voice, mild, clear and low, held the same ambivalence as his appearance; its serenity had a calming effect, but it left disturbing echoes behind in the mind, like the still, small voice of conscience.
‘It is not for me,’ he said courteously, smiling at the police officer, ‘to ask questions in what must seem no affair of mine. Though as a friend of the child’s father, I cannot but be concerned for her safety.’
And, perhaps it was not for him to ask, but he had made it clear that he would like to be told, and the Sikh officer told him. The large-lidded, intelligent brown eyes proceeded from one face to another, acknowledging the characters in the drama, smiling benignly upon Tossa and Dominic, brooding impassively over the small dead body now covered with a white sheet from the sun and the stares.
‘It would seem,’ he said at length, ‘that someone who knew of Miss Kumar’s gift and request to Arjun Baba conceived the idea of making use of that incident to lure her here, so that she might be abducted. It was necessary to the scheme that Arjun Baba should be removed both to get possession of the token, and also so that someone else could take his place, and wait here for the girl. It seems, therefore – do you not agree? – that though we have here two crimes, we have but one criminal.’
‘That is my conclusion also, Swami,’ said the Sikh respectfully.
‘It would therefore be well, would it not, to concentrate on solving the crime which affords the best possibility, first, of salvaging something from the harm intended, and, second, of affording a sporting chance of arresting the criminal.’ His varied and surprising vocabulary he used with the lingual dexterity of a publicist, but with the absent serenity of one conversing with himself. ‘Arjun Baba here is dead and cannot be saved. But the girl is alive and must be kept alive to be worth money, and therefore she can be saved if we are circumspect. And upon the second count – he who killed Arjun Baba has now no interest but to remove himself from here and hide himself utterly. But he who has taken the child
‘Exactly, Swami. And therefore it is clear that we must concentrate on the kidnapping of the girl, and we shall thereby also find our murderer.’
‘You are excellently lucid, Inspector,’ said the Swami with admiration and relief. ‘You make everything clear to me. You would conclude also, if I follow you correctly, that since the father is not here and knows nothing of this crime, there are now two possibilities: either the criminal knows where to find him, and will approach him directly; or he does not know, and will therefore approach the equally plutocratic mother. Or, of course, her representatives.’ His benign but unequal gaze dwelt upon Tossa and Dominic, and returned guilelessly to the Sikh Inspector of Police. ‘I am glad that so serious a case has fallen into the hands of such an intelligent officer. If there should be any way in which I can help, call upon me. You know where our Delhi office is situated?’
‘I know, Swami. Everyone knows.’
‘Good! Whatever I can do for Satyavan and his daughter I will do. And this boy may be left in charge of this house? It would be well, and I will vouch for him, that he will be here whenever you wish to question him…’
‘I had no thought of removing him from his trust, Swami.’ And that might be true, or might be a gesture of compliance towards this respected and remarkable man; but Kishan Singh would welcome it, whatever its motive.
‘Then I shall leave you to your labours. Ah, yes, there is one thing more. Arjun Baba has neither wife nor sons. When you release his body for the funeral rites, I beg you will give it into my charge.’
‘Swami, it shall be done as you wish.’
The Swami’s mild brown eyes lingered thoughtfully upon Tossa and Dominic. ‘I am sorry,’ he said civilly, ‘that you have suffered such a troubled introduction to this country of ours. If you are now returning to Delhi, may I offer you transport? There is plenty of room, if you do not mind sharing the back of the car with some grain samples we are carrying. And I should like, if you have time, to offer you coffee at the mission.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dominic, stunned into compliance like everyone else in sight, ‘we should be very grateful.’
The policemen, the women at the gate, even the Orissan bandit babes, fell into a sort of hypnotised guard of honour as the Swami Premanathanand walked mildly out of the compound of N 305, Rabindar Nagar, with the two English strangers at his heels. The long, languid driver rolled himself up nimbly from the running-board and opened the rear door for the guests, but no one was looking either at him or at them, all eyes were on the Swami. He had, perhaps, the gift of attracting attention when he chose, and diverting it when he chose. At the moment it suited him to be seen; perhaps in order that other things should pass unseen. He took his seat beside the impassive driver. The small grain sacks in the back were piled on the floor, and hardly embarrassed even the feet of the passengers. The Rolls, especially in its ancient forms, is made for living in. With pomp and circumstance they drove away, almost noiselessly, from the scene – they all thought of it now first and foremost as that – of Arjun Baba’s death.
Anjli Kumar, quite certainly, was still alive to be salvaged.
The Delhi headquarters of the Native Indian Agricultural Mission lay in Old Delhi, not far from the crowded precincts of the Sadar Bazaar. They had half-expected a gracious three-acre enclosure somewhere in a quiet part, with green lawns and shady buildings; instead, the car wound and butted its way between the goats and tongas and bicycles and children of the thronging back streets, and into a small, crowded yard surrounded by crude but solid wooden huts. In a minute, bare office two young men conferred over a table covered with papers, and at the other end of the table a girl in shalwar and kameez typed furiously on an ancient, spidery machine that stood a foot high from the board. All three looked up briefly and smiled, and then went on passionately with what they were doing. In an inner room, creamy-white, a brass coffee-table and folding canvas chairs provided accommodation for guests, and a cushioned bench against the wall offered room for the hosts to sit cross-legged. A litter of pamphlets and newspapers lay on the table, and all the rest of the walls were hidden behind bookshelves overflowing with books.
The girl from the typewriter brought coffee when she had finished her page, and the Swami sat, European- style, round the table with them. And presently the driver came in silently and seated himself Indian-fashion at the end of the bench, respectfully withdrawn but completely at his ease, drinking his coffee from a clean but cracked mug, and watching the group round the table with intelligent black eyes and restrained but unconcealed curiosity. He had shed his sandals on the threshold; his slim brown feet tucked themselves under him supply, and the hands upturned in his lap, nursing the mug of coffee, were large and sensitive and strong. The Swami did not hesitate to refer to him when he wanted another opinion, or confirmation of a recollection.
‘Girish will recall when last Satyavan visited me here. It is surely more than a year.’
‘It was in September of last year,’ Girish confirmed. His voice was quiet and low-pitched, and his English clear as his master’s. Unsmilingly he watched the Swami’s face.
