Felder stood on the opposite pavement, watching the ceaseless flow of people about the steps of the temple, the play of coloured saris and the flutter of gauze scarves. A man alone could stroll this length of street on a Sunday afternoon for as long as he would, and it was highly improbable that anyone would notice him among so many. From time to time he moved along to a new position, drew back into the shade of the frontages for a while, crossed the street to mingle with the crowd over there in the sun, and even climbed the steps and wandered along the open terrace; but seldom, and only for seconds, did he take his eyes from the little black case propped upright between the two pairs of shoes. At the far end he descended again to the street and made his way back along the edge of the roped enclosure, among the darting children and the idling parents, and the hawkers selling glass bracelets, spices coloured like jewels, bizarre sweetmeats and heady garlands. Half an hour can seem an eternity.
No one had approached the lame boy’s corner, except to hand over more shoes to be guarded. The briefcase lay close to the rope, within reach of a hand, and the boy was busy; it would not be impossible to snatch the thing and vanish with it among the crowd. But there it stood, demurely leaning against Dominics’s shoe, a small black punctuation mark in a pyrotechnical paragraph.
A quarter of an hour gone, and nothing whatever happening. He turned to retrace his steps once again, and cannoned into a wiry fellow in khaki drill trousers and shirt and a hand-knitted brown pullover in coarse wool. The man was bare-headed and clean-shaven, his complexion the deep bronze of an outdoor worker; and by the way he recoiled hastily and obsequiously from the slight collision, with apologetic bobbings of his head, Felder judged that he was not a native of Delhi. When Felder, for some reason he could not explain, turned his head again to take another look at him, the fellow was still standing hesitant on the edge of the pavement, looking after the man he had brushed. He looked slightly lost among this confident crowd, and slightly puzzled, as if he had somehow come to the wrong place.
Felder put the man out of his mind, and concentrated again upon the black briefcase. But eight minutes later, when he came back that way, the man was still there, and this time the thin face with its strongly marked features and large dark eyes turned towards him with clear intent.
‘Sahib, I beg pardon,’ he said low and hesitantly in English. ‘Can you please help me? I am stranger here. I am not from Delhi, I come from the hills. Please, this is Birla Temple?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He had no wish to stop and talk, but it would be difficult to withdraw from this unsought encounter too ruthlessly, for supposing there was more in it than met the eye? Supposing someone had become suspicious, and was keeping him under observation, as he was keeping watch on the briefcase?
‘And, sahib, is here also Birla House? I wish to see Birla House.’ In the gardens of that princely residence the Mahatma was shot and killed; but it lies a matter of two miles away from the Lakshminarayan temple. Felder supposed it was possible that a simple hillman sightseeing in Delhi might expect to find the two in close proximity.
‘No, that’s quite some way from here. You could get a bus, I expect, it’s well south, close to Claridge’s Hotel.’ Absurd, he thought the moment he had said it, as if this chap from out of town would be likely to know Claridge’s.
‘Sahib, I have no money for bus.’ Clearly he was not asking for any, either, it was a perfectly simple statement. ‘I will walk, if you can show way.’
Felder had to turn his back on the temple for that, and point his pupil first directly away from it, down Lady Hardinge Road towards Connaught Place. ‘Take the third turning on the right into Market Street, and go straight on down to the parliament building. You’ve seen it?’
‘Acha, sahib, that I have seen.’
‘Then you cross directly over the Rajpath, and keep straight ahead down Hastings Road, and at the end of Hastings Road you’ll find Birla House occupying the corner of the block facing you.’ Accustomed to the visual imagination, Feldcr demonstrated the direction of the roads in the air, an invisible sketch-map. The dark eyes followed it solemnly, and apparently with understanding.
‘Sahib, you are most kind. I am grateful.’ Large, lean, handsome hands touched gravely beneath the hillman’s chin. He bowed himself backwards towards Lady Hardinge Road, and then turned and walked purposefully away.
Felder heaved a breath of relief, watching him go. It was all right, after all, the man was genuine, and had had no interest in him but as a source of information. He turned quickly, and his eyes sought at once for the small black speck close to the lame boy’s side, sharp and sinister against the pale tawny ground. The interlude had not caused him to miss anything, it seemed.
The half-hour was over, and Dominic and Tossa were just emerging into the blinding sunlight from the fragrant dimness of the temple. And the black briefcase was still there.
In the quietest corner of Nirula’s they gathered over the tea Felder had already ordered before the other two arrived. They had no heart for it, but he poured it, just the same. They were going to need every comfort, even the simplest.
‘But what went wrong?’ Tossa was asking, of herself no less than of them, and with tears in her eyes. ‘We did everything he said, we didn’t tell anyone else – they can’t have known about you! – and we didn’t say a word to the police – and you don’t know how unlikely that is, until you know Dominic, his father’s a police inspector, and all his instincts bend him their way, they really do! And yet we did play it the way we were told, and we were in good faith, though it’s horrible to submit to an injustice like that… And yet at the end of it all, here it still is, not touched, and we’re no nearer getting Anjli back!’
The briefcase lay on the cushioned bench-seat between them, plump and weighty as when they had surrendered it to the lame boy.
‘We just couldn’t believe it, Mr Felder! What are we going to do now? And what made them hold off? They can’t have known about you, can they? Could they possibly have spotted you hanging around, and called the whole thing off?’ She was ashamed of the suggestion as soon as she had made it, after all he had done for them. ‘No… I’m sorry, don’t listen to me!’
‘I don’t believe anyone did notice me,’ Felder assured her gently. ‘All the more because I did once wonder… but it turned out quite innocently. No, I just don’t believe it.’ His eyes lingered speculatively on the briefcase, smugly filled and flaunting its roundness. He frowned suddenly, regarding it. In quite a different tone, carefully muted so as to arouse no extravagant hopes, he said: ‘Open it! Go ahead, let’s be sure. Open it.’
Dominic stared and bridled, and then as abruptly flushed and obeyed. They were jumping to conclusions; they hadn’t even looked. He pushed a thumbnail fiercely under the press fastener that held the case closed – how flimsy, and how quickly sprung! – and drew out the identical biscuit-coloured bank envelope they had placed there, still sealed as it came from the bank, nearly four hours ago. He stared at it with chagrin; so did they all. Then abruptly Felder uttered a small, smothered sound of protest, and took up the packet, turning it in his hands. He ran his fingers under the transparent tape that sealed the flap, and wrenched it open. Out into his lap slid a tightly-packed wad of sliced newsprint. He ran the edges through his fingers, and the soft, close-grained, heavy segments mocked them all. There was not a banknote in the whole package, nothing but shredded newspaper.
‘My God!’ said Felder in a whisper. ‘After all! Then he must have been planted… No, I can’t believe it, they never had time!’