The Game - Laurie R. King [130]
“Saw the magician again,” he said.
I straightened sharply. “Where?”
“In the . . . Where were we?” he said to himself. “The gun-room.”
“That horrible fur-lined room? Why?”
“Jimmy wanted to see his tricks. Clever man.”
“I know,” I said. “Did you say anything, accidentally?”
“No.” He spoke firmly, with absolute assurance, and I thought that this might be one drunk who retained a thin edge of control.
“Did he give you anything?”
“Who?” He raised his head, struggling to focus on my face. “Jimmy?”
“No, Hol—the magician,” I said, although we were speaking quietly.
The green eyes narrowed exaggeratedly in thought, and Nesbit started to pat his pockets, then looked around for some place to put the glass. I took it, and watched him search pockets with clumsy fingers until impatience got the better of me, and I dipped my own into breast and coat pockets until I encountered the tiny twist of paper, no bigger than an apple seed.
“Got it,” I told him. He blinked owlishly at the object, and I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no more help or even sense got out of the man tonight. Holmes’ skin dye would have to last another day. I pulled back the bedclothes and patted the pillow. “You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Got things to do,” he declared, and prepared to rally his body’s mutinous forces to his side.
“Nesbit,” I said in a firm voice. “Geoffrey, there’s not a thing either of us can do tonight. Sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He focussed on my face, inches from his, and then his eyes went soft, and after a minute he sagged sideways into the pillow and went limp. I pulled the bedclothes up to his shoulders and crossed the room, but at the door I heard his voice.
“Pig sticking. In the morning. Early.”
Damnation.
Outside, I gave the servant a third cigarette and told him, “Nesbit sahib will need aspirin and strong coffee when he wakes. And someone to help him shave,” I added.
“Yes, sahib,” the man said merrily. “Aspirin and coffee we have much of.”
I’ll bet, I said to myself.
In my room, with a chair braced under the door’s handle, I eased open the tiny wad of thin paper Holmes had secreted in Nesbit’s pocket:
First floor, southeast wing. Keys in the desk box. Bring rope, morphia, needle.
I was accustomed to odd shopping lists from Holmes, but this gave me a moment’s pause. Rope I could probably find, but the rest? As I traded my dark clothes for nightwear and climbed into bed, my mind was taken up with ways in which I might casually ask the servants for a drug addict’s gear.
Nesbit looked like death in the morning. The aspirin and coffee might have got him dressed and on the horse, but only time would restore the colour to his face and the flexibility to his posture. Still, he was there, and mounted, albeit looking decidedly queasy. His greeting to me was a brief nod; his answer to the maharaja’s hearty greeting not much more effusive. The prince laughed and clapped his guest on the shoulders.
“You’re getting soft, Nesbit,” he declared. “Not holding up the British side.”
“The day’s not over yet, Jimmy,” Nesbit answered, but the maharaja only laughed the louder. I realised with a shock that this drinking partner was still half drunk; how the hell could he manage the intellectually tricky and physically demanding business of going after pig? And I was none the happier when he chose Nesbit and myself as his partners for the run.
We rode five miles northwest, past the air field to where the servants were waiting. During that time, Nesbit pulled himself together, his seat improving with every minute, his green eyes taking on the gleam of challenge. It was a relief, to think that we weren’t all going to be hopeless at the task ahead.
The maharaja, on the other hand, became increasingly peculiar. His high spirits seemed to twist as we went along, climbing and turning hard, his remarks to his guests taking on an edge of spite, even cruelty, his hand on the reins causing his lovely white Arab to fret and sidestep