I wondered if Sam had taken leave of his senses. Trusting Colonel Dawson seemed as sensible as housetraining a tiger. But Sam’s ‘gut’ had told him otherwise and I had not demurred. I simply hoped his gut knew what it was doing.
Miss Grant offered to drive us to Dum Dum, which was most sporting of her. I sometimes wondered what she made of Captain Wyndham and me. Given the lengths to which Sam went, often with my reluctantly co-opted assistance, to meddle in her personal affairs, she could be forgiven for wishing a pox upon both of us. Yet, instead, she had provided me with refuge in my hour of need and was now acting as our chauffeur to North Calcutta when much of its environs were aflame. Sam had tried to convince her to let us simply take the car, but she had refused, rather forcefully if truth be told, on the grounds that the Lancia had cost a pretty penny and she doubted she might ever see it again if she let us take it. It was indeed a fair point.
There would be checkpoints en route, so I was forced to lie on the floor of the rear of the vehicle, masked by blankets and a picnic hamper, while Sam sat up front next to Miss Grant. If stopped, they would claim to be on a day trip to view the temples at Jessore, some seventy miles away, thus precipitating the early start. That, together with Sam’s police ID, should, we hoped, be enough to staunch any further inquiry.
Dum Dum comprised a military cantonment, a railway junction and the ordnance factory famous for one thing: the terrible Dum Dum bullet, which could crack a man’s skull as though it were a watermelon and which did such terrible damage to human flesh.
Miss Grant was what Sam referred to as ‘an eager driver’, and indeed her eagerness to get us there quickly was never in much doubt as she threw the car over potholes at a breakneck, suicidal speed. After twenty minutes of a most bruising ride, I felt the car slow to a stop.
There came a muffled voice: a soldier, I assumed, manning a checkpoint. I heard Sam reply. His tone was nonchalant, as though driving through Calcutta at four in the morning was the most natural of things. It must have worked, for the car was soon moving again and I resumed my joust with the potholes.
The sky was still dark when the car next stopped and Sam pulled the blankets from my head.
‘Rise and shine,’ he said. ‘We’ve work to do.’
I rose to find we’d stopped in an alley of ramshackle dwellings.
‘This isn’t the ordnance factory,’ I said.
‘Very perceptive,’ he said. ‘The factory’s a five-minute walk away. I thought we might scout out the terrain, just to make sure Dawson isn’t trying to double-cross us. And you could probably do with stretching your legs.’
‘You think of everything,’ I said.
Sam turned to Miss Grant. ‘You’d better head home. Dawson’s going to either blast us to Bombay or arrest us for murder and obstruction. Either way, you’d best be out of it.’
‘Right,’ she said, ‘but telephone me once you’ve met Dawson… just to let me know you’re OK.’
‘Your concern is most touching, Miss Grant,’ he said. ‘We shall most definitely call you, assuming Dawson hasn’t shot us first.’
He set off down the alley and I made to follow, but turned one last time.
‘Miss Grant,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
She looked at me with what I felt was sincere affection. ‘Take good care of yourself, Suren, and of Sam too. I’ll see you back in Calcutta.’
I turned to go.
‘And, Suren,’ she said, calling me from behind. ‘In future, I hope you’ll think twice before arresting my friends just because Sam tells you to.’
It was not quite five in the morning, yet a fair number of souls were already on the streets. Calcutta is a city that rises early in order to make the most of the cooler hours. The passers-by paid us scant attention, the morning chill ensuring they had enough to be getting on with and no time to waste gawking at strangers.
The munitions factory was ringed by a corps of armed troops. This too was unsurprising given the events of the past twenty-four hours. When people are rioting, it is sensible to protect a warehouse stocked with weapons and ammunition. Sam went ahead to seek out Dawson, while I loitered in the shadows.
He returned several minutes later, in the back seat of a military staff car driven by an Indian chauffeur.
‘Dawson sent his car,’ he said. ‘Get in.’
This time I had no cause to hide on the floor. A military car was unlikely to be stopped. Instead I sat back beside Sam.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see,’ he said. ‘I think I know what Dawson has in mind. And I think you’re going to hate it.’
The car sped on, through the waking streets of Dum Dum and out into the mist-laden country beyond. It was only as we passed a sign for the military airfield that the penny dropped. My stomach turned.
‘Are we?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we are.’
‘And you’re certain it is not a trap?’
‘Oh, quite.’
‘That is a shame,’ I said.
Dawson was waiting inside a hut close to where several flying contraptions stood looming like vultures.
‘Wyndham,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘And I see you’ve brought your friend. Good show. Now listen carefully. For the purposes of this journey and your time in Bombay, you are both employees of the Post Office.’
Sam and I exchanged a glance. Extracting some documents from his pocket, he turned to me.
‘Sergeant. Your name is Mr Nihar Dey. You are employed by the Post Office’s Calcutta division, travelling to Bombay on postal business. Accommodation has been arranged for you at the Far Bengal Guest House, close to Victoria Terminus. It’s Bengali-owned and is the natural home for travelling babus who find themselves in Bombay. Is that all clear?’
He handed me the papers and I examined them as a child would a new storybook. Alongside letters of introduction was a small booklet with a royal-blue cover, embossed with the lion and unicorn coat of arms and the words BRITISH INDIAN PASSPORT above it and INDIAN EMPIRE below. In a window at the bottom, the name MR N. DEY had been written in black ink.
‘A passport?’ I enquired. ‘Is it required for Bombay?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but it was the easiest document to procure at short notice.’
‘What Post Office business am I travelling to conduct?’
The colonel sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s irrelevant. No one is going to ask you, and if they do, make something up.’
He turned his attention to Sam.
‘Wyndham, you’re staying at Watson’s Hotel. If you don’t know where it is, ask a taxi driver when you get there.’
‘No secret identity for me?’
‘Last time I looked,’ said Dawson, ‘you weren’t a fugitive. You can travel under your own name. No one’s going to question you, but if they do, remember, you work for the Post Office. Now pay attention. There’s a transport leaving in half an hour. It’ll call at Cuttack, Nagpore and some other places en route, but it’ll get you to Bombay before Gulmohamed’s train arrives. Try not to talk to anyone during the flight and make sure you don’t leave the plane till it reaches its final destination, not even to stretch your legs. I can’t guarantee how long your cover is going to last. Once you have something to report, telephone me on the number I gave you. You do remember it, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam before pausing. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt if you were to write it down again.’