Night Train to Jamalpur Read online

  At four o’clock we all went to tea at the mansion of the Chief Locomotive Superintendent, a fellow called Ryan, late of the Midland Railway. Hughes barely said a word, and Fisher was his usual gracious self. Consequently the grandfather clock in the Ryans’ hot, dark drawing room seemed to have a very loud tick indeed, as I stood about eating Dundee cake and feeling spare. Mrs Ryan had tried her best to make things ‘go’. Summoning a bearer, she’d said, ‘There’s Darjeeling or Assam tea, Major Fisher. Or will you take a glass of sherry? Do say yes.’

  ‘No,’ was all I heard.

  After the tea party, Fisher performed his vanishing act again, retreating to his room in the hostel. Hughes suggested I might look in at the railway cinema, where a cowboy film was showing; he then cleared off. In the end, I watched some of the apprentices playing cricket. Evidently, these lads were so keen, they played right through the hot weather. Halfway through the game, it broke in on me that the clattering from the workshops had stopped, so that I heard only the spacious sounds of bat and ball, and the occasional shout of encouragement from the field.

  I was given a decent room, but I hardly slept. I was thinking about the night train.

  III

  Fifty miles short of Calcutta, Fisher, having set Colonel Philpott’s Hindustani guide aside, was reading . . . something else, while drawing on a Trichinopoly cigar. The Trichies were little, evil-smelling things, and he got through about forty a day. He appeared to be reading one of the engineering supplements of the Railway Magazine, but he held the thing folded in such a way that I couldn’t properly see, and I knew I’d be in for a dusty answer if I asked. So I put a different question.

  ‘Do you think the lifting of the Schedule C file had any bearing on the shooting?’

  Fisher lowered his magazine slightly.

  ‘You think they were coming after you?’

  ‘Given the state of the door, maybe. It’s not impossible, is it?’

  ‘It’s as good as. It was dacoits. You saw the buggers.’

  ‘But they might have been acting on behalf of someone else.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Whoever was named in the file.’

  ‘And we don’t know who that was, do we? Since you didn’t get round to reading it.’

  And he went back to his magazine.

  The time scheme was about right, it seemed to me. The named man, or men, had got wind of the incriminating file. They’d stolen it on Thursday. Once it was in their hands, they’d concluded I must have read through the thing. It then became imperative to do away with me before I could put about what was in it. For all they knew, I might have already had a copy of the file typed up, in which case they would be wasting their time by killing me, but that was a chance they were willing to take. They’d had Friday and a week-end in which to prepare, and they’d come for me on the Monday.

  Through the window slats, the dusty ground was a dazzling yellow. It was as if we were riding across the surface of the sun itself. I thought about Fisher. Which Calcutta hotel was he booked into? What, come to that, was his first name? Hang on, I did know that. I’d seen it on a chit delivered to him at the office: Noel. But therein lay another mystery. What had the chit said? I would have given fortunes to read it, since it was written in a very elegant hand. Was it to do with our investigations? I did not believe so. Perhaps it had been an invitation. Fisher, a single man in a city of dances and parties, must have had a social life of some sort, but to the best of my knowledge, the only club he belonged to was the Tollygunge, on the southern edge of town, which was famous for its golf course. I believed Fisher was good at golf. It was one of the subjects he would read books about, together with the Hindustani language and odd aspects of railway engineering.

  I leant forward and said to Fisher, ‘When you play golf at the Tolly, who do you play?’

  ‘Generally go round alone,’ he muttered, from behind his magazine.

  ‘What’s the sub?’ I said. ‘Twenty quid a year, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  Well, there wasn’t much chance of that.

