The train pulled into the station. Passepartout jumped down first, followed by Mr. Fogg, who helped Aouda out of the carriage.
Fogg wanted to go straight to the steamer bound for Hong Kong. He wanted to make sure Aouda was safely settled before leaving her. They were still in dangerous territory, and he did not want to take any chances.
Just as they were leaving the station, a policeman approached.
“Mr. Phileas Fogg?”
“I am he.”
“Is this man your servant?” the policeman asked, pointing at Passepartout.
“Yes.”
“Then both of you must come with me.”
Fogg showed no surprise. The policeman represented the law, and Fogg believed the law had to be obeyed.
Passepartout tried to argue, but the policeman tapped him with his stick.
Fogg gave him a calm signal to follow.
“May this young lady come with us?” Fogg asked.
“She may,” the policeman replied.
The three of them were taken to a palkighari, a four-wheeled carriage pulled by two horses. They climbed in and were driven away.
For the next twenty minutes, nobody spoke.
First, they passed through the Black Town. Its narrow streets were crowded with miserable huts and poor, dirty people.
Then they entered the European quarter.
The scene changed completely. Bright brick houses stood beneath coconut trees, and ships’ masts rose above the buildings. Even though it was still early morning, elegantly dressed riders and fine carriages were already moving through the streets.
At last, the carriage stopped in front of a modest-looking building.
It did not look like a private house.
The policeman ordered them to get out and led them into a room with barred windows.
“You will appear before Judge Obadiah at half past eight,” he said.
Then he left and locked the door.
Passepartout dropped into a chair.
“Why, we’re prisoners!”
Aouda tried to hide her emotion.
“Sir, you must leave me to my fate. You are being treated this way because of me. You saved my life.”
“It is impossible for me to do that,” Fogg replied.
“But you may be arrested because of what happened.”
“That is highly unlikely. No one would dare accuse me of preventing a suttee. There must be some mistake.”
He paused.
“In any case, I will not abandon you. I will take you to Hong Kong myself.”
“But the steamer leaves at noon!” Passepartout cried nervously.
“We shall be on board by noon.”
Fogg said it so calmly and confidently that Passepartout could not help believing him.
“Of course we will,” he muttered. “Before noon, we’ll be on board.”
Still, he was far from reassured.
At half past eight, the door opened.
The policeman appeared and ordered them to follow him.
They were taken into a nearby room that was clearly a courtroom. A crowd of Europeans and Indians was already gathered at the back.
Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout sat on a bench facing the judge’s desk.
A moment later, Judge Obadiah entered with his clerk.
The judge was a large, round man. He took a wig from a nail and quickly placed it on his head.
“The first case,” he announced.
Then he touched his wig and frowned.
“Wait. This isn’t my wig!”
“No, Your Worship,” said the clerk. “It’s mine.”
“My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise judgment while wearing his clerk’s wig?”
The two men exchanged wigs.
Passepartout was becoming increasingly nervous.
A large clock hung above the judge, and its hands seemed to be racing around the dial.
“The first case,” the judge repeated.
“Phileas Fogg?” called the clerk.
“I am here,” Fogg replied.
“Passepartout?”
“Present.”
“Good,” said the judge. “You have been wanted for the past two days. We have been watching for you on the trains from Bombay.”
“But what are we accused of?” Passepartout demanded.
“You are about to find out.”
“I am a British subject,” Fogg said, “and I have the right—”
“Have you been mistreated?” the judge interrupted.
“No.”
“Very well. Bring in the complainants.”
A door opened, and three Indian priests entered.
Passepartout stared at them.
“There they are,” he muttered. “Those are the men who were going to burn the young lady.”
The priests stood before the judge.
The clerk then read the charge aloud.
Fogg and Passepartout were accused of sacrilege. They had supposedly entered and violated a place considered sacred by the Brahmin religion.
“You have heard the charge?” the judge asked.
“Yes,” Fogg replied, looking at his watch. “And I admit it.”
“You admit it?”
“I admit entering the place. But I would like these priests to admit what they intended to do at the Pagoda of Pillaji.”
The priests looked at one another in confusion.
Passepartout jumped in.
“Yes! At the Pagoda of Pillaji! They were about to burn their victim!”
The judge stared at him.
The priests looked completely bewildered.
“What victim?” Judge Obadiah asked. “Who were they going to burn? In Bombay?”
“Bombay?” Passepartout repeated.
