“Indra Singh,” said the dealer, “is an old customer of mine, and I have never sold him any but the best goods. Yes, I remember that turban well. I am confident that there is not another like it in Delhi. Sirdar, here are Russia-leather slippers such as a Maharajah might wear, and the price is just seven rupees!”
This affair was very perplexing. How came Indra Singh’s turban into the merchant’s house? I did not like to think that the Punjaubi was the thief. I knew him to be rich, and besides, he was honorable. High castes are not in the habit of appropriating other people’s jewelry.
The Sapphire, in spite of the most stringent search, was not found, nor did I come any nearer to discovering the identity of the thief. As to Indra Singh’s part in this matter, I gradually became convinced that there had been some mistake in regard to the turban. And besides, the presence of his turban in Lejut Puri’s house by itself, was small proof of the Punjaubi’s guilt.
Lejut Puri, who appeared to set a great value on his sapphire, came often, and seemed much disheartened that no progress had been made. The jewel, he told me, had belonged to his father, and had had an eventful history. It had originally been the property of a high-caste Punjaubi family from whom it had been taken during the terrible days of the mutiny. This family, it appeared, had remained true to the English during those times, and in consequence their house, after the mutineers had taken possession of the city and murdered the English inhabitants, had been looted by a mob. The sapphire fell into the hands of a low-caste Mohammedan, and was purchased from this man for a small sum by Leja Puri’s father. Leja Puri gave the name of the original owner as Phairon Singh. The mentioning of this name gave me the first clue to the sapphire’s disappearance. Phairon Singh was Indra Singh’s father. Investigation revealed that he had remained faithful during the mutiny, and that his house had been sacked by an angry mob. I also learned that such a sapphire had been possessed by him, and that it had disappeared at this time.
It did not take long to put these facts and the finding of Indra Singh’s turban together. Taking all into consideration, I decided that Indra Singh was the thief.
First the sapphire had belonged to his father. Then by a low-caste it had come into Leja Puri’s family. Lawfully, it was the Punjaubi’s property, and Puri had no more right to it than the low-caste. I became convinced that Indra Singh, learning of this, and wishing for some reason to regain the sapphire, had entered Puri’s house and stolen it. How he had come to lose his turban I could not surmise. There were very many other things that I did not understand in the case. However, everything pointed to Indra Singh as the thief.
Several days later I paid a visit to the Punjaubi, with the full determination of getting to the bottom of the case. Nothing could be proved by inaction. The only thing was to get the truth out of Indra himself. I was morally convinced of his guilt, but could not prove it unless I obtained his confession.
Indra Singh was a man perhaps thirty years of age. He was tall, even for a Punjaubi, and wore a heavy, black beard.
He greeted me cordially. I could detect nothing in his manner which might indicate apprehension. If he were indeed guilty, it was clear that he did not connect my visit with the sapphire, or else he was an adept at hiding his feelings.
I stated the object of my visit at once.
“Indra,” I said, drawing forth the red turban, “does this belong to you?” He started at seeing the article, but beyond that betrayed no emotion. He hesitated a while before answering.
“Sirdar,” he said at last, “It is mine.” I proceeded to tell him where it had been found, and my suspicions in regard to himself.
“Yes,” he confessed slowly. “I may not lie. It was I who stole the sapphire from Leja Puri.” He stopped, drew a small metal case from his bosom, and opened it. Within lay a sapphire of perhaps six carats weight, and which I, who am no expert in such matters, saw plainly to be flawless.
“Six hundred years,” he continued, “this stone remained in our family. It is of great value apart from its intrinsic worth—for a legend no one knows how old, deems that it will bring good luck to the possessor. Six hundred years—and then the mutiny, when India was drenched in blood, and a madness more terrible than midsummer heat lay upon all the land. The stone was stolen. Till the day of his death my father, Phairon Singh, sought to regain it but in vain. And after him, I, his son, took up the search, and carried it to the end which you have seen. It was no easy matter to trace the thief—why detail?—but success crowned my efforts, and I learned that the sapphire had been sold to Leja Puri’s father, and that it was now in the former’s possession.
