Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 35

The immense register, like those in all hotels long ago, unfortunately held no mention of David. Max’s nephew must have had no difficulty using an assumed name. India wasn’t in the habit of requesting any ID, passport or other, when one rented a room. Max had already noticed this in Delhi, but the corpulent, stern-faced owner recognized David from the photo Max showed her.

“How many days did he stay?”

“One night I think.”

“Was he alone?”

She nodded.

“What did he do? Make any appointments, visit the city, receive any phone calls?”

“Shabir!” she yelled.

The handyman was elderly, frail, barefoot, and dressed in a salwar. He seemed better prepared for hunting flies than for painting or woodworking. The owner conferred with him, intoning in a language Max didn’t recognize. He later learned it was Kashmiri.

Shabir tilted his head one way, then the other, as though on the point of falling into a trance or passing out, but he was really saying, “I know some things, but only at a price.” Jayesh held out a few rupees, and Shabir slipped them into his salwar as imperceptibly as a magician. He remembered David, oh yes, because he was the only Westerner in the hotel, in fact the only client who hadn’t stayed shut up in his room, especially with the curfew.

“Where exactly did he go?”

This brought a fresh round of nodding and rupee-ing. They’d never find it, he said, without someone who really knew Srinagar the way he did, having lived there all his life. Oh, the horrors he’d seen. More rupees to help him bury the past.

The capital sprang back to life in the daytime, but still a life under military occupation. Armed men looking for possible terrorists patrolled the squares, streets, and markets constantly. David had probably taken this same route and passed the same patrols. He’d no doubt laid out the rupees, too, and that was exactly why he was remembered. The old man walked steadily in front of them, as if he’d done it hundreds of times, as he surely had. He was right — the city was a labyrinth, and, for an hour, they went through narrow streets and narrower ones, even alleys and inner courtyards, as well as false dead ends that actually did lead somewhere, into dark ways apparently designed for throat-cutting, then to a square a little more sunlit than the others, where Shabir pointed to a rundown three-storey building painted sickly green like the rest of the neighbourhood.

“I brought him here,” he said with great authority, as though fearful of not being taken seriously, “He went inside here.”

How many apartments were there? Quite a few, judging by the number of windows, some of them covered but showing silhouettes. David had given Shabir a generous tip. Jayesh got the message loud and clear, so out came the roll of rupees. After David went in, which apartment did he go to? Why? To do what? Max had to resign himself to the fact that Shabir didn’t know. They had no choice but to knock on every door and show everyone the picture of David, risking a few rounds from a Kalashnikov instead. While Shabir waited outside, the two went in. A chubby type, poorly shaven, wearing just an undershirt, who had watched them from his window, emerged at once from a ground-floor apartment.

“Are you here to look at the studio, is that it?”

Then they heard him fumbling for keys as he went back inside. Then he headed upstairs before them without bothering to close his door. He was painfully heavy and slow, and used the handrail not just for direction, but for support. He couldn’t get up the stairs otherwise.

“I have to warn you,” he said, coughing, “I can’t rent it until things are settled, what with this bloody business and all …”

Max pretended to understand, explaining he’d just arrived in Srinagar and was at the hotel for the time being, so he could wait a few days. The fact that a stranger had showed up didn’t seem to surprise the caretaker: he probably wasn’t the first to visit. Since things had broken down with Pakistan, the city was crawling with foreign reporters.

“And when do you suppose this ‘business’ will be over?”

The man shrugged. “They’ve got other things to worry about, and they say I’ve already had my commission so I’m not short.”

“They?”

He, as if noticing him for the first time. “You’re not with the papers.”

“We just got here from Delhi.”

“Well, you’ll have to work it out with them, if you want the place right away.”

“With who?”

“The Srinagar Reporter.”

Max remembered seeing it on billboards when they got into town. It was a daily, like The Times of India, but focused on Kashmir. The concierge slid the key into a lock at the end of the third floor in the back, and opened the door. When he turned on the light, the studio was tiny and disorderly. To the right was an unmade bed. To the left were a table, a cupboard, and a sink. The place had the relative luxury of running water despite the outward appearance of the building. At the end, a half-open door revealed a wash basin and toilet.

The caretaker was standing in the middle of it all with arms folded to show he was ready for questions or criticisms. Max showed him David’s photo.

“He may have come here to see someone — pos­sibly you?”

The man looked defiantly at both of them. “Police?”

“Do you recognize this guy? His picture was in the papers last week.”

“Never seen him here.”

Max put the photo away. So, they were going to have to go door to door. They got ready to leave.

“Strange that a newspaper would rent a place like that,” Max said before they got to the corridor.

“Owners.”

“The Reporter owns this building?”

“Yesss. They wanted to pull it down, but they changed their minds. I don’t know why. Meanwhile, they rent. That’s how Ahmed got the apartment.”

“Ahmed?”

“Ahmed Zaheer.” He pointed to the furniture and items scattered round the place, “This is all his.”

“And where did this Ahmed go?”

“To Canada. To die.”