Pistol in hand, Joe and Edgar went silently to stand on either side of the door. They heard no sound. Edgar pushed the door and went in first. Joe slipped in behind him. Instinctively they put some distance between themselves, crouching back to back, each covering a sector of the room. In the darkness they could see nothing save for the small oil lamp that burned at the far side. As Joe’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that the lamp was standing on a carved stone counter which ran around the circumference of the room. The flame reflected off the metal lids of three coffers built into the stone but if they had expected to catch the Resident with his hand in the honey pot up to the armpit, they were disappointed.
They crept further apart, peering and blinking at the shadows.
‘Guns on the floor! Now!’ a voice behind Joe commanded. He felt the cold kiss of a revolver barrel in the nape of his neck.
‘Move together!’
Joe heard the finality with which his Browning and Edgar’s smacked against the stone floor as they fell. As soon as Claude had herded them close together he would kill them with two quick shots. And inside this stone coffin who would hear? Ajit would and he would lay siege but he would not intervene in a shoot-out between Westerners.
Joe’s only weapon was words and a psychological understanding of Claude. He wanted to goad the icily calm killer at his back into responding to him and he thought he knew just the formula to annoy.
‘You do know that they’ll scrub your name from the honour roll at Haileybury?’ he said in an easy, conversational tone. ‘A man like you, Claude? Why would you do this?’
‘Quiet, Sandilands! Move over towards the lamp. Both of you!’
‘Why risk everything? You have power, position, the love of a beautiful woman and a glittering future. Enough for any man, I’d have thought. Why gamble all that for a fistful of baubles? You must be mad!’
But Claude was not to be drawn into a discussion. Before he took a step further from Claude, Joe resolved to throw himself backwards on to the gun. If he absorbed the first bullet it would give Edgar a chance to act. He tensed his muscles. Feet slightly apart, he eased his weight on to the balls of his feet. And then he heard a cynical bark of laughter from behind.
‘Power? Love? For how long? This is a sinking ship we’re all on! Haven’t you worked that out yet, Mr Detective? Have you any idea what the rewards are in this post? An insult! I may earn a little more than they pay a second-eleven character like you for keeping the streets of London clear of filth but not much. Rise as high as you like – it’s hardly worth the effort. And what do we look forward to when the Raj finally packs its bags and slopes off back to the West? A small pension, a modest house overlooking the South Downs? Perhaps I could call it Ranipur Lodge and have an elephant’s foot umbrella stand in the hall next to the Benares brass dinner gong? I would treat my friends to a chota peg before tiffin and bore them rigid with stories that start, “When I was in Poona . . .”’ He spoke with bitter emphasis.
‘No. That’s not for me. My horizons are wider, my ambitions deeper. But I see it’s for you, Sandilands, or could be if you had any time left. Edgar – he’s too old a leopard to change his spots so I won’t make the mistake of making him an offer. What would you like? A bangle each to look the other way for an hour? Easier to shoot you both dead and be done with it.’
‘It’s not too late. Give me the gun and I’ll arrange for you to withdraw discreetly,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not as if there was anything in those pots anyway. And when you leave, empty-handed, you’ll run into Ajit Singh who’s waiting outside.’
An impatient sigh greeted this attempt. ‘Clown! Two hours ago when I came to check, there were emeralds and rubies the size of pigeon’s eggs and that’s for starters.’
Now that he had his targets standing close together on the opposite side of the room, Claude, still covering them, moved over to the coffers and tapped the lid of the central one. ‘You can plunge your arm into a king’s ransom. Far more than I need to complete my plans.’
‘Sorry, old man!’ said Edgar, gloating. ‘That was two hours ago. You don’t think Ajit Singh stands still, do you? A good deal can happen in two hours. The whole lot has been carted off. Why do you suppose they only left one elderly guard by the door? It’s a trap to lure you in! And here you are – trapped! Don’t be a bloody fool and give up everything for a not-so-lucky dip into an empty bran-tub!’
Sneering, Claude lifted the lid with his left hand and plunged it into the coffer. They watched, fascinated, as his sneer turned into a grimace of astonishment and then a rictus of horror. He pulled out a hand dripping with precious stones which caught the flickering light and reflected it back in a dazzle of colour. With a shuddering cry, Claude dropped the necklaces on the floor. One item remained hanging from his hand. Not glowing. Not reflecting the light. A wriggling dark shape. About a foot long.
The boom of the small Browning M was ear-shattering in the small space. Eyes riveted on Claude, Joe had barely noticed Edgar’s quick snatch to the back of his belt. The small black gun which he had last seen clutched in Bahadur’s hand was hardly visible in Edgar’s huge fist but its fire power was undeniable.
