"Mr. Bond, you said your name was?" the clerk at the front desk of the Hotel Victoria asked. He was a portly man, the pale flesh of his forehead had well encroached on his pale orange curls, leaving only a strip on top only a few inches above his round spectacles.
"Yes, James Bond. I would like a room for the evening. This hotel was recommended to me by the captain of the Bon Celeste."
The clerk regarded him dubiously. Unhooking a key from behind the counter, he handed it to Roger. "I have a room on the second floor."
"Thank you," Roger said, taking the keys. "I'm sure it will be most satisfactory."
Roger made his way up the stairs to the dingy hallway, finding his room he unlocked the door. Still, the door did not move. He pushed somewhat harder, but again it refused to budge. Slamming his whole body weight against it the door finally gave way with a loud protesting squeal and he stumbled into the room. And what a sorry room to behold it was! The wallpaper was blotted with grease spots, a thin film of dust sticking to it. A cheaply framed print of the queen hung above the bed, looking down on the sleeper with mild disapproval. He ran an index finger along the bedspread, examining it, he rubbed it against his thumb, a viscous oily feel caused him to wipe his hand across his trouser leg. "Vile place." he muttered; "Doesn't say much for the ship's quarters." Roger rubbed a sleeve in a circular motion on the window glass, clearing the grime from it enough to see through it into the harbor. He watched for some time as the ships loaded and unloaded their cargo; for all its flaws the hotel did offer an excellent vantage point for a commander looking to keep and eye on his ship. A desire Roger suspected Hoople possessed. Pulling himself away from the glass, Roger returned to the front desk.
"Is it to your satisfaction?" the clerk inquired.
"It is passable. I intend to be out for the evening, if anyone calls for me."
"Are you expecting a guest?"
"No, but the captain may leave a message. He suspected our departure tomorrow might be delayed."
The clerk raised his brows but only replied impassively, "Check out is promptly at eleven. If you require a longer stay you will need to pay for the second night."
"Thank you, I will make arrangements if it becomes necessary."
Roger squinted from the bright Indian sun, made all the more intense by his time spent in the dimly lit hotel. He scanned the shops that lined the rutted street across from the harbor. They were cheap affairs - more for the sailors than the discerning buyer - ready to move on at the first hint of the monsoon floods; not unlike sea birds that alighted the moment a large wave crashed upon the shore, only to land again once the water had subsided. A shadow in an alleyway caught his attention. A sallow face, topped by a pillbox shaped white turban and spotted by a profusion of dark moles, peered around the corner and then withdrew. Roger crept around the building to the other side of the alley where he could see the back of the man turned from him, still searching the crowd for his quarry. Roger drew up behind the man, deftly he covered the man's mouth, preventing him from crying out as he steered him backward, down into the depths of the alley. "Dost, I have need of your services." Roger whispered into the man's ear. The man struggled against Roger's grip but found himself unequal to the task. "Can I count on you for your assistance?" The terror-stricken man nodded. "Good." Roger said, releasing his hand from the man's mouth. The man spun from Roger's slackened grip,
"What can I do for you today, Mr. Bond?" he sneered, his curled lip revealing a wide black space flanked by green-veined teeth stained a dingy brown. He stared down at Roger haughtily, yet behind those eyes Roger could see a shade of fear still lurked. The man's hand slowly crept inside his dust encrusted tunic.
"I wouldn't, unless you would prefer I save you another trip to the barber." Roger warned, eyeing the gap in the man's mouth pointedly. The man withdrew his hand, the glint of silver just showing from within the folds of cloth. "Have you heard anything regarding missing British Sailors?"
"I hear many things, Mr. Bond. What value is it to you?"
"I need to find this man." Roger produced the photograph of Hoople from within his coat.
"And what business is it of mine?"
"Humor me, if you would." Roger handed the photograph to the man who took it, crumpling the banknote concealed beneath into his hand without a glance.
"This man I have seen. He purchased some textiles from my cousin last week. He went to the Hotel Victoria. I did not see him again."
"How long did you lie in wait?"
The man displayed his yellowed teeth in what might be thought a smile, "Until the ships had loaded in the morning. But him I did not see again."
