by Talbot Mundy
She kissed him. “The third is that you’re going to seem to be fooled by him, for the present at all events. Let’s know what’s at the bottom of all this, and help the princess and Tom Tripe if it’s possible. Are you tired?”
“Yes. Why?”
“If you weren’t tired I was going to ask you to put a turban on as soon as it’s dark, and dress up like a sais and drive me to Yasmini’s palace, with a revolver in each pocket in case of accidents, and eyes and ears skinned until I come out again.”
“Oh, I’m not too tired for that.”
“Come along then. I’ll put up a hamper with my own hands. You get wine from the cellar, and make sure the corks have not been pulled and replaced. Then get the dog-cart to the door. I’ll keep it waiting there while you run up-stairs and change. Hurry, Dick, hurry — it’s growing dark! I’ll put some sandwiches under the seat for you to eat while you’re waiting in the dark for me.”
Chapter Six
An Audit by the Gods
(2)
Loud laughed the gods (and their irony was pestilence;
Pain was in their mockery, affliction in their scorn.
The ryotwari cried
On a stricken countryside,
For the scab fell on the sheepfold and the mildew on the corn).
“Write, Chitragupta!* Enter up your reckoning!
Yum* * awaits in anger the assessment of the dead!
We left a law of kindness,
But they bowed themselves in blindness
To a cruelty consummate and a mystery instead!
“‘Write, Chitragupta! Once we sang and danced with them.
Now in gloomy temples they lay foreheads in the dust!
To us they looked for pleasure
And we never spared the measure
Till they set their priests between us and we left them in disgust.
“Fun and mirth we made for them (write it, Chitragupta!
Set it down in symbols for the awful eye of Yum!)
But they traded fun for fashion
And their innocence for passion,
Till they murmur in their wallow now the consequences come!
“Look! Look and wonder how the simple folk are out of it!
Empirics are the teachers and the liars leading men!
We were generous and free -
Aye, a social lot were we,
But they took to priests instead of us, and trouble started then!”
“Peace, Maharajah sahib! Out of anger came no wise counsel yet!”
Tom Tripp had done exactly what Yasmini ordered him. Like his dog Trotters, whom he had schooled to perfection, and as he would have liked to have the maharajah’s guards behave, he always fell back on sheer obedience whenever facts bewildered him or circumstances seemed too strong.
Yasmini had ordered him to report to the maharajah a chance encounter with an individual named Gunga Singh. Accordingly he did. Asked who Gunga Singh was, he replied he did not know. She had told him to say that Gunga Singh said the Princess Yasmini was at the commissioner’s house; so he told the maharajah that and nothing further. Gungadhura sent two men immediately to make inquiries. One drew the commissioner’s house blank, bribing a servant to let him search the place in Samson’s absence; the other met the commissioner himself, and demanded of him point-blank what he had been doing with the princess. The question was so bluntly put and the man’s attitude so impudent that Samson lost his temper and couched his denial in blunt bellicose bad language. The vehemence convinced the questioner that he was lying, as the maharajah was shortly informed. So the fact became established beyond the possibility of refutation that Yasmini had been closeted with Samson for several hours that morning.
Remained, of course, to consider why she had gone to him and what might result from her visit; and up to a certain point, and in certain cases accurate guessing is easier than might be expected for either side to a political conundrum, in India, ample provision having been made for it by all concerned.
The English are fond of assuring strangers and one another that spying is “un-English”; that it “isn’t done, you know, old top”; and the surest way of heaping public scorn and indignation on the enemies of England is to convict them, correctly or otherwise, of spying on England secretly. So it would be manifestly libelous, ungentlemanly and proof conclusive of crass ignorance to assert that Samson in his capacity of commissioner employed spies to watch Gungadhura Singh. He had no public fund from which to pay spies. If you don’t believe that, then ponder over a copy of the Indian Estimates. Every rupee is accounted for.
The members of the maharajah’s household who came to see Samson at more or less frequent intervals were individuals of the native community whom he encouraged to intimacy for ethnological and social reasons. When they gave him information about Gungadhura’s doings, that was merely because they were incurably addicted to gossip; as a gentleman, and in some sense a representative of His Majesty the King, he would not dream, of course, of paying attention to any such stuff; but one could not, of course, be so rude and high-handed as to stop their talking even if it did tend toward an accurate foreknowledge of the maharajah’s doings that was hardly “cricket.”
As for money, certainly none changed hands. The indisputable fact that certain friends and relatives of certain members of the maharajah’s household enjoyed rather profitable contracts on British administered territory was coincidence. Everybody knows how long is the arm of coincidence. Well, then, so are its ears, and its tongue.
As for the maharajah, the rascal went the length of paying spies in British government offices. There was never any knowing who was a spy of his and who wasn’t. People were everlastingly crossing the river from the native state to seek employment in some government department or other, and one could not investigate them really thoroughly. It was so easy to forge testimonials and references and what not. One of Samson’s grooms had once been caught red-handed eavesdropping in the dark. Samson, of course, took the law into his own hands on that occasion and thrashed the blackguard within an inch of his treacherous life; and in proof that the thrashing was richly deserved, some one reported to Samson the very next day how the groom had gone straight to the maharajah and had been solaced with silver money.
