by Talbot Mundy
“I wasn’t in love.”
“Oh?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“Pretty close to it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not?”
“Don’t like mystery, for one thing. For another, I took exception to her warning me against Wu Tu. I don’t know how it came to Henrietta’s knowledge that I had to see Wu Tu in the course of duty. But she asked me about it. I showed her a sketch I’d made of Wu Tu, who posed for it, two or three hours. As a matter of general interest I told Henrietta about Wu Tu being a British subject, of mixed Chinese-Sikh-Portuguese-French parentage. I probably also told her that Wu Tu is one of the most intelligent and fascinating women in the world.”
The commissioner nodded. “That was no exaggeration. Go on. What happened?”
“Nothing definite. But Henrietta warned me I was under Wu Tu’s influence. I resented it, but that probably wouldn’t have mattered. However, when I denied it, she didn’t believe me, and that did matter.”
“Yes, yes. You’ve a temper. Go on.”
“That’s all. I’m very fond of Henrietta. But I don’t like mystery, and she’s mysterious. I don’t like being disbelieved. And I don’t care to make love to a woman unless I love her. Possibly I funked it. Anyhow, I put in for leave, as you know.”
“And instead of getting it, you were sent to track Zaman Ali. Did it skilfully, too. Good God, if I’d given you leave you’d have moped and caught the plague or something! Tracking Zaman Ali from Peshawar kept your mind off love, I’ll warrant! Did I ever mention to you that she’s my god-child?”
“No, sir. What does that amount to?”
The commissioner threw away his cigar and chose another. “Damned if I know. Ask the bishop. But I always believe what she tells me, especially when she doesn’t tell, if you get my meaning. We had some conversation about you.”
“What did she say?” Blair’s eyes were smoldering fires of governed anger.
“She’s in love with you.” The commissioner struck a match and carefully applied it to the end of his cigar. He took his time about it. Then, “The last time David Frensham dined with me, he mentioned it. He said he’d like you for a son-in-law.”
“None of his damned business!”
“So I told him. I volunteered the opinion that Henrietta should marry her equal, if there is one. I said you’re not nearly good enough, and I’m still of the same opinion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m sending you to spy on Henrietta Frensham.”
Blair stiffened, but the furious light in his eyes grew suddenly subdued. He looked calm, as almost always when he sensed a crisis. He could govern himself with a will of iron.
“For God’s sake, why me, sir?”
“Because she’s in love with you.”
“I call that a good reason for putting another man on the case. I can’t in common decency—”
The commissioner interrupted; “It’s the nearest thing to decency at my disposal in the circumstances. She is my godchild and Frensham’s daughter, under more than suspicion of knowing something which she is more likely to tell you than anyone else. David Frensham was a strange chap, and in some ways simpleminded. I don’t entirely exclude the possibility of his having been tricked into some sort of criminal escapade. Henrietta may know that. Find out.”
“Damn!” Blair muttered.
“All the same, go and do it. But I’ve another reason. I believe in offering fish the bait they fancy, and my information is that Wu Tu wants to see you.”
“Who said so?”
“Chetusingh. I have had him on this case ever since Frensham vanished. For some reason that I can’t guess, Wu Tu has a trap set ready for you; I’m almost as sure of that as that you’re sitting here. I propose you shall walk straight into it. She’s rather desperate, but I don’t think dangerous—to you—at the moment.”
“In what way desperate?”
The commissioner loved to parade a worldly wisdom cloaked in unexpected phrases. He smiled, knocked the ash from his cigar and sat back in his chair. “Did you ever hear of the law of diminishing returns? Wu Tu’s profits have been prodigious. I don’t mean merely cash, although she’s very wealthy; she’s a money-lender and a very skilful mistress of intrigue. She has used her money to get influence, and the influence to get more money.
