Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘Reggie!’ said George explosively. ‘Bloody fellow! Can’t stand him!’

‘Didn’t think much of him,’ said Joe.

‘Can’t stand him,’ echoed Charlie.

‘Well, that’s fine,’ said Sir George. ‘We “unmask” – I apologize for the word – Alice, she is disgraced, her marriage is null and void, her position in ICTC probably completely compromised, the work she does in Simla and Bombay will fall apart and we elevate that drunken oaf Reggie to a position of trust and influence. Sounds like a jolly good evening’s work, don’t you think, chaps?’

‘George,’ said Joe, ‘what on earth are you saying?’

‘I’m saying, would you like to take shares in a company I’m thinking of founding? A little private company? I’m going to call it Fraudsters Anonymous or The Alice Conyers-Sharpe Protection Society. Any takers?’

With the warmest memories of his last minutes with Alice at the foot of the garden steps, Joe was tempted. With no such memories Charlie Carter was profoundly shocked. ‘You can’t be serious, sir!’ he said indignantly. ‘You can’t be preparing to compound a felony! Fraud is a felony and leaving aside the moral implications I don’t believe you’d ever get away with it.’

‘All right then,’ said Sir George, ‘if you won’t go all the way with me, and I acknowledge that there is a problem, let us at least agree on a stay of execution. Let us leave matters as they are. Let this complex situation roll on its way and let us exercise every sort of vigilance to follow it through until it leads us to our killer. I’m not issuing an order – I’m not quite sure if I’d be in a position to issue an order of that sort – I’m doing no more than invite your co-operation.’

He looked briskly from one to the other. ‘Do I have it?’

‘Yes, Sir George,’ said Carter.

‘Yes, Sir George,’ said Joe.

Chapter Eighteen

« ^ »

Joe and Charlie Carter set out to walk through the streets of Simla, heading together for the establishment of Mr Robertson, the jeweller.

‘You’ve read Kim, I think you said?’ said Charlie as they went along the Mall.

‘Yes, indeed. And it did occur to me that perhaps Cecil Robertson has too! For a moment, stepping into his shop on Wednesday morning I thought I was entering the world of Lurgan Sahib!’

‘One of the best descriptions Kipling ever wrote! But I don’t think Robertson does it to play to the tourists. As far as his shop is concerned time has stood still. It’s been there for as long as I can remember and Robertson is not the first owner by any means. He continues a tradition. He performs an essential service. Lots of Indian families treat him as if he were a bank. Only the most informal records are kept but a satisfactory service is offered, it would seem. Many people prefer to deal personally with someone they know and can trust their money to rather than a faceless European bank with head offices in Leadenhall Street, EC1. No, he’s a man of many parts, is our Mr Robertson.’

‘Not above a little smuggling?’

‘Certainly not above a little smuggling. But then, almost nobody who lives in these parts is above a little smuggling. Jewellery, gold, opium, hashish… their passage back and forth over the frontiers is as old as the Himalayas. The government of India doesn’t worry too much. A little jewel smuggling this way and that doesn’t do any harm, but gold – now that’s a different matter. We wouldn’t want to see large quantities of that disappearing north over the border into Asia. Cecil Robertson has always been totally co-operative with us. In fact he’s given us two or three valuable tips over the years. We don’t interfere with the movement of gemstones – mostly on their way to China – and in exchange he lets us know… about other things.’

‘Other things?’

‘Yes, boys and girls. Jewels going into China, pretty boys and girls coming back again on their way to Kashmir through Chandigarh and on eventually to the Gulf. Poor little devils! We got a tip from Robertson last year. We stopped a bullock cart… shots were exchanged if you can believe… and there they were – drugged, like a lot of dormice. So, you might say, I owe Robertson a good turn. I don’t suppose that the trade troubles his conscience much, it’s as good a way as any of keeping in with me – slipping a bit of information from time to time. I suppose that’s the way to run an Empire. A little bit of accommodation, if you know what I mean.’

They paused outside Robertson’s shop. Robertson himself emerged in his shirt-sleeves taking an elaborate farewell of a Bengali customer.

‘Spare us a couple of moments, Robertson?’ said Charlie. ‘I think you’ve met my friend Joe Sandilands? Fact is, we could do with a little help. May we come in?’

‘Of course,’ said Robertson unctuously with something between a salute and a salaam. Joe remembered that he was said to have a Scottish father and a Persian mother and looking at that mysterious face he was very ready to believe this, supported as it was by the accent. Strange! Very much the English of a man of whom it was not the first language and yet, on the other hand, a perceptible flavour of upper class English as spoken in the Raj.

His eye slid over Charlie Carter without much interest but dwelt on Joe. ‘Come in,’ he said again. ‘Come right through.’ He said a few words to an assistant and, calling into the back premises, addressed a few more to an unseen presence who answered deferentially.