It was even said, although never proved, that the fat, short-sighted young babu Sita Ram who typed the commissioner’s official correspondence was one of Gungadhura’s spies. There was a mystery about where he spent his evenings. But his mother’s uncle was a first-class magistrate, so one could not very well dismiss him without clear proof. Besides, he was uncommonly painstaking and efficient.
One way and another it is easy to see that Gungadhura had a deal of dovetailed information from which to draw conclusions as to the probable reason of Yasmini’s alleged visit to the commissioner. One false conclusion invariably leads to another, and so Samson got the blame for the secret bargain with the Rangar stable-owner, with whose connivance Yasmini had contrived to keep a carriage available outside her palace gates. Her palace gates having closed on the carriage now, the guards would pay attention that it stayed inside, but there was no knowing how many riding horses she might have at her beck and call in various khans and places. Doubtless Samson had arranged for that. Gungadhura sent men immediately to search Sialpore for horses that might be held in waiting for her, with orders to hire or buy the animals over her head, or in the alternative to lame them.
As for her motive in visiting the commissioner, that was not far to seek. There was only one motive in Sialpore for anything — the treasure. No doubt Samson lusted for it as sinfully and lustily and craftily as any one. If, thought Gungadhura, Yasmini had a clue to its whereabouts, as she might have, then whoever believed she was not trafficking with the commissioner must be a simpleton. The commissioner was known to have written more than one very secret report to Simla on the subject of the treasure, and on the political consequences that might follow on its discovery by natives of the country. The reports
had been so secret and important that Gungadhura had thought it worth while to have the blotting paper from Samson’s desk photographed in Paris by a special process. Adding two and two together now by the ancient elastic process, Gungadhura soon reached the stage of absolute conviction that Yasmini was in league with Samson to forestall him in getting control of the treasure of his ancestors; and Gungadhura was a dark, hot-blooded, volcanic-tempered man, who stayed not on the order of his anger but blew up at once habitually.
We have seen how he came careering down-street just in time to behold Yasmini’s carriage rumble into her stone-paved palace courtyard. After ordering the guards not to let her escape again on pain of unnamed, but no less likely because illegal punishment, he rode full pelt to the temple of Jinendra, whence they assured him Yasmini had just come, and his spurs rang presently on the temple floor like the footfalls of avenging deity.
Jinendra’s priest welcomed him with that mixture of deference and patronage that priests have always known so well how to extend to royalty, showing him respect because priestly recognition of his royalty entitled him in logic to the outward form of it — patronage because, as the “wisest fool in Christendom” remarked, “No bishop no king!” The combination of sarcastic respect and contemptuous politeness produced an insolence that none except kings would tolerate for a moment; but Jinendra’s fat high priest could guess how far he dared go, as shrewdly as a marksman’s guesses windage.
“She has betrayed us! That foreign she-bastard has betrayed us!” shouted Gungadhura, slamming the priest’s private door behind him and ramming home the bolt as if it fitted into the breach of a rifle.
“Peace! Peace, Maharajah sahib! Out of anger came no wise counsel yet!”
“She has been to the commissioner’s house!”
“I know it.”
“You know it? Then she told you?”
The priest was about to lie, but Gungadhura saved him.
“I know she was here,” he burst out. “My men followed her home.”
“Yes, she was here. She told.”
“How did you make her tell? The she-devil is more cunning than a cobra!”
Jinendra’s high priest smiled complacently.
“A servant of the gods, such as I am, is not altogether without power.
I found a way. She told.”
“I, too, will find a way!” muttered Gungadhura to himself. Then to the priest: “What did she say? Why did she go to the commissioner?”
“To ask a favor.”
“Of course! What favor?”
“That she may go to Europe.”
“Then there is no longer any doubt whatever! By Saraswati (the goddess of wisdom) I know that she has discovered where the treasure is!”
“My son,” said the priest, “it is not manners to call on other gods by name in this place.”
“By Jinendra, then! Thou fat sedentary appetite, what a great god thine must be, that he can choose no cleverer servant than thee to muddle his affairs! While you were lulling me to sleep with dreams about a clue to be found in a cellar, she has already sucked the secret out from some cobra’s hole and has sold it to the commissioner! As soon as he has paid her a proportion of it she will escape to Europe to avoid me — will she?”
“But the commissioner refused the desired permission,” said the priest, puffing his lips and stroking his stomach, as much as to add, “It’s no use getting impatient in Jinendra’s temple. We have all the inside information here.”
“What do you make of that?” demanded Gungadhura.
The priest smiled. One does not explain everything to a mere maharajah. But the mere maharajah was in no mood to be put off with smiles just then. As Yasmini got the story afterward from the bald old mendicant, whose piety had recently won him permission to bask on the comfortable carved stones just outside the window, Gungadhura burst forth into such explosive profanity that the high priest ran out of the room. The mendicant vowed that he heard the door slam — and so he did; but it was really Gungadhura, done with argument, on his way to put threat into action.
