by Don Wilcox
“Do I make myself clear?” Mobovarah bowed. “Yes, master.” And the others, heads bowed, echoed his words. “Yes, master.”
CHAPTER X
The English Agents Calls
It was the most complex headache you could imagine. A headache in more ways than one. You’ll recall that on my previous experience of this kind a painful stupor held over me, during which I could hardly realize that I had entered the body of Alashee.
Well, the torture was on me again. But with this difference. Now I knew what was happening. It was again the painful readjustment of fitting myself into the new body—a body that was contorted with the highly organized nerves of deceit, not readily adapted to the simple soul of Val Roman.
Consider my predicament. I was at once the most popular and respected citizen of Ruklah and the most hated criminal of the Kyber murder escapades. And yet, within these masks, I was Val Roman, the soft-hearted Irish-Italian-American good Samaritan, who wanted nothing more than to blow the lid off the whole Scarlet Swordsman crime wave.
My afternoon was as chaotic as a tornado. Like it or not, I was compelled to pick up Ben Addis’ life where he had left off.
“The village marshal and a party of visitors are ascending the front steps, Ben Addis,” one of my servants announced. “Shall I tell them you’ll meet them on the verandah soon?”
“What are we to do with the body of Alashee?” another asked. “Is he to be buried with or without honors?”
And from another, “We have succeeded in capturing Val Roman’s menagerie. Shall we dispatch the monkeys at once?”
There were other questions about the jewel business, about the coming commercial fair, there were problems of strategy from the other half of the bandit gang at work in the Kyber Pass. Apparently there was to be some high-powered cooperation between those bandits, working the highways, and our commercial plans for entertaining India’s dealers in precious stones.
But most immediate of all, there was the problem that Mobovarah wanted to solve with one stroke of the beheading knife. Wasn’t he entitled to the honor of executing Faye Landreth? And shouldn’t the deed be done without another minute of delay?
“The townsmen are already waiting on the verandah to question you,” he urged. “If they learn she is here, we’re lost.”
“You underestimate my powers of subterfuge,” I said. “Put that beheading knife on ice—I mean—”
“On ice?”
I covered the break over as best I could. American slang would not become the precise Ben Addis. But to Mobovarah I was taunting, as Alashee had done; and the way for him to escape sarcasms was for him to excel in performance of duties—as in volunteering to wield the beheading knife.
“Put the knife away,” I repeated. And then, to Faye, “Come with me.” My withered legs carried me readily; in fact, there was a surprising sensation of eagerness to walk that filled my whole body. Mobovarah stared at me.
“Master, do you mean to do that? I thought it was our secret . . . The servants in the hall will see you . . . Master, are you going to walk in their presence?”
“Hush! I want to walk, so I’m going to walk.”
Mobovarah nodded his agreement, but he was thoroughly disconcerted. I had guessed, by this time, that it had been Ben Addis’ game deliberately not to walk, except in private, because his legs were twisted and unsightly, He gained in prestige by riding wherever he went and being waited upon at all times.
“Moho, why are you following me?”
“Can you handle the execution by yourself, master?”
“The execution is off. I am taking Miss Landreth to the verandah to join the conference with the townsmen. As for you, Mobo, I want you to make a few preparations for me, just in case of emergency . . . The monkeys . . . The Arabian horse that Alashee rode . . .
I paused to whisper a few detailed orders to Mobovarah, which I knew he would obey to the letter. Then I conducted a very bewildered blonde toward the front door.
But not to the verandah proper. I spotted a narrow storage room under the front stairs. There, behind a closed door, she could watch through a little square purple-glass window and hear everything that was said.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “And don’t take any notions to run away.” Servants helped me to the verandah, then, and the two palanquin bearers placed me where I could face my guests, the most distinguished of whom was Sir Morrison Landreth. Not so many minutes ago this gentleman had rejected my intrusions in his affairs. But now I was Ben Addis. It was amazing that he could accord such a show of respect to me.