Claude stood, his body shaking with horror, his eyes unable to leave his left hand which still clutched the remnants of the object shattered by Edgar’s shot. Finally he found his voice. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘A krait,’ said Edgar calmly. ‘Looked like a krait to me. Young one. But just as lethal.’
‘Help me, for God’s sake!’
‘No one could help you. You know that,’ said Edgar without expression. ‘Ten times as venomous as a cobra. You’ve landed right in the mulligatawny, old man.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘Ten minutes? A quarter of an hour?’
Claude staggered to the door. Raising his revolver he fired three shots into the air, paused and then two more. He came back into the room and faced them, waving his gun carelessly. He smiled his lopsided boyish smile. ‘One shot left. Whose shall it be?’ he asked. The barrel wavered over Joe and then over Edgar and finally he raised it to his own forehead. ‘Fifteen more minutes of your company, gentlemen? I think not.’
With an agility Joe had no idea he possessed, Edgar leapt on to Claude and knocked the gun from his hand.
‘Edgar! What the hell!’ said Joe. ‘For God’s sake, let him go cleanly!’
‘Sorry, Joe. I’d much rather he didn’t have any bullet holes in him when we haul his carcase back to Delhi. Death by natural causes, misadventure, whatever you like to call it. Anyone can get themselves killed by a krait out here. No explanation necessary. Just stay put for a few minutes. We’ll wait for him to die.’
Seeing his implacable face Joe understood Sir George’s game. Send in Sandilands to sniff out the troublemakers and leave it to Edgar to make sure they are not left lying around in an untidy state to embarrass the Raj. Udai Singh had suggested as much before he died. ‘We plan our last hunt, Edgar.’
‘No. You can wait for him to die! Those shots he fired were a signal. I’m going to find out who was listening for them.’
Joe ran with Ajit back towards the palace, panting out an explanation as they ran, ashamed that although he had twenty years of youth on his side, he could barely keep up with the Rajput’s loping stride. With lungs that threatened to implode at any second, Joe was relieved to be called to a halt by Ajit.
‘Listen!’ He pointed to the airfield.
‘A plane? Starting up? But who the hell?’
‘So that is how he was planning to leave!’ said Ajit triumphantly.
‘But Ajit . . . didn’t you say you’d drained all the fuel out of the planes?’
‘That is true. But . . .’ He paused and looked consideringly at Joe then with a narrow smile went on, ‘I left enough in the two-seater, if anyone were careless enough not to check, or in too great a hurry, to allow the pilot to take off and fly . . .’ He hesitated again and then finished, ‘. . . for a mile or two.’
Anger and despair sent Joe running on again, screaming uselessly to the pilot to stop. Of course he could not be heard above the din of the engine and the whirring of the propellers but he went on, shouting and waving his arms. As he neared the airfield, the plane gathered itself to make its dash down the runway and he looked on hopelessly as the figure in the rear seat caught sight of him and gave back a laconic wave. A black stocking mask covered the head, the obscene pigtail streaming out behind as the plane gathered speed.
Ajit had been joined by Ram and a squad of men who ran about quietly and purposefully. In no time saddled horses appeared and Ajit invited Joe to ride with him into the desert stretching ahead of the plane. Dry-mouthed and exhausted, Joe hung on, for the first time in his life unable to enjoy riding a horse. After one mile at a gallop the horses were still going strong but the plane was getting well ahead of them. Joe found he was praying that by some magic it would stay in the sky. Perhaps a store of spare fuel had been found? There was no change of engine note, no sound of distress from the plane. Joe would have liked to call a halt to this mad dash into the desert but Ajit rode on, firm as a rock in the saddle, the gleam of the hunter in his eye.
A further mile out and the horses were beginning to blow when Joe heard the sound he had dreaded. A cough from the plane ahead. A splutter of protest and it began to fall from the sky.
‘Glide it down, for God’s sake!’ Joe muttered under his breath. ‘Come on! Pull the nose up, you bloody fool!’
But with an unshakeable inevitability the plane continued its downward dive. It crashed on to its nose half a mile ahead of them.
They tethered their horses and approached the wreck carefully, one from each side. They had nothing to fear from the pilot who was lying across the fuselage, neck at a deadly angle. Joe knelt by the cockpit and gently began to roll back the stocking mask, no longer alarming but pathetic. As he tugged it away, the auburn hair of Lois Vyvyan spilled out to cover her bloodstained and shattered face.