The Baron Goes East by John Creasey Page A

out?”
    â€œMister, he is my son. I try to make him a good boy, as good as a Christian, but no, mister, he lies, cheats, steals. I beat him, I—”
    â€œYou sent him to the airport, told him who to look for, told him what to do.”
    Patandi’s hands were intertwining.
    â€œMister—”
    â€œWhy did you do it? Who did you do it for?”
    Patandi looked as if he would soon be in tears.
    â€œI am sorry, mister. That boy is a great worry, I cannot make him honest; I—”
    â€œYou’ve taught him to be a cheat, but I’m not here about that. Who gave you the orders to get my case? Who did you take it to? Who sent you back with it, and with that story of a week in Bombay?”
    Patandi’s voice was shrill.
    â€œMister, mister, it is not true! I swear by the sacred serpent, it is not true.”
    Mannering said: “How much were you paid?”
    Patandi stopped moistening his lips and protesting, and looked owlish.
    â€œHow much?” Mannering insisted.
    â€œMister—I am a poor man, and you are a wise one. You see in the darkness. I have to keep my wives, my family, so many children.” Patandi spread his arms round, as if to imply that he had as many children as books. He spat the last words. “Two hundred rupees!”
    â€œIt wasn’t more than fifty.”
    â€œMister! One hundred and fifty rupees—”
    Mannering took out his case, selected some notes; Phiroshah had changed cheques for him. He counted out two hundred rupees in twenty-rupee notes, held them loosely, put his wallet away, and said: “Who was it?”
    â€œYou will not betray me, mister?”
    â€œI want to know who you worked for. If you tell me the truth, I won’t name you or go to the police. If you lie, I’ll tell the police what I saw in there.”
    Patandi gulped.
    â€œI am a poor man, mister; an honest man.” He darted a greedy look at the two hundred rupees. “I tell only the truth. I live to serve the wise Englishman.” He gulped again and muttered: “It was the wretched man, Patel, Imannati Patel; you will find him in the telephone directory. Please, mister.”
    He moved across the room. The telephone, of the candlestick type, stood in a recess, with the directory hanging from by a cord. He thumbed it over. Mannering watched the grimy forefinger go down the list of Patels. There were dozens of them – hundreds.
    The finger stopped, pointing.
    Mannering read: “Imannati Patel, 81 Woodham Road.” He wrote it in a small notebook, added the telephone number, and drew back. Patandi licked his lips as he looked at the money. Mannering handed it over and looked towards the little door.
    â€œI hope this is true.”
    â€œI would not lie to you, mister. Patel himself told me. I was to bring you the brief-case, I was to frighten you. I said to myself the moment that I saw you, this man will not be frightened. Patel, he is a fool.” Patandi was counting the money and his fingers shook. “A thousand thanks, mister. Thank you very much.”
    Mannering went out.
    He stopped at the threshold, startled; water was still rushing down the gutters, but the rain had stopped and the sky was clear overhead. It was cooler, too. More people were walking about, the shopkeepers no longer looked so sleepy. Two beggars approached, but Joseph pushed them aside.
    â€œWhere now, sahib?”
    â€œWe’ll walk a little way,” said Mannering. “You follow, Joseph. I want to know if anyone follows me.”
    â€œYes, sahib.”
    â€œWere we followed from the hotel?”
    Joseph considered, then smiled; his teeth showed very white against his dark skin.
    â€œNo, sahib.”
    â€œMake sure, now.”
    Mannering walked towards the corner, trying to remember the way the gharry had come. The streets looked narrow but cleaner. Shops on one side of the next street had been boarded up, but the boards were being