Free The Maharajah's Monkey by Natasha Narayan

that. I’d foolishly reckoned I’d known all the first-class passengers aboard ship. I’d never imagined the people I was looking for could be hiding among the diseased. That man with the swaddled head was passing me by now, so close that if I could have got past the naval security cordon, I could have ripped off his bandages. A waft of scent hit me in the nose. A sickly mixture of jasmine and musk that was all too familiar. Champlon claimed it was cologne-water for use after shaving, but anyone else would call it by another name.
    Perfume.
    The turbaned Indian was walking right by me. Heturned his head and gave me a sideways look. I believe he too was laughing at me. Then he was gone and the passengers in wheelchairs were being helped into the tikka-gharry.
    Aunt Hilda had also smelt Champlon’s perfume, for suddenly her expression changed. A stillness came over her face and she raised her nose to the air and sniffed. She looked, for all the world, like a hound scenting a fox.
    â€œChamplon,” I gasped.
    â€œThe cad!”
    We acted at once; surging through the cordon of sailors guarding the “sick passengers,” as my friends and father gaped in astonishment. We caught the sailors off guard. I got through and ran toward the tikka-gharry but a sailor had caught hold of my aunt. The doors, black-painted like the rest of the carriage, were closing. My prey was safely inside, but I wasn’t finished. I grasped the door handle and wrenched it open. I had a fleeting glimpse of astonished faces, then the Indian raised his cane and slashed me viciously. Just in time I raised my hands, which took the brunt of the blow.
    â€œOuch!” I yelled, clutching my throbbing hand.
    â€œTo Bori Bunder,” the Indian shouted at the driver. The brute slammed the door of the carriage in my face. With a flurry of whips and wheels it was off.
    â€œStop!” I yelled, but a sailor-guard had caught up withme and was grasping me roughly by the arm.
    â€œWhat you playing at?” he shouted. “Are you a lunatic?”
    â€œI thought I saw a friend,” I mumbled.
    â€œNo friends of the likes of you. Them’s very important passengers. You’re lucky I’m not arresting you for creating a nuisance. Off with you now. Go on, get lost!”
    I sped away, back to my friends. Whoever they were, the mysterious strangers clearly had a lot of power, for the traffic had been cleared for their carriage. Bullock carts, rickshaws, tikka-gharries, tongas—all sorts of strange rickety vehicles—moved to one side. It was like the seas parting. Their black-and-gold tikka-gharry sped off. After it was lost from view, the traffic surged round them.
    The villains had escaped.
    My hand was stinging, and a weal was purpling my flesh where that man had struck me with his cane—but this was no time for self-pity.
    â€œWhat’s Bori Bunder?” I asked my aunt.
    â€œThe train station.”
    â€œQuick! We have to follow them.”

Chapter Nine
    When we got to the station there was no sign of Champlon or his strange companions. Everywhere we looked was a heaving mass of people, of porters balancing huge trunks on their heads, of families trailing straggling children. The sticky heat, the crush, made my head feel as if it was alive with buzzing flies. Above the constant din of people and steam engines, was the bawling of vendors carrying trays of scalding drinks—“Kaapee, kaapee,” “Chai, chai”—for that is how they sell coffee and tea in this strange land.
    â€œWe will never find Champlon,” I sighed, looking around despairingly.
    I must confess I had rarely felt so utterly bewildered by any sight as that inside Bori Bunder. What a steaming, rickety place it was. Only the trains struck a modern note.
    â€œOf course not,” snapped my aunt. “Might as well look for a maggot in a rotten tree.”
    â€œMaybe we can find him in Baroda, maybe