Deception Page 8

  Men like Henry Sugar are to be found drifting like seaweed all over the world. They can be seen especially in London, New York, Paris, Nassau, Montego Bay, Cannes and St Tropez. They are not particularly bad men. But they are not good men either. They are of no real importance. They are simply a part of the decoration.

  All of them, all wealthy people of this type, have one peculiarity in common: they have a terrific urge to make themselves still wealthier than they already are. The million is never enough. Nor is the two million. Always, they have this insatiable longing to get more money. And that is because they live in constant terror of waking up one morning and finding there’s nothing in the bank.

  These people all employ the same methods for trying to increase their fortunes. They buy stocks and shares, and watch them going up and down. They play roulette and blackjack for high stakes in casinos. They bet on horses. They bet on just about everything. Henry Sugar had once staked a thousand pounds on the result of a tortoise race on Lord Liverpool’s tennis lawn. And he had wagered double that sum with a man called Esmond Hanbury on an even sillier bet, which was as follows: they let Henry’s dog out into the garden and they watched it through the window. But before the dog was let out, each man had to guess beforehand what would be the first object the dog would lift its leg against. Would it be a wall, a post, a bush, or a tree? Esmond chose a wall. Henry, who had been studying his dog’s habits for days with a view to making this particular bet, chose a tree, and he won the money.

  With ridiculous games such as these did Henry and his friends try to conquer the deadly boredom of being both idle and wealthy.

  Henry himself, as you may have noticed, was not above cheating a little on these friends of his if he saw the chance. The bet with the dog was definitely not honest. Nor, if you want to know, was the bet on the tortoise race. Henry cheated on that one by secretly forcing a little sleeping-pill powder into the mouth of his opponent’s tortoise an hour before the race.

  And now that you’ve got a rough idea of the sort of person Henry Sugar was, I can begin my story.

  One summer week-end, Henry drove down from London to Guildford to stay with Sir William Wyndham. The house was magnificent, and so were the grounds, but when Henry arrived on that Saturday afternoon, it was already pelting with rain. Tennis was out, croquet was out. So was swimming in Sir William’s outdoor pool. The host and his guests sat glumly in the drawing-room, staring at the rain splashing against the windows. The very rich are enormously resentful of bad weather. It is the one discomfort that their money cannot do anything about.

  Somebody in the room said, ‘Let’s have a game of canasta for lovely high stakes.’

  The others thought that a splendid idea, but as there were five people in all, one would have to sit out. They cut the cards. Henry drew the lowest, the unlucky card.

  The other four sat down and began to play. Henry was annoyed at being out of the game. He wandered out of the drawing-room into the great hall. He stared at the pictures for a few moments, then he walked on through the house, bored to death at having nothing to do. Finally, he mooched into the library.

  Sir William’s father had been a famous book collector, and all the four walls to this huge room were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Henry Sugar was not impressed. He wasn’t even interested. The only books he read were detective novels and thrillers. He ambled aimlessly round the room, looking to see if he could find any of the sort of books he liked. But the ones in Sir William’s library were all leather-bound volumes with names on them like Balzac, Ibsen, Voltaire, Johnson and Pepys. Boring rubbish, the whole lot of it, Henry told himself. And he was just about to leave when his eye was caught and held by a book that was quite different from all the others. It was so slim he would never have noticed it if it hadn’t been sticking out a little from the ones on either side. And when he pulled it from the shelf, he saw that it was actually nothing more than a cardboard-covered exercise-book of the kind children use at school. The cover was dark blue, but there was nothing written on it. Henry opened the exercise-book. On the first page, hand-printed in ink, it said:

  A REPORT ON AN INTERVIEW

  WITH IMHRAT KHAN, THE MAN WHO

  COULD SEE WITHOUT HIS EYES

  by

  Dr John F. Cartwright

  BOMBAY, INDIA

  DECEMBER, 1934

  That sounds mildly interesting, Henry told himself. He turned over a page. What followed was all handwritten in black ink. The writing was clear and neat. Henry read the first two pages standing up. Suddenly, he found himself wanting to read on. This was good stuff. It was fascinating. He carried the little book over to a leather armchair by the window and settled himself comfortably. Then he started reading again from the beginning.

