In less than a minute I was asleep. And, human sexuality being what it is, I had wildly erotic dreams — of Tess. We were making love in the middle of the Maidan, ignored by the hundreds of passers-by who scurried through the midday heat on their urgent but inscrutable Calcutta business.
- 10 -
I slept late and woke to a silent house. The clothes set out by my bed fitted perfectly — no surprise there, they obviously belonged to Leo. Downstairs there was no sign of Ameera or of the wizened Chatterji, but the table was set in the dining room and a full buffet breakfast laid out in warmed chafing dishes on the long sideboard. As I helped myself, one of the servants peeked in through the door that led to the kitchen, and a minute or so later he was back with Royal Worcester teapot and coffeepot.
Whatever I thought of Leo’s habits in India , there was no denying that he had lived like a king here. I couldn’t help comparing this with my own travel experiences, a dreary succession of cramped hotel rooms and warmed-over meals.
As I ate boiled guinea fowl eggs and buttered toast I pondered again the document that Ameera had left me in the middle of the night. My first look, the moment that I awoke, had been doubly unrewarding. My eyes refused to focus properly, and the blurred and fuzzed image that I could see seemed to be mostly random numbers and letters. The symptoms were not a new problem — I’d encountered the same thing in the hospital — but Sir Westcott had given me stern instructions on what I had to do when it happened. No reading or concentrated eye work until the effects wore off. I was forced to sit there and wait, trying to swallow my impatience.
The food seemed to help. As I drank Darjeeling tea from a delicate porcelain cup, I took another look at the paper. Ameera had said that it was intended for me, but I felt sure she was wrong. For one thing, many of the words were written in an unfamiliar script, either Hindustani or more likely Arabic. Underneath a first paragraph of that came the cryptic “CBC, sdb 33226; Code: Redondo Beach .” After that, the only words of intelligible English: ” 35 Amble Place , Middlesbrough , England .”
My address, for the flat I kept in north Yorkshire . It was the first tie that I could relate definitely to me. For the rest, I had to have help.
The house had no telephone, or at least not one that I could find. I went outside. After a couple of false starts, my arm-waving and shouts of “Taxi-taxi” got through to the man at the little gate house. He nodded and shouted to a boy of about ten who was leaning against the wall outside the house. The lad ran off along the street and trotted back a couple of minutes later leading the way for an old blue Peugeot and its turbanned driver.
“Grand Hotel? Chowringhi?” I said.
A nod, a grin, and we were off at a sedate crawl along the crowded streets. As we chugged along it occurred to me that I would have trouble finding the house again without assistance. I handled that in the only safe way I could think of — I didn’t pay the driver when I went inside the hotel, but left instructions with the English-speaking Head Porter that I might be in my room for quite a while, and if necessary he should make sure that the driver had a meal at my expense while he waited for me.
Chandra, thank Heaven, was in his office. Most of his days were spent at one or other of the family jute factories north of the city, and running him to earth there might have been difficult. He responded to my call for help with typical courtesy. I couldn’t tell how inconvenient my request might be. All he would say was, “I will come at once.”
While he was on the way I packed my cases in five minutes, checked out of my room in another three, and paced the lobby impatiently until he appeared. When he arrived I was trembling and my head was hurting like hell again, but Chandra was as unflappable as ever.
He took the page from me and studied it in silence for a couple of minutes. When he looked up his smooth face was puzzled.
“Can you understand it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The words? Certainly. But before I can tell what they mean I think we ought to take a look at this.” He tapped the sheet where the coded message appeared. “This part is clear enough. ‘CBC’ is the Central Bank of Calcutta , and I imagine this is simply the number of the Safety Deposit Box, and the code that we need to access it.”
“And the other messages?”
“I do not know about the English address. But the message here says that in the absence of Mr. Singh, household decisions are all to be made by Ameera, and that all bills are to be sent to the Central Bank of Calcutta for payment.” Chandra arched an eyebrow at me. “Do you know of the woman Ameera?”
“Yes.” It seemed to be time to tell Chandra more about everything, if he had time to listen. “Can you get what is in this safety deposit box?”
“I don’t see why not. But what am I to do with it?”
“Bring it with you to a house near here. The driver outside can give you directions how to get to it.”
Chandra looked at me again, but apparently decided to let further questions wait. We parted, and as the driver puttered his way back to the house I wondered again what I was going to do next. No matter what was in Leo’s safety deposit, I couldn’t see how it would take me any closer to the mystery of T.P. or the Belur Package.
Ameera was still missing. I spent the time until Chandra arrived looking again at the papers in the study, and confirming my intent to call Sir Westcott as soon as I could. Something was worse inside my head, and I had to know what it was.
I went upstairs to the bedroom and ran cold water over my hands and forehead. When I came down again Chandra was there, talking rapidly in Bengali to Chatterji. He had a package of papers under his arm.
“I think we must talk in private,” he said, and I led the way through to the study. His look suggested that I had to provide some explanations. I poured a brandy for each of us — Chandra, like me, had a good musician’s digestion — then told him everything I knew. His look changed slowly from skepticism to intrigue.
“You are two people now? Lionel and Leo? It is a tale from Hindu myth, Parmara and Peruma.” Chandra tapped the package he was holding. “Leo has a sense of humor, too. Did you know that this house is owned by a Mr. Singh?”
“Chatterji — the man you were talking to — called me Singh when first he saw me.”
“That was Leo’s joke. ‘Singh’ means ‘lion’ — just the same as Leo and Lionel do. This was Leo’s house, and according to these papers, you now own it and all its contents.” Chandra gave me an odd look. “All its contents. And that means you now have the responsibility for looking after them. Goods and people.”
“People! How many people? This house seems to be full of them.”
“Eight, according to Chatterji.” Chandra tapped the package again. “If you have worries about the cost of supporting them, this will reassure you. The assets that ‘Mr. Singh’ holds in the Central Bank of Calcutta are considerable. But there is one other complication.”
Chandra paused, and the look on his face told me I wouldn’t like what was coming.
“I don’t see how it could get much more complicated,” I said. “Eight servants and a house — I’ve never owned as much as a dog kennel before.”
He coughed. “Perhaps not. How much do you know of the Code of Manu — the forms of marriage ceremony that are practiced here?”