  I sat back; a golden flash came through the window. I closed my eyes against it, and the syncopation of the carriage put me into a short dream. I saw Indian trains coming up with the sunrise. I saw myself in a compartment, pointing a pistol at the head of John Young. How dare he drain Loch Lomond? The gun went off, and the watch-and-ward men were in the compartment doorway: ‘You are committing nuisance! It is strictly prohibited!’ A moment later, that train compartment was a cell in the Alipore Jail and Fisher was pacing about outside. I heard him shouting, ‘Get in there and watch that bugger!’ But I wasn’t bothered about Fisher; there was something called an electric rope on the floor of the cell, and I knew that at any minute, it would turn into a king cobra.

  I awoke with alarm. I had not meant to sleep in the presence of Fisher. It was the noise of our compartment door being dragged open that had roused me. The train was hurtling along, and my sola topee was rolling quickly back and forth on the luggage rack. In the doorway stood a ticket checker, a European. He was staring at Fisher.

  ‘Recognise me?

  Fisher put down his reading and eyed the man. ‘You’re a ticket inspector.’

  ‘Chief Ticket Inspector . . . Many countries but one empire!’

  Fisher continued to eye the man.

  ‘Why, it’s the slogan of the Boys’ Empire League!’ said the ticket man. ‘We’re comrades, the pair of us . . . animated by that noble spirit of fair play that commands the respect of the world.’

  After eyeing him for a little longer, Fisher said, ‘Are you going to inspect our tickets or not?’

  ‘You didn’t recognise me,’ said the ticket inspector. ‘But I recognise you. It’s Noel, isn’t it? Noel Fisher. I’m Tommy Melrose! From the Peckham branch! Do you remember Bill Barclay? He’s living on Lake Tanganyika. In a boat! And Dickie Watson? He’s farming in New South Wales. You wouldn’t believe how many sheep he’s got. He doesn’t even know himself. Only trouble is, it’s mutton for breakfast, mutton for luncheon, mutton for . . .’

  Fisher had removed his authority to travel from his pocket book. He passed it towards the ticket inspector. ‘Warrant card for temporary staff,’ he said, ‘I think you’ll find it in order. He has one the same,’ he added, indicating me. The ticket inspector took the document.

  ‘Major Fisher, is it?’ he said, ‘. . . and travelling in first class. By the way, I hope you’ve checked this compartment for snakes?’ He attempted a laugh, but it was difficult under the weight of Fisher’s stare. He handed back the warrant card. ‘I always knew you’d get on. What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Hush-hush, is it? You really don’t remember me?

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Thought I was going crackers for a minute.’

  The ticket man turned to me. ‘Always the man of mystery, was Noel. He once said to me that he meant to come out east and make a fortune, but when I asked how, he wouldn’t let on. You don’t hear much about the old BEL these days. Half a dozen of us founded the Peckham Branch; we had a concert – raised five pounds. The Mayor gave the vote of thanks, wished us every success . . .’

  Fisher was staring out the window at passing palm trees. It was strange to hear the cockney voice in conjunction with those.

  ‘You can find me any day of the week, Noel, in the running men’s mess at Howrah.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Fisher, and the man dragged the door shut and departed.

  It was now my turn to eye Fisher. As I did so, he lit a Trichinopoly cigar, and I believed it was to cover his confusion.

  There were now chimneys among the palm trees, for we were approaching the Calcutta suburbs. Soon we would come to the sidings and godowns of the railway lands of Howrah, where many strange freights could be seen: the occasional elephant, or opium in special vans . . . but opium was packed and transported only when
the weather was right.

  Peering through the venetian slats, I saw goods yards, goods sheds, coal yards . . . women carrying coal in baskets on their heads; a tender waiting to receive coal with a ladder up its side. It was the easiest way to carry things – on your head. We ran past the two godowns and adjacent foreman’s bungalow that had been burnt. That had been a famous scandal of a few weeks before my arrival, an outrage that had been put down to the ‘Ghandi volunteers’.

  Fisher did not leave off reading until we came under the roof of Howrah, whereupon he stood up and, reaching for his sola topee, said, ‘Will your man be waiting for us?’ I gave a nod, and we climbed down.