  This is what Henry read in the little blue exercise-book:

  I, John Cartwright, am a surgeon at Bombay General Hospital. On the morning of the second of December, 1934, I was in the Doctors’ Rest Room having a cup of tea. There were three other doctors there with me, all having a well-earned tea-break. They were Dr Marshall, Dr Phillips and Dr Macfarlane. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ I said.

  The door opened and an Indian came in who smiled at us and said, ‘Excuse me, please. Could I ask you gentlemen a favour?’

  The Doctors’ Rest Room was a most private place. Nobody other than a doctor was allowed to enter it except in an emergency.

  ‘This is a private room,’ Dr Macfarlane said sharply.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Indian answered. ‘I know that and I am very sorry to be bursting in like this, sirs, but I have a most interesting thing to show you.’

  All four of us were pretty annoyed and we didn’t say anything.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am a man who can see without using his eyes.’

  We still didn’t invite him to go on. But we didn’t kick him out either.

  ‘You can cover my eyes in any way you wish,’ he said, ‘you can bandage my head with fifty bandages and I will still be able to read you a book.’

  He seemed perfectly serious. I felt my curiosity beginning to stir. ‘Come here,’ I said. He came over to me. ‘Turn round.’ He turned round. I placed my hands firmly over his eyes, holding the lids closed. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘One of the other doctors in the room is going to hold up some fingers. Tell me how many he’s holding up.’

  Dr Marshall held up seven fingers.

  ‘Seven,’ the Indian said.

  ‘Once more,’ I said.

  Dr Marshall clenched both fists and hid all his fingers.

  ‘No fingers,’ the Indian said.

  I removed my hands from his eyes. ‘Not bad,’ I said.

  ‘Hold on,’ Dr Marshall said. ‘Let’s try this.’ There was a white doctor’s coat hanging from a peg on the door. Dr Marshall took it down and rolled it into a sort of long scarf. He then wound it round the Indian’s head and held the ends tight at the back. ‘Try him now,’ Dr Marshall said.

  I took a key from my pocket. ‘What is this?’ I asked.

  ‘A key,’ he answered.

  I put the key back and held up an empty hand. ‘What is this object?’ I asked him.

  ‘There isn’t any object,’ the Indian said. ‘Your hand is empty.’

  Dr Marshall removed the covering from the man’s eyes. ‘How do you do it?’ he asked. ‘What’s the trick?’

  ‘There is no trick,’ the Indian said. ‘It is a genuine thing that I have managed after years of training.’

  ‘What sort of training?’ I asked.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘But that is a private matter.’

  ‘Then why did you come here?’ I asked.

  ‘I came to request a favour of you,’ he said.

  The Indian was a tall man of about thirty with light brown skin, the colour of a coconut. He had a small black moustache. Also, there was a curious matting of black hair growing all over the outsides of his ears. He wore a white cotton robe, and he had sandals on his bare f
eet.

  ‘You see, gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘I am at present earning my living by working in a travelling theatre, and we have just arrived here in Bombay. Tonight we give our opening performance.’

  ‘Where do you give it?’ I asked.

  ‘In the Royal Palace Hall,’ he answered. ‘In Acacia Street. I am the star performer. I am billed on the programme as “Imhrat Khan, the man who sees without his eyes”. And it is my duty to advertise the show in a big way. If we don’t sell tickets, we don’t eat.’

  ‘What does this have to do with us?’ I asked him.

  ‘Very interesting for you,’ he said. ‘Lots of fun. Let me explain. You see, whenever our theatre arrives in a new town, I myself go straight to the largest hospital and I ask the doctors there to bandage my eyes. I ask them to do it in the most expert fashion. They must make sure my eyes are completely covered many times over. It is important that this job is done by doctors, otherwise people will think I am cheating. Then, when I am fully bandaged, I go out into the streets and I do a dangerous thing.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

  ‘What I mean is that I do something that is extremely dangerous for someone who cannot see.’

  ‘What do you do?’ I asked.

