Bombay Mail by Lawrence G. Blochman

Author:Lawrence G. Blochman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

INSPECTOR L M PRIKE

IMPERIAL INDIAN MAIL SATNA

CID AGENT F-691 CO-OPERATING

Prike stared at the message for several minutes, then raised his head and covertly studied the other occupants of the car. Agent F-691 was unknown to him. In fact, even had the number been familiar, the present holder of it might not be. Death (which was not infrequent) and other considerations sometimes made new number holders necessary. Breeze? Neal? Luke-Patson? (The florid-faced fellow looked almost stupid enough to fill that proposed seat in the National Assembly as he sat staring at the overhead fans, with his mouth open.) Captain Worthing? Doctor Lenoir? As Prike turned his head to look at the eminent toxicologist, the doctor, taking advantage of the opportunity, leaned forward and said nervously.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, I tell you I must return to my compartment.”

Prike looked at him quizzically. “Later,” he replied.

The Frenchman was not to be put off so easily. “Now!” he almost shouted. “It is imperative!”

“Why?” asked Prike casually.

Doctor Lenoir glanced about nervously, seemed about to speak again, then changed his mind and sank back into his chair. For some seconds Prike continued to stare at him impersonally. He turned at the sound of a slight cough. Anderson was standing at respectful attention in the doorway.

Prike snapped at him, “Did you carry out my instructions regarding Sir Anthony’s body?”

Anderson nodded. “Yes, sir. I went into the luggage van with the embalmer gentleman back at Satna. I should say that Sir Anthony is resting comfortably, sir.”

“Give me back the key to the luggage van,” said Prike.

As Prike was putting the keys in his pocket, Luke-Patson jumped to his feet and pointed at a whirling fan.

“Look, Inspector!” he cried.

Heads turned. Prike left the telegrams on the table and rose quickly, calling in the direction of the servants’ quarters: “Khidmatgar!”

A turbaned head appeared instantly.

“Punka bund karo!” Prike ordered.

The khidmatgar sprang to obey, snapped the electric switch, and the fan slowed down with a strange clanking noise. The blades lessened their speed with a succession of sharp sounds, as of steel meeting steel. A dark object fell heavily to the floor.

It was a revolver.

Prike lunged forward, jerking a pencil from his pocket. Running the pencil through the trigger guard so as not to spoil possible fingerprints, he lifted the gun from the floor and placed it gingerly on the table. After examining it thoughtfully for a few seconds, he announced:

“The bore has been newly fouled and there is an empty cartridge in the chamber. I haven’t- the slightest doubt that the bullet could be found by probing the body of a Prince of India who lies dead at Satna.”

There was no comment. Prike had not expected any. He looked straight at Captain Worthing, and said, “This is the model revolver regularly issued to officers of the British Army. Is it yours, Captain Worthing?”

Captain Worthing was standing on the opposite side of the table. His face was waxen, as he stared at the gun.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said.

“Will you come here and have a look at it, or shall I identify the ownership by its serial number, Captain?” Prike demanded.

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