The shop, Joe recalled from his earlier brief visit, operated on two levels. Outwardly there was the stock in trade of any well-equipped jeweller’s shop but behind this was an accumulation that it would be impossible to classify. Objects Tibetan, Chinese, Indian and even European. Objects doubtless from the collapse of the Russian Empire, icons and pectoral crosses and a few items of classical antiquity. Joe remembered that Alexander the Great had passed this way. He tried to suppress the unprofessional fascination which these things had awakened. His hand went out to a small carved ivory figure and he held it to the light. A large-eyed, full-breasted woman held in her hand a knot of golden snakes.

‘You’re right,’ said Robertson surprisingly. ‘From Crete, I suspect. Minoan culture. The snake goddess. Question – how on earth did it get here? I can’t tell you anything about the provenance. Probably stolen from the excavations. It’s not expensive. Are you interested?’

‘Yes. Very,’ said Joe. ‘Some other time.’

‘Of course. Of course. I had assumed that this was an official visit.’

He led them into an airless little room and turned on a feeble electric light. He turned some cushions aside to reveal three chairs which he indicated with a hospitable gesture. ‘And now, how may I help the police?’

‘What I have to say is in confidence, Robertson,’ said Charlie in a bland official tone.

Robertson nodded and waited.

‘It concerns Alice Conyers-Sharpe.’

‘Really?’ Robertson’s eye flicked for a second to Joe.

‘We are worried,’ said Charlie confidentially. ‘You may say that it has nothing to do with us but she is a prominent citizen – a good client of yours, I believe – and many people in Simla depend on her. It has been revealed to us that this lady we all so admire is being cheated. Has any idea of this sort occurred to you?’

Joe decided that Robertson was making only a show of considering this question. He replied with confidence, ‘Yes. But it is not my place to question or advise or comment on Mrs Sharpe’s arrangements. All acknowledge her to be a splendid businesswoman, successful, decisive and well advised. Who am I to speculate on the soundness of her transactions? So long as her requirements of me are within the law, Superintendent, there is nothing I am called upon to do but fulfil them.’

‘It is known,’ said Joe, ‘that Mrs Sharpe deals consistently in jewels. We are making enquiries, with her knowledge and consent I should say, into specifically the purchases she makes twice yearly in April and October. Tell us how the exchange is managed from your end, will you?’

After a moment’s consideration, Robertson got up and took down a file from a high shelf. He extracted a single sheet of paper and handed it to Carter. As he and Joe eagerly pored over it he explained. ‘I received that in October 1920.’

On a plain sheet of white writing paper a short message had been written in English in neat capitals. Robertson recited the message as they read. ‘Mrs Sharpe will bring you a cheque for four thousand rupees biannually in April and October. When she arrives you will sell her jewels to the value of two thousand rupees. Select other jewels to the same value and place them in a blue box under the counter. Choose gems or pieces that are easily transportable and unremarkable. When a messenger asks for the blue box hand it over.’

‘And this has gone on as described. I performed the fourth regular transaction at the beginning of April.’

‘The regular transaction?’ asked Joe.

Robertson paused. ‘There was a further one, out of pattern, you might say.’

‘And can you say precisely when this one occurred?’

‘Yes.’

He selected another leaf from the file and handed it over. ‘You will see that the value varies. This one mentions the sum of three thousand rupees. And it is dated 1st May 1921. It was shortly after Mrs Sharpe’s brother was killed. I remember she was wearing black and she chose a diamond and jet mourning piece.’

Joe looked at him closely. There was no hint of suspicion or suggestion in the bland, dark eyes.

‘Who collects the contents of the blue box, Robertson?’

‘No one I know. It’s a different messenger each time. An Indian. I suspect just someone picked up in the bazaar and given this task for a few annas. I have no doubt the messenger is carefully watched, of course, but as to the identity of the watcher or indeed the destination of the blue box, I have no idea. My responsibility ends when the box leaves here.’

‘Have you a feeling about all this?’ asked Charlie. ‘Share your thoughts with us. You must have formed some kind of theory about the exchange. Embezzlement? Extortion? Blackmail? Generous donations to an anonymous recipient?’

Robertson’s eyes gleamed for a moment. ‘Probably two out of the four,’ he said and appeared to be unwilling to take the thought further. ‘You may be interested,’ he went on after a slight pause, ‘in seeing this. It was put through my door this morning.’

He handed Carter an envelope. With an exclamation of dismay, Carter took it carefully by the edges.

‘I shouldn’t worry about obliterating any useful fingerprints,’ said Joe. ‘The world and his wife will have handled it by now – everyone, I would expect, apart from our, er, customer. He’s not going to make the mistake of leaving prints on it. Go ahead. Open it.’

