You mentioned a nanny, I think? Is she still in employ at the palace?’

Bahadur’s face softened. ‘Yes, she is here. She is a Scottish lady, Miss Macarthur, and she is very fierce. She would fight for me with the courage of a tigress but she is a woman and she could not keep off an assassin with a parasol, could she?’

‘Where are her quarters?’

‘In the Old Palace. I will take you to see her tomorrow. She will be pleased to meet a friend of Sir George.’

‘Another elderly conquest!’ thought Joe, grudgingly. ‘The umpteenth member of the Sir George Appreciation Society.’

‘I’d like to see you again tomorrow, Bahadur. In fact it would put my mind at rest if I had you in my sights as much as possible every day. Stick as close by me as you can. If anyone asks why, tell them you’re teaching me astronomy. Now, look, I’ve got to write up a report for Vyvyan, bathe, dress and get myself down to dinner. Better get a move on!’

Bahadur looked at his wristwatch. Joe blinked in admiration. It was a diamond-encrusted Cartier watch and though Joe would never have remarked on another man’s possessions, the look of boyish pride as Bahadur consulted it prompted him to make the anticipated admiring comment. Bahadur smiled in glee, his first genuine smile, and instantly he slipped the watch off his wrist and handed it to Joe. ‘I’m so glad you like it. It was given to me by a jewel salesman from London who visited last year. My father was much impressed by the man’s generosity to his son and placed a large order with him. Now I give it to you. Please take it.’

Joe’s embarrassed protests were brushed aside. ‘But this is our custom,’ the boy said firmly. ‘If a guest admires any of our possessions, we are proud to give them to him. You are a warrior like the Rajputs, I see this, so I know you must understand. Would you not want to give me something of yours if I truly admired it?’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Joe automatically, taken in by the boy’s expression of earnest innocence and honour.

Too late he realized that he had been trapped. Bahadur placed the watch ceremoniously in the centre of the dressing table, turned to Joe and said, ‘Well now, I really must be going. I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll continue our conversation, sir.’

Joe held his breath as the boy made his way to the door. Was he going to get away with it? Reaching the table by the door, Bahadur caught sight of the Browning M and raised his hands in an actor’s gesture of surprise and recognition. He picked it up. It slid into his grasp with familiar ease, the scale appropriate to his small hand. ‘Keep this safe, Mr Sandilands. I would be most distressed if you were to lose it because it is the most beautiful, the most comforting gun I have ever handled. Just to have such a gun as this - though unloaded, as you say - tucked into my belt, would make me feel more secure.’

He sighed.

Joe knew he’d been tricked but he recognized that the crushing fear the boy was living under was genuine, the threat real, his plea heartfelt.

He took a deep breath. He heard his own voice saying with what he thought might just be the formality and pride appropriate to a Rajput warrior, ‘I would be honoured, Bahadur, if you would keep the gun.’

They smiled at each other in complete understanding and Bahadur and his Browning disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived.

Soaking in his bath, Joe was torn between rage and amusement. He was angry to have lost his gun though luckily he had had the forethought to pack his old service revolver along with ammunition. Ammunition! A sudden cold thought sent him dripping, naked, from the bath to his trunk. He tried to recollect the weight of the little gun in his hand when he had wrested it from Bahadur and could not. Cursing his carelessness, he dug around and, with a sigh of relief, found the spare clips for the Browning still where he’d placed them, wrapped up in a waistcoat. He counted them. There was one missing.

Ť ^ ť

Joe groaned. A nervous twelve-year-old was loose about the palace armed with the police commander’s own gun. Not unloaded as he had thought but with eight lethal bullets up the spout. Joe imagined Sir George’s comments if he ever found out. Suppose the lad went straight back to the zenana with his new toy to exact retribution from the maharanees for the attempts on his mother’s life? Like a fox in a hen-coop he’d be able to kill at will.

Joe tried to put these horrifying but fanciful ideas out of his mind. There had been something about the boy that had earned his confidence. He didn’t doubt his courage and he’d been impressed by his cleverness and quick thinking. Perhaps Bahadur had presented him with a true bill - he genuinely wanted to keep the gun as personal protection. Well, so be it. He reasoned that Bahadur could trust no one; he could be in genuine danger of death from an unknown quarter and, ultimately, his only defence might well be the Browning. And then, though heaven forbid, he’d be damned glad he’d given it to him. He told himself to relax and finish dressing. He had left himself only an hour in which to complete his report for Claude.