  ‘It is very interesting,’ he said. ‘And you will see me do it if you will be so kind as to bandage me up first. It would be a great favour to me if you will do this little thing, sirs.’

  I looked at the other three doctors. Dr Phillips said he had to go back to his patients. Dr Macfarlane said the same. Dr Marshall said, ‘Well, why not? It might be amusing. It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ I said. ‘But let’s do the job properly. Let’s make absolutely sure he can’t peep.’

  ‘You are extremely kind,’ the Indian said. ‘Please do whatever you wish.’

  Dr Phillips and Dr Macfarlane left the room.

  ‘Before we bandage him,’ I said to Dr Marshall, ‘let’s first of all seal down his eyelids. When we’ve done that, we’ll fill his eye-sockets with something soft and solid and sticky.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Dr Marshall asked.

  ‘What about dough?’

  ‘Dough would be perfect,’ Dr Marshall said.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘If you will nip down to the hospital bakery and get some dough, I’ll take him into the surgery and seal his lids.’

  I led the Indian out of the Rest Room and down the long hospital corridor to the surgery. ‘Lie down there,’ I said, indicating the high bed. He lay down. I took a small bottle from the cupboard. It had an eyedropper in the top. ‘This is something called collodion,’ I told him. ‘It will harden over your closed eyelids so that it is impossible for you to open them.’

  ‘How do I get it off afterwards?’ he asked me.

  ‘Alcohol will dissolve it quite easily,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly harmless. Close your eyes now.’

  The Indian closed his eyes. I applied collodion over both lids. ‘Keep them closed,’ I said. ‘Wait for it to harden.’

  In a couple of minutes, the collodion had made a hard film over the eyelids, sticking them down tight. ‘Try to open them,’ I said.

  He tried but couldn’t.

  Dr Marshall came in with a basin of dough. It was the ordinary white dough used for baking bread. It was nice and soft. I took a lump of the dough and plastered it over one of the Indian’s eyes. I filled the whole socket and let the dough overlap on to the surrounding skin. Then I pressed the edges down hard. I did the same with the other eye.

  ‘That isn’t too uncomfortable, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ the Indian said. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You do the bandaging,’ I said to Dr Marshall. ‘My fingers are too sticky.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Dr Marshall said. ‘Watch this.’ He took a thick wad of cotton-wool and laid it on top of the Indian’s dough-filled eyes. The cotton-wool stuck to the dough and stayed in place. ‘Sit up, please,’ Dr Marshall said.

  The Indian sat up on the bed.

  Dr Marshall took a roll of three-inch bandage and proceeded to wrap it round and round the man’s head. The bandage held the cotton-wool and the dough firmly in place. Dr Marshall pinned the bandage. After that, he took a second bandage and began to wrap that one not only around the man’s eyes but around his entire face and head.

  ‘Please to leave my nose free for breathing,’ the Indian said.

  ‘Of course,’ Dr Marshall answered. He finished the job and pinned down the end of the bandage. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘There’s no way he can possibly see through that.’

  The whole of the Indian’s head was now swathed in thick white bandage, and the only thing you could see was the end of his nose sticking out. He looked like a man who had had some terrible brain operation.

  ‘How does that feel?’ Dr Marshall asked him.

  ‘It feels good,’ the Indian said. ‘I must compliment you gentlemen on doing such a fine job.’

  ‘Off you go, then,’ Mr Marshall said, grinning at me. ‘Show us how clever you are at seeing things now.’

  The Indian got off the bed and walked straight to the door. He opened the door and went out.

  ‘Great Scott!’ I said. ‘Did you see that? He put his hand right on to the doorknob!’

  Dr Marshall had stopped grinning. His face had suddenly gone white. ‘I’m going after him,’ he said, rushing for the door. I rushed for the door as well.

  The Indian was walking quite normally along the hospital corridor. Dr Marshall and I were about five yards behind him. And very spooky it was to watch this man with the enormous white and totally bandaged head strolling casually along the corridor just like anyone else. It was especially spooky when you knew for a certainty that his eyelids were sealed, that his eye-sockets were filled with dough, and that there was a great wad of cotton-wool and bandages on top of that.