The marshal was quick to allude to our sociable drinks of recent weeks, to establish himself in the eyes of the other townsmen as one of my special friends.
Bill Oleander was on nerve’s edge, but he was wise enough to leave the talking to the others.
My servants brought refreshments at once. The marshal and Landreth looked to each other to start the fireworks, but I saved them the trouble.
“I know why you have come, gentlemen,” I said. “You are seeking information pertaining to the murder of a monkey trainer named Val Roman. He was killed at sunset last evening.”
“Yes, yes, how did you know?”
“He was stabbed in the back,” I said. “His friend, Faye Landreth—your daughter, Sir—was the one witness to the murder.”
Morrison Landreth nodded. “She is a genius for getting herself into messes. I only hope she is alive and safe.”
“The man who murdered Val Roman was my personal lieutenant, Alashee.” I sipped a drink while I studied the confusion in the face of the marshal. He was distressed to find his trouble striking so close home.
“Only yesterday we drank together,” he mused sadly.
I nodded. “It is very strange that Alashee’s life could shift so quickly from one path to another. He had been my personal servant for many years. He was an Afghan, with fierce eyes like a tiger, yet I never suspected that the day would come—”
Landreth and Oleander exchanged knowing looks, and as I went on to describe Alashee’s appearance and characteristics, Landreth set his glass down with a solid dick.
“This guilty man has passed right through our hands,” he said. “He came to us this morning as if to warn us. We knew, soon after we boarded the plane, that what he was telling us was a shield for his own guilt. He was even maligning your own character, Ben Addis—”
“Too bad,” I said. “Evidently his mind was quite suddenly flooded with delusions about kidnappers and Scarlet Swordsmen.”
My story was going over so well with these listeners that I forgot what effect it might be having upon Faye. It had been my intention to make her see that I would not champion the crimes of the Scarlet Swordsmen—that I was, in fact, as eager as anyone to have them exposed. For this hope of heroism had been born in me while I was still Val Roman.
But every twist of this investigation was tending to put Ben Addis on the spot. I began to writhe. I was as eager as anyone to expose this leader’s evils; but it was far from comfortable to be dwelling in his body. The heat was turning on me.
“This Afghan fellow said that you were a Scarlet Swordsman yourself,” Bill Oleander blurted.
The marshal laughed nervously and I tried to laugh with him.
Morrison Landreth was breathing hard. “I want to know what happened to my daughter. Where is she?”
“She’s perfectly safe,” I said. “I had my servants bring her here for safekeeping. You see, when I realized that Alashee was on the rampage—” I lowered my voice, hoping that Faye would not hear; for I was groping for explanations that would soften Landreth’s stern eye, “I was actually afraid for her life. The fact is, he had fallen in love with her, and had murdered
Val Roman out of jealousy. Then, realizing she had the goods on him, he started after her. There was no telling what might have happened—”
Bill was on his feet. “If he dared touch her—”
“He didn’t, my good man. But it was a close race. Her car
ran out of gas. We saw from a distance. He was riding toward her. Luckily she hailed a bus. She intended to ride back to the agency.”
“She didn’t arrive.”
“No. You see, Alashee boarded the second bus, thinking to overtake her before she reached home. So I had my men rescue her. Not knowing this, Alashee rode on to the south. When he found she had given him the slip, he bolted into the agency and gave you men the kidnapping story.”
“I don’t know how you know all this,” said Landreth, tapping his monocle nervously. “I’ll be only too glad to have her verify this story. At once. If you’ll be so kind as to bring her out—”
“Yes, I want to see her,” said Bill. “I flew all the way from England.”
The marshal rose and paced toward me. “I’m sorry, Ben Addis, to have to trouble you this way. But my job is to find Alashee immediately. If you will deliver Faye Landreth to her father at once, then I will proceed to make a search of your premises for Alashee. Since he was your servant, he has undoubtedly left some clues as to the direction of his escape—”
I smiled and motioned to the door. “I have saved you a lot of trouble, officer,” I said. “He came back here, I tried to make him give himself up, we had a brief skirmish of arms, and—well, I had to shoot him.”
