They were so engrossed in their own mutual discoveries that they had not remarked the voices raised outside in the passage. The sudden opening of the door, the apparition of the old man on the threshold, massive head sunk into the brown shawl he wore round his shoulders, shook them apart with a disagreeable shock, as though they had only now realised his possible significance to them both.
‘Come, Anjli,’ said the ancient, gravelly voice, with a horrid note of ingratiation that matched the fond, false smile on the bearded face. ‘You are going shopping with us.’
He took her by one wrist before she could even reason whether there was any sense in resisting, or indeed anything to be feared in complying. The woman, shrinking at his shoulder, obediently took her other arm. Shantila ventured to follow them uneasily along the passage to the rear door, but then the old man turned his head and scowled her back, and she stood motionless where they had left her, watching them go.
It was the first time Anjli had ever seen this narrow wooden door opened. It brought them out into dazzling sunshine in a small, high-walled yard, the sparkling leaves of one tree leaning over the wall. There were two or three sheds, as she had expected; there was a car of unobtrusive age and make standing in the shade; and just outside the open yard gates, in a narrow lane, there was an unmistakable Delhi taxi waiting for them.
They put her into the middle of the back seat between them, the woman holding her left arm, the man her right; and as the taxi began to move, the man twitched her scarf dexterously round her eyes, and blinded her until they were well away from the house and the yard. She did not resist; and in a moment he let her emerge, for though there was no disguising Delhi, one Delhi street is like enough to another to confuse all those who do not know it well.
So they were still in the city, that was something gained. Anjli sat silent but tense between them, watching and thinking. What was to happen now? Had she already been ransomed, and was she now to be set at liberty? She could not trust too easily in any such optimistic assessment of her position. Then why? Had her hiding-place become unsafe, and was she to be transferred to another? Then she had better be ready to seize even the least chance that might offer, here in the streets. Anything could be true, except, of course, that they were simply going shopping.
They drove for some while in the spacious streets of the new town, but never could she find a firm landmark; and when at length the driver brought them to the sweet shop opposite Sawyers’ Restaurant, he did so by the nearest of the radial roads, so that the long, smooth, crescent curve of Connaught Circus should not be obvious.
The car drew up closely to the curb.
‘Come,’ beamed the old man, ‘we are going here. To buy some sweets for you and for Shantila. You will be very quiet and sensible, will you not, Anjli? For your father’s sake, remember that!’
She could have outrun them both, but they never let go of her wrists. And there was no one close, to whom she could call, no traffic policeman, no passing English tourist. She stood for a moment hanging back between them on the broad pavement, and looked all round her with one rapid glance at the shining day that offered her no help; a Delhi schoolgirl of fourteen in shalwar and kameez, out shopping with her mother and grandfather. Who was going to give her a second look? She yielded to the pull of their hands, and went with them into the shop.
‘Yes,’ said Dominic, leaning over Tossa’s chair to strain his eyes after the slight figure vanishing under the shop awning, ‘that’s Anjli!’
‘You are quite sure? It’s so long,’ said Kumar defensively, ‘since I saw her.’
‘Quite sure,’ said Tossa.
‘It’s Anjli, all right,’ Felder confirmed, and his voice shook with tension. ‘Now, for God’s sake, what do we do?’
‘Exactly what we promised,’ said the Swami Premanathanand gently, not even leaning forward in his chair. ‘We remain here, making no move to alarm her captors. We wait for further word. So far, you will agree, they have kept their part of the bargain.’
‘But, damn it, she’s there, right under our eyes, and only those two decrepit people to keep her from us… if we went straight down now, and into the shop after them…’ Felder mopped sweat from his seamed forehead, and breathed heavily.
‘We were also warned that if we made any such move we might never see her again,’ the Swami pointed out gently, and sipped his soup. ‘We cannot take such a risk. We must abide by our side of the bargain, too. For her sake.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Felder subsided with a vast and bitterly reluctant sigh.
‘They’re coming out,’ whispered Tossa.
All three linked, as before, both Anjli’s arms prisoned. The box of sweets they had bought was carried under the old man’s arm. Helplessly the five in the first-floor window of Sawyers’ watched the trio move unhurriedly to the edge of the pavement, and saw the Sikh taxi-driver lean to open the rear door for them. First the woman vanished within, then the child, then the old man. The door closed on them with a brisk bang.
‘We can’t…’ breathed Felder. But none of them moved. The Swami sat erect, a small, rueful smile curving his lips. The noon traffic round Connaught Circus swirled placidly, thinning for the siesta. Into the scattered stream the taxi moved gracefully, like a floating leaf, caught the full current and was away. A garishly-decorated scooter-taxi brushed by it in the opposite direction, and another as gay let it pass at a side-street before turning off. A few cars swung here and there in the dance. Out of a garage yard a more powerful motorbike-taxi sailed with a roar, dark green awning flapping, and rocketed away in the same direction Anjli and her escort had taken.
The Swami appeared to be watching nothing, and to see nothing, but he had in his mind a complete map of all these complex traffic movements. Everyone else was staring frantically, but none of them observed the one significant thing which had happened. For the driver of the motorbike rickshaw, had he not been as invisible to them as all the other casual service personnel of Delhi, the postmen, the peons, the porters, would have been recognised at once as Girish, his master’s monumental Rolls for once abandoned. Girish had made no promises, and taken part in no bargain. Girish was a free agent.
The taxi proceeded without haste round the curve of Connaught Circus, the motorcycle-rickshaw followed at a nicely-judged distance. There could hardly be a better instrument for pursuit in Delhi, where in any street of the new town at any time of the day you may see at least three or four of them, all looking much alike. Nobody pays any attention to them, unless he wishes to hire one, and even then it is not unusual to watch them sail disdainfully by, for in the deep shade of their awnings it is difficult to be sure whether they are occupied or not. Nor does anyone turn a hair at seeing them driven at crazy speeds, so that even an alerted quarry might have great trouble in getting away from them. Girish, however, had no intention of betraying himself. His object was to trail them to their destination, not to overhaul them. He hung back by fifteen yards or so, driving obliquely behind the taxi so that he should not become obtrusive in the driving mirror, allowing other vehicles to intervene now and then, varying the pattern of his pursuit, the big machine idling happily under him. He foresaw no trouble. All he needed to know was where they were holding her, and then the rest was up to him. In the meantime he did not mean to make any mistake.
Nor was what happened next due to any error on his part. It was something against which he could not possibly have taken precautions.
In the back of the taxi Anjli sat between her guards, quivering with tension and aware that time was running out. They were on their way back to the tiny, obscure dwelling in the quiet yard, and once they reached it she would have lost her only opportunity. This inexplicable trip back into the world, on the face of it completely senseless, must mean something, if only she could grasp what. Had she merely been removed from the place for a brief while because someone dangerous was expected there? Had she been put back into apparent circulation simply to show her to someone, to disarm suspicions of who or what she was? It had to mean something that could help her to know how to act, and here were the minutes and seconds dwindling through her fingers, and nothing gained. Uneasily she craned on all sides, searching the pavements that unrolled beside her. The old man had loosed his hold on her. She turned and swept her hand across the dusty rear window, peering back along their track. She saw the motorcycle-rickshaw that should have meant nothing to her, the long, slim, lightly-balanced body of its driver; she saw, and studied for one broken moment with astonished passion, the lean, aquiline face with its bold bones and intent, proud eyes fixed unmistakably on the car that carried her.