  I saw a native orderly coming along the corridor towards the Indian. He was pushing a food-trolley. Suddenly the orderly caught sight of the man with the white head, and he froze. The bandaged Indian stepped casually to one side of the trolley and went on.

  ‘He saw it!’ I cried. ‘He must have seen that trolley! He walked right round it! This is absolutely unbelievable!’

  Dr Marshall didn’t answer me. His cheeks were white, his whole face rigid with shocked disbelief.

  The Indian came to the stairs and started to go down them.

  He went down with no trouble at all. He didn’t even put a hand on the stair-rail. Several people were coming up the stairs. Each one of them stopped, gasped, stared, and quickly got out of his way.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the Indian turned right and headed for the doors that led out into the street. Dr Marshall and I kept close behind him.

  The entrance to our hospital stands back a little from the street, and there is a rather grand series of steps leading down from the entrance into a small courtyard with acacia trees around it. Dr Marshall and I came out into the blazing sunshine and stood at the top of the steps. Below us, in the courtyard, we saw a crowd of maybe a hundred people. At least half of them were barefoot children, and as our white-headed Indian walked down the steps, they all cheered and shouted and surged towards him. He greeted them by holding both hands above his head.

  Suddenly I saw the bicycle. It was over to one side at the bottom of the steps, and a small boy was holding it. The bicycle itself was quite ordinary, but on the back of it, fixed somehow to the rear wheel-frame, was a huge placard, about five feet square. On the placard were written the following words:

  IMHRAT KHAN, THE MAN WHO SEES

  WITHOUT HIS EYES!

  TODAY MY EYES HAVE BEEN BANDAGED BY

  HOSPITAL DOCTORS!

  APPEARING TONIGHT AND

  ALL THIS WEEK AT

  THE ROYAL PALACE HALL

  ACACIA STREET, AT 7 P.M.

  DON’T MISS IT!

  YOU WILL SEE MIRACLES PER
FORMED

  Our Indian had reached the bottom of the steps and now he walked straight over to the bicycle. He said something to the boy and the boy smiled. The Indian mounted the bicycle. The crowd made way for him. Then, lo and behold, this fellow with the blocked-up, bandaged eyes now proceeded to ride across the courtyard and straight out into the bustling honking traffic of the street beyond! The crowd cheered louder than ever. The barefoot children ran after him, squealing and laughing. For a minute or so, we were able to keep him in sight. We saw him ride superbly down the busy street with motor-cars whizzing past him and a bunch of children running in his wake. Then he turned a corner and was gone.

  ‘I feel quite giddy,’ Dr Marshall said. ‘I can’t bring myself to believe it.’

  ‘We have to believe it,’ I said. ‘He couldn’t possibly have removed the dough from under the bandages. We never let him out of our sight. And as for unsealing his eyelids, that job would take him five minutes with cotton-wool and alcohol.’

  ‘Do you know what I think,’ Dr Marshall said. ‘I think we have witnessed a miracle.’

  We turned and walked slowly back into the hospital.

  For the rest of the day, I was kept busy with patients in the hospital. At six in the evening, I came off duty and drove back to my flat for a shower and a change of clothes. It was the hottest time of year in Bombay, and even after sundown the heat was like an open furnace. If you sat still in a chair and did nothing, the sweat would come seeping out of your skin. Your face glistened with dampness all day long and your shirt stuck to your chest. I took a long cool shower. I drank a whisky and soda sitting on the veranda, with only a towel round my waist. Then I put on some clean clothes.

  At ten minutes to seven, I was outside the Royal Palace Hall in Acacia Street. It was not much of a place. It was one of those smallish seedy halls that can be hired inexpensively for meetings or dances. There was a fair-sized crowd of local Indians milling round outside the ticket office, and a large poster over the entrance proclaiming that THE INTERNATIONAL THEATRE COMPANY was performing every night that week. It said there would be jugglers and conjurers and acrobats and sword-swallowers and fire-eaters and snake-charmers and a one-act play entitled The Rajah and the Tiger Lady. But above all this and in far the largest letters, it said IMHRAT KHAN, THE MIRACLE MAN WHO SEES WITHOUT HIS EYES.