“The only method of regaining it which suggested itself, was theft. There was much risk, but my courage, nerved by determination to regain the sapphire, was equal to the deed. I learned from Puri’s servants where he kept his jewels, and selecting a dark night, entered his house. I found the room, broke open the case containing the sapphire and was about to leave when I heard footsteps in the next room.
“Fearing that I was detected, a panic seized me, and in my haste to escape, a loose fold of my turban became entangled and I left the turban behind. I afterwards regretted this greatly, fearing that it might furnish a clue and have always cursed myself for my carelessness. Doubtless the person whose footsteps I heard was totally unaware of my presence, and had no intentions toward me.”
“Of course,” said I, “as the jewel was stolen from your father, it is legally your property. The fact that the thief sold it to Leja Puri’s father does not entitle the latter to it. But there is another side of the case. You had no right to enter Leja Puri’s house secretly, even for the purpose of regaining what was legally yours. Had you been caught in the act, there would have been little difficulty in convicting you for burglary.
“For over thirty years the sapphire was in the possession of the Puri family, having been purchased by Leja’s father.” I paused, and then went on.
“I have come here to urge you to return the sapphire. You will hand it over to me. I guarantee that the matter will be dropped. Leja will be only too happy to have it back, and will not make close inquiries as to the identity of the thief or the method of recovery.”
I went on to inform him that if this demand was not complied with, it would be regretfully necessary to place him under arrest.
“I should be very sorry,” I said, “for you have always been a good friend to me. But in the performing of duty, friendship is not to be considered, and my duty would be to arrest you for entering Leja Puri’s residence for purposes of burglary.”
Indra Singh thought the matter over, and recognized the justice of my remarks. I pointed out the situation to him in detail, and he finally, though reluctantly, assented, and gave me the sapphire. Fear of arrest perhaps had much to do with this but, from my knowledge of his character, I think that he really came around to my views.
Leja Puri received the sapphire. The tale which I told him of how I had discovered the thief, and of the jewel’s recovery, I have always regarded as a masterpiece.
PRINCE ALCOUZ
AND THE MAGICIAN
lcouz Khan was the only son of Yakoob Ullah, Sultan of Balkh. Unruly and vicious by nature, he was anything but improved by the luxury and power of his position. He grew up overbearing, cruel, and dissolute, and with mature years his faults and vices only became more pronounced. He was exactly the opposite of his father, who was a wise and just ruler and had endeared himself to the people.
The prince spent his time in reprehensible sports and dissipation and kept evil companions. His father often remonstrated with him, but without effect. He sighed when he thought of the day not far distant, for he was growing old, when Alcouz would come to the throne. The prince’s succession, indeed, was universally dreaded, for well the people knew what manner of Sultan the cruel, dissipated youth would make.
There came to Balkh from Hindustan a noted magician, by name Amaroo. He soon became famous for his skill in foretelling the future. His patrons were many and of a
ll stations in life, for the desire to tear aside the veil of the future is universal.
Alcouz, actuated by the common impulse, visited him. The magician, a small man with fiery, gleaming eyes, who wore flowing robes, arose from the couch whereon he had been sitting wrapped in meditation, and salaamed low.
“I have come to thee,” said Alcouz, “that thou mayest read for me the hidden and inscrutable decrees of fate.”
“In so far as lies my ability, I will serve thee,” replied the Hindu. He motioned his visitor to be seated and proceeded with his preparations, He spoke a few words in a tongue Alcouz could not understand and the room became darkened except for the dim, flickering light from a brazier of burning coals. Into this Amaroo cast various perfumed woods, which he had at hand. A thick black smoke arose, and standing in it, his figure half-hidden and seemingly grown taller and more impressive, he recited incantations in the strange and unknown tongue.
The room lightened and seemed to widen out indefinitely, with it the black vapor. Alcouz could no longer see the walls and the room seemed some vast cavern shut in at a distance by darkness. The smoke formed itself into curling, fantastic shapes which took on rapidly the semblance of human beings. At the same time the walls of the darkness contracted till they limited a space as large as the Sultan’s throne room. More smoke arose from the brazier and grew to longs rows of pillars and to a dais and a throne. A shadowy figure sat upon the throne before which the other figures assembled and knelt. They rapidly became clearer, more distinct, and Alcouz recognized them.
