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Night Train to Jamalpur(87)

By:Andrew Martin


‘The general public.’

‘Well, why don’t you go and question him, Captain Stringer?’

‘He’s not there at the moment. He’s somewhere up country, no doubt collecting the snakes. He’ll be back next week, and I’m going to turn up on his doorstep then – if he’s got a doorstep.’

‘Good luck to you,’ said Hedley Fleming. ‘Although I must say there’s no reason to go outside Calcutta in order to turn up snakes.’

I had hoped to trigger some reaction by my mention of the snake man, but all I got was the glint of Fleming’s glasses. Before closing the door on me, however, he asked, ‘When are you going to pay your call?’

‘Monday,’ I said. ‘Three-four o’clock.’

‘What?’

‘Between three and four o’clock.’

I had put my cards on the table, in hopes that Fleming would do likewise. He eyed me as he closed the door. By all appearances, he’d gone back to thinking me an idiot, if indeed he had ever stopped thinking this.

I was escorted some of the way towards the gates of the zoo by Hedley Fleming’s Indian assistant. As before, he was more or less silent, and when I asked, ‘Was Professor Fleming at Oxford or Cambridge?’ he confined himself to one word: ‘Cambridge.’ When I pushed my luck by asking, ‘What college?’ he gave a shrug. As we closed on the main gate of the zoo, we passed a giant birdcage, with two giant birds inside it. A small man stood before the cage, watching the birds, but I could only see his back. A tonga waited conveniently at the gate. As I climbed up, I looked again towards the birdcage, and the small man was still there, but half turned away. He appeared to be lifting a hip flask to his lips, and taking a drink. As the tonga rattled away, the suspicion grew on me that the fellow might have been Dougie Poole.

I rode the tonga back towards the middle of town, watching the sun crash down over the maidan, and thinking of the wife. Had she telephoned or wired to the hotel? I would not bother to check. I would not be beholden in that way – not after what she might have done. But I would be told anyhow if she had left a message.

I alighted from the tonga at Dalhousie Square. Should I try Dr Ganguly again? His premises were only a short walk away. But I was too exhausted, and I decided to walk straight back to the hotel. My way took me past a row of grey-haired Indians who conducted office work on the pavement. They sat on folding chairs at folding tables, typewriting away. They would compose and type letters for you; or read the letters that were sent to you. There were half a dozen of them, and they all wore spectacles, and they were all typing all the time . . . but only in the evenings, since they very sensibly avoided the heat of the day. Everyone knew the service they provided, but one of them advertised an additional skill, for a pasteboard sign propped in front of his typewriter paraded the famous phrase ‘Convert to English’.

I positioned myself before him. I removed my sola topee and mopped my brow. The man was typing like a maniac. If he was impressed at having a rare European client he certainly did not show it; in fact, he put his head down and redoubled his typing speed. Another Indian came up to me. It appeared that he was a sort of secretary or agent for the typists.

He said, ‘What is it you want, sahib? This man is busy.’

‘Conversion to English,’ I said, holding up the two crumpled papers I had taken from Detective Inspector Khan’s unburnt fire. I passed them to the man, and he turned away from me while reading them. The fellow then began walking fast away from me. ‘Hold on a minute!’ I called out, walking after him, but he was only going to the end of the line of outdoor clerks, where he spoke to another individual who was connected to the enterprise but not typing. He then turned back to me.

‘These wrong men,’ he said, indicating all the typists. ‘Come here tomorrow.’

He handed back the papers.

I asked, ‘Are they not written in Bengali?’

He shook his head.

‘Not Hindustani?’

He shook his head again. ‘Tomorrow you will see.’

On returning to the hotel, I was given no message to say Lydia had got in touch. I had an iced bath, and then went out into the terrace, where I drank a bottle of Beck’s beer and smoked a cigarette. I then walked back to the reception and asked whether Mrs Stringer had left word. No, nothing from the memsahib. I went back the terrace, and ordered another beer while looking out over the road. Having crashed down on to the maidan, King Sol was now bleeding all over it.





Chapter Twelve



I

I was in the police office at seven the next morning, which was the morning of Friday 11 May. The heat had started an hour before. Lydia had left no message at the hotel overnight. On my way to Fairlie Place, I had passed the plaque announcing Dr Ganguly, but it was too early for him, and in fact the exterior door was closed, the first time I had seen it so.