“Indeed?” The marshal heaved a big sigh. He turned to the others triumphantly. “There. Alashee has been brought to justice already. I told you Ben Addis would help us. Er—what is his condition?”
“Dead,” I said. “You’ll find him in the third room on the left. Mobovarah will assist you with all the details.”
“Delightful. Delightful.” The marshal and two assistants went on in with a wonderful air of triumph.
“I don’t see anything delightful about it.” said Bill Oleander. “It still looks to me like Faye was just plain kidnapped. And if I don’t see her alive in about a minute. I’m going to punch someone.
Faye Landreth stepped forth just then, a blonde bombshell all set to explode. There was no joyous reunion between her and her father, no romantic clinch between her and her newly arrived boy friend. The fire in her lively eyes told plainly enough that she was fuming with indignation.
“Father . . . Bill . . . Sure I’m glad to see you. We can talk about that later. You’ve really walked into something. Watch this man Ben Addis, and take what he says with a lot of salt. There’s something dreadfully wrong here.” The blaze of her attack turned on me. “Yes, I’m talking about you. What you told was half lies. You’re a fake. You’re not the merchant you pretend to be—”
“Miss Landreth!” I protested. “This, deal has gone to your head!”
“I was hiding in the closet, father, and I heard everything. But that isn’t all. I found a whole batch of scarlet turbans.”
“What do you mean by that?” Landreth asked.
“This is the headquarters of the Scarlet Swordsmen. And Ben Addis is the leader. I can prove it!”
“You’re mad!” I said. “Utterly mad.”
“You’re the mad one!” she cried. “You tried to make Alashee behead me, and when he wouldn’t do it, you killed him. And then you have the brass to tell these lies. You’re not even a cripple! You can walk as well as anyone!” Yes, I could walk. I could run, too. And shoot. Those were talents that Ben Addis had held in reserve for emergencies like this.
I bounded from my cot, I seized Faye by the hand, and with a hard, brutal jerk I forced her into the doorway. My pistol flashed into my right hand. The verandah crowd fell back, defying me to shoot.
I didn’t shoot. I flung the wide door, closed and bolted it. Faye struck at me, clawed at me, screaming for help. I caught her up in both arms. My left hand cupped over her mouth and muffled her wail.
I ran the length of the hall with her, and the servants who dodged into my path either jumped or fell like ten-pins. I heard the stiff command of the marshal, ordering someone to halt. But he couldn’t have meant me. I was already gone.
Alashee’s Arabian mount was ready. I swung one kicking blonde astride. She caught her foot in the stirrup. She flung the reins out of my reach. She almost charged away without me. But I caught onto the strappings and swung on as the horse galloped into the tunnel.
CHAPTER XI
Sojourn in the Red Rock Maze
“You won’t take me far,” Faye Landreth vowed. “They’ll catch you along the foothill trail. You were unwise to—”
Her sentences were broken by the strenuous exercises of dodging low ceilings and narrow walls. In a moment we emerged into the afternoon sunlight, and I gave the Arabian mount the reins. Faye found it useless to struggle for freedom from my strong arms.
“You were unwise to burden this horse with so much baggage . . . Why don’t you dispose of that flopping sack? We’re not going camping, you know.”
“I have a couple of surprises in that flopping sack.”
“Lethal weapons, no doubt. It would be a pleasure to duel it out with you.”
“The sack contains two monkeys named Sober and Squinty.”
Faye made no response. The tension of her body relaxed slightly.
I added, “The donkey, Wonder, has been traded to a stockman in Ruklah. You will be able to purchase it if you ever want it.”
“You’re being very funny,” said Faye, “trying to make me think you’re going to let me live. I wonder what ingenious device you have planned for this special murder. . . Where are we going? . . . Why, this is the Red Rock maze. They’ll have no trouble tracing you here.”