The mildest epithet he called Yasmini was “Widyadhara,” which meant in his interpretation of the word that she was an evil spirit condemned to roam the earth because her sins were so awful that the other evil spirits simply could not tolerate her.
“It is plain that the commissioner fears to let her go to Europe!” swore Gungadhura. “Therefore it is plain that she and he have a plan between them to loot the treasure and say nothing. Neither trusts the other, as is the way of such people! He will not let her out of sight until he can leave India himself!”
“He has promised to send European memsahibs to call on her,” said the priest, and the maharajah gnashed his teeth and swore like a man stung by a hornet.
“That is to prevent me from using violence on her! He will have frequent reports as to her health! After a time, when he has his fingers in the treasure, he will not be so anxious about her welfare!”
“There was another matter that she told me,” said the priest.
“Repeat it then, Belly-of-Jinendra! Thy paunch retains a tale too long!”
“Tripe, the drill-master, is a welcome guest at the house built by Jengal Singh.”
“What of it?”
“He may enter even when the sahibs are away from home. The servants have orders to admit him.”
“Well?”
The priest smiled again.
“If it should chance to be true that the princess knows the secret of the treasure, and that she is selling it to the commissioner, Tripe could enter that house and discover the clue. Who could rob you of the treasure once you knew the secret of its hiding-place?”
It was at that point that the maharajah grew so exasperated at the thought of another’s knowledge of a secret that he considered rightly his own by heritage, that his language exceeded not only the bounds of decorum but the limits of commonplace blasphemy as well. Turning his back on the priest he rushed from the room, slamming the door behind him. And, being a ruminant fat mortal, the priest sat so still considering on which side of the equation his own bread might be buttered as to cause the impression that the room was empty; whereas only the maharajah had left it. And a little later the babu Sita Ram came in.
Gungadhura was in no mood to be trifled with. He knew pretty well where to find Tom Tripe during any of the hours of duty, so he cornered him without delay and, glaring at him with eyes like an animal’s at bay, ordered him to search the Blaine’s house at the first opportunity.
“Search for what?” demanded Tripe.
“For anything! For everything! Search the cellar; search the garden; search the roof! Are You a fool? Are you fit for my employment? Then search the house, and report to me anything unusual that you find in it! Go!”
After several stiff brandies and soda Gungadhura then conceived a plan that might have been dangerous supposing Yasmini to have been less alert, and supposing that she really knew the secret. He spent an evening coaching Patali, his favorite dancing girl, and then sent her to Yasmini with almost full powers to drive a bargain. She might offer as much as half of the treasure to Yasmini provided Gungadhura should receive the other half and the British should know nothing. That was the one point on which Patali’s orders permitted no discretion. The whole transaction must be secret from the British.
Reporting the encounter afterward to her employer Patali hardly seemed proud of her share in it. All the information she brought back was to the effect that Yasmini denied all knowledge of the treasure, and all desire to possess it.
“I think she knows nothing. She said very little to me. She laughed at the idea of bargaining with Englishmen. She said you are welcome to the treasure, maharajah sahib, and that if she should ever find its hiding-place she will certainly tell you. She plays the part of a woman whose spirit is already broken and who is weary of India.”
Having a very extensive knowledge of dancing girls and their ways, Gungadhura did not believe much more than
two per cent. of Patali’s account of what had taken place, and he was right, except that he grossly overestimated her truthfulness. And even with his experienced cynicism it never entered his head to suppose that Patali was the individual who warned Yasmini in advance of the preparations being made to poison her by Gungadhura’s orders. Yet, as it was Patali’s own sister who made the sweetmeats, and tampered with the charcoal for the filter, and put the powdered diamonds in the chutney, it was likely enough that Patali would know the facts; and as for motives, dancing girls don’t have them. They fear, they love, they desire, they seek to please. If Yasmini could pluck heart-strings more cleverly than Gungadhura could break and bruise them, so much the worse for Gungadhura’s plans, that was all, as far as Patali was concerned.
For several days after that, as Yasmini more than hinted in her letter to Tess, repeated efforts were made to administer poison in the careful undiscoverable ways that India has made her own since time immemorial. But you can not easily poison any one who does not eat, and who drinks wine that was bottled in Europe; or at any rate, to do it you must call in experts who are expensive in the first place as well as adepts at blackmail in the second. Yasmini enjoyed a charmed life and an increasing appetite, Gungadhura’s guards attending to it however, that she took no more forbidden walks and rides and swims by moonlight to make the hunger really unendurable. Supplies were allowed to pass through the palace gate, after they had been tampered with.
Finally Gungadhura, biting his nails and drinking whisky in the intervals between consultation with a dozen different sets of priests, made up his mind to drastic action. It dawned on his exasperated mind that every single priest, including Jinendra’s obese incumbent, was trying to take advantage of his predicament in order to feather a priestly nest or forward plans diametrically opposed to his own. (Not that recognition of priestly deception made him less superstitious, or any less dependent on the priest; if that were the way discovery worked, all priests would have vanished long ago. It simply made him furious, like a tiger in a net, and spurred him to wreak damage in which the priests might have no hand.)
