‘I shouldn’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’re not meant to be investigating the shooting. That’s for Hughes at Jamalpur.’
Jogendra Babu nodded; he knew that. ‘Or the C.I.D. might come in . . . do you think they will?’ Jogendra shrugged; he might know more about this than he was letting on. ‘If Fisher starts his own enquiry,’ I continued, ‘he’ll be stood down from it in short order.’
‘Yes,’ said Jogendra. ‘It is to be hoped.’
‘All that being said, though . . . Could I get hold of a copy of the reservation chart for the carriage?’
‘Why do you require it, sahib? The reservations are known. Yours, Fisher’s, cathedral man, shot man . . .’
‘But I just want to see if any late change was made.’
‘Booking office is incinerating those lists.’
‘Sounds a bit drastic. When?’
‘Quickly. They are not long retained.’
‘But I would like to see it.’
‘Yes. I will see.’
Looking about the room, there seemed to be more files than ever relating to Schedules A and B. I said as much to Jogendra. ‘Sahib,’ he said with a sigh, ‘it is endingless.’
I said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother, Jogendra Babu.’ I had thought about saying ‘Babu-ji’, because ‘ji’ was something you could add – a sort of endearment.
‘Oh,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Yes. She was very aged lady.’ He resumed his tidying. ‘So sorry, I was dreaming miles away just then.’
‘Away with the fairies, as they say.’
Jogendra Babu looked up at me and smiled: ‘Away with Fisher sahib and incorrect stipulations!’
I walked over to the desk from which the file had been stolen and quickly pulled open the drawer in question, half expecting the file to have been put back. Jogendra knew exactly what I was about, and again he smiled at me. The drawer, of course, was quite empty.
VI
Calcutta had stopped being the capital of India in 1911, the honour having gone to Delhi, but it did not seem in the least discouraged by the fact. Motors, tongas, electric trams, horse-drawn trams, rickshaws – you were just about safe from them if you kept to the pavement, or at least to the inside edge of it. But even there you had the traders to contend with: ‘I have emporium, sahib, only little walk this direction’, and they would try and take you down some alley. ‘Not buy, sahib, but only look – only look!’ And that last word often said with a real anger that made you think the government couldn’t keep the lid on this for much longer. Half the buildings were grand but falling down, the white-painted fronts crumbling and stained brown as white-painted buildings on a seafront sometimes are, only here it was the sun, not the sea that had rotted them away.
The doorways of the buildings usually stood open, and they showed dark hallways, and battered brown staircases, leading up to offices. Many Indians conducted their business on these staircases, Indian doctors especially. One plaque I always read:
PHTHISIS SPECIALIST. Surgn R. P. N. Ganguly, B.Sc., M.D. D.P.H., European and American trained renowned specialist. Cures hopeless cases, Consumption, Asthma, Diabetes, Heart, Nerve and Private Diseases.
This was on a doorway at Old Court House Corner, just north of Chowringhee, in the very centre of town, and it piqued my interest every time I walked past. As to ‘private diseases’, I could make a hazard, but what was phthisis? Was this man Ganguly a quack? Couldn’t be, with all those letters after his name. The main problem was what, if any, connection Dr Ganguly had with the plaque below, which read, ‘Massage. Genuine Japanese Speciality. Miss Hatsuyo.’ Next to this brass plate was lodged a small framed photograph of the woman I took to be Miss Hatsuyo, and a real peach she looked: her gaze was half averted, in a way that made me think the Japanese speciality might be very much to my liking. The fact was that I had only noticed Doctor Ganguly because I had noticed Miss Hatsuyo beforehand.
I walked on. I turned from the din and chaos of Dalhousie Square into the din and chaos of Chowringhee Street. The sun was going down rapidly, but I was sweating freely. Every electric tram advertised Lifebuoy Soap, and you could see why. The whole city was in need of the stuff. I turned off Chowringhee, and the chowkidar bowed at me as I walked through the gates of our hotel. I intended to have a cold bath and one bottle of Beck’s beer. Then what? There was nothing ‘on’ for the evening, no party or dance in prospect as far as I knew.
Willard’s Hotel was better than the Bristol, also on Chowringhee, but not quite up to the standard of the Great Eastern or the Grand. It was famous for its forecourt, which I now traversed: the little botanical gardens, with fountain, fishpond, potted palms, dangling birdcages and coloured electric lights woven into a canopy of bamboo, in which many tiny lizards chirruped. Under the canopy were tables and chairs for drinks on the terrace.