“Certainly,” said the judge. “We are not talking about the Pagoda of Pillaji. We are talking about the Pagoda of Malabar Hill in Bombay.”
The clerk held up a pair of shoes.
“And here is proof of the desecration. The man left these shoes behind.”
Passepartout stared at them.
“My shoes!”
He immediately realized what he had done.
He and Fogg had completely forgotten about the incident at Bombay. They had been arrested in Calcutta because of it.
The truth was that Fix had carefully planned this.
After learning about Passepartout’s reckless adventure at the pagoda, Fix had delayed his own departure for twelve hours. He went to the priests of Malabar Hill and made them an offer.
He promised them a large amount of money as compensation if they would make a complaint.
Then he sent them to Calcutta on the next train.
Because Fogg and his companions had been delayed by the rescue of Aouda, Fix and the priests reached Calcutta before them. The local authorities had already received a message ordering them to arrest Fogg and Passepartout as soon as they arrived.
Fix had been bitterly disappointed when Fogg failed to appear.
He assumed that the fugitive had stopped somewhere along the way and escaped into southern India.
For twenty-four hours, Fix watched the station anxiously.
At last, his patience was rewarded.
Fogg and Passepartout arrived with a young woman.
Fix had no idea who she was.
He immediately found a policeman.
That was how Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout ended up in Judge Obadiah’s courtroom.
Passepartout was too distracted to notice that Fix was sitting quietly in a corner, watching everything.
The detective’s arrest warrant still had not arrived in Calcutta, just as it had failed to reach him in Bombay and Suez.
Unfortunately for Passepartout, Judge Obadiah had heard his careless confession.
“The facts are admitted?” the judge asked.
“Admitted,” Fogg replied calmly.
The judge continued.
“English law protects the religions of India just as strictly as any other religion. Since Passepartout has admitted violating the sacred Pagoda of Malabar Hill in Bombay on October twentieth, I sentence him to fifteen days in prison and a fine of three hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred pounds!” Passepartout cried.
“Silence!” shouted the constable.
The judge continued.
“Since it has not been proved that his master did not know about the act, and since a master is responsible for the actions of his paid servant, I sentence Phileas Fogg to seven days in prison and a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds.”
Fix quietly rubbed his hands together.
This was exactly what he had wanted.
If Fogg remained in Calcutta for a week, there would be plenty of time for the official warrant to arrive.
Passepartout was devastated.
The sentence could destroy his master’s entire journey.
They had a twenty-thousand-pound wager to win, and now they might lose it because he had foolishly entered that cursed pagoda.
Fogg, however, remained completely calm.
He did not even raise an eyebrow.
As the clerk prepared to call the next case, Fogg stood up.
“I offer bail.”
“You have that right,” said the judge.
Fix’s heart sank.
Then he heard the amount.
“The bail is one thousand pounds for each prisoner.”
“I will pay it at once.”
Fogg took a roll of banknotes from the carpet bag that Passepartout was carrying and placed the money on the clerk’s desk.
“The money will be returned when you are released from prison,” said the judge. “Until then, you are free on bail.”
“Come,” Fogg said to Passepartout.
“But at least give me back my shoes!” Passepartout protested angrily.
When the shoes were returned, he looked at them bitterly.
“These are very expensive shoes,” he muttered. “More than a thousand pounds each. And they still hurt my feet!”
Fogg offered his arm to Aouda.
The three of them left the courtroom, with Passepartout following behind them in disappointment.
Fix was still hoping Fogg would refuse to waste another two thousand pounds.
Perhaps, he thought, the man would choose to serve his week in prison instead.
But Fogg had already made his decision.
Fix hurried after them.
Fogg hired a carriage, and they soon reached one of the quays.
The Rangoon was anchored about half a mile away in the harbor. Its signal for departure was already flying from the mast.
It was eleven o’clock.
Fogg was still an hour ahead of schedule.
Fix watched as Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout got out of the carriage and boarded a small boat heading toward the steamer.
Fix stamped his feet in frustration.
“The rascal is getting away after all!” he cried. “Two thousand pounds thrown away! He’s spending money like a thief with no sense of its value!”
He watched the boat disappear toward the Rangoon.
“I’ll follow him to the ends of the earth if I have to. But at this rate, the stolen money will soon be gone.”
Fix’s guess was not entirely wrong.
Since leaving London, Fogg had already spent more than five thousand pounds on travel expenses, bribes, the elephant, bail, and fines.
And every pound he spent meant less of the stolen money would eventually be recovered by the detectives.