Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
Читать онлайн книгу.
Acorn, the Orient Love Express does not need to rely on artificial stimulants to launch itself successfully. We deal only in the genuine thrill of the endorphins engendered by love.”
“Not to mention cash,” laughed Acorn. “This Sanjit guy — he’s your cousin?”
“Absolutely. But don’t quote me on that. I am merely an observer.”
“But you’re on the board of directors, aren’t you?” pressed Acorn.
“I have given him a hand in setting the thing up,” Jinnah said, obfusticating. “Now if you’ll excuse me —”
“Hey, not so fast!” Acorn plucked at Jinnah’s sleeve. “You haven’t told me where you were when the lights went out.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Jinnah, puzzled.
It was Acorn’s turn to be incredulous. His head sank back into his shoulders, rather like a turtle retreating into his shell, mouth agape.
“You mean you haven’t heard?” he said, amazed. “Not been to the newsroom this morning? Dear, oh dear!”
“Heard what?” demanded Jinnah. “Was there a power shortage or something?”
“You might say that—” Acorn laughed.
Before Jinnah could receive further enlightenment, he was steered away from Acorn by Sanjit, who wrapped a bear-like arm around his waist.
“Hey! I was talking to that guy —” Jinnah started to complain in Hindi.
“Save it,” growled Sanjit in the same tongue. “Where the hell have you been? We are late!”
“My apologies. I was talking to a man about a body.”
“You may now talk to other men about units and expected rates of return,” said Sanjit. “Not that any of these men are from our community.”
“None?” said Jinnah. “Not even Mister Germal from the Community Reporter?”
Sanjit scowled as he manoeuvred Jinnah through the crowd towards the podium.
“Yes, Mister Germal is here. I think he wants to speak with you.”
“Forget it,” said Jinnah. “You’re the president. You talk to him.”
“Only if you’re there to help me.”
“Don’t worry about it, Sanjit.”
They had reached the front of the room. Sanjit paused at the foot of the short flight of stairs up to the platform. There was now nothing for it. Jinnah reached out and gave Sanjit’s arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“Go on, buddy! Knock ‘em dead!” he whispered.
Sanjit nodded gravely and slowly walked up the stairs and over to the podium. A hush fell over the guests as he nervously cleared his throat into the microphone, sending a coughing sound reverberating around the ballroom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and members of the media,” said Sanjit. “If I could have your attention for a few moments …”
Jinnah had drifted towards the side of the ballroom near the doors and taken up a position underneath one of the speaker stands. It was journalistic habit. This way, he could leave unobserved if things proved too boring or too embarrassing, but could still hear what was being said. Right now, however, Jinnah was praying fervently to Allah to fill Sanjit with courage as his cousin launched the Orient Love Express. His attempts at heavenly intercession were interrupted, however, by the persistent Acorn.
“Seriously, you haven’t heard what happened, mate?” he whispered, straining up on his tiptoes to reach Jinnah’s ear.
“Look, can this wait, Ashley?” begged Jinnah. “My cousin is playing with my financial future right now.”
“Fine, fine,” hissed Acorn. “Suit yourself. I just thought you’d like to know about that ass Grant getting the scare of his life, that’s all.”
“Say what?” Jinnah, whirling around so abruptly that the off-balanced Acorn nearly toppled over.
“Grant was wearing brown trousers this morning, mate,” said Acorn cryptically.
By now, several guests were staring at them. Jinnah was in a bind. He wanted to know what Acorn was talking about, but it was essential the launch go off without disruption. Self-interest struggled briefly with professional jealousy and the latter won. Jinnah put an arm around the tiny business reporter’s shoulders and guided him to the doorway, out of earshot of those in the room.
“What the hell are you talking about? Make it quick,” he whispered.
“Oh, I don’t know, I should really be listening to your cousin’s speech, shouldn’t I Jinnah?” Acorn grinned wickedly. “After all, you’ll find out soon enough when you get back to the Trib. If they let you through security, that is.”
“Ashley, if you don’t tell me right now —” Jinnah began, raising his volume.
A group of people near the door whirled about, glaring. Jinnah lowered is voice.
“What the hell happened to Grant?” he whispered almost inaudibly.
“Such news should not come from a competitor,” Acorn shook his head. “But let me show you someone who can fill you in, eh?”
Acorn moved along the sides of the room, past speaker and light stands, tables with trays of water on them and the odd person leaning against the wall to the rear. Standing at the back of the room were three people having a hushed conversation. Jinnah at first took them to be reporters — it was quite usual for journalists to talk at the back of the crowd while the event they were supposed to be watching unfolded. But it was quickly apparent to Jinnah that these three people were discussing something far more important to them than a stock offering being launched on the CDNX. The two men and one woman were having a quiet argument and their body language was quite revealing.
They formed an uneven triangle. To the left, Jinnah recognized from his photographs the flamboyant bulk of Cosmo Lavirtue, who was leaning forward, chest out, hands clenching his cane. In the middle and standing back a step was a tall, thin woman with dark hair and too much make-up on her face. Her dark hair was cut short and she was dressed entirely in black. Her arms were wrapped around herself, as if she were trying to contain herself. These two Jinnah took in with a glance. It was at the third side of the human pyramid that his eyes did a double-take. Standing there was a heavy, round man, hands carefully folded behind his back, protruding belly straining the vest of his suit (which, Jinnah noted, was cheap and synthetic). Everything about him was round or circular: his stomach, his shoulders, the slight bow to his short legs, as if he had been drawn by an art student instead of born of woman. His face too was round: a pale, pock-marked moon partially eclipsed by a scraggly, black beard flecked with grey. What hair he had hung down limp, lifeless, and flat on either side of his bald pate and was ill-kept. His dark overcoat was too long for him while his pants had been cut too high, showing more of his snakeskin cowboy boots than was strictly fashionable. Unlike his two companions, his posture was a study of solid composure: like a pillar of salt, Jinnah thought.
But that wasn’t the man’s most striking feature. That dubious honour went to his eyes. They did not flash, they did not gleam, nor were they, precisely, dark wells. They were large and black, but appeared to Jinnah to suck up all the light around them and reflect nothing back, like twin black holes. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jinnah could not place him.
“Quite a love-triangle,” whispered Acorn. “Big bloke on the left is Cosmo Lavirtue. Dumpy devil to right is Neil Thompson: both sometime business partners of that lovely woman-in-widow’s-weeds’ late husband.”
Neil Thompson. Jinnah hadn’t recognized him from the photograph. Cosmo Lavirtue had aged far more gracefully. Jinnah tore his eyes away from the gravitational pull of Neil Thompson’s gaze and looked