Night Train to Jamalpur(105)

It was a shame. I would have liked to have told them something else they already knew, namely that Fisher’s brief had also been to finish off Deep/Ganguly if Sabir Huq and his fellows should funk it. Of course, it never came to that, but Fisher would have equipped himself with a small calibre pistol, which he managed to dispose of unseen, and a silencer, which Canon Peter Selwyn had observed him disposing of.

I had previously concluded that the item Fisher had been seen pitching away must have been a cigar tube, but on the Friday last I had called into Hatzopolo’s cigar shop on Lindsay Street. I bought myself a couple of Havanas, and I asked about ‘my great pal’ Major Fisher. It was Mr Hatzopolo himself that I spoke to. He knew of Fisher and was evidently amazed that anyone should speak of the man as being a ‘pal’. I said I was interested in buying my pal a cigar tube, and Mr Hatzopolo regretted to inform me that Major Fisher was already in possession of such an item.

Fisher had been in the habit of coming in for Trichies, but on Wednesday 2 May (the day Fisher and I departed for Darjeeling) he had called in to buy a Havana and had also splashed out on a silver retaining tube. It had been perfectly clear that Fisher had never previously owned such a thing. Mr Hatzopolo recalled the conversation distinctly. He had attempted to persuade Fisher to buy one of the double tubes, which were only a little more expensive, and much more companionable. ‘You see,’ Mr Hatzopolo had explained, ‘you can carry one cigar for yourself, and one for a friend,’ and it was with a pained expression that Mr Hatzopolo recalled Fisher’s reply: ‘Sod that for a lark.’

The point was this: Fisher had not had a cigar tube in his possession when he rode on the Jamalpur Night Mail.


III

William Askwith knew something was up. Not that any expression appeared on his face as such, but when we sat down in Firpo’s restaurant, he immediately asked whether I would be having wine. I replied that I would be having one Beck’s beer, but that he should order away, and this he did without inhibition, going for ten rupees’ worth of decent red.

I had suggested that we meet, and it was Askwith who had suggested Firpo’s. Having practically ordered me to visit this famous Italian restaurant, it seemed to me that Stanley Harrington of the India Office could not begrudge the cost, and I intended to return at least once with Lydia before we sailed for Blighty. I liked Firpo’s. There was an affinity between the Italians and the Indians. At any rate, I was surrounded by a special, beautiful breed, of white-coated men with highly villainous moustaches, and slender, lustrous women who flowed from one graceful pose to another with no awkward moments on the way. The small band played something that hovered between ‘jass’ and chamber music, and the palms, and propped-open green window shutters, and the goldenness of the sunlight made me forget the feverishness of Cal, and think instead of the Riviera.

Askwith was entitled by his wealth and standing to move in this world of beauty, even if he, with his blank, white dot of a face, could contribute nothing to it. As a rule, this knowledge would have allowed him to enjoy Firpo’s, but not today. Today, on Thursday 17 May, William Askwith knew he was on the back foot.

He had returned from his house at Darjeeling just the day before, to find my chit proposing a meeting. He had agreed immediately, adding – anxiously, it seemed to me – the speculation: ‘I suppose you would like further details concerning the unfortunate Mr Sermon, such as may assist you in wrapping up that case, on which successful outcome, by the way, I offer my heartfelt congratulations.’

We had spoken about Sermon at first, but only until the waiter came for our food order. I went for ravioli, and Askwith followed suit, obviously not caring at all about the food, but only about what I might have to say. He must have been cursing me inside. I didn’t doubt that he thought me uncouth, barely a cut above Dougie Poole, and I had been rubbing it in by suggesting that the ravioli was ‘up to scratch’ and hoping that his wine – Chianti, naturally – was ‘a decent drop’. But whatever he thought of me, Askwith had had the good manners to keep it pretty well hidden, and so I did not prolong his agony but got down to business directly upon the arrival of the main course.

‘I received a document alleging corruption in the traffic department,’ I said.

Askwith ate a mouthful of ravioli. At the moment of swallowing, his face seemed to contract, his features becoming even smaller. ‘From Harold Jebb would that be?’

‘The document was sent anonymously.’

‘Is he not still at sea? I’m terribly sorry, Captain Stringer . . . James, if I may . . . It is imperative that I give you some important data about Harold Jebb.’