الفصل الفصل 18 · Chapter XVIII

. Chapter XVIII

Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most

reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had

read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy

marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much

of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost

his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was

almost reassuring. “I have to detain you until you get bail,” he

said, “but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of

course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am

given certain information, and have to act on it—I’m not your

judge.” Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his

downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory

about climatic zones. The theory ran: “All unfortunate natives are

criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of

latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog’s chance—we

should be like them if we settled here.” Born at Karachi, he seemed

to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with

a sad, quiet smile.

“Another of them found out,” he thought, as he set to work to draft

his statement to the Magistrate.

He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding.

He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had

herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss

Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his

bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken

down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station.

“What is the charge, precisely?”

“That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances.

She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the

strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him

just now, they were in his pocket.”

“Oh no, oh no, no; it’ll be cleared up in five minutes,” he cried

again.

“Have a look at them.”

The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The

logic of evidence said “Guilty.”

“Did she say any more?”

“There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go

into those caves?”

“I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?”

“I couldn’t worry her overmuch with questions. She’ll have plenty

to go through in the witness-box. They don’t bear thinking about,

these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain

were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them

from the club, and they were just a harmless name. . . . Yes, we

start already.” For a visiting card was brought; Vakil Mahmoud Ali,

legal adviser to the prisoner, asked to be allowed to see him.

McBryde sighed, gave permission, and continued: “I heard some more

from Miss Derek—she is an old friend of us both and talks freely;

well—her account is that you went off to locate the camp, and

almost at once she heard stones falling on the Kawa Dol and saw

Miss Quested running straight down the face of a precipice. Well.

She climbed up a sort of gully to her, and found her practically

done for—her helmet off——”

“Was a guide not with her?” interrupted Fielding.

“No. She had got among some cactuses. Miss Derek saved her life

coming just then—she was beginning to fling herself about. She

helped her down to the car. Miss Quested couldn’t stand the Indian

driver, cried, ‘Keep him away’—and it was that that put our friend

on the track of what had happened. They made straight for our

bungalow, and are there now. That’s the story as far as I know it

yet. She sent the driver to join you. I think she behaved with

great sense.”

“I suppose there’s no possibility of my seeing Miss Quested?” he

asked suddenly.

“I hardly think that would do. Surely.”

“I was afraid you’ld say that. I should very much like to.”

“She is in no state to see anyone. Besides, you don’t know her

well.”

“Hardly at all. . . . But you see I believe she’s under some

hideous delusion, and that that wretched boy is innocent.”

The policeman started in surprise, and a shadow passed over his

face, for he could not bear his dispositions to be upset. “I had

no idea that was in your mind,” he said, and looked for support at

the signed deposition, which lay before him.

“Those field-glasses upset me for a minute, but I’ve thought since:

it’s impossible that, having attempted to assault her, he would

put her glasses into his pocket.”

“Quite possible, I’m afraid; when an Indian goes bad, he goes not

only very bad, but very queer.”

“I don’t follow.”

“How should you? When you think of crime you think of English

crime. The psychology here is different. I dare say you’ll tell me

next that he was quite normal when he came down from the hill to

greet you. No reason he should not be. Read any of the Mutiny

records; which, rather than the Bhagavad Gita, should be your Bible

in this country. Though I’m not sure that the one and the other

are not closely connected. Am I not being beastly? But, you see,

Fielding, as I’ve said to you once before, you’re a schoolmaster,

and consequently you come across these people at their best. That’s

what puts you wrong. They can be charming as boys. But I know them

as they really are, after they have developed into men. Look at

this, for instance.” He held up Aziz’ pocket-case. “I am going

through the contents. They are not edifying. Here is a letter from

a friend who apparently keeps a brothel.”

“I don’t want to hear his private letters.”

“It’ll have to be quoted in Court, as bearing on his morals. He

was fixing up to see women at Calcutta.”

“Oh, that’ll do, that’ll do.”

McBryde stopped, naively puzzled. It was obvious to him that any

two sahibs ought to pool all they knew about any Indian, and he

could not think where the objection came in.

“I dare say you have the right to throw stones at a young man for

doing that, but I haven’t. I did the same at his age.”

So had the Superintendent of Police, but he considered that the

conversation had taken a turn that was undesirable. He did not like

Fielding’s next remark either.

“Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know that for a

certainty?”

“You have never explained to me what’s in your mind here. Why on

earth do you want to see her?”

“On the off chance of her recanting before you send in that report

and he’s committed for trial, and the whole thing goes to blazes.

Old man, don’t argue about this, but do of your goodness just ring

up your wife or Miss Derek and enquire. It’ll cost you nothing.”

“It’s no use ringing up them,” he replied, stretching out for the

telephone. “Callendar settles a question like that, of course. You

haven’t grasped that she’s seriously ill.”

“He’s sure to refuse, it’s all he exists for,” said the other

desperately.

The expected answer came back: the Major would not hear of the

patient being troubled.

“I only wanted to ask her whether she is certain, dead certain,

that it was Aziz who followed her into the cave.”

“Possibly my wife might ask her that much.”

“But _I_ wanted to ask her. I want someone who believes in him to

ask her.”

“What difference does that make?”

“She is among people who disbelieve in Indians.”

“Well, she tells her own story, doesn’t she?”

“I know, but she tells it to you.”

McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: “A bit too finespun.

Anyhow, Callendar won’t hear of you seeing her. I’m sorry to say

he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means

out of danger.”

They were silent. Another card was brought into the

office—Hamidullah’s. The opposite army was gathering.

“I must put this report through now, Fielding.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“How can I not?”

“I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most

disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your

prisoner, I suppose.”

He hesitated. “His own people seem in touch with him all right.”

“Well, when he’s done with them.”

“I wouldn’t keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of

any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what’s the good. Why mix

yourself up with pitch?”

“I say he’s innocent——”

“Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What’s the good?”

“Oh, good, good,” he cried, feeling that every earth was being

stopped. “One’s got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I

mayn’t see her, and now I mayn’t see him. I promised him to come

up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could

get two steps.”

“Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do,” he muttered

sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched

his hand over the table, and said: “We shall all have to hang

together, old man, I’m afraid. I’m your junior in years, I know,

but very much your senior in service; you don’t happen to know this

poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me

that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore

during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed.”

“So I have just told you.”

“But at a time like this there’s no room for—well—personal views.

The man who doesn’t toe the line is lost.”

“I see what you mean.”

“No, you don’t see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens

his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line.

These jackals”—he pointed at the lawyers’ cards—“are looking with

all their eyes for a gap.”

“Can I visit Aziz?” was his answer.

“No.” Now that he knew of Turton’s attitude, the policeman had no

doubts. “You may see him on a magistrate’s order, but on my own

responsibility I don’t feel justified. It might lead to more

complications.”

He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger

or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde’s

appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, “To whom do I

apply for an order?”

“City Magistrate.”

“That sounds comfortable!”

“Yes, one can’t very well worry poor Heaslop.”

More “evidence” appeared at this moment—the table-drawer from Aziz’

bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal’s arms.

“Photographs of women. Ah!”

“That’s his wife,” said Fielding, wincing.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in

the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. “Wife

indeed, I know those wives!” he was thinking. Aloud he said: “Well,

you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help

us all. . .”

As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket

on a temple bell.