The place was the royal throne-room, and the seated figure was himself. The others were officers of the court and his personal friends. A crown was placed on Alcouz’s head and his courtiers knelt down in homage. The scene was maintained awhile and then the shapes re-dissolved into black vapor.
Amaroo stood at the prince’s side. “What thou hast beheld will in time come to pass,” he said. “Now thou shalt look upon another event.”
Again he stood in the whirling smoke and chanted incantations, and again the vapor grew to pillars and a throne occupied by the solitary figure of Alcouz. He was sitting with unseeing eyes, absorbed in meditation. Anon a slave entered and seemed to speak to him, then withdrew.
Then came a figure which Alcouz recognized as that of Amaroo, the Hindu magician. He knelt before the throne and seemed to present some petition. The seated shape was apparently about to reply, when the Hindu, springing suddenly to his feet, drew a long knife from his bosom and stabbed him.
Almost at the same instant, Alcouz, who was watching horror-stricken, gave a wild cry and fell dead, stabbed to the heart by the magician, who had crept up behind him unobserved.
THE MALAY KRISE
ahib,” said the sword-dealer, “this blade, which came from far Singapore, has not its equal for sharpness in all Delhi.”
He handed me the blade for inspection. It was a long krise, or Malay knife, with a curious boat-shaped hilt, and, as he had said, was very keen.
“I bought it of Sidi Hassen, a Singapore dealer into whose possession it came at the sale of Sultan Sujah Ali’s weapons and effects after the Sultan’s capture by the British. Hast heard the tale, sahib? No? It runs thus:
“Sujah Ali was the younger son of a great Sultan. There being little chance of his ever coming to the throne, he left his father’s dominions, and becoming a pirate, set out to carve for himself a name and an empire. Though having at first but a few prahus (boats) and less than a hundred men, he made up this lack by his qualities of leadership, which brought him many victories, much plunder and considerable renown. His fame caused many men to join him, and his booty enabled him to build more prahus. Adding continually to his fleets, he soon swept the rivers of the Peninsula, and then began to venture upon the sea. In a few years his ships were held in fear and respect by every Dutch merchantman or Chinese junk whose sails loomed above the waters of the China sea. Inland he began to overrun the dominions of the other Sultans, conquering, amongst others, that of his elder brother, who had succeeded to his father’s throne. Sujah Ali’s fame reached far, and its shadow lay upon many peoples.
“Then the English came to the Peninsula and built Singapore. Sujah Ali despatched ships to prey upon their vessels, many of whom he succeeded in capturing. The English sent big ships after him, bearing many heavy guns and many armed men.
“The Sultan went to meet them in person, with the greater part of his fleet. It was a disastrous day for him. When the red sun sank into the sea, fully fifty of his best prahus, and thousands of his men, amongst whom he mourned several of his most noted captains, lay beneath the waters. He fled inland with the shattered remnant of his fleet.
“The British resolved to crush him decisively, sent boats up the rivers, and in numerous hard-fought battles they sunk most of Sujah Ali’s remaining prahus, and cleared land and water of the infesting pirates. The Sultan himself, however, they sought in vain. He had fled to a well-nigh inaccessible hiding-place—a small village deep in a network of creeks, swamps, and jungle-covered islands. Here he remained with a few fighting-men while the English hunted unsuccessfully for the narrow, winding entrances.
“Amina, his favorite wife, was among those who had accompanied him to this refuge. She was passionately attached to the Sultan, and, although such was his wish, had positively refused to be left behind.
“There was a beautiful girl in the village, with whom Sujah Ali became infatuated. He finally married her, and she exercised so great an influence over him that Amina, who had hitherto considered herself first in her husband’s estimation, grew jealous. As time passed, and she perceived more clearly how complete was his infatuation, her jealousy grew more intense and violent, and at last prompted her to leave the village secretly one night, and to go to the captain of a British vessel which had been cruising up and down the river for weeks. To this man, one Rankling Sahib, she revealed the secret of Sujah Ali’s hiding place. In thus betraying him, her desire was probably more for revenge upon her rival than upon the Sultan.
