Full Moon

by Talbot Mundy

  “Is the drug in this dagger the stuff that made Frensham talk?” he demanded. “What is it? What does it do—paralyze the will or something?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Blair. There’s no drug, and that was an accident. You startled her. She didn’t mean to scratch you.”

  “I’m going to scratch you and see if it makes you talk,” he answered. “Come here.”

  “No, Blair! No, no!” She retreated slowly. Her eyes were like a desperate animal’s, her hands ready to scratch. She was like a cat at bay. “No, no, let me talk, Blair—let me tell you.”

  “Very well,” he said, “sit there. Go on talking or you’ll feel the point of this thing. You were saying it was you, not Taron Ling or Zaman Ali, who found the way in here. How did you do it?”

  Wu Tu sat down on the hamper; full in the lantern glow. “Blair,” she said, “I thought you were a fool policeman, but I see you’re clever. I will trust you. I will tell you everything. What did you do to Taron Ling? You didn’t kill him? Tell me—did you?”

  “Wait and see,” he answered. “Go on with your story.”

  “Let me tell in my own way, Blair. You terrify me—stand back. You promised—”

  “Yes,” he said, “I promised.” He stood back from her two paces. As the friend I said I’d be, I give you one chance.”

  “Are we friends if I tell?”

  “Policemen haven’t friends,” he answered. “Only enemies, protégés and allies. Which are you?”

  “Blair, I said I’d give you Henrietta. I can do it.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Listen to me, or you’ll regret it! Do you want to kill her?”

  “If a hair of her head’s hurt, I’ll make you suffer for it,” he answered grimly.

  Wu Tu was equally grim. “You’ll be the death of us all unless you listen to me! There is magic in this place! That woman out there inside the crystal was the queen or the priestess of a race of giants who emerged long ago— no one knows how long ago—and died out—vanished. How? Why?

  “Frensham found a tablet in here, but he couldn’t read it, so he borrowed Taron Ling from Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu. Taron Ling can put a person into trances. Frensham never let Taron Ling see the tablet. He didn’t trust him. He knew too much about magic and trances to trust a practitioner. He kept the tablet hidden in a box, into which he put his hands through two holes. But what he understood in the trance he couldn’t remember afterwards; it was like trying to remember a dream. So he had Henrietta to watch Taron Ling and to write down whatever he might say while in the trance.

  “To make extra sure of Taron Ling, he handcuffed him to the wall at the opposite side of the room. It was a very small room, but Taron Ling couldn’t overhear much. However he managed to steal some of the notes Henrietta made. I’ve read them, but Dur-i-Duran Singh won’t part with them. He thinks about nothing but money and laughs at magic, but all the same he’s superstitious and he thinks those notes are—what was that noise?”

  Blair’s ears felt as if they twitched. But he knew, if it were Chetusingh, he could count on a definite signal. That sound might have been made to attract his attention. “Nothing,” he answered.

  “Yes it was!” Wu Tu looked thoroughly scared. “I heard a sound in the passage. Is it Taron Ling? If it is—you have one bullet—shoot him!”

  Blair was listening intently, but he went on talking. “Why?” he answered. “To oblige you?”

  “Yes! Blair, kill that devil! If you don’t, he’ll kill me. There, I heard him again. Kill him, did you hear me! I tell you, kill him!”

  “What’s your hurry?” The strange thing was that the Chinese girl seemed undisturbed. She had taken off most of her clothes and was wringing them dry. Between the red light and the shadows, against a background of unexplainable golden moldings and a dark wall, she looked like old ivory—a master-carving, done by a man who knew what motion is and how to suggest it. Wu Tu made a sudden grab at the revolver—missed it—tried to snatch the dagger, and then knelt. She seized Blair’s knees. She was almost sobbing. Her voice was tragic:

  “Blair, do what I say or we’re all damned! If you don’t kill Taron Ling, he’ll kill me and he’ll either kill you or use you! What he wants is Henrietta. Do you hear me?”

  “And if I kill him?”

  “I will take you then to Henrietta. But I daren’t—I daren’t as long as Taron Ling is in the taverns!”