  Howrah station smelt of past burning, like the ash pan of a dead fire – that and curry, of course. The light was the colour of dark gold. The sea of people swirled us past ‘Refreshment Room, European’; ‘Refreshment Room, Moslem’; ‘Refreshment Room, Hindu Vegetarian’, among other refreshment rooms. We showed our privilege passes at the gate, and came to the circulating area. Unfortunately not even the air was circulating, let alone the people. All around the booking offices, the shops, the tea and cake stalls, Indians were sitting or lying down, waiting. They liked waiting.

  As we approached the ticket gate, I began looking out for ‘my man’.

  I had a Gurkha police sergeant – a havildar – assigned to me, name of Deo Rana.

  Many of the best of the railway police constables were Gurkhas. Major Fisher had been offered his own man, but he’d found him ‘a bloody clever dick . . . so he can go off and mutter behind somebody else’s back.’ I thought the true reason was that he didn’t want anyone observing him closely, and finding out what he was really up to.

  Deo Rana was a slow-burning fellow, good in a scrap I should imagine, and yet thoughtful with it. He spoke Nepalese, which was his native tongue; also Hindustani, some Bengali and some English. But he usually kept silence: his face habitually carried about as much expression as a block of wood, and when I spoke to him he would rock his Chinese-looking head from side to side, as though saying ‘no’, refusing my remark. By this, he didn’t mean ‘no’; he might even have meant ‘yes’, and whether this was a habit with all the Gurkhas or just Deo, I could not have said.

  He’d been warned of our arrival, and he waited at the ticket gate, as I walked up with Fisher in tow. Making a brief bow, Deo Rana lead us to towards a police tonga waiting specially for us

  As we climbed up, I said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, Deo, but a fellow was killed on the train on our way out.’

  ‘Killed how? Snake?’ (Because he’d heard of the snakes like everybody else.)

  ‘Lead poisoning,’ said Fisher, lighting one of his bloody Trichies.

  ‘Shot,’ I said, by way of translation.

  Deo Rana asked, ‘Indian? English?’

  ‘Blacky-white,’ said Fisher.

  ‘And how is?’

  ‘Napoo,’ said Fisher.

  ‘Sahib?’

  ‘Bloke threw a seven.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘He bought the bloody farm, didn’t he?’

  ‘Explain please.’

  ‘Don’t you understand English, man? He’s copped it; dead.’

  A bit later, when we were stopped in the traffic on the Howrah Bridge, Deo Rana spoke again: ‘I hope it was one criminal, sahib, shot by police.’

  I told him the victim seemed to be far from a criminal, and I gave him all the data we had.

  I then looked out through the slats of the tonga window. Only the rickshaw-wallahs could find their way through the block – stick men, they were, whereas their passengers were almost always large Europeans, lying like so many giant babies in so many giant prams. I heard the bleating of a motorcycle horn. A native police team was coming up, weaving through the tongas and motors: sergeant and inspector, both in white, and with spikes on their sola topees.

  On finally gaining the east bank, we turned right on to Strand Road. At the Armenian Ghat, thoughtful-looking Hindus stood waist-deep and fully clothed in the khaki-coloured water of the Hooghly River. A big ship was coming, just passing the High Court. They would have to open the bridge for that, and the blocks would be bad for hours after. The ship hooted, making a boom that had in fact seemed to be there all along, a combination of the rattling tongas, ticking rickshaws, roaring motors, street trader cries – a perfect headache of din and dazzle. The traders were all along the Strand pavements: mostly one-man outfits, a dirty umbrella to keep the sun off, an upturned crate with maybe oranges on top, maybe candles or home-made cigarettes. In York, all these blokes would be counted ‘doubtful traders’ and closed down by the council. I looked at them with a kind of morbid fascination. If those chaps could shift a matchbox or a candle every half hour, then perhaps, depending on what they charged . . . but then I would see their women, and their babies rolling in the road before them, and I would abandon the speculation as hopeless.