“She’s an, artist at blackmail, and loves it. But the law of diminishing returns takes care of everything that overreaches itself, and Wu Tu sees the writing on the wall. Her kind of fortune crumbles very rapidly when rot sets in, and. she’s wise enough to know it. But she’s fool enough to squander her money on yogis, mediums, alchemists, astrologers—charlatans of all sorts. She is afraid of age, afraid to die; even more afraid of what her enemies will do to her when the reins of her intrigues get out of hand and the luck begins to flow backward. She can see that coming—knows she’s losing her grip. She’s a long way from being the first to scour the world for a.philosopher’s stone, but she has carried it to greater extremes than most people can afford. That’s how she first came to know Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, who claims to have studied alchemy in Tibet. She has sometimes as many as twenty agents scouring the Himalayas at her expense for occult secrets.”
“Suppose she knows any?”
“Yes, for what they’re worth. Most of them are not worth much. But I suspect that this time she is after something big, which Frensham may have discovered. And she may have murdered Frensham or, more likely, caused him to be murdered. There are rumors; I’m sick of hearing them. That gold block, that you saw just now, in some way is connected with it.
“Henrietta, I think, must have had it from David Frensham. Taron Ling, instructed by Dur-i-Duran Singh, and in touch with Wu Tu and Zaman Ali, traced it into my possession and tried to steal it. That ties them all up together, but we won’t bother about Dur-i-Duran Singh for the moment. Let’s catch Wu Tu first, and a whole house of cards may come tumbling.”
Blair objected. “Henrietta might have had that gold block in her suitcase, and known nothing about it. The way she reported its loss suggests that.”
The commissioner laid his cigar down, set both clenched fists on the desk and leaned forward. “Henrietta,” he said grimly, “knows more than she’ll tell. To my certain knowledge she has talked with Wu Tu. That may sound unlikely, but I know it happened. Now she’s in Rajputana, staying with the Graynes, in camp near Gaglajung. Do you know the Graynes?”
“Yes.” Blair looked noncommittal. The commissioner continued:
“Grayne’s a decent fellow, but a bit slack. Writes ridiculous plays in his spare time. Has a Christian Science aunt in the United States, who sends him checks and pamphlets. His wife cashes the checks and burns the pamphlets. Between the two of them I’d say they’d let a brass band go by without knowing which way it went. Grayne being on long leave, is probably composing poetry and noticing less than usual. I’m sending you there to find out why Henrietta invited herself to stay in the Graynes’ camp. Visit Wu Tu first.”
“When?”
“To-night. I will have her house surrounded in case of accident. But mind, no accidents! I want facts, not fireworks. I don’t want her arrested. I want her to bolt. If there’s a trap, walk straight into it and use your wits. I’ve a suspicion I know why Wu Tu wants you, and if I’m right you’re in no immediate danger. You may be kidnaped. If not, make for Gaglajung by train to-morrow morning. I’ll wire Mount Abu and have a proper bandobast all ready waiting for you at Abu Road Station. Take your time about reaching Gaglajung—camp close to villages each night and encourage gossip—learn all you can before you get there.”
Blair scowled. “I would rather go to hell than force myself on Henrietta.”
“Yes, hell may have its compensations. You’ll be gazetted as on special leave, from tomorrow morning. Use the new code for telegrams. Keep me posted.”
“Do I work alone, sir?”
“Howland of t
he C.I.D. will keep in close touch with you with two or three of his men, so look out for signals. I will have Y-Six and Y-Eighty-one on your heels; they won’t let you out of sight for a minute, once you reach Gaglajung. And you’re to work with Chetusingh.”
“I’d rather pick my own man.”
“What’s wrong with Chetusingh? You trained him. He knows more about this than you do.”
“That’s the trouble. He’s a bit inclined to rush his fences. He and I work better when he knows less and listens to me.”
“He has orders to work with you, but to take his own line if he thinks that necessary. Pick him up at the Afghan dera; he’ll go with you to-night. Better not go in uniform. Chetusingh is playing Pathan. You’d better do the same. Wu Tu will see through it at once, but it will make you less noticeable getting into the house, and once you’re in it won’t matter. Here are two special passes; I’ve a very special reason for your using them. They’re bait for Zaman Ali. Don’t get killed now. You’re a valuable man. And don’t forget: Facts not fireworks! Colonel—let’s see, no, they’d just gazetted him a brigadier— Brigadier-General David Frensham alive or dead! What happened to him—how? When? where? Hold your tongue, learn all you can, and keep me posted. Good night, Blair my boy, and good luck.”