  “Silence!” he commanded. Wu Tu clung to him, trembling, holding her breath. He felt her fingers dig into the muscles of his leg. The water splashed and gurgled in the cistern. The Chinese girl stepped into wrinkled trousers and stood, calmly observant, unsmiling, unconcerned apparently; making almost no noise with her bare feet, she walked to the cistern and, plunging in her arms, groped for her lost cigarette tube.

  She found it almost at once and blew through it to get the water out; it made a sharp noise, like a toy trumpet. Then she walked back to the lanterns, found her cigarettes there somewhere, picked up a lantern, raised the colored glass and lighted her cigarette at the candle. She appeared uncertain where to set the lantern down; she moved it to and fro several times before putting it back where it was before. To whom could she be signaling? How many more than two of Wu Tu’s or Zaman Ali’s men were in the caverns? Did Wu Tu want that one shot actually used, or did she want to see it wasted? Should he tell her Taron Ling was dead? He decided not to—not yet.

  “There’s no one there,” he said in a distinct, level voice, but he felt certain someone lurked in the darkness of the low entrance to the chamber, watching, listening. “Why are you afraid of Taron Ling? He’s only a charlatan. You know as many tricks as he does. You were boasting just now, that he couldn’t even get in here until you led the way.”

  She answered hoarsely, “Blair—I beg you— kill him! If I hadn’t a soul I wouldn’t care? I wouldn’t be afraid to die—I’d fear nothing! But I have a soul! I wish I hadn’t! So have you, and you’ll wish you hadn’t if you don’t kill that devil!”

  Softly to himself Blair whistled three bars of a familiar tune that stole on memory. He saw no kindly light that led, but—

  “Soul?” he said. “Have you turned pious?” He was watching the Chinese girl’s cigarette that moved in quite unnecessary lines and dots as she smoked—took the tube in her fingers—smoked again. She had the damp pyjama jacket in her left hand. There was no real need to shake it; in that stifling heat it would have dried in a few minutes. One of the candles dropped, forward and blackened the lantern glass. Another guttered and died. The remaining one faced Blair and Wu Tu, like a danger signal set in the throat of darkness. THE square entrance-hole was now a black blot on the dim red darkness of the end wall. Tired eyes strained in the reduced light and Blair began to wonder how long he could carry on without sleep. His eyelids became suddenly heavy. It was difficult to fix attention simultaneously on Wu Tu, the Chinese girl and the entrance-hole. Sensation—or lack of it—warned him his reserve of nervous energy was perilously near exhaustion. But his ears were alert.

  He detected a faint sound that might be a trigger—or a glass tube snapping. He glanced at Wu Tu. In that split second he felt consciousness slip from his grasp. He was blinded by an explosion of magnesium light that seared the scene into his memory. At the same time there was a sensation of being struck, he never knew by what; it was painless, heavy, deadening.

  He hit out blindly. He had dagger and revolver; he used both, not knowing what he struck at. Wu Tu clung to his knees. He kicked—swayed—felt his knees yield. Then, for what seemed endless time, he lay still with a roar in his ears, and a vision blazed on his retina of three men, of whom one looked like Chetusingh; of Wu Tu and the Chinese girl; and he thought the Chinese girl had done something to him, he didn’t know what. Foreshortened memory was there, too, blended with it all—the giantess within the cone in the sunlit cavern—the tunnel where Zaman Ali and two others lay dead—the ash-floored sunlit charnel-house—the tunnel beyond it— Taron Li
ng, dead and alive at the same time— the shrine, the Bat, the hermit, and Ganesha’s image inscrutably smiling. The giantess within the sunlit cone changed presently to Henrietta; she receded to a vast distance and looked terribly lonely; he felt responsible for her loneliness. He knew he loved her, and wished to say so.

  In a nightmare, he climbed up and down ghastly steps on the face of a precipice, trying to reach her before Wu Tu could prevent him. That effort led him gradually back to consciousness, until the roaring in his ears waned and changed to human voices. Then mortification and shame swept over him, that he should have been caught off-guard. He felt himself’ an arrant failure.

  The first voice he recognized was Chetusingh’s. He could not hear what Chetusingh said but the tone of the man’s voice conveyed a sensation of horror. He was not speaking English. He addressed somebody as Soonia and then Jenny, which sounded off-key and incongruous, until he remembered that Soonia and Jenny were two of Wu Tu’s names. Soon after that he recognized Wu Tu’s voice, and then full consciousness returned, although he felt incapable of movement. He could not even move his eyelids. He lay as if paralyzed by a blow that had left his brain functioning.

