‘Good shooting,’ he thought automatically and as he slipped his hand behind Korsovsky to lift him it came away drenched in blood. The entry holes were small; the exit holes had run together in a bloody mess of torn muscle and chipped bone. .303, he thought. Service rifle perhaps. Soft-nosed bullet anyhow.

Pallid with alarm the driver turned towards him and, to his relief, addressed him in English.

‘Where to, sahib? The Residency?’

‘No,’ said Joe, thinking quickly. ‘To the police station. But first, look about you. Note where we are. Does this corner have a name?’

‘Sahib, it is bad place. It is called the Devil’s Elbow.’

Without delay the driver let the clutch up and stormed ahead, cornering dangerously to cover the few miles that separated them from Simla. With the driver’s hand perpetually on the bulb of the horn, the Packard edged its way, squawking a warning, into the town.

Chapter Three

«^»

Police Superintendent Charlie Carter yawned, screwed the cap on his Waterman’s fountain pen, stood up and stretched, walked to the door and shouted for tea. He strolled out on to the balcony for a breath of fresh air and paused for a moment, leaning on the rail and looking out with approval at the disciplined activity below him.

His men were changing shifts. One group of police sowars was standing chatting, taking off equipment, and one, formed up under the command of a havildar, was preparing to go on duty. He smiled with satisfaction at their businesslike appearance, their neat uniform and their alert faces. He ran an eye over the line of tethered horses, gleaming rumps stirring and bumping.

Carter wished he could join the patrol but he had to finish writing up the week’s report for his Commissioner. Not that the lazy old bastard would bother to read it. And who could blame him? As usual it was almost void of incident or interest. Carter sighed. He accepted a cup of tea brought out to him on a brass tray and made his reluctant way back to his desk. He picked up the threads of his report, his meticulous account of the investigation into an alleged burglary the previous night rolling from his pen in a neat, firm hand.

The reported crime irritated him with its triviality and he resented spending even five minutes recording the fact that old Mrs Thorington of Oakland Hall, Simla, had accused her bearer of stealing a silver-backed hairbrush. It had taken him an hour to convince the old boot that it had in fact been snatched by the usual troupe of monkeys raiding down from their temple on Jakko Hill and gaining entry through a bedroom window which she herself had left open.

A clamour of voices and – surprise – the revving of a powerful engine on the road outside caught his attention. His havildar rushed excitedly into the office announcing the arrival of a motor car, a motor car going unsuitably fast for the tortuous streets of the town. Three cars only were allowed to enter Simla: cars belonging to the Viceroy and the local Governor of the Punjab, neither of whom was due in Simla until the following week, and that of the Chief of Staff, which had just gone to Delhi for repairs. Any other car owner knew very well that the rule was you left your car in the garages provided below the Cecil Hotel. So who the hell was this? Very intrigued, Carter put down his pen again and went out to see for himself.

A large pearl-grey Packard with the hood down roared the last few yards up the Mall, swung into the police compound and braked noisily in front of the police station. Carter recognized the plates and livery of the Acting Governor of Bengal. He recognized Sir George’s chauffeur, wild eyes in a dust-caked face, but the two passengers in the rear seat were unknown to him. One, a dark-haired man in a khaki linen suit, had been leaning forward urging the driver on and before the car rocked to a halt he had jumped out and now stood, hands on hips, looking around him, raking the lines of sowars and horses with a searching – perhaps even a commanding – eye.

He was a tall man and carried himself with confidence. He had a brown and handsome face or at least – Carter corrected his first impression – a face that had been handsome. Intelligent, decisive but Janus-like – a face with two sides, one serene, the other scarred – distorted – hard to read. Scarred faces four years after the war to end war were common enough and Carter speculated that he was looking at a man who had taken a battering in France. The second passenger appeared to be battered beyond repair. He was lying sprawled across the back seat, his white jacket soaked with blood.

With disbelief, Carter screwed an eyeglass in position and called down, authoritative and annoyed, ‘Perhaps you could explain to me who you are and what the hell you’re doing here?’

Unruffled, the stranger turned to look him up and down and replied with remarkable calm, ‘Certainly I could. It’s rather a long story though. Are you coming down here or am I coming up to you?’

Charlie Carter rattled down the steps, putting on his cap and saying as he did so, ‘I think I’d better come down to you and you might start by explaining who this dead gentleman is in the back of the Governor’s car. I assume he’s dead?’

‘Oh yes, he’s dead,’ said the stranger. ‘And you may not believe this, in fact I’m not quite sure I believe it myself, but his name is Feodor Korsovsky and he’s a Russian baritone.’

The superintendent looked at him with disbelief. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘That tells me everything I want to know. A Russian baritone – of course – how stupid of me and – lying dead in the back of the Governor’s car. Where else would you expect to find a Russian baritone? And before we go any further, perhaps you would tell me who you are?’

‘My name is Sandilands,’ he began but he was instantly interrupted by the superintendent.

‘Sandilands! Commander Sandilands? Ah, yes, the Governor mentioned your name to me. Told me you were a detective. From Scotland Yard? Yes? Didn’t tell me you were in the habit of hauling in your own corpses though… This man has been shot?’ He turned to the driver who explained rapidly in Hindustani what had happened and where it had happened.

‘I offered the gentleman a lift in the car which had been sent to Kalka to meet me. He was the victim of a sniper about five miles down the road. .303 rifle, two accurate shots to the heart. Soft-nosed bullets – the entry wounds you see are quite small but turn him over and you’ll find holes the size of your fist. To say nothing of the extensive damage done to the Governor’s upholstery. May I suggest,’ said Joe, ‘that we travel to the scene of the crime? And perhaps we ought to go at once? The driver and I marked the spot. The trail is cold and cooling.’

The police superintendent appeared to consider. ‘My name’s Carter, by the way. Devil’s Elbow. This side of Tara Devi. That’s a damned nasty place you’re talking about. To search the ground you’d need a regiment. Now, if we were in the Wild West I’d say “Take a posse” and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

He shouted orders, following which six police sowars mounted and led forward two horses for Joe and for Carter. Before mounting, Carter spoke urgently to a police daffadur with a gesture towards the body and the car. The Governor’s driver was escorted into the police station to make a statement.

‘We can talk as we go,’ said Carter as they mounted. ‘I’ve got a vague idea of what happened but tell me, what are you doing in Simla?’

‘I’m on leave,’ said Joe. ‘I’m a London policeman on detachment to the Bengal Police. I was, but now I’ve finished my tour and Sir George has kindly offered me the use of his guest bungalow for a month. To round off my tour of duty before going back to England. You’ve probably heard rumours, India being what it is, of what I’ve been doing in Calcutta?’