Free The Baron Goes East by John Creasey

see him.”
    â€œVery good, sahib.”
    Lorna looked her protest, but waited until Joseph had gone.
    â€œYou don’t know who he is or what he wants.”
    Mannering smiled. “If he’s Indian, he won’t go away because of a first refusal, and he’ll probably send in a little more information about himself. Tea or orange juice?”
    â€œTea,” said Lorna.
    Joseph came back in ten minutes with a card. He handed it to Mannering and stood back. The card was printed in English, and announced that Mr. I. Patandi, of Bombay, was a dealer in books in all languages, ancient and modern. There was a message scribbled in a bold, boyish hand.
    â€œ Please, Mr. Mannering, most important. Not business only. ”
    â€œIs this the man who’s been waiting?”
    â€œYes, sahib.”
    â€œHas Amu seen him?”
    â€œAmu sent him away. He would not go.”
    â€œI see,” said Mannering. “All right. Tell him I’ll see him for five minutes, between now and one o’clock. I can’t be sure what time. And I’m not interested in business.”
    â€œPlease,” said Joseph. “What did the sahib say?”
    Amu appeared at the doorway of the balcony, spoke swiftly to the other boy in Hindi, advanced a step, apologised to Mannering because he had not been on duty when the sahib and memsahib had woken. He understood the message and would tell the man. He went out.
    â€œJohn,” said Lorna. “Aren’t you being a bit high-handed? India belongs to the Indians now.”
    â€œI can’t imagine what Mr. Patandi wants, but we’ll find out whether he’s eager enough to wait for another two hours,” Mannering said. “Probably he wants to sell us books, in spite of the ‘not business only’.”
    â€œI suppose nothing I say will change you. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”
    â€œPatandi? Haven’t seen the chap.”
    â€œAmu.”
    â€œOh, there are hundreds like him,” said Mannering. “Don’t start seeing every face on canvas. Wait until you’ve had a good survey.”
    â€œOr stick to camels,” said Lorna. “I’ve said it for you. John, why did you lock and bolt the doors?”
    He didn’t joke, and didn’t explain.
    â€œI think it’s a good thing to start. We ought to do it everywhere, like locking a car door. We might forget when it really matters, otherwise.”
    She wasn’t wholly satisfied but accepted the answer, finished her tea and brushed her forehead.
    â€œSticky?” asked Mannering.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. Tea’s a cooling drink, after the first few minutes.”
    Mannering grimaced at her.
    â€œDon’t keep Patandi waiting too long,” pleaded Lorna, as she got up. “I’m anxious to see what he looks like.”
    Â 
    They had bathed and finished breakfast by half-past eleven. The only coolness was in the rooms, and there it was illusory, the big fans stirring the hot air. Outside, it was roasting hot; or boiling hot, humid enough to make them sticky after any slight movement. Amu and Joseph had waited on them in a style which was barely remembered in England; they were silent and efficient.
    At twenty-five to twelve Mannering rang a small handbell and Amu appeared almost on the instant.
    â€œIs Patandi still there, Amu?”
    â€œYes, sahib.”
    â€œWe’ll see him,” said Mannering.
    â€œVery good, sahib.” The “sahib” always came after the shortest phrase. Amu went out. Lorna dabbed a little powder on her nose. Both were pretending to look towards the open door which led to the balcony when Mr. I. Patandi came in.
    They did not pretend for long.
    Patandi was a big man; not only fat, but tall, six foot three or four, Mannering judged. He wore a dhoti, and the thick calves of his brown legs stuck out from it. His sandals had rope soles. He wore a little black turban