Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [18]
The Temple of Quiet was up the next turning. There were many cars parked in the street and as he moved along the sidewalk, a large, black Mercedes swirled in to the kerb, splashing him with water from the gutter.
He turned angrily. "Why the hell don't you look where you're going?"
He caught a brief glimpse of a Homburg hat and pebble-dash glasses. Teeth gleamed whitely in the darkness. "So sorry," the man said with the merest suggestion of a lisp and drove the Mercedes farther along the street where there was more space.
Brady moved on to the gate of the temple and looked up at the imposing building with a frown. It looked as if it had been some kind of Nonconformist chapel at one time, a gaunt, soot-blackened Victorian building with fake Doric columns and a portico over the entrance. Probably the original congregation had dwindled away as the population tended to spread outwards from the centre of the city, and Das had got the place cheaply.
He mounted the broad steps into the portico, opened one of the doors, and was immediately greeted by an overpowering smell of incense.
The hall was covered with an expensive Indian carpet and lit by fake electric tapers. A low hum of conversation came from somewhere in the dim recesses of the building and he followed the sound to a pair of double doors.
He stood outside listening for a while and then noticed another door at one side. He opened it and mounted a narrow stone staircase which brought him into a gallery from which he could see down into the hall below.
The altar and the choir stalls had been removed. In their place stood a gold-painted statue of Buddha. There were no chairs in the hall and the congregation sat cross-legged on the floor. They looked middle-aged and anxious and the majority were women.
The place was dimly lit with more fake tapers and heavy with incense. In front of the statue of Buddha, a small fire burned in a bowl and a man prayed before it, his head flat on the ground.
Brady decided that he must be Das. He looked very effective. He wore a yellow robe which left one shoulder bare and his head was shaved.
After a while he stood up and turned. He had a fine face and calm, wise eyes. He smiled gently and said in a melodious voice, "And so, my brethren, I give you a text to meditate upon until our next meeting. To do good is not enough. It is also necessary to be good."
He sounded completely sincere, but spoilt it for Brady in the next breath. "There will be the usual silver collection as you go out. Give what you can that we all may benefit."
He raised his arms in benediction and then turned and disappeared behind a screen.
The audience got to its feet, not without an effort in some cases, and Brady stayed where he was until the last of them had filed out.
He went downstairs and as he emerged into the corridor, a woman was about to enter a small office opposite. She wore a yellow robe rather similar to the one Das had been wearing and held a large collecting bag in one hand. It was bulging with cash.
"Can I help you?" she said with a slight frown.
She looked about forty and spinsterish, with one of those tight, desiccated faces and a slight nervous twitch to one side of her mouth.
"I'd like to see Mr. Das if that's possible," Brady told her.
"The Swami is always very tired after a service," she told him. "He doesn't usually see patients on a Sunday."
"It's most urgent," Brady assured her. She still appeared to be hesitating and he hastily took out two ten shilling notes and dropped them into the collecting bag. "The service was an inspiration."
"Wasn't it?" she said simply. "I'll see if the Swami can spare you a little time. Wait here, please."
She half-closed the office door, but Brady heard her pick up the telephone. There was a murmur of conversation and then she returned.
"The Swami is very tired, but he can spare you five minutes," she said. "Come this way, please."
A long, covered way connected the temple with what had