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like this. Madman, Nesbit muttered.
I took the description as hyperbole, and waited impatiently for him to tell
me what we were going to do next. All plans of making a reconnaissance of the
Old Fort had clearly shot out the window; by the time Nesbit was sober enough
to walk, it would be light.
Saw the magician again, he said.
I straightened sharply. Where?
In the . . . Where were we? he said to himself. The gun-room.
That horrible fur-lined room? Why?
Jimmy wanted to see his tricks. Clever man.
I know, I said. Did you say anything, accidentally?
No. He spoke firmly, with absolute assurance, and I thought that this might
be one drunk who retained a thin edge of control.
Did he give you anything?
Who? He raised his head, struggling to focus on my face. Jimmy?
No, Hol the magician, I said, although we were speaking quietly.
The green eyes narrowed exaggeratedly in thought, and Nesbit started to pat
his pockets, then looked around for some place to put the glass. I took it,
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and watched him search pockets with clumsy fingers until impatience got the
better of me, and I dipped my own into breast and coat pockets until I
encountered the tiny twist of paper, no bigger than an apple seed.
Got it, I told him. He blinked owlishly at the object, and I resigned
myself to the fact that there would be no more help or even sense got out of
the man tonight. Holmes skin dye would have to last another day. I pulled
back the bedclothes and patted the pillow. You go to sleep. I ll see you in
the morning.
Got things to do, he declared, and prepared to rally his body s mutinous
forces to his side.
Nesbit, I said in a firm voice. Geoffrey, there s not a thing either of us
can do tonight. Sleep it off. We ll talk in the morning.
He focussed on my face, inches from his, and then his eyes went soft, and
after a minute he sagged sideways into the pillow and went limp. I pulled the
bedclothes up to his shoulders and crossed the room, but at the door I heard
his voice.
Pig sticking. In the morning. Early.
Damnation.
Outside, I gave the servant a third cigarette and told him, Nesbitsahibwill
need aspirin and strong coffee when he wakes. And someone to help him shave,
I added.
Yes,sahib, the man said merrily. Aspirin and coffee we have much of.
I ll bet, I said to myself.
In my room, with a chair braced under the door s handle, I eased open the
tiny wad of thin paper Holmes had secreted in Nesbit s pocket:
First floor, southeast wing. Keys in the desk box. Bring rope, morphia,
needle.
I was accustomed to odd shopping lists from Holmes, but this gave me a
moment s pause. Rope I could probably find, but the rest? As I traded my dark
clothes for nightwear and climbed into bed, my mind was taken up with ways in
which I might casually ask the servants for a drug addict s gear.
Nesbit looked like deathin the morning. The aspirin and coffee might have got
him dressed and on the horse, but only time would restore the colour to his
face and the flexibility to his posture. Still, he was there, and mounted,
albeit looking decidedly queasy. His greeting to me was a brief nod; his
answer to the maharaja s hearty greeting not much more effusive. The prince
laughed and clapped his guest on the shoulders.
You re getting soft, Nesbit, he declared. Not holding up the British
side.
The day s not over yet, Jimmy, Nesbit answered, but the maharaja only
laughed the louder. I realised with a shock that this drinking partner was
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still half drunk; how the hell could he manage the intellectually tricky and
physically demanding business of going after pig? And I was none the happier
when he chose Nesbit and myself as his partners for the run.
We rode five miles northwest, past the air field to where the servants were
waiting. During that time, Nesbit pulled himself together, his seat improving
with every minute, his green eyes taking on the gleam of challenge. It was a
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