by Talbot Mundy
“No?” she answered. “All I actually know of Wu Tu is that you and she completed my humiliation. She turned you against me in less than a week. Then she offered you back to me —on her terms. Blair, I would have believed almost absolutely anything sooner than that you are like that.”
“Like what?”
“Someone whom Wu Tu can take and can give.”
Their eyes met, and hers were truthful. She was saying what she believed, that she was ashamed to be forced to believe. It suddenly occurred to him to tell her the moonlight made her look nearly naked in that thin smock; but he did not say it, although he would have in other circumstances. She was the only woman who ever had almost seemed more desirable to him than his job. He wondered why, staring at her in silence; until he realized that the nakedness was not really physical but the effect of emotion, hers and his. She was not. even trying to hide hers.
“You’re entitled to know the truth about that,” he said. “I’ll explain, if you wish.”
“Officially? Or am I to believe it?”
He tried, to take her hand, but she drew it away.
“I will believe you, Blair. I can bear to hear anything. You needn’t pretend what you don’t feel.”
“Wu Tu had nothing to do with it, Henrietta. I left off, because I didn’t dare to fall in love with you.”
“Why didn’t you dare? I was in love with you. I admit it.”
“I knew that.”
“I meant you should know it. You ran.”
“Yes.”
“You behaved like Ranjeet Singh in the legend. In the beginning I hated you, so much that I had to think about you. So I did think, Blair, when we met in the dark that night in Bombay and you took my wrist—not my hand, my wrist—you remember?—and dragged me, unwillingly, to look at an almost naked fakir, who resembled a bas-relief against velvet darkness with the firelight dancing on him, then I knew I loved you. I don’t know why. I couldn’t reason that out. I just knew it. I was fool enough to think you loved me. When you went away so suddenly, you said on duty, I supposed your job made you silent. I thought it was the quietness of strength. I was impatient, but thoroughly happy to wait. Then Wu Tu came.”
“To the house?”
“A police constable, of all people, brought a note from her, saying she had important information from you. If anyone but a policeman had brought it, I would probably have ignored it. I had heard of her of course; everyone has. Knowing you have to use all sorts of people in curious ways, I made an appointment to meet her in my tent at the end of the garden. She came by the back entrance, and I kept her waiting because I felt vaguely afraid. She made astonishing offers— money—then, that minute—quantities of money—showed it to me—tried to force it on me.”
“What did she want you to do?”
“Betray my father. I refused and she threatened. I’ve no idea how she knew about you and me, but she said she would deprive me of you, just so that she and I might understand each other. That sounded so incredibly ridiculous that I laughed. But when she was gone—it was too hot to go indoors—I sat there all alone and felt ill with dread. And you only wrote once, you remember—curtly—formally.”
“I wrote twice.”
“I received one. letter.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“Wu Tu came again. It seemed cowardly to refuse to see her. And besides, I was wretched and wanted to know. She said she would give you back to me, if I would be sensible, as she expressed it. She seemed to know all about you—for instance, how you have nothing beyond your pay. She even knew where you were born, and where you went to school, and the name of.a girl in England who inherited a hundred thousand pounds and wrote you love-letters.
“Then she named some important people whom she hinted she had put where they are through her secret influence. And she offered to show me how to make yours a real career, with orders and decorations and I don’t know what else. She made politics and promotion and all that kind of thing sound like a filthy swindle, with a few innocent figureheads manipulated from behind the scenes by blackguards. And she said you know all that, but that you lack the sublety and need a woman to awaken something in you. I might have you back if I would promise to give her my confidence.”
“Go on,” Blair said. “I’m listening.”
“I almost did promise. I thought I might save you from her.”
He waited. His eyes smoldered. But they changed, and he looked relieved when she laughed a bit bitterly at her own conceit and added, “But I saw you would have to save yourself. I couldn’t do it. It was like this legend of Ranjeet Singh, although I didn’t know the legend then. To yield myself would not have cleaned you.”