Blair Warrender shook hands and walked out, cursing his luck in silence. It was bad enough that the commissioner almost never told more than half what he knew; one had to work more or less in the dark and learn to like it. But to have to thrust himself on Henrietta Frensham and invade her privacy—extract her secrets—spy on her—
“Good God! I supposed I’d never see her again. Well, orders are orders. Here goes.”
He sent to his quarters, tubbed, changed and went to the Byculla Club, where he dined with a bishop.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
Though the end of my fate be tears, saith the widow, shall I take the end for the beginning? Short though this life be, I will laugh while I may, and not know sorrow only.
—From the Ninth (unfinished) Book of Noor Ali.
THE bishop did his best to understand Blair Warrender. They sprawled in deep chairs in the starlight. The bishop wiped sweat from his face. Warrender ordered a drink from a soft-footed servant in ghost-white and did his utmost to explain himself.
“I’m a policeman. I’m not in politics. It’s my job to try to understand what’s going on. I’m not permitted prejudices.”
“All the same, you have them,” said the bishop. “Mind you, we’re not discussing religion, or even conventions, least of all politics. But surely you are prejudiced against the type of woman represented by this Wu Tu?”
“There is no worse public danger.”
Warrender signed the chit for the drink with his left hand; his right was feeling in his pocket. He pulled out a sketch done in crayon.
“The woman you have in mind,” he said, “looks something like this. Her place is a sort of vacation resort, a pleasure palace, if you wish to call it that, where she herself presides. Her real purpose is political intrigue, and, through it, power for herself. There was rather a long pause while the bishop examined the sketch. “If she’s like that,” he said, “one can imagine her hold over Chetusingh. But that only makes it more difficult. I am asking ,you to save him from her. What is that woman—Chinese?”
“No. The sketch exaggerates the Chinese touch, although it’s there. She is Portuguese; Chinese-Sikh-French—born in Hongkong. She’s a British subject. Anything else you’d care to know about her? I could tell you her bank balance and the names of her correspondents in Berlin, New York, Paris. Or about the young Chinese widows who help her to entertain.”
The bishop stirred uneasily. “These racial mixtures almost baffle one’s hope for humanity! If she looks like that she should be at Hollywood playing vampire parts. Beautiful, yes. But that’s the pity of it. She suggests to me an octopus. She reached out one subtly mysterious tentacle and drew Chetusingh into her maw. May God have mercy on him.”
“What do you propose?” asked Warrender. “There’s no law I know of against a woman being beautiful and witty.” The bishop handed the sketch back. “Who drew that?”
“I did.”
“Possibly you, too, admire her too much. You didn’t do that from memory. She must have posed to you for it. Well, you have talent.”
“In my profession,” said Warrender, “all a fellow’s talents come in usefully. Besides, there’s the inevitable retirement to bear in mind. When my day comes to draw a pension I mean to take up painting—and live. I’d rather be a duffer at that than die of boredom. However, what do you suggest?” He returned the sketch to his pocket.
“Less reprehensible people than Wu Tu are in prison,” the bishop answered at last. “Such women break laws when it suits them. By breaking down character they induce other people to break laws. Like you, I am not in politics. But she is. It happens I know that. I have been told so by perplexed Indian Christians, who come to me for advice on their personal problems. To be in her kind of politics, but out of prison, suggests to me— I can only say tolerance on the part of the police. That may be convenient for the moment. It probably is. But—”
There was another long pause. The anger in Blair’s eyes became less latent, but he sat still. The bishop again mopped the sweat from his face; then he drew out a cigar case, opened it, snapped it shut and returned it to his pocket without taking a cigar. “You are Chetusingh’s friend,” he said, “and he yours. I know you are his hero. He has admitted that to me many times in my house, before this Jezebel got hold of him. You have your public duty to perform, of course. But you are one of the few men in India to whom a wide discretion in the course of duty is absolutely necessary and is therefore permitted.