‘Let’s see. “Mrs S. will buy more jewels. Value five thousand rupees. Same arrangements.” Mmm… price has increased significantly. I take it Mrs Sharpe hasn’t appeared yet?’

‘Oh yes, she has. She came in very early – about half an hour before your good selves. She chose a diamond solitaire ring and she gave me a banker’s draft in payment. And I have completed my arrangements in regard to the second part of the transaction.’

‘Would you show us the routine with the blue box then, if you’ve prepared it?’

They went back into the shop and Robertson took a small velvet box from a drawer underneath the counter. They peered inside. Coiled in the bottom and glittering even in the half light was a diamond necklace.

‘Very simple. Practically unrecognizable. Easy to break up and sell as individual stones,’ Carter commented.

‘Look,’ said Joe, ‘Robertson, would you have any objection to varying the routine a little? We desperately need to know – as I’m sure you’ve guessed – the identity of the person who is the recipient of the contents of the box. Mrs Sharpe’s peace of mind, to put it simply, is at stake.’

Robertson nodded his agreement.

‘What I want you to do is change these diamonds for something a lot more distinctive. Something so unique and decorative that wherever it appears again – if ever it does resurface – any jeweller would recognize it.’

‘I see,’ said Robertson. ‘And then, delivery safely accomplished, the Simla police circulate a description of a certain piece of stolen jewellery so unmistakable that it cannot safely be worn or sold without word getting back?’

‘Exactly,’ said Joe.

‘What if he objects?’ asked Carter. ‘Of course,’ he added, answering his own question, ‘then he contacts Robertson again and perhaps in his anger gives away more than he meant to? At least we’d have another handle on this discreet charmer. Come on – what have you got to show us, Robertson?’

Robertson hesitated then with a conspiratorial smile went into the back room and emerged a few minutes later. ‘I think you would agree that this fulfils your requirements,’ he said.

Joe and Carter looked and gasped.

‘It’s perfectly lovely,’ said Carter, ‘but it won’t do! Nothing approaching the value you’re supposed to supply. I mean – it’s… it’s… what do the ladies call something like this? – costume jewellery, yes, costume jewellery.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen something like this before… on a portrait perhaps?’

Robertson smiled and nodded. ‘You have it. On a portrait by Hans Holbein. Sixteenth-century German portrait painter. The Tudor royal family were much painted by him. They liked to be seen wearing rather spectacular jewels, like this one.’

They looked again. The whole arrangement was perhaps four inches across and five inches long. At its centre glowed a stone which could have been a ruby, Joe thought, had it not been so large. It was surrounded by a gold circlet inlaid with bright enamels in the form of Tudor roses and posies of glittering clear stones which Joe would have sworn were diamonds.

‘The style became very popular again in Europe some years ago and these pieces began to be produced with showy semiprecious stones like peridots at the centre. They’re called “Holbeinesque” in the trade.’ He paused for a moment, looking at the brooch in rapt admiration. ‘But there’s nothing “-esque” about this one. This is a genuine sixteenth-century item. Any jeweller would recognize it if it passed through his hands. It’s the Duke of Clarence Ruby.’

‘If that’s a ruby, isn’t it a little over the mark?’ Carter wanted to know.

‘Yes. Far over. But in the interests of saving Mrs Sharpe even a minute’s concern, I’m sure it is worth the sacrifice,’ he said with his deprecatory smile. ‘And besides I did pick it up as rather a bargain. It was the property of a prince. He bought it in London and gave it to his senior wife. She was not grateful. She hated it. Couldn’t see the point of it and came and ordered me to swap it for a gold necklace she’d seen and matching ear-rings. I was happy to do so. Buy, sell or exchange, I get my commission, you know. But of course, if I were ever to sell it on the open market and it were to appear on the bosom of – let’s say the Vicereine – there might be problems.’

‘I see,’ said Carter. ‘In that case, it’s perfect. Any means we have of flushing out Mrs Sharpe’s unknown correspondent must be made use of, Robertson. I’m sure you understand. We’re grateful for your co-operation and, look here, one more thing you can do to help – it’s just a small thing – we’ve got the shop under discreet surveillance. When a messenger comes in for the box could you alert my men? Give them some sort of a signal?’

Robertson smiled and nodded compliance. Joe had little doubt that he was aware of Carter’s discreet surveillance. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Nothing simpler. The window lights are normally switched on. When the messenger asks for the box I will switch them off. The switch is here to hand under the counter.’

‘That will do well,’ said Carter.