  Wu Tu—angry—excited—vigorous—was speaking English. Her eyes stared at him out of the dark, through his own closed eyelids. He felt a sickening distrust of Chetusingh. Had Wu Tu told the truth? Had Chetusingh turned traitor? He kept on speaking Hindustanee in a monotonous voice that droned against the splash and gurgle of the water in the cistern. He was answering Wu Tu’s questions:

  “I obeyed. I have not seen Taron Ling. I brought her here, did I not? I lied. She did not believe, but she came with me nevertheless. And I protected her from Zaman Ali and his men, who wanted to make her afraid.so that Taron Ling might control her more, easily. But I think she can not be controlled, unless this man does it. She has not spoken to me since I told her Bee-lair Warrender will come soon.”

  “Idiot!” That was Wu Tu’s voice again. “I ordered you to say I bring him. That without me he could not come to her. Why didn’t you?”

  “I did. After that she was silent.”

  “What else have you done?”

  “As bidden. I summoned these two. Here they are. That they are dead is not my doing. There were two of Zaman Ali’s men on the ledge lip yonder. They came toward us three, very fearful, saying that Zaman Ali lies dead of a knife-wound and that two more of his men lie dead beside him.

  “Taron Ling, said they, is somewhere in the tunnel. They invited us three to go with them to Taron Ling. They said Taron Ling has put magic on Bee-lair Warrender, who will therefore obey Taron Ling whatever comes of it; and consequently there is nothing else to do but to take Taron Ling’s part and to kill you, seeing that you can do nothing with Bee-lair Warrender now that Taron Ling is controlling him.

  “They said Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu is your enemy, and you his, though you pretend friendship. And that Taron Ling is faithful unto death to Dur-i-Duran Singh, who will bestow great rewards when he possesses the secret of Gaglajung. Whereas, said they, Wu Tu is likelier to kill, as she killed Zaman Ali, in order to have all for herself. And they said you will kill her, and Bee-lair Warrender also, as soon as you have what you want, because you will wish to keep it secret. Taron Ling, said they, will be too clever for you; he will kill you… . Then there was a quarrel, because your men answered hotly.

  “There were blows and the end came swiftly; they two fell into the great pit, where vultures were already picking one of Zaman Ali’s men. After that, we three came hither.”

  “Slow! Late!” Wu Tu spoke savagely. But Chetusingh answered like a man in a dream, or as if broken by punishment until nothing remained but the will to obey.

  “Step by step as bidden—no haste—no delay— no excuse.” That phrase sounded suspiciously like a formula impressed hypnotically on his mind. “I lay there in the dark and made a signal to Bee-lair Warrender, to betray him, to gain time while I summoned these two. Could I have done better? How should I know he had dagger and pistol? I did not know. I did as bidden.”

  “Dog!” she retorted. “Two good servants dead, and worse!—no more drug for the dagger! Would to God I had not wasted stuff on you that cost a fortune! Who protects us now from Taron Ling? You? Who undoes Taron Ling’s hold on him? You? Who shall manage Henrietta Frensham? You?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chetusingh’s voice wearily in English.

  “Go!” she commanded. “Find Taron Ling. Kill him!”

  “I have no weapon.”

  “Find one, or else kill him with your hands! Don’t dare to return to me while Taron Ling lives!”

  Blair felt the blood coursing again in his veins, but shame and contempt for Chetusingh were his chief sensations. He almost forgot his own predicament. Chetusingh had been his discovery—his comrade-in-arms. He felt his eyelids flutter. He got a glimpse of the shadowy chamber, but saw very little, closed his eyes again and lay still. It would be better to let Chetusingh get out of the way. Then, when he was gone, he would jump up suddenly and snatch the lantern; that would give him a slight advantage. He listened for the Rajput’s footfall and almost disbelieved his ears when—thump and slither on the rock floor—he recognized a familiar spacing of sounds. None but he and Chetusingh knew that code. It was an almost similar signal to the one Chetusingh made with bare feet in the passage in Wu Tu’s house in Bombay. It meant:

  “Am acting independently and can’t communicate.”