She looked back, and must have caught a glimpse of our pursuers galloping into our trail of dust. She was right, the burdens were telling on this horse. In a longer race I would have had no chance.
Into the red-walled tunnels we rode, bag and baggage, two human passengers, and two monkeys. I dropped the reins, allowing the horse to choose his own trail through the dark maze. I could not light a torch. My arms were quite occupied with holding my prisoner. I trusted to luck that the horse would find some familiar path.
Darkness closed in on us. For a long time we rode, slowly, cautiously, threading our way around black curves and under low ceilings. Sometimes I could hear the far-off echoes of our pursuers, crossing pools of water or shouting signals to each other.
My break came when, after two hours or more of winding, the dry river tunnel we were following opened to the out-of-doors. A patch of evening sunlight showed against a high rock wall some fifty yards beyond and above this outlet.
It was impossible to ride the horse through this narrow opening. But I took my prisoner through, nevertheless, and with her the other two passengers, Squinty and Sober.
“We’re going camping,” I said. “Here is the ideal spot. Just make yourself comfortable. I can’t tell you how long this summer outing may last.”
I dragged the other bits of equipment through the aperture, then sent the Arabian pony on its way.
Faye looked around at the rocky walls towering all around us toward the sunset sky.
“I can get out of here,” she said. “If you think you’ve found a natural prison—what are you doing?”
“I’m going to seal this opening,” I said. “There’s just a chance that our faithful horse might lead the rest of the party back in this direction.”
It was easy to gather rocks with which to build a barrier across the tunnel opening. Faye cooperated. That is, she undertook to strike me down with flying rocks. She had to be watched every minute. But whatever she hurled at me, I caught.
And so, as darkness came on, we were isolated from the world, imprisoned within a spacious well of natural walls, under an oblong patch of deep blue India sky.
I lighted two torches and told Faye to take one of them.
“Here is a supply of torches,” I said. “We will burn torches all night if you wish. No harm will come to you as long as you do not try to escape . . . There is a blanket for you.”
CHAPTER XII
Apparition at Dawn
Both of us sa
w it by the light of dawn—an apparition that came slowly out of the shadowed east wall and moved into the center of our little rock-walled court.
It was a pond of mud and water with a thin cloud of mist hanging over it. Mired belly deep in the pool was a cow—a sacred cow. This apparition grew brighter and more tangible, crystallizing into reality before our eyes.
I walked slowly toward the center of the scene until my withered feet seemed to be impressing the cool mud with footracks.
From the other end of our rocky prison Faye came, a few steps at a time. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. She pointed. A little old Hindu walked out of the shadows toward the pool.
“Do you—” Faye’s whisper was barely audible. “Do you, Ben Addis, see what I see?”
“That,” I said, “is the same little Hindu who was helped by Val Roman. It was his prayer—”
I hesitated. The little old Hindu was trying to help the cow out of the mud. I walked down toward him. “Could I help?”
He shook his head. “You have had your chance to help, and have won an everlasting reward I need not trouble you again.”
Faye looked at me wonderingly. Then she spoke the same words I had spoken. “Could I help?”
“You are young and strong,” said the Hindu. “I will tie a rope around the sacred cow’s horns, and you may lend your strength . . .”
Then, as she began to comply, clinging to the rope with her lithe hands, the whole apparition faded away. It was gone with the mist. There was no Hindu, no cow, nor any sign of the muddy pool.
And yet I saw, as Faye looked at her hands, that the marks of the rope were there.
Frequently that day I saw her brushing her hands thoughtfully, and sometimes she strolled along the rocky wall from which the misty apparition had seemed to emerge.
“Val Roman told me about him,” she said.
Her manner had become a few shades less suspicious and belligerent by the second evening. We talked briefly of what had happened. Mists of morning could take any strange form, she decided, and what we had heard must have been a dream.