  We turned into Fairlie Place, where we climbed down from the tonga. We were adjacent to the steps leading to the wide marble principal booking hall of the East Indian Railway headquarters. When I had first come to Calcutta, this place had puzzled me. Why locate a booking office half an hour’s walk from the station it served? Actually, that was the whole point. The booking office was not smudged by the nearness of soot and smoke. This was clean travelling, with the centrepiece, behind the clerks: the giant pink, white and green tiled map of India. But that was only the public part of the giant Moorish-looking castle that was the East Indian Railway HQ, and Fisher now turned and entered the courtyard of the castle . . . while I remained in Fairlie Place with Deo Rana.

  I asked him whether he’d been to the railway lands today. He shook his head, meaning yes, he had.

  ‘See many dodges going on?’

  ‘Many. And, sahib, I saw the snake men.’

  I assumed he meant a squad of snake charmers. There were plenty at Howrah.

  I said, ‘Do you think the snake men know about the snake man? The fellow putting the snakes on the trains?’

  ‘That is possibility.’

  I said, ‘I’d like to take it on, but it’s not our investigation. I mean . . . if the villain were sharping the railway, instead of doing people in . . .’

  ‘Sahib, snake men steal from the railway.’

  ‘Steal what?’

  ‘Rats.’

  I eyed him. ‘But the railway has plenty of rats to spare, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Snake men need many rats. Take, take all time – give nothing. They should give, sahib.’

  ‘Give what?’

  ‘Informations.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll pay a call.’

  ‘Go tomorrow, sahib. Soon.’

  ‘Keen on snakes, are you Deo?’

  ‘I like them very much, sahib. You will be bringing money.’

  ‘Baksheesh?’

  He shook his head, meaning yes.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten . . . Fifteen.’

  Fifteen rupees. That was more than baksheesh. Deo Rana gave a half bow and departed into the bustle of Fairlie Place. His working day was over, and he was going home. I believed that he lived on the police lines near the jute mill on the other side of the river.

  IV

  I nodded at the police sentry in his box, one of half a dozen who took turns to guard the main entrance to the courtyard. Neither of the two who’d been on duty during the night when the Schedule C file was nicked had seen any ‘stranger’ enter the courtyard. But it was not unknown for them to make a bed of the table in the little guard house, and there were other ways into the castle for strangers and non-strangers alike who had the right keys or were in the know.

  Some tongas waited in the cobbled courtyard, and two motors. Around the perimeter were palm plants in highly polished brass pots. Two of the courtyard walls had verandas halfway up and here stood white-suited Europeans in sola topees, men of the railway detective force. There were some uniformed men in addition, both
Indian and European. A sort of late tiffin was going on up there, with bearers moving between the men. Punkas flapped above them, like so many giant birds trying to take off. It was amazing how many police a single railway could throw up.

  In one corner of the courtyard was a rickety, hot iron staircase that seemed like an afterthought. Its potted palms were half-dead, and by the time you got to the top it was just stony soil in the pots, and a good many cigarette stubs. But this was the quickest way to the offices of the detective division. I climbed the staircase and opened the door at the top, entering a gloomy corridor with small scruffy rooms running off. All was khaki coloured, right down to the twirling fans, which were all thoroughly stained by cigarette smoke. Anyone might climb the iron stairs and enter the office of the detective division, since the door was always kept unlocked. I heard:

  ‘Well you’ve got a bloody lunatic on your hands, haven’t you?’

  It was Fisher’s voice, coming from an office whose door stood open. It belonged to Superintendent Christopher Bennett, who sat at a small, battered desk with Fisher facing him. Bennett ushered me into the room, and there was no spare chair so I leaned against the peeling wall. They were talking about snakes.

  ‘It’s the damnedest thing,’ Bennett was saying. ‘The day before yesterday, the information clerk came in here with a report of a snake bite in a first class compartment at Bally. The fellow went out, and he was back five minutes later with a second flash: “Another instance of same, sahib.”’

  ‘Where was the second?’ I asked.

  ‘Khana Junction.’