Эрл Гарднер - The Human Zero. The Science Fiction Stories of Erle Stanley Gardner

The other diner was a woman, Colonel Crayson’s niece, Jean. She, too, was a fresh arrival. Nickers recognized her as a fellow passenger on the India-bound boat. Yet he had not known she was coming to Assam until the day before docking. And not until he met her at dinner did he know they were to be sheltered, at least temporarily, under the same roof.

Colonel Crayson made an excellent, if somewhat mechanical, host. Black servants flitted about. The food was good, the wine excellent. The dinner should have been a huge success.

But, very apparently, it was not. An atmosphere of distrust settled upon the board as a pall. In one way or another it affected all the diners, brought out different phases of their characters.

Phil Nickers wondered if some rumor of his errand had, in some manner, preceded him. The thought was absurd. He had embarked secretly, with no credentials other than a single letter of introduction to Colonel Crayson. Since his embarkation he had written no letters, and received none.

And yet the calm air of the warm, Indian night reeked with suspicion.

That was why Forbes talked too much, why Colonel Crayson let his glassy eyes wander from face to face, puzzled in his heavy, pop-eyed manner. Was it why Murasingh kept his face as woodenly impassive as a poker player? Nickers would have given much to know the answer to that question.

And Forbes rattled on in perpetual conversation. He touched on thousands of subjects, exhausted them in a brief rapid monologue, and pattered on to other subjects. With the cordials he branched into war-time aviation.

“Cleverest stunt of ’em all was the Yankee chap that piloted the ‘captured’ plane back over the German lines and got commissioned to fly back as a spy. What was that fellow’s name? Always made up my mind I’d keep track of him, see what he did afterward. Nickley, Naker, no, by gad, it was Nickers! Wasn’t any relation of yours, was he, Nickers? You’re from the States.”

Phil Nickers blew a casual smoke ring.

“The city directories in the States are full of persons named Nickers,” he said.

Through the drifting smoke he saw Murasingh’s face. The muscles themselves remained impassive, but the dark eyes glittered with red hatred. And Forbes was grinning, the frankly impertinent grin of one who has let a cat out of the conversational bag.

“Have some more Benedictine,” proffered the colonel, heartily.

Nickers shook his head. He would have given much to throttle Forbes.

The dining room was up on a glassed-in porch. The huge windows slid back. Screens kept out insects, but let in soft, spice-scented breezes. Below the terraced lawn glowed mysterious lights. Night sounds, softened by the warm air, penetrated the room, mingled with the clink of glass and silver as well-trained servants bustled about their tasks.

And Arthur Forbes became suddenly silent.

Nickers was relieved when the girl flashed a signal to her uncle. The chairs scraped back. The torture of that first dinner was over.

Nickers sought his room, pleading fatigue from travel. Billiards did not appeal to him. The thought of cards bored him. And a sudden suspicion made him want to inspect his baggage. An Indian servant had unpacked his bags before dinner. But his brief case was locked, and he had dropped it into his heavy kit bag, and locked the bag.

Some flash of deep suspicion caused him to unlock bag and brief case. The papers had been replaced with an eye to order, but a misplaced letter told the story. The brief case had been systematically searched, the locks picked in a thoroughly workmanlike manner.

The papers had, of course, been carefully prepared. They were the papers that a Mr. Philip Nickers, of Seattle, Washington, U.S.A., touring to collect material for a book, would be likely to carry. The secret notebook contained data and instructions, carefully concealed among a lot of meaningless notes.

Phil Nickers looked up as a step sounded without. A gentle tap on the door announced a visitor.

Arthur Forbes grinned at him from the threshold. Moving with the silence of a shadow, he availed himself of an invitation which had not been given, and slipped into the room.

“Thought I talked too much at dinner, eh?”

Nickers made no comment.

“Had to be sure of my ground before I made the break,” went on Forbes. “You’ll be Phil Nickers, former army aviator, at present a detective, sent here to investigate the deaths of Harley Kent and his daughter, Audrey. I think Murasingh suspects it. You may have noticed his eyes contained rather a glitter once or twice. And we don’t have many chaps from the States dropping in on us in such an elaborately casual manner. They’re bound to attract attention and interest.”

Phil Nickers measured his visitor with uncordial eyes.

“Some one’s been interested enough to pick the locks on my baggage and make a search of my private papers.”

If Forbes noticed the glare of hostile accusation which accompanied the words, he gave no sign.

“They would,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s Murasingh for you, efficient, prudent. You can’t tell just how many of the servants he controls; but it’s plenty.”

Nickers remained uncordial.

“Just what was it caused you to associate my name with that of the aviator?”

“Bless you, dear chap, you’re as obvious as a school boy — no, no! Don’t take offense, Nickers. But down here we get a schooling in native indirectness. As far as I’m concerned, I remembered your pictures. A man who wishes to become a detective should never become nationally known and pose for motion picture newsreels. But I’d rather kept track of you anyway. You see, aviation’s my hobby. I’ve never amounted to much as a pilot. Bad heart keeps me out of the game for one thing. But I keep track of the best of them. I heard you’d gone into business.

“Look here, old chap, don’t get me wrong. I suspected your identity and your mission. I think Murasingh knows. This is a funny corner of the world, not at all like the States. And Harley Kent was a friend of mine. I’d have started an investigation myself if I’d had anything to go on, or been in any position to do it. Mind you, it may be all right. Kent was murdered, truly enough. How or by whom, are questions. But the girl, Audrey: well, until they find her body, I won’t be at all certain. The charred corpse that was found in the ruins of the house wasn’t Audrey. It was one of the native women. I’m virtually certain of that, despite the identification from rings and teeth. And there was a mysterious airplane heard that night. But, of course, your folks know all about that or they wouldn’t have sent an aviator out on the case.”

Phil Nickers balanced a pencil upon the table. In the silence which followed, his eyes remained riveted upon the slim, wooden cylinder.

“You’re doing the talking,” he said, at length. “I’m listening. You have a theory?”

Arthur Forbes jerked a bony thumb over his shoulder.

“To the north of here is forbidden territory,” he said.

If Nickers knew what was meant he did not betray it. “Yes?” he asked.

“Quite so. All along here. The inner line beyond which whites can’t go. It’s recognized by treaty. In Darrang, toward the Bhutias, Akas and Daphlas. In Lakhimper, toward the Daphlas, Mirio, Abors, Mishmis, Khamtis, Singphos and Nagas; and in Sibsager, toward the Nagas.”

Nickers had managed to get the pencil balanced.

“Just who is Murasingh?” he asked, shooting the question with explosive abruptness.

Forbes lowered his voice.

“String of native titles that’d take five minutes to tell. Aside from that, he’s a sportsman and adventurer. Educated in England. That part of the education that has to do with reading and writing stuck. As for the rest it’s a question — just as it is with any educated native. He plays polo, pilots a plane, does quite a bit of hunting, not much drinking, keeps fit, and is reputed, strictly sub rosa , to be fomenting trouble.”