“Rankling Sahib, guided by Amina, passed at midnight through the network of creeks and jungles. He landed his crew and entered the village. The Malays, taken completely by surprise, offered little or no resistance. Many awoke only to find themselves confronted by loaded rifles, and surrendered without opposition.
“Sujah Ali, who had lain awake all evening wondering as to the cause of Amina’s absence, rushed out of his hut with half a score of his men, and made a futile attempt at escape. A desperate fight ensued, in which he used his krise, the same that thou seest, with deadly effect. Two of the English he stretched dead, and a third he wounded severely.
“Rankling Sahib had given orders that the Sultan be taken alive, if possible. Finally, wounded, weary and surrounded by his foes on all sides, the Sultan was made prisoner. And the next morning was taken down river to Singapore.
“This is the krise you see on the wall.”
THE GHOST OF MOHAMMED DIN
’ll wager a hundred rupees that you won’t stay there over-night,” said Nicholson.
It was late in the afternoon, and we were seated on the veranda of my friend’s bungalow in the Begum suburb at Hyderabad. Our conversation had turned to ghosts, on which subject I was, at the time, rather skeptical, and Nicholson, after relating a number of bloodcurdling stories, had finished by remarking that a nearby house, which was said to be haunted, would give me an excellent chance to put the matter to the test.
“Done!” I answered, laughing.
“It’s no joking matter,” said my friend, seriously. “However, if you really wish to encounter the ghost, I can easily secure you the necessary permission. The house, a six-roomed bungalow, owned by one Yussuf Ali Borah, is tenanted only by the spirit who appears to regard it as his exclusive property.
“Two years ago it was occupied by a Moslem merchant named Mohammed Din, and his family and servants. One morning they found the merchant dead—stabbed through the heart, and no trace of his murderer
, whose identity still remains unrevealed.
“Mohammed Din’s people left, and the place was let to a Parsee up from Bombay on business. He vacated the premises abruptly about midnight, and told a wild tale the next morning of having encountered a number of disembodied spirits, describing the chief one as Mohammed Din.
“Several other people took the place in turn, but their occupancy was generally of short duration. All told tales similar to the Parsee’s. Gradually it acquired a bad reputation, and the finding of tenants became impossible.”
“Have you ever seen the ghost yourself?” I asked.
“Yes; I spent a night, or rather part of one, there, for I went out of the window about one o’clock. My nerves were not strong enough to stand it any longer. I wouldn’t enter the place again for almost any sum of money.”
Nicholson’s story only confirmed my intention of occupying the haunted house. Armed with a firm disbelief in the supernatural, and a still firmer intention to prove it all rot, I felt myself equal to all the ghosts, native and otherwise, in India. Of my ability to solve the mystery, if there were any, I was quite assured.
“My friend,” said Nicholson to Yussuf Ali Borah an hour later, “wishes to spend a night in your haunted bungalow.”
The person addressed, a fat little Moslem gentleman, looked at me curiously.
“The house is at your service, Sahib,” he said. “I presume that Nicholson Sahib has told you the experiences of the previous tenants?”
I replied that he had. “If the whole thing is not a trumped-up story, there is doubtless some trickery afoot,” said I, “and I warn you that the trickster will not come off unharmed. I have a loaded revolver, and shall not hesitate to use it if I meet any disembodied spirits.”
Yussuf’s only answer was to shrug his shoulders.
He gave us the keys, and we set out for the bungalow, which was only a few minutes’ walk distant. Night had fallen when we reached it. Nicholson unlocked the door and we entered, and lighting a lamp I had brought with me, set out on a tour of inspection. The furniture consisted chiefly of two charpoys, three tabourets, an old divan quite innocent of cushions, a broken punkah, a three-legged chair and a dilapidated rug. Everything was covered with dust; the shutters rattled disconsolately, and all the doors creaked. The other rooms were meagerly furnished. I could hear rats running about in the dark. There was a compound adjoining, filled with rank weeds and a solitary pipal tree. Nicholson said that the ghost generally appeared in one of the rooms opening upon it, and this I selected as the one in which to spend the night. It was a fitting place for ghosts to haunt. The ceiling sagged listlessly, and the one charpoy which it contained had a wobbly look.
The Miscellaneous Writings of Clark Ashton Smith Page 9
