McColl sat back in the upright seat. “My name is Stuart,” he began spontaneously. “Charles Stuart. I assume that anything I say in this room will be treated with the utmost confidentiality.” He was speaking Urdu, hoping to show the detective that he wasn’t a complete beginner where India was concerned.
“Of course, Mr. Stuart,” Mirza said. “I must say, your Urdu is excellent,” he went on in English. “Which language would you prefer to use?”
“Your English is also excellent,” McColl said.
“I was in the army for eighteen years. Subahdar-major, Sixty-Sixth Punjabi Rifles.”
McColl was impressed, which was presumably the intention. “May I inquire as to why you changed careers?” he asked, thinking it a good idea to find out as much as he could about his prospective employee.
“It was time for a change,” Mirza said, not at all disconcerted by the question. “And—perhaps I should not say this; I do not wish to be political—but I had risen as far as is possible for someone like myself, and it is not a good feeling to pass down orders to brave young men knowing that those orders are not sensible.”
“The Sixty-Sixth were in Mesopotamia, yes?” McColl asked. They seemed to have settled on English as their lingua franca.
“Indeed so.”
“Then I can sympathize with your feelings.” Compared to the Mesopotamian campaign, the one on the Somme had been almost inspired.
The Indian nodded absent-mindedly, as if the memories had taken over for a moment.
“And so you became a ‘consulting detective?’”
“Yes. I’m sure you recognize the phrase.” He smiled brightly. “I read my first Holmes omnibus in Kut-al-Amara, during the siege, and it was the only book I had in the Turkish prison camp. Which turned out to be a good thing. But that is often the case, is it not? The darker the place, the easier it is to see the light.” He stroked his mustache again. “So, to business, Mr… . I assume Stuart is not your real name, and I assume you’re in trouble with the British authorities?”
“What makes you think so?” McColl asked, thinking he already knew the answer. What other reason would a European have for visiting an Indian private detective?
“There is a faint line around your head dividing two areas of skin, one slightly darker than the other. Since the exact curvature of this line is unique to those wearing Afghan turbans, I must assume that you have been disguising yourself as a tribesman, and since you have come to me for help, it seems unlikely that you’ve been dressing that way in the service of the king-emperor.”
McColl smiled. “I’m impressed,” he said. “But I’m afraid I have only a straightforward task for you. I want you to find some people for me.”
Mirza picked up his pen and pulled a sheet of paper onto his blotting pad, looking slightly disappointed. “Very well. Who are they?”
“Three men. An American named Aidan Brady, a Russian named Sergei Piatakov, an Indian—a Bengali—named Durga Chatterji. They are probably staying somewhere together—the American and Russian almost certainly so.”
“A group like that should not be hard to find in Delhi,” Mirza suggested.
“They will not be making themselves obvious. They’ll probably be staying in a private house and rarely, if ever, going out.”
“Why is that?”
“I would rather not say.”
“Ah. But you are certain they are here in Delhi?” The detective seemed more interested now.
“Yes.”
“Very well. Can you give me descriptions?”
McColl did so, relying on memory for Brady, Caitlin’s account for Piatakov, and the photograph that Cumming had shown him for Chatterji. Mirza wrote it all down in bright blue ink, his British-made pen scratching at the rough Indian paper.
“I very much doubt they’ll be staying in the Civil Lines,” McColl added. “They’ll be avoiding any contact with the British authorities.”
Mirza looked even more interested. “Curiouser and curiouser. But that will make my job easier,” he went on. “White faces stand out anywhere else.” He put his pen down.
“May I ask how you intend to proceed?” McColl asked, hoping he wasn’t breaking some arcane rule of etiquette. “Speed is important, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. Did you happen to notice a group of boys outside?”
McColl nodded.
“They are my ‘Baker Street Irregulars,’” he said with a wide smile. “Or ‘Ballimaran Road Irregulars’ might be more correct. They will scour the city for your friends. One day, perhaps, two days at most. If these men are still in Delhi, the boys will find them.”
“Good. When they do, I want the men watched. I want to know who comes to see them, where they go, and whom they meet if they do go out. Can you manage all that?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.” McColl removed a tattered wallet from his pocket. “Now, what are your fees?”
“We can settle accounts when the case is concluded.”
McColl demurred. “I would feel happier if you accepted a deposit. As you can see, I’m not wearing a turban today and rather more visible than I want to be.”
Mirza grinned at him. “Very well. My rates are fifteen rupees a day.”
McColl counted out three ten-rupee notes from the money Sinha had loaned him. “Take this for now,” he said, passing it across. “And you will need to know where I am staying,” he added with only the faintest of misgivings. If he wanted Mirza to do the job, he had to trust him that much.
“I was about to ask that very thing,” Mirza told him.
McColl gave him Sinha’s address, which caused the detective to raise an eyebrow. He said nothing, though.
“When you leave a message, leave it for Mr. Stuart,” McColl said.
“That is most clear.”
McColl got up. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope to hear from you soon.” He turned to wish Dr. Din farewell, but this Holmes’s Watson was fast asleep.
The Indian Mrs. Hudson was still vigorously kneading her dough on the staircase. Komarov would have been more than a little amused, McColl thought as he went down the stairs.
“You checked with the railway authorities?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked Nigel Morley.
As far as Alex Cunningham could tell, the IPI chief hadn’t moved since the previous day. Fitzwilliam was sitting in the same chair, wearing the same clothes, and seemed to be halfway through the same drink. His copy of the Eastern Mail, however, though lying in much the same position, boasted a different front page. And his mood was undoubtedly darker.
“Yes, sir,” Morley replied, glancing at Cunningham for corroboration. Cunningham was more concerned with the throbbing headache that a surfeit of port and the Webley butt had left him with.
“And?” the colonel asked with exaggerated indifference.
“Nothing. Only seven Europeans bought tickets at the booking office in the last twenty-four hours, and they’ve all been accounted for. If he’s traveling in native disguise, then no one noticed.”
“They wouldn’t,” Cunningham said, stirring himself. “McColl spent three months in Afghanistan and Turkestan in 1916 without getting caught. He knows the languages, knows the area, knows how to blend in. He’s very tanned. And there are so many different communities in Delhi that anyone looking at him twice would assume he came from one of the others. If he’s gone, there won’t be any traces.”
“But has he?” the colonel wondered out loud. He turned his gaze from the garden to Cunningham. “Do you think he has?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if he hasn’t?” the colonel insisted. “You talked to him. Is he likely to do anything with his knowledge? I mean, is he the sort of chap to take things personally?”