The Baron Goes East by John Creasey

at him, but at least it gave an illusion of coolness. Several Indians were taking what shelter they could. He didn’t see one he recognised, except Joseph, who was in the dry.
    The little old man was near.
    â€œBeautiful books, sahib; very beautiful books. Very beautiful.”
    â€œNo thanks,” said Mannering.
    The soft, pleading voice went on and on. “Books, souvenirs, hand-beaten copper, Kashmir inlay.” Mannering didn’t answer again, just stared at the teeming rain. Was he being watched, or just noticed? He waited for seven or eight minutes, until the boy turned the corner, splashing through water which was now several inches deep in the steep gutters. Immediately behind him came an unbelievable figure – Patandi, carrying an umbrella.
    Patandi stepped through puddles with fastidious care, holding the black umbrella high above his head; it made him look a giant. He glanced up, saw Mannering and waved joyously – and stepped into a puddle, which splashed up to his knees. He laughed until his whole body shook, and the laughter seemed to waft him to the doorstep. Mannering stepped inside and Patandi squeezed through.
    He beamed.
    â€œThe wise Englishman, how quickly you come! I congratulate you. The rain is just a little storm; it will soon pass and we shall start, yes? With the famous lady? Or . . .” His aniseed-breath swept over Mannering, and he gave an obscene wink, “we start alone, sir? Just you and me? Oh, the things I can show you, the—”
    â€œWe start by sending everyone but you and me out of the shop,” said Mannering. “Out of the back of the shop, too.”
    Patandi’s eyes widened. He looked puzzled, and he hesitated. Mannering went to the back of the shop and bent down to look through the tiny doorway.
    â€œNo!” cried Patandi, and hurled himself at Mannering and dragged him away.
    Â 

CHAPTER TWELVE
MONEY TALKS
    Â 
    Mannering allowed himself to be dragged from the door, then gripped Patandi’s wrist, twisted, and sent him thumping against one of the walls. Books fell in a shower on his head. Patandi gasped with pain. His face was distorted. Mannering did not doubt that it was naked fear. There was no malevolence – just fear. Patandi licked his lips.
    â€œI beg the sahib’s pardon. I did not mean to touch him. You understand – my wife.” He pointed to the door.
    Mannering said: “Either she leaves, Patandi, or I go to the police.”
    Patandi’s face turned a greenish-white. Mannering watched as he went towards the door, poked his head through, and then wriggled; it seemed impossible for him to get his great bulk through there, but he disappeared. There was more furtive whispering.
    A woman appeared, holding her sari in front of her face, and ran out through the street-door. Another. A third, who looked little more than a girl. Two others followed, also girls. Next, a boy. Mannering hadn’t seen more than the dark hole beyond and smelt the fetid air; he had not dreamed that so many people were crowded in there.
    Patandi called out, and the little old man in European clothes went sadly off into the rain. This beat down noisily against the front of the shop and into the street.
    Patandi wriggled through again, and even managed a mockery of a smile.
    â€œAll gone, Mr. Mannering, all gone.”
    â€œI’d like to be sure.”
    Patandi waved to the door. “See, mister!”
    Mannering bent down and poked his head through. It was gloomy in there, and the stench was revolting. A small window, high up in the wall, gave the only light. He could see well enough to be sure that no one else was present. He coughed, backed to the door and took in deep gulps of fresh air, then turned back to Patandi. Mannering moved the counter across the opening into the rear room. No one could hear through that.
    â€œI wait, mister,” said Patandi.
    â€œWho stole my brief-case? The boy who just ran