“It would be useless to deny that; I know it is true. What higher duty have you than you owe to a friend and comrade of an alien race, who has adopted our religion, in the teeth of a malignant opposition from his family and from his whole clan, simply because he admired our principles and our adherence to them? You can save Chetusingh from that woman by using your authority against her. Do it. Warrender, in the name of common decency, if for no other reason.”
“Have you spoken with Chetusingh?” Blair asked him.
“Yes. But I haven’t his confidence since he fell into that woman’s clutches. He used to ask my advice. Now, on the rare occasions when I see him, he is either flippant or silent and, I think, resentful.”
“Rajput pride is touchy stuff,” said Blair. “You may have flicked him on the raw.” He passed his cigarette case to the bishop and their eyes met straight for a moment. His were baffling, although the bishop’s were as easy to understand as plain print: he was hiding nothing. “I will do what I can,” he said after a moment, and there was nothing obscure about that remark. It was a full stop.
“Bless you,” said the bishop. He lighted the cigarette. The flame of the match revealed embarrassment as he snatched at thought after thought for a change of subject. “By the way,” he asked off-handedly, “any news about Brigadier-General Frensham?”
“No.”
“They tell me it’s in headlines in the London papers.”
“Yes.”
“Three months missing, and no trace—no clues—is it another of these insoluble mysteries?”
“Perhaps,” said Blair. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night. You forgive my confidences?”
“Nothing to, forgive. I won’t discuss them.”
“Sphinx! Well—I enjoyed the dinner immensely. Good night.”
Blair walked to police headquarters, answering the salutes of constables on duty with a nod and a stare that seemed to act like a tonic. They stiffened. Responsibility in some way sat more valiantly on their shoulders for having seen him. At headquarters. Indian subordinates stirred as a tuning-fork answers a master-tone. He spoke to one dark-eyed veteran, who stood at ease with the familiarity of friendship, and who nodded—deep unto deep.
&nb
sp; “All has been ready,” the Indian answered, “since the chief telephoned at eight-thirty.” Later, at nearly eleven o’clock, a Pathan walked out, muttering, through the side-street entrance to the detention cells. It was an unusual hour, but he could hardly be anything else than a released, prisoner. He swaggered with the sulky-jaunty truculence, of a Pathan recovering lost dignity, but he looked rather lost and feckless without a weapon. He thrust his way between the passers-by, and took the street past the King Edward Memorial Hospital toward the dera of the Kabuli Afghans, where the horse-traders stay who come down from the North to sell fat-rumped ponies to inexperienced British subalterns, and to spread through teeming slums and credulous bazaars amazing tales of Northern Asia in arms. As he stood for a moment, etched and shadowed by the naked electric light outside the dera entrance, a bearded Afghan, on his way out of the dera, paused and stared.
“By God, what wonders next?” the Afghan exclaimed. “O Ismail, what knife-feud brought thee hither? It was in Poona I last saw thee. Was the Poona hasheesh too strong? Or did the Sellers of Delights neglect thee when they had thy money? What now?”
“Get thee back to Kabul, to thy wife!” Ismail retorted. He pushed past the Afghan, swaggering through into the shadowy saddle- and spice-smell of the dera, vanishing along a corridor, under a stairway. A key that creaked noisily turned behind him. Then the Afghan followed and stood listening, but all he heard was the thump of a mattress or something like it against the door on the inside. He could see nothing through the keyhole, so he went away about. h!s business with the slippered, awkward gait of a middle-aged man who has spent two thirds of his life on horse- or camel-back.
Near midnight, he whom the Afghan had addressed as Ismail walked out of the dera with another Pathan and the two walked solemnly along the empty streets until they reached the dismal quarter where the mill-hands sleep like corpses in the gutter; thence, on through even narrower, shuttered and winding alley-ways toward a more prosperous section, where a Hindu temple loomed, its shadow lit by little lamps that looked choked by the hot dark.