“Cleaned?” he said. He got up and strode to where they were skinning the tiger. It was a slow job. They were not particularly expert, and they were taking great pains not to damage the skin. The old Rangar was arguing with the Bat-Brahmin in a shadow, and the shikarri who, for some reason, had not been allowed to touch the carcass, was looking on, scornfully. Blair sent the shikarri hotfoot to his camp for cigarettes and then, himself in shadow, stared at Henrietta. She looked lovely in that moonlight. The sight of her made his arms tremble. He loathed his job more than ever. It would have been so simple to go and make love to her. She would tell him anything he asked, if—
He strode back, feeling and looking ruthless. He stood in front of her with his face in moonlight. She said. “Don’t look like that, Blair. You’re not cynical. You feel as badly as I do, or you should.”
“I told you I’d explain,” he answered. “Wu Tu had nothing to do with it, Henrietta. I wrote twice. The second one was a rotten letter to have to write, but you’d have understood. I said honestly that I wasn’t in love. Wu Tu may have stolen that second letter. She’s capable of it. If so, she simply took advantage of information. She’s an opportunist, and she’s rather clever. That’s the truth—or as much as I can tell you; I can’t betray official secrets.”
“But you question me like a culprit.”
“No, no, not a culprit. If you’d rather, I’ll wait till daylight.”
“Oh, no, let’s not evade it,” she objected. “I’ve been up there on Gaglajung, imagining myself waiting for Ranjeet Singh to return with honor—being silly and romantic—wallowing in sorrow. I knew you were here, so I came down. I’m in a mood for anything. Absolutely anything,” she added, “except—”
“Except what?”
“Lies.”
“Will you answer three questions?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you get that gold box that was stolen from your bedroom?”
“Father locked it in’ my suitcase. I didn’t know it was. missing until I noticed the lock of the suitcase was broken.”
“Where did he get it?”
“He found it.”
“Have you heard from your father?”
No answer. Suddenly: “Wu Tu told me you have been in love with her for ever so long.”
“You believe that?”
“I suppose I don’t care.”
“Well, it’s a lie. Look here, Henrietta, you and I had better face this. You’re under suspicion.”
“What of? You suspect me?”
“To a certain extent, yes. I always did. You’re a mystery, but it seemed like sacrilege to try to question you.”
“Sacrilege? You?”
“Yes. I couldn’t fall in love and mistrust you at the same time. So I ran out. I’m not making love now, so don’t be afraid. I’m friendly.”
“Is that quite true?”
“Yes, it is. But you’re as baffling as ever. You never once revealed your real thought.”
“Blair, I wanted to have no reserve from you. i wanted to be able to tell you anything you care to ask.”
“Tell me now.”
“No.”
The monosyllable was like the thump of a; door shut quietl
y. He watched her, speaking: slowly: “Zaman Ali and a bad gang—Wu Tu and a worse gang—Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, and certain others are suspected of being concerned in your father’s disappearance. Wu Tu possesses a golden figurine that may: come from the same source as the box you lost. We have your box. I’ve seen it. You’re here, behaving curiously, to put it mildly. In plain words, you’re here looking for something. And you’ve troubled yourself to charm Grayne and to.mystify him until he lets you do just as you please.”
“So you’ve been spying on me?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Who is the villager in whose house you slept?”
“You can easily find him.”
“I will. What have you been doing up on Gaglajung, in addition to making villagers believe you’re a ghost?”
“Don’t you think you’re a bit ridiculous?” she retorted.
“Yes,” he said. “I feel ridiculous, and I hate what I’m doing. But, you see, I want your answer.”
“There is none.”
“Take your time, Henrietta, and think. If you don’t, you may force me to—well, I won’t discuss that.”
“I have thought. There is no answer.”
“May I search your tent?”
“No.”
