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spoke, instinctive reluctance gave way to a rush of anger. Anger for Feodor Korsovsky, so genial, so excited and friendly and so alive. And Joe had heard the last note of that wonderful voice turn to an obscene scream of pain. Yes, it was his business.
    Perhaps reading his thoughts, Carter eyed him with friendship. ‘I’ll tell you something, Sandilands. You are drawn into it so you might as well settle down and enjoy yourself. I expect baritones get shot two or three times a week in London but – I’ll tell you — it’s something of a novelty in Simla. Makes a nice change from rounding up blasted monkeys which it seems is how I spend my time nowadays.’
    With the posse closed up behind them they threaded their way through the lower town and out on to the open road, breaking first into a trot and then into a canter. Carter ranged up beside Joe as they rode. ‘Tell me something about this Russian,’ he said. ‘You had plenty of time to get acquainted travelling up from Kalka. Apart from this appearance at the Gaiety, had he any business in Simla? Any friends? Any contacts? Was anyone meeting him? I’m trying to understand why anybody would want to shoot the poor chap.’
    ‘He didn’t say anything useful,’ said Joe. ‘He mentioned that he was in contact with the Simla Amateur Dramatic Society who’d booked his appearance. They’d made all his arrangements, hotel and so on. But I got the impression that it was all purely professional. He didn’t even mention a name. He’d taken the engagement entirely, I think, because he’d always wanted to see Simla. He’d turned down a good offer in New York to do it.’
    Carter cast a sharp glance at Joe. ‘Feller was a tourist, are you saying?’ He barked out an order and four of the following sowars came forward and stationed themselves in front and on either side of Joe, all scanning the slopes ahead and on each side with increased alertness.
    ‘Ah! You think I was the target? And the marksman hit the wrong man?’ said Joe.
    ‘Yes, I do,’ said Carter. ‘Well, it’s certainly a possibility. What about you, Sandilands? Any contacts in Simla? Embarrassing connection with a disreputable past? Senior policemen pick up quite a few enemies on their way up. Especially those whose rise has been
    would the word be – meteoric? So what about that? Something of that sort would be a great help to me, you know.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Joe, noting the man’s shrewdness with approval, ‘can’t supply. The only contact I have is the Lieutenant-Governor and contacts don’t come much more respectable than that! No, I know nobody in Simla. And the only man who might take the trouble to line me up on a lonely mountain pass is – I’m glad to say – serving twenty years in the Scrubs.’
    ‘But someone was lying in wait for the Governor’s car. You were the expected passenger, weren’t you? Was it by chance that you offered Korsovsky a lift?’
    Joe nodded.
    ‘Then, don’t you agree that it’s far more likely that the sniper was lying in wait for you?’ Carter persisted. ‘You were the man he was expecting to find in the back of the Governor’s car.’
    Something – a remark made by the Russian – was nagging at Joe’s mind. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘When we met and we were discussing ways of getting up to Simla he said to me
    something like – “I’ve been instructed to take a tonga.” Yes – instructed. I thought at the time it was an odd word to use. Listen, Carter, someone had told him, and firmly we must assume, to come up by tonga. So your sniper is lying in wait – quite possibly for hours – looking out for a tonga bearing a large Russian singer. He picked a good place. Plenty of cover and a direct shot at the very spot where I expect everyone stops on their first visit to Simla. Tara Devi. You round the corner and there it is, your first sight. And there’s even a place where you can pull over and stop to get a better view.’
    Carter was listening earnestly and nodding his agreement.
    ‘So, you