With mutual assurances of esteem, they left Robertson and went out into the street. Blinking in the sharp sunlight, Joe screwed up his eyes and surreptitiously glanced up and down the Mall in an attempt to locate Carter’s surveillance team. He saw the usual bustle of European shoppers, Indian servants and street urchins. Two nursemaids walked by chattering and scolding. A Hindu holy man sat patiently opposite, cross-legged, with his begging bowl in front of him. Hesitating on the pavement’s edge, Carter waved away two rickshaws competing for their custom. Avoiding them, he stepped off the pavement into a puddle left over from a late night shower.

‘Drat!’ he exclaimed, running a fastidious eye over the spatters on his smart boots.

‘You’re in luck,’ said Joe, pointing across the street. ‘Look there!’

They crossed over to a boot black’s stand and Carter greeted the swarm of little Indian boys who appeared to be loosely in charge of it. He settled into the chair and stuck out his feet.

‘Clever chaps, these young ’uns,’ he said. ‘Movable stand, you see. They roll it around and set up shop wherever they see a puddle. Never entirely sure they don’t actually create the puddles!’

Five minutes later the chattering group were prepared to release Carter’s feet, now sporting boots a platoon-sergeant would have passed as acceptable. Carter offered a handful of annas to the oldest boy and, laughing, spoke to him briefly in Hindustani. They strolled on, dropping into two or three more shops on their way back to police headquarters.

Seated once again in Carter’s office, Joe remarked, ‘I didn’t spot your men!’

‘Yes, you did!’ said Carter cheerily. ‘There were six of them. The tallest came up to your belt and you gave them each a cigarette!’

‘The shoe blacks!’ Joe began to laugh. ‘What is this? Simla’s answer to the Baker Street Irregulars?’

‘Just that! They’re actually all the sons of Sir George’s head gardener. Sir George set them up with the equipment and they’re doing well – they make a decent living at the shoe blacking and then they’re on a police retainer. It’s amazing what they get to hear! People, even those you’d think would know better, seem to assume that young Indian shoe blacks must be deaf and stupid. Not at all! They’re as smart as whips! And they can go practically anywhere and no one notices them. It’s a good arrangement.’

‘Will they know what to do?’

‘Oh, yes. I passed them the word about the shop light signal. They’ll follow whoever comes out with the blue box to the ends of the earth if they have to. All we have to do now is wait.’

‘I don’t think we’ll have to wait long,’ said Joe. ‘There’s an urgency about this last demand – don’t you think? A huge amount called for… I’d say this could well be a last request before he calls it a day. Rumours, uncertainties may have got to his ears. I think, Carter, our man is planning to grab his loot and run. And, I’ll tell you something else – Alice seems to have been caught up in the urgency too. She was out and about pretty early this morning, wasn’t she? She must have got her demand note at crack of dawn, or perhaps even during the night, and gone straight off to Robertson’s shop.’

‘And now I’ll tell you something, Sandilands,’ said Carter. ‘Before she was at the jeweller’s she was here. We’d hardly opened up when she came in asking to see me. Rather an odd request. I was hoping you could shed some light on it as you seem to have got so close to her last night. She wanted to cast an eye over the newspaper list of the Beaune casualties. She said that you’d told her she could.’

‘Did she now?’ said Joe, an edge of concern in his voice. ‘I don’t like this, Carter. She’s moving too fast for us. You didn’t let her take it away, did you?’

‘Of course not! In fact I was so suspicious of her intentions I sat with her and watched her closely while she read it.’

‘And?’

‘Very interesting! She pretended to read the news report of the crash first but it was clear to me that it was the list of the casualties she had really come to check on. Her eyes were continually veering sideways to the right-hand side of the page where the lists are printed.’

Carter got up and retrieved the paper from a locked file. He spread it out on the table between them. ‘Now, whatever she saw printed there had quite an effect on her. She turned pale, she started to breathe faster, she was agitated. No doubt about that. I had to send for a glass of water for her. Look at it more closely, Joe. I’ve had another look and I must say no name leaps out at me. What do you see?’

Joe looked again. Somewhere concealed in this list of English and French casualties was a name which had dramatic importance for Isobel Newton. But surely not? How could she be threatened by someone who had died so long ago? None of these names had any power to harm her. So what then had she seen in these lists?

‘Oh, my God!’ Joe groaned. ‘What bloody idiots we’ve been! Charlie! I now know what people mean when they call us the Defective Force! Get Simpson here! Where the devil is Simpson? You’ve not let him go back to Delhi, have you? We must see him!’

‘No, it’s all right, Joe,’ said Carter in puzzlement. ‘I decided it might not be quite safe to put him in the hotel after all – I put him up with me and Meg. He’s at my bungalow helping Meg to peg a rug. Hang on – I’ll give Meg a ring. We’ve got a telephone installed. We can get him over here in a few minutes. I’ll send a sergeant over with a rickshaw. But tell me, Joe, what have you seen? What did Alice see?’

‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘And that’s the whole point. It’s what she didn’t see that’s important!’