In the darkness a man with a little bagpipe began blaring a tune. Several men lit torches. Two men took the tiger-skin and bore it between them toward Henrietta, thrusting the head forward for her fingers to touch. She understood what they wished. She stood up and laid her right hand between the pugnacious ears, speaking in Rajasthani:
“Be this then the end of Ranjeet Singh. He is forgiven.”
The old Rangar, coughing to hide embarrassment, stood forward, bowing: “If the presence will—there is a little thing—it is not far—I am ashamed of these superstitious people, but—”
“Why not?” She stepped forward. The Bat-Brahmin seized a torch from a man and shook it. The bagpipe blared and the Bat led forward to the dark gorge, singing the ballad of Ranjeet of the Ford. And the crowd that had grown to forty or fifty people trailed along behind, excited, singing through their noses.
It was nothing incomprehensible to them that Henrietta Frensham should be a brigadier-general’s daughter, and a ghost, and a reincarnation of Ranjeet, Singh’s self-immolated widow, all at the same time. There was a god in the jungle who knew all about it, so they did the pleasantly discreet thing, and walked in procession to put streaky paint, sweet oil and cow-pats on his image. It was magic, which has nothing to do with ascertainable or concrete fact, and does not call for explanation.
Night in the throat of the gorge grew crimson with the torch-flare that glittered on frightened wild eyes amid rocks and undergrowth. They climbed a well-worn path, disturbing sleeping birds, until the trees ceased and they.were again in moonlight on the lap of a flank of Gaglajung. There the shrine nestled—a mere godlet’s nest of white stone under one lone tree, where the bats wove tapestry for unseen powers of the night. A monstrous wall of rock, outleaning like a man’s breast, loomed, pale in moonlight, and spread downward toward the jungle.
Peace breathed fragrance. An old hermit, gray-haired and gray-bearded, mild-eyed, mad and friendly, came forth from the shrine and looked on. Two young women suddenly appeared where nothing except darkness had been. Night, it had seemed, created them with strings of heavy-scented garlands in their hands; they hung garlands around Henrietta’s neck and then—impudently daring—around Blair’s, standing on tiptoe to do it and then running away to hide and giggle in the darkness. Then the ceremony—short—casual with the smooth-worn accuracy of the countless years—simple, as all good ceremonies are. The hermit blessed the tiger-skin; the Bat-Brahmin ordered it and- then made irreverent sounds to disparage the hermit and call attention to himself. They all knew the moods of Bat-Brahmins and there was enough generous low laughter to flatter the man’s self-esteem; the hermit’s blessing was in no way qualified by that. The shikarri, sweating and heavy-breathing, brought the cigarettes and Blair gave one to Henrietta, studying her eyes by the light of the match as he held it in cupped hands.
“My camp’s not far,” he said; “Suppose we walk there. After we’ve talked I’ll have ponies saddled and see you back to the Graynes’ camp.”
She nodded. Words leaped to his lips; he had hard work not to say them. Pagan emotion had hold of him. It moved him strangely. It was good, and he knew it was good. He threw away the match and lighted another as an excuse to turn his back. That way he regained self-control.
“Come along,” he said presently, forcing his voice. He did not trust himself to add one more word.
Blair led. He was unaware that his back, and the poise of his head, and his shoulders, and the resolute swing of his stride in the smoky torchlight, pained Henrietta almost beyond endurance. The foot-track along the dry bed of the stream was narrow and winding; it was easier to walk one by one. To have followed her might have saved him the strain of imagination.
To his mind’s eye she seemed lovelier than she really was;, no woman could be quite as beautiful as he imagined her. And she seemed to him more defenseless than a woman of her high character possibly could be in his hands. He knew she loved him; she had said so. He was tremendously attracted to her and he was not sure he was not really in love with her.
Was it true that he had behaved like Ranjeet Singh of the legend? Had he, even unintentionally, by his conduct, given her the right to believe he loved her? Probably. Had he played her false? Had he tried to buy his liberty with the price of her honor? He could not see how. He was going to have to be brutal to her now, at any rate, so he denied himself the luxury of even one backward glance at her. He strode like a Roman.
