The Game - Laurie R. King [160]
“These god-damned bats!” he roared. “They drive a man insane with their infernal chatter. All night, in and out, get in the rooms and try and roost in your hair! I’m going to shoot every one of the accursed monsters.”
Quieter voices could be heard, apparently pleading for reason; the servants continually glanced over their shoulders at the dark rooms above.
“I won’t give it to you, damn you both!” the American raged. “I tell you the bats are—what’s that?”
More rapid conversation, much patting of hands in an attempt to reassure, and Goodheart swayed again, then suddenly relinquished his gun. The relief of the two servants was palpable and immediate, and the one with the gun took a step away from this obstreperous guest. The hand of the other hovered near Goodheart’s elbow, urging him back in the direction of the guest quarters, and he succeeded for a time. But when they reached the shadowy edges of the gardens, Goodheart shook the hand off. I heard him shouting again, something about leaving a man alone to have a quiet smoke.
Both servants immediately retreated. Goodheart slumped into a bench, his legs alone visible by the light of a lamp on the nearby terrace; then came the flare of a lighter, followed by the unsteady waver of a cigarette. His voice said something else, quieter now but still threatening, and both of the servants went away across the terrace into the hall.
I was not particularly surprised when, before I had reached the end of my muslin turban and the bloodstain was faded and nearly colourless, the man appeared at the far end of the passageway, moving without the slightest sign of drink, and without a cigarette. I stood up, bundling the last end of the sticky fabric into itself.
“Captain Russell?” he asked dubiously, peering into my face.
“And his sister as well,” I said. After all, I was armed, he was no longer; I could afford to experiment with honesty.
“Thought that might be the case. Where are the others?”
“In the toy room.”
“Where’s that? And once you’re there, how do you think you’re going to get out of here? That was the maharaja you had, wasn’t it?”
But I was not about to give him the secret passageway, not yet.
“Look, who are you?” I demanded.
“You know who I am. Shouldn’t we get out of this hall-way?”
He did have a point. I led him to the toy room, pulled a candle from my pocket and lit it, sheltering it with my hand while I bent to feel the chuprassi’s pulse. Yes: dead. Goodheart knelt beside me at the man’s side, tentatively pushing on one shoulder to reveal the face and the bloody chest. After a minute he stood up, unnecessarily wiping his hands on his evening jacket.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never . . . I didn’t intend to kill him. But he had to be stopped.”
“Why?”
That distracted him from staring at his victim. He stared at me instead. I hoped Holmes and O’Hara could hear all this.
“Oh God. Don’t tell me you’re kidnapping Jimmy for ransom?”
“What other reason might you imagine?”
He heard in my voice not an answer, but a test question. He nodded slowly, and looked around him into the darkness, clearly searching for my accomplices. “I think it’s very possible we’re both working toward the same goal.”
“And what might that be?”
“Jimmy’s clearly . . . unbalanced. But I wouldn’t guess it’s easy to arrest a native prince openly on his own ground.”
I let the words stand, and waited, cocking my head at the darkness. Goodheart waited, too, although he could not know for what. In seconds, I had my partners’ answer.
“Bring him,” said Holmes’ voice.
Once inside the hidden passage, we let the door click shut. I made cursory introductions. “Thomas Goodheart, Mr O’Hara, and you know my husband.”
Hands were shaken, and Goodheart said, “Mr Holmes, not Mr Russell. The purser told me, the day after the fancy-dress ball.”
“So the costume was an accident?” Holmes asked.
“Er, not entirely. I’d heard one of the passengers, a lady from Savannah, talking about Sherlock Holmes. At the time I just thought she meant that you looked like Sherlock Holmes,