Night Train to Jamalpur(83)

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am stealing from this gentleman.’

‘You stole?’ I was glad, but amazed.

‘From under nose!’ said Jogendra, and he was laughing, but also shaking his head.

All he had stolen, I discovered after further questioning, was the data. The Indian booking office clerk who had been required to give up the original document to the mysterious third party referred to by Jogendra had memorised the chart, it obviously being of the greatest importance for some reason or other. The clerk was a friend of Jogendra’s, and he had dictated the names to Jogendra, perhaps persuaded by the prospect of basksheesh.

I said, ‘This fellow who wanted the original . . .’

‘You are permitted to speculate.’

‘Fisher?’

‘Further speculations are permitted.’

‘Khan of the C.I.D.’

‘Further speculations not required. You are hitting the nail on the head!’

‘Do you suppose he wanted to know who was on the original list, or keep others from knowing?’

‘That is beyond my comprehension, sahib.’

‘I’m obliged to you, Jogendra. Is there anything I can do for you in return?’

‘You are doing it already.’

He meant that I had signed the complaint form against Fisher – a complaint that was no longer necessary. I explained a little of the circumstances of Fisher’s departure to Jogendra.

‘Then he is out of my hair for ever,’ he said, touching his bald head. ‘It is red letter day in every way.’ It was apparently a red letter day for me as well, because Jogendra had something else to show me. He stooped from his chair, and with considerable effort he lifted a heavy green volume from the floor. He had marked a place with a clean, folded handkerchief. It was the East Indian Railway Police Occurrence Book (Calcutta District) for the year 1919. He indicated a certain entry, and sat back, mopping his brow with the handkerchief.

‘Earlier instance of same,’ he said.

The handwriting was tiny, and I did not have my glasses about me, so Jogendra leant forward, and helped me get the gist. 27 September 1919: a king cobra had been discovered in the first class carriage of a train about to depart from Howrah. No further details. Jogendra turned the page. 28 September 1919: a Russell’s viper discovered in the first class corridor of a train just arrived at Serampore, ten miles out of Howrah.

But it seemed this was the end of a heroic paper chase on Jogendra’s part, and not the start of it. He had not been able to discover supporting witness statements or first-instance reports in connection with these entries, possibly because the appearance of the snakes had not been taken at the time to be the result of criminality.

‘I know you’ve already done a great deal for me, Babu-ji,’ I said, ‘but might it be possible to know what was going on with the Company at that time?’

‘A terrific amount is going on, unfortunately.’

‘Nationalist attacks?’

‘A regular occurrence, sahib.’

It was the year of Amritsar: the massacre – that had been in April, I believed.

‘Strikes?’

‘Likewise equally. In year of 1919, everybody is at it. Even top sahibs.’

‘The top sahibs went on strike?’

‘Not really strike. You will see. I will assemble documents. But it will be hitting and missing.’

I rose to my feet, and bowed a salaam to Jogendra Babu, saying, ‘I think we have both probably seen the back of Fisher for good.’

‘He is liability.’

‘He was, Babu-ji; he was.’

I walked along the corridor to the door marked ‘Convert to English’. It was closed, and it turned out that it was also locked. A passing clerk said, ‘Poojahs, sahib.’ It seemed all the translators were on holiday. I thought about doubling back, and asking Jogendra Babu if he could translate the notes I had lifted from Khudayar Khan’s room in Darjeeling, but it was unlikely that he would know the dialect, and I decided that he had already taken enough risks on my behalf.


III

I still wore my heavy Darjeeling suit, and by the time I reached Chowringhee it was soaked in sweat. The town had become sluggish in the great humidity; even the trams seemed to move slower, and to stand for longer at the stops. On the crowded pavements, many of the street vendors had adopted a horizontal posture, and all the dogs were sleeping, often in the middle of the road. Only the rickshaw men ran, as through determined to die, to escape this life and go on to the next one, which might prove better. Reported Missing had gone from the Elphinstone Picture Palace. Now showing was a ‘Special Holiday Programme’, which in practice meant a film called Intolerance.