A Prospect of Vengeance

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Ian followed the little man down the length of the Taj Mahal, between tables which were already crowded in mid-evening, and with people who acknowledged Mr Malik, and whom he in turn acknowledged with matching esteem, until they reached the curtained stairway at the end.

Mr Malik held the curtain for him. But then touched his arm, arresting his progress.

'All my regulars, this evening, Mr Robinson — all known to me, you understand?' He looked up at Ian and tapped his nose. 'Okay?'

'Yes — ?' The trouble was, he understood all too well.

'Yes. No strangers out there.' Nod. 'And ... all the damn tables taken tonight — until Miss Jenny leaves.' He grinned suddenly. 'Except regulars, that my sister knows — they get served, only.' The grin evaporatted. 'You remember that night — when the damn-soup spilt — ?'

'Yes.' That wasn't a night easily forgotten: it had been the crowning event of the Taj Mahal's first week — very nearly literally — when the obstreperous drunk had jostled the waiter, and the soup had been spilt, and the drunk had moved to crown the waiter with a handy bottle of Malvern Water, and little Mr Malik (not yet aka Abdul the Damned) had squared up to the aggressor — and Jenny had decreed intervention —

' Do something!' (Jenny outraged, Ian, scared.) dummy2

' What— me?' (Ian, appalled, to her . . . the drunk being large, and their table loaded with untouched dinner.)

' You want trouble — ?' (Drunk to Mr Malik, overjoyed.)

' You make damn trouble!' (Mr Malik, disconcertingly unafraid.)

' Ian!' (Jenny, outraged with him now.) I say — ' (Ian terrified, but resigned.) ' — steady on now, everyone!'

' Who asked you?' (Drunk to Ian; then, lifting the bottle, to all comers.) ' Anyone else for trouble— ?'

' Yes.' (Jenny, unflustered and lovely, taking everyone's attention as she squeezed out from behind the table to take centre-stage.) ' Me — if you think I'm small enough?'

But Mr Malik was grinning at him. 'No problem this evening, Mr Robinson — no damn-soup, eh?' The grin almost split his face in two. 'You go see Miss Jenny — second door left, Shah Jehan Room. And I bring up your friend pretty soon. And no damn strangers.'

Ian did his best to return the grin, while trying not to imagine what might occur if Mitchell's confidence was misplaced, and Abdul's retainers encountered this afternoon's hit squad.

Thank you, Mr Malik.' What unmanned him, as he kept the false grin in place over his shoulder, was that there was no dummy2

limit to his imagination after this afternoon, this evening.

But then there was a limit to how much he could worry about, he discovered.

The Shah Jehan Room was to the left — one of the special private dining rooms, of course . . . next to the Mumtaz Mahal Room — Mumtaz, for whom all the wonder of the original Taj had been created . . . and now strangely celebrated in innumerable restaurants and take-aways long after the Mogul emperors and their British conquerors had receded into history.

'Jenny!' The room was dim, and disturbingly scented, after the relatively greater half-light of the corridor and the dominating curry-smell which had followed him up the stairs. 'Jenny— ?'

'Well! You took your time, I must say!'

'Yes — I'm sorry, Jen.' Coming out from behind the silken hangings, she should have been dressed to match, with jewellery and a bare midriff; but, as she was, her voice went with her old sweater and the jeans. 'I was held up.'

'Held up? You said an hour, for God's sake!' She took an inexpert puff from her cigarette, and then stubbed it out; and then picked up the glass by the ashtray, and drained it; and Jenny drinking was nothing unusual but Jenny smoking was demoralizing. 'What held you up, for God's sake? I've been worrying myself stiff.'

' Who — not What.' There were times when he wanted to slap dummy2

her, and if things hadn't been so serious this might have been one of them. Besides which Mitchell had said he wouldn't be long, so there was no time for recrimination. 'What happened to Reg Buller?'

'He's dead — I told you.' She took herself and her glass over to the well-stocked bar in the canopied alcove. 'And we killed him.' She filled the glass. 'Or, to be strictly accurate, I killed him.' She lifted the bottle. 'Credit where credit is due. Have a drink, Ian. I said we'd got a winner here, and you can't say I wasn't right. We can even dedicate the damn thing to old Reg now — that'll wow the critics: ' Dulce et decorum est pro Jennifer Fielding mori' — how about that?'

She wasn't scared anymore — or, if she ever had been, she wasn't now. But if this was Dutch courage as well as self-pity, they were in more trouble now, with Mitchell coming.

'Don't worry — it's only Abdul's most innocuous plonk, which is practically alcohol-free.' She could hardly have read his expression in the subdued light, but she always read his silences. 'And I've spiked it with soda water. So I'm not pissed, Ian darling — or ... what was it old Reg used to say, when he'd been on a bender — ? 'Crapulated', was it? No —

' crapulous' — I'm not crapulous . . . see?' She thrust the bottle towards him. 'Hardly opened.'

She was scared — of course she was scared. And he was scared too — but, less forgivably, he had been stupid —