Patience is essential in such matters. What appears empty may not be so. Over the first two days, I incorporated it into my observations. No one entered. No one left. The dust upon the windows remained undisturbed.
Only then did I consider its use.
Each day, I continued my visits to my clubs. I invariably lunched at the Anglo-Indian Club in Pall Mall, not from preference but from habit. Routine, once established, is not to be altered without cause. A man who changes his ways too readily invites notice, and notice is seldom desirable. Today I arrived a little after one. The place retains more of India than most. It shows in the bearing of the staff, in the arrangement of the rooms, and in the quiet assumptions shared by the men who frequent it. Those who have spent years abroad do not shed their habits upon returning home; they carry them with them and preserve them here.
That infernal bore Brigadier Reynolds was loitering in the hallway and stopped me “How are you Moran, I hear old McKendrick has developed a touch of Malaria again.” I did not want to be stuck with his company and simply said “Terrible affliction indeed Brigadier, I’m glad it’s not me,” and carried on walking as to linger meant weary hours of retold tales of gallantry that no one but the Brigadier seemed to remember.
The dining room was comfortably filled. Not crowded, but busy enough that no one man stood out. I took a table along the wall, where I might see without being seen easily.
The waiter, Jenkins, came at once and required no instruction. Mulligatawny soup was set before me, properly made, spiced but not excessively so, followed by curried chicken with rice, each grain separate, as it ought to be. There was a small dish of chutney, sharp enough to serve its purpose. Bread was provided, though I made little use of it. I took a glass of pale ale. Such a meal is not chosen for pleasure. It answers a need. The spice sharpens the senses. The balance of it sustains without weighing a man down. These things matter. A body that is neglected will make its demands at the least convenient moment. I ate steadily, without hurry. Around me, conversation followed its usual course. India, as it had been; England, as it now was; trade, climate, and the small petty grievances of men whose lives had grown more settled than they cared to admit.
I nodded to a few but no one addressed me. That was as it should be. When I had finished, I declined anything further and rose. There is no sense in lingering once a thing is done. I went to the smoking room.
The air there was thick with tobacco, the residue of years settled into the walls and furniture. The chairs were deep and well worn. The light was low. It is a room meant for quiet and for distance from the rest of the house. I took a seat near the window
A cigar was brought. I favour the Partagas. I looked it over before cutting it. The make was sound. It drew evenly enough. That would do. I lit it and let the first smoke settle before taking up the newspaper from the table beside me. It was the morning edition. I opened it without interest and turned, as I always do, to the inner pages. The front is for display. What matters is usually placed elsewhere. Articles involving crime always catch my eye. It concerned a crime involving a clerk in a stockbroker’s office. His name was printed, though it signified nothing in itself. At first glance, the matter seemed trivial; one of those odd occurrences that draw brief attention and are then forgotten. The details suggested otherwise. The man had been engaged under unusual circumstances. An offer of employment, unexpectedly favourable. Instructions that required him to travel. Work set before him that appeared pointless when taken on its own; copying documents of no clear value, occupying his time without explanation. His presence had been required. His purpose had not. While he was thus engaged, others had made use of his absence. That much was plain, though the report did not state it directly. There had been an attempt at violence. Clumsy, by the sound of it. A struggle followed, then an attempt at escape. The police arrived in time to prevent whatever had been intended, though not before matters had gone far enough to require explanation. The language of the article was imprecise. It spoke of ‘irregularities’ and ‘suspected fraud,’ terms that are useful when clarity is either lacking or unwelcome. I read it once, and then again. There was no mention of anything beyond the immediate affair. No suggestion that it formed part of a larger design. It was presented as an isolated incident, of no great consequence. Such things rarely are. I gave it no further thought. The cigar had burned halfway down. I drew on it, held the smoke, and let it out slowly. There is a rhythm to it. One action follows another. Each measured. Each the same. This afternoon I visited my publisher for a book I was writing about my eastern adventures before returning to my rooms.