“An’ take the dollars?”
“They may not still be on offer.”
“Be a pity to lose all that lovely money,” Joby said. “A real pity.”
Fletcher was inclined to agree with him on that point.
He walked down to the Treasure Ship in the evening and bought himself a drink. Fat Annie served him.
“Had any more Leopards throwing their weight about?” Fletcher asked.
Annie shook her head, agitating the folds of flesh under her chin. “No, we ain’t. Don’t want none, neither. We had the cops, though.”
“The police! What did they want?”
“Wanted to know where Mr. Dharam Singh lived.”
“And I suppose you told them?”
“Why not? Ain’t no secret.”
“That’s true,” Fletcher said. “When was this?”
Annie glanced at the brass clock on the wall behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, mebbe. Somethin’ wrong, Mist’ Fletcher?”
“I hope not,” Fletcher said. “I just hope not.”
He finished the drink quickly and left Fat Annie in the Treasure Ship with a faintly puzzled expression on her broad expanse of face.
The front door of Dharam Singh’s house was standing open and he could see the electric bulb shining in the glass chandelier. There was a big black car parked outside the house with nobody in it, and there were lights showing in the upper windows but there was not a peep of sound coming from up there. The sisters appeared to be keeping themselves very quiet, so perhaps they had heard the police car arrive and had decided it might be wise to attract as little attention as possible. If there were any visitors on the premises, they seemed to be keeping their heads down, too.
He did not bother to ring the bell, but walked straight in. He was damned if he knew why he did so, since the police were just about the last people he wanted to see right then; but there was a kind of compulsion driving him, an irresistible curiosity regarding what was going on. It might have nothing whatever to do with him — and he hoped it had not — but he was afraid it might, and that was the devil of it; he was only too much afraid it might.
The hall was deserted, but he knew where they were because he could hear them. He turned to the left and went down a short passageway and found himself in the doorway of the studio. The place was in a hell of a mess. There were two policemen in uniform and they had iron-tipped batons with which they appeared to be breaking everything in sight. There was another heavily-built man in plain clothes who was evidently directing operations, and Dharam Singh was there with some blood trickling from his mouth, which seemed to indicate that he had attempted to protect his property and had received a blow in the face for his pains. Mrs. Singh was there too, holding her husband’s hand and watching with a horrified expression the destruction that was taking place. The rest of the family were keeping out of sight, which was probably the wisest thing to do.
When Dharam Singh saw Fletcher he tore himself away from his wife, ran to the door and grabbed Fletcher’s arm.
“Mr. Fletcher, sir, tell them to stop. Tell them I am an honest, innocent man. Tell them I have done nothing wrong. Mr. Fletcher, my dear sir, I beseech you, I beg of you, save me from ruin.”
“But what’s going on?” Fletcher asked.
“What is going on!” Dharam Singh raised both hands above his head in a gesture of despair. “Oh, my goodness, you ask what is going on! Do you not see? They are destroying everything, everything. How can I do my work if all is gone? How can I live? How can I earn bread for my family? Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Fletcher, sir, what is to become of me?”
“There must have been some mistake.”
“A mistake! Oh, my goodness, yes, a mistake!” Dharam Singh gave a hysterical laugh. “And the mistake will cost me all I possess. That is the kind of mistake it is. What am I to do? Tell me, good sir, what am I to do?”
Fletcher had no idea what to advise the photographer to do, and he still could not understand why the policemen were there; but he had no further chance of discussing the matter with Dharam Singh because the plain-clothes policeman came across to him and said:
“Are you Mr. Fletcher? Mr. John Fletcher?”
“I am,” Fletcher said; and had a sudden wish that he might have been somebody else.
“My name’s McIver — Sergeant McIver.” The policeman flipped open a warrant card, and the name was there sure enough. “You’ve saved us a bit of trouble. We were coming for you.”
It sounded ominous to Fletcher, and his stomach gave a kind of flutter. “For me? Why?”
“We have to take you to Jamestown. Colonel Vincent wants to see you.”
“At this hour! Can’t it wait until morning?”
Sergeant McIver shook his head. It was a large head, like a block of ebony topped by a narrow-brimmed straw hat. “No, sir, it cannot wait. There’s a car standing outside.”
“I saw it.”
“You and Mr. Singh will both come with us to Jamestown.” He snapped an order at the two uniformed men. They stopped smashing things; there was little left to smash anyway.
Dharam Singh began to protest volubly. Sergeant McIver struck him on the mouth with the back of his hand, causing more blood to flow and silencing the protests.
“You didn’t have to do that‚” Fletcher said.
Mclver stared at him coldly. “Are you telling me how to do my work?”
“I’m saying it wasn’t necessary to hit the man.”
“Look,” Mclver said, “I’ll decide what’s necessary. You just do what you’re told. Okay?”
Fletcher shrugged. It was no use arguing.
“Let’s go,” Mclver said.
Mrs. Singh clung to her husband and started wailing, as though she saw them being parted for ever. One of the uniformed policemen tore her away from him while the other took Dharam Singh by the arm and marched him out of the room. He went quietly, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief, apparently resigned to his fate. Fletcher was resigned also; he went with the others out of the house and got into the car. One of the uniformed men drove, with Sergeant McIver sitting beside him. The other policeman sat in the back with Fletcher and Dharam Singh. Mrs. Singh watched them go, weeping and wringing her hands in despair.
Colonel Vincent looked at Fletcher in silence for a while. Captain Green was also present. It was, Fletcher reflected, a kind of reunion; but it was not one he would have wished to attend. He did not think he was very much in favour with these two men; the way Colonel Vincent was looking at him certainly indicated that he was not.
He had been separated from Dharam Singh. Singh had been led away by Sergeant McIver, a tragic expression on his face, and Fletcher had no idea what was going to happen to him. He was completely in the dark regarding the nature of Dharam Singh’s crime — if there had been a crime.
At last Colonel Vincent gave a sigh. “You did not tell me everything‚” he said.
Fletcher tried to give the impression of a man who did not understand. “Not everything?”
“Yesterday — when you came to report the discovery of a sunken boat and five dead men. You made us believe that you had given a full and complete account of the incident; but you had not. There was one important detail that you had omitted, wasn’t there?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Can’t you? If that is so you must have a very short memory. But I don’t believe that. I believe you are perfectly well aware of the detail I am referring to and that you purposely omitted it because you did not wish us to know about it. Mr. Fletcher, why didn’t you tell us you took photographs of the boat and the men?”
“What makes you think I took photographs?” Fletcher asked; and he was wondering why Dharam Singh should have told them and why they should have rewarded him for the information by smashing up his studio and taking him into custody. It seemed a very ungrateful thing to do.