"Have you heard anything of the other missing men?"
"You are asking the wrong man. I would suggest you speak with those... much closer to your own heart." he said, pointedly. "I can tell you no more."
"I thank you for your time, dost. Phir milengae"
"Not if I see you first, dost." the man muttered, eyes cast menacingly upon the departing spy.
The information had been purchased cheaply, far below the man's usual price. Roger considered as he made his way back to the hotel. That fact boded poorly. This was deeply personal to his informant, and to that man few things were sacred - he would sell information on his own mother if it meant he might spend another hour frolicking among the flowers on a woven mat in the squalid darkness of the den - but only for the right price. If the information were so readily given it could only mean one thing. Roger frowned. So the sailors were being taken by their own countrymen. Still, he had not surrendered a name. And not only had he been unwilling to name the culprit, but he had refused further negotiations on the subject. Only a man of rank could invoke the servile nature of the conquered race - whether that invocation were willingly entered into or not. Roger suspected the latter. Fear, generations of subjugation had bout his informant's silence. Even Bond did not have the power to guarantee protection from the wrath of the Council or its Governor, he thought, reaching to turn the key in the lock when suddenly, his hand stopped.
He stooped down; attention caught by the pale thread, having previously adorned the shank of the knob, lying on the crimson carpet. Pulling his pistol, he pressed himself against the door and turned the key in the lock. Turning the knob, he threw open the door, his full weight propelling it into the room. He felt the dull weight of the first body forced against the wall by the wooden door. Two large men stared at him in momentary shock before the nearest one, a dark haired man of pale complexion, rushed him. Roger easily sidestepped him, slamming the butt of his pistol into the back of the man's skull. The other, a red-headed man with the tanned skin of a swabbie, pulled a knife; standing his ground, but Roger could see his whole body shaking in fear. A smile played about his lips as he leveled the gun at the man, "You don't really want to do that, do you?" The other man looked to the man lying prone on the floor and then back to the barrel of the gun; the cylinder turned slowly as Roger readied the trigger. "I will shoot you." The man desperately looked about himself as if trying to find an escape route. Suddenly, he steadied a moment, eyes affixed on Roger. Without even looking, Roger threw his gun hand up over his shoulder - the metal made a loud clinking sound as it contacted the teeth of the third man. He staggered back, his mouth cradled in his hands. Droplets of blood sprayed forth as he loudly cursed in pain - a scouser, how interesting. The second man, seeing his moment, charged Roger. It was a clumsy attempt, ill-conceived. Roger stooped, easily catching the torso of the man and throwing him over onto his cohort. As the pair struggled to disentangle themselves Roger strolled over beside them. The click of the pistol cocking caused them to freeze where they lay, they looked up, eyes wide, staring into the barrel of the gun. "Now then, are we quite finished? You might as well drop the knife." he suggested. The second man did as he was told; Roger kicked the blade across the room. "You there." Roger waved his gun at the large man; still bleeding profusely from a gash in his lip, his gaping mouth revealing the loss of half a tooth. The scouser nodded fearfully. "Tie him up." he ordered, indicating the former knife-wielder.
The clerk glanced up from his paper at the sound of steps coming down the stairway. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the well dressed man adjusting his cufflinks as he lightly descended the last few stairs. "Ah, Mr. Bond," the clerk stammered, hands blindly shifting around the shelf that hung from beneath the desk for a weapon of any sort he might use, "I thought you were in for the night." Roger rushed the clerk before he could find the object of his search, grasping him by the cravat he yanked the pudgy man forward.
"Who put you up to this?" he demanded.
"I-I don't know what you could mean." the clerk stuttered, eyes darting to the stairwell.
Roger yanked the terrified man by his neck, slamming him against his desk. Leaning over, he drew his face so close to the other man's he could see his hot breath fog the clerk's broken spectacles, "If you are hoping your friends will come to your aid I'm sorry to inform you but they are a bit tied up at the moment. Tell me. How many others have there been?"
"What others?"
Roger's eyes narrowed, he swiped the man across the desk as though he were a dust rag, slamming the clerk's bulky form against the wall Roger placed his pistol against the man's temple, "I won't ask again."