The tent glowed with lamplight. There were two chairs under the awning, with a table between. He had forgotten the garlands on his shoulders; his servant removed those when he reached the tent. Then he turned deliberately, giving Henrietta time to control herself before their eyes met. Mellow moonlight— lamp glow—garlands, and the simple line of her frock—stillness and purple shadows—
“Damn!” he said. “You look like a Madonna.” But he used the word at random; she was pagan and looked like temptation itself.
“Sit down, won’t you? Drink? I’ve whisky and soda. Tea then?”
“Nothing.”
The servant put the cigarette box on the table and Blair dismissed him. Little groups of people standing in the shadows vanished. A pony, somewhere in darkness, snorted and strained at his picket; a sais reproved him, and after that there was no other noticeable sound. The stillness, that is made of infinitely tiny voices, waited, and the stars seemed to wait too. Blair’s voice, when he forced himself to speak, was almost deadly restrained:
“What’s the use, Henrietta?”
Her voice sounded hopeless. “Nothing’s any use, Blair, not between us.”
“Anyhow, making a mystery isn’t,” he answered. “If you were worried about your father—”
“I am.”
“Are you? Either you know where he is, or you’ve heard from him, or he has told you not to worry and has given a reason. If not,, you’d behave differently. I’ve to find him. Is it sensible to put yourself to the damned indignity, and me to the indecency of having you watched? I can do that. I’d rather go to hell than do it.”
“You must do as you please.”
“I can’t do as I please. Neither can you.”
“No,” she said, “I know that.”.
“Do you realize that whatever you have in your tent, that you refused just now to let me see, would be known to me in detail before daylight, if—”
“Well, why don’t you? Oh, Blair, can’t you understand? Are you the only person in the world who’s loyal? And to what?” (He remembered that Wu Tu had said almost the same thing.) “Would you tell me any official secrets, that you nevertheless discuss with underlings? Would you even tell me Wu Tu’s secrets? If you weren’t a policeman—”
“Let’s not if ourselves into a me
taphysical maze,” he interrupted. “I am a policeman. I’ve had easier duties than this, I don’t mind telling you.” Without changing his voice; without the slightest gesture to betray that he had chosen a new angle of attack, he went on:
“Chetusingh”—he watched her, and her eyes revealed nothing, but the ends of her fingers flattened slightly on the chair-arm—“has also vanished.”
He had not even been sure that she knew Chetusingh, but he saw her guard go up. Her answering sarcastic smile was a moment too late: “Did you propose to search my tent for him?”
“No,” he answered; “I hadn’t thought of it.”
She waited.
He paused, very carefully selecting from the inquisition pincers.
“You haven’t told me,” he said, “all that Wu Tu told you.”
“No, Blair, I haven’t. Why not ask her?”
“Why are you willing,” he demanded, “to sit here and be questioned, when its obviously painful? You didn’t have to come here with me. There were plenty of people up there on the hill who could have seen you safely back to Graynes’ camp.”
She hesitated, thought a moment, and then answered with a smile that mocked her own torment:
“It seemed a possible opportunity to fall out of love with you, Blair.”
“Why?” he asked brutally.
“I fell in.”
“Are you out now?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’ve no intention of telling me anything?”
“Blair, it isn’t you, it’s the policeman I can’t tell.”
“So you. do know.”
“I don’t admit that.”
“Well, Henrietta, is isn’t I, but the policeman who’s asking questions. Personally I wouldn’t probe your secrets. If I did dream of doing it because they’re interesting and you’re you, I wouldn’t do it in this way. But I’m obliged to be impersonal and insist.” “It’s no use insisting—not the slightest use, Blair. But go on being impersonal.”
“Why?”
“It helps me,”
“You mean, if I were to put this on a personal basis you’d find it easier to tell me?”
