The Game - Laurie R. King [162]
Goodheart looked vastly embarrassed. “It’s . . . I know. It was stupid of me, and I’d better give up this spy business before I do something really dangerous. So anyway, when I saw you with Jimmy, I figured you must know what you were doing, and I’d better throw my lot in with you. Um, can I ask, where are you taking him?”
The simple question triggered another paroxysm of mirth in O’Hara, and he began to choke, tears seeping from his eyes. I finally took pity on the American.
“As you said, we’re arresting him—taking him to Delhi to answer for his crimes. If the Army has to come in after him, a lot of people will die unnecessarily.” The original summons to Delhi, of course, the letter that had set off the maharaja’s final madness, had concerned the disappearance of the neighbouring nawab’s daughter—a sin which seemed less and less likely to be laid to his account. But that summons had been sent before the contents of the godowns came to light; once Nesbit’s report reached his superiors, a stern letter would not be deemed sufficient. I was hit by a brief vision: serried ranks of Tommies marching up the road to Khanpur, while just over a rise lay a phalanx of those machine-guns I had seen, draped and oiled and waiting.
“Is this kind of arrest legal here?” Goodheart asked, then hurried to explain, “Not that I mind, if it’s not. I’d just like to know.”
“Probably not,” Holmes said.
“Oh. Well, all right. How can I help?”
“You can take his legs for a while, since O’Hara seems to have lost his strength.”
Goodheart and I took a turn lugging our royal prisoner, and conversation lapsed. When we switched over again, twenty minutes later, he caught his breath and then asked, “How do you plan on getting him out of Khanpur?”
“Carrying him.” Holmes said it sharply.
“You could take some horses from the stables.”
“There are a dozen or more syces living at the stables,” I explained. “The way we came, cross-country, we may not be noticed until the first farmers rise.”
“I see. And that goes against borrowing a car, as well.”
“Doubly so, considering the terrain between here and the border.”
“Of course.” We went on for a while in silence, and then he said diffidently, “And I’d guess the airplanes are guarded, too.”
“Probably. Plus there’d be the small problem of flying it.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
We stopped again to stare at him, but none of us were laughing this time.
“Are you saying you could fly one of the maharaja’s aeroplanes?” Holmes demanded.
“Pretty much any of them, I’d guess. If there was fuel,” he added. We looked at one another, then picked up the maharaja and continued.
We made the lower door shortly after three A.M., arms stretched and shoulders aching, Goodheart’s head bleeding from two or three encounters with the low roof, our bellies empty and our throats parched. I distributed leathery chapatis and we shared out a bottle of water, chewing and swallowing and feeling the cold seeping its way into our tired muscles. As we sat on our haunches, the man at our feet stirred, and Holmes bent to feel his pulse and look under his eyelids. Wordlessly, O’Hara handed him the needle and morphia bottle, and Holmes slid another injection into our captive’s arm.
As the prince dropped more deeply into his sleep, I took a final swallow of water and asked, “What is our decision? Five miles to the border, or two to the air field?”
“With four backs to carry it, the load is eased,” O’Hara said. “I would choose the silent way.”
“I agree,” I said, getting my vote in so as not to be the last voice. “There are too many variables the other way: Are the aeroplanes fuelled up; are they unguarded; can we get past the stables without waking the syces?” I also wondered, but did not ask aloud, Does this wealthy American dilettante actually know how to pilot the things? And