Roger frowned slightly as he scanned the transcription he had made. Only moments ago the dusty telegraph - it seemed dust coated everything in this place in perpetuity; even the air was thick with it and would remain so until the rains of July turned it to a fine coating of mud - in his apartment had sprung to life spouting what would amount to the unsuspecting listener as gibberish. At the sound of the message Roger abandoned the pan of something deep red in color and otherwise unidentifiable in content that was supposed to be his supper for the small wooden table where he immediately began to transcribe the message. It was not a complex code - he could easily pick it out from the nonsense without even having to write all the extraneous letters and numbers on the sheet of paper. Satisfied that he had memorized the content on the parchment, he folded it and half and dangled the corner over the candle, which sat beside the infernal clicking machine, until a plume of dark smoke informed him it had caught fire. He watched the orange flames consume the paper with a vague disinterest until such time as the heat began to lick at his fingers. He dropped the remainder of the note into the silver candle holder, waiting until the final shred had been immolated before rising from the chair to pull a book from the shelf behind him. He flipped through the pages, stopping only briefly to scan one or another until he had ascertained the location of the meeting with the man he knew only as The Sikh.
Since his assignment to Bombay he had only been called to a meeting with The Sikh on a handful of occasions. He knew precious little of the dark skinned man, who wore the deep blue pagri despite his snow white beard, aside from that he was in the employ of the High Commission. Roger's brow furrowed as he scraped the contents of the pan into the trash, there was no time for eating it now. In truth he felt little sorrow for the loss, expecting it would have found its way there regardless for he had no appetite for it at the moment. He had found he had a rather reduced desire for Indian food since he had received that letter from home - a letter that, though it had sat on his desk for the better part of a month, yet remained unopened, Quentin Underhill's neat penmanship still staining the front of the thick, ornately stamped envelope. He suspected the contents, had even expected them a great deal earlier - he knew within in stark black letters formed from the finest calligrapher's pen would be long awaited date, finally named, the culmination of years of parental wishes and prayers. Replacing the book on the shelf of his barren apartment, Roger threw on his coat and made his way out the door into the hall.
The Sikh stood slightly recessed in the alley beside the textile shop, shade from the awning almost fully obscuring the man from view. Roger examined a number of the fabrics, running a few of the finer silks through his fingers before slowly sidling up to the mysterious figure. "Sat Shri Akal"
"Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa, Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh. We meet again Mr. Bond," The Sikh replied. "It is good to see you are well."
"For the moment. What news is there from the Office?" The man did not answer Roger's inquiry, only shifting his eyes toward the shop. Roger followed his line to the store owner within, watching the pair of them closely. "I see."
"I will meet you at the other end of the alley." The Sikh said. Roger nodded, returning to his perusal of the fabrics. Finally, after some minutes, he decided on a light cotton twill for his sister. He left the shop, strolling down the crowded boulevard as though with no specific destination, going some distance before hurriedly turning down an alley and making his way to the meeting place. For a moment he feared he had delayed to long in his return, for he did not see The Sikh anywhere, when suddenly the queersome man melted out from the shadows. Roger raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement,
"I fear we have drawn some unwanted attention. Might I ask what this is regarding?"
"A number of British sailors have gone missing."
"I see little out of the ordinary in that. What has the Office concerned about a few deserters?"
"Among the missing soldiers is a Lt. Commander Jeremy Hoople." The Sikh said, handing Roger an envelope. Roger perused the contents quickly. Within the packet were a number of papers documenting Lt. Commander Hoople's meteoric rise in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Joining as a sailor only a few years ago, Hoople seemed to have proved quite the prodigy. He had recently attained his rank following a hurricane gale off the Ivory Coast, which took the ship far out to sea and saw the loss of his ship's Captain as well as the failure of the First Mate to rise to the occasion, wherein he proved himself the hero of the day; not only saving the ship but navigating it safely to African shores.
"Oh yes, I heard about this incident. I believe the First Mate is still gibbering to rats in Bedlam." Roger remarked, The Sikh regarded the dark haired man stonily. Roger continued shifting through the documents, stopping on a picture of a slight-framed light haired man in full Naval regalia whom he guessed to be the Lt. Commander. "Has there been any reason to suspect foul play?" Roger asked. The Sikh made no answer. 'No then.' Roger thought to himself. "Likely Shanghaied then." he mumbled to himself "Though who would be so bold is rather the more important issue." The Sikh nodded almost imperceptibly.
"The High Commission would appreciate if you might look into the matter, Mr. Bond." The Sikh suggested. "Mr. Hoople's wife and children would be much relieved to have him restored to them."
"Where was Lt. Commander Hoople staying before he disappeared?"
"We believe he had a room at the Queen Victoria."
"Then that is where I will begin," Roger answered with a nod. "Good day to you."
"Victory belongs to God." The Sikh responded, drawing his dark cloak about him and melting back into the shadows.