  Did Chetusingh know he was conscious? How did he know? Had he seen the momentary flutter of the eyelids? The Rajput’s retreating footfall—he was evidently barefooted —rutched along the floor, paused at the opening, hesitated—

  “Go!” repeated Wu Tu.

  There were sounds as if Chetusingh groped in the dark for something. It appeared he found slippers or sandals which he slapped on the floor or the wall before putting them on—habit that—to get the dust out, or to avoid being stung by an insect—a perfectly natural action, almost automatic. Thousands of Indians do it. But the slap-slap—pause—slap—pause—slap-slap was a signal as plain as the other had been—meaningless to anyone but Blair and Chetusingh. To them it meant:

  “Give me time for necessary details and await my signal.”

  After that he heard Chetusingh scramble clumsily, as if he were dog-tired and indifferent, along the ten or twelve feet of the low, square entrance-hole. He heard him get to his feet at the far end.j Then he heard him drop the little metal box in which he kept materials for preparing pan, stuff that he never chewed but never went without because an offer of pan is like a proffered cigarette; it serves sometimes to open intimacy with strangers.

  He could be heard groping in the dark for the fallen box. He fumbled it. Then he opened the box and snapped it shut. That signal meant: “No immediate danger.”

  Did it? Their code was a system of norma] movements such as any one might make in almost any circumstances. The first and second signal might, conceivably, have been made by accident. But three signals running seemed beyond the pale of coincidence. On the other hand, Chetusingh had told Wu Tu he made a signal previously for the purpose of betrayal. Whom was he betraying now? Benefit of doubt is doubtful policy when death creeps uncoiled in the dark. Wu Tu boasted Chetusingh was her man. Was he? Wu Tu spoke suddenly in Chinese and Blair opened his eyes a fraction. He saw the Chinese girl, fully dressed now, bend to take up the one remaining lantern and follow Chetusingh. She paused at the far end of the low opening, seemed to listen to Chetusingh’s retreating footsteps, and at last set down the lantern and remained beside it. It was safe to open his eyes wide then. It was pitch-dark except for one spot of reflected red light dancing on the water that poured into the cistern. At the far end of the low entrance was the lantern, ruby-red, like a point-light in an underground railway tunnel.

  But he closed his eyes after a moment. Wu Tu lifted his head to her lap—touched something to his nostrils. It had a faint smell, but whatever it was she shook it as if
it was empty and he heard her set it down. After that her fingers caressed his temples and passed over his eyes. “Sleep!” she commanded in a low voice. “Sleep! Sleep” He found it difficult at first to stay awake. He had been exhausted and sleepy before this happened. Lassitude stole over him. The gurgling water harmonized with her voice. He could almost physically feel magnetic influence stealing over him and he began to see her eyes again through closed eyelids.

  He reminded himself that there is no such influence; that by suggestion mesmerists persuade a victim to impose obedience on himself. Nevertheless, he felt consciousness slipping. But her eyes, that he saw without seeing, aroused anger. He resented them— rebelled against the impudent trickery that compelled him to see them. Had she done something of the sort to Henrietta? The thought of Henrietta in Wu Tu’s clutches stirred an impulse to kill. But the same impulse aroused caution. He must first, have Wu Tu’s secret—Henrietta’s—Frensham’s. Secrecy is the key to secrets. He lay still.

  There was something hard between the back of his hand and his leg. He guessed it was the empty revolver. By pressing his hand against that he hurt it sharply where the Chinese girl had pricked him and he. had bitten the wound to make it bleed. He kept on doing it. The pain intensified alertness. By continually relaxing and increasing the pressure he avoided becoming used to it.

  “Sleep!” commanded Wu Tu. “Sleep! Sleep! Sleep and forget—and forget.” Her hands moved rhythmically caressing his eyes and temples. Some or her sensuous perfume still clung to her clothing. Heat, the sensation of darkness, the.sound of flowing water aided her. Stab-stab went the pain in his right hand. He was awake, alert. But he breathed evenly, relaxing his neck-muscles so that his head lay heavy oh her lap. “Forget! Forget!” commanded Wu Tu. He remembered every detail of her previous attempt on him in Bombay. She pinched his ear but he was ready for it—lay still. She pinched until her nails almost met in the lobe of his ear, but he betrayed no sign of having felt it. The voltage of his anger increased with every stab of pain, but he welcomed the pain because it proved he was conscious.