by Talbot Mundy
She appeared to be ashamed of having screamed, but Narayan Singh with two quarts of whisky inside him would frighten the Sphinx.
“My footman returned to the rescue very pluckily,” she went on, “but the Indian threw him under the horses, which frightened them so badly that the coachman had all he could do to keep them from running away. My friend did run away. She has told me since that she ran indoors to get the servants, but by the time she had aroused them I was gone; so she went to bed, and hoped for the best. Philosophic, wasn’t she?”
Grim was sitting on my right hand. He made no remark, and didn’t change his facial expression; but I did notice a sudden stiffening of his muscles. You’ll see exactly the same thing when an experienced hunter becomes aware of big game creeping out from cover.
“I don’t know what the Indian intended in the first place.” she continued, “but my scream apparently fired his imagination. He swore terribly in English — said that protecting queens in distress was his only occupation — and jumped into the carriage, shutting the door behind him with a slam that sounded like a big gun going off. That was too much for the horses altogether; they went off at a gallop. Luckily the footman had scrambled out from under their feet, and there is a foot-board behind the carriage; he caught hold of that and climbed on. The carriage went so fast that it was all he could do to hang on, although he tried to climb on the roof and come to my assistance that way; the top of the carriage is smooth and slippery, and the feat proved impossible.
“Really, it was the worst predicament! it was almost totally dark, but I could see the whites of the Indian’s eyes, and his white teeth gleaming in the middle of his black beard, and I nearly fainted. But he sat down opposite me with his arms folded across his breast, and presently I grew calmer and began to think. You gentlemen, who are used to all sorts of wild adventures, would doubtless have known what to do; but I didn’t.
“I even began to suspect my coachman and footman of being parties to a plot to carry me off somewhere; and the fact that the Indian did not try to molest me made it seem as if he might be acting on behalf of someone else. I found words at last and asked him in English what he wanted.
“ ‘Nothing under heaven but your Majesty’s instructions!’ he answered. ‘I am Narayan Singh, your servant. Say but the word, your Majesty, and I will accomplish marvels — I will pull the heads off these Egyptians as a crow pulls worms out of a plowed field! Command me! Set me a task! My honor is involved! I have sworn a vow. Henceforward I serve none but queens!’
“Can you imagine it? I asked him to stop the horses! I couldn’t think of anything else to tell him to do! I knew by the overpowering smell of whisky that he was intoxicated, but he seemed mad in the bargain. I wanted to get rid of him and I’m afraid the thought occurred to me that he might get killed in making the attempt, although I hardly hoped he would really try.
“However, he didn’t hesitate for a second. The carriage was swaying all over the street, with the wheels grating against a curbstone one minute and skidding sidewise the next, and it was all I could do to keep my seat, to say nothing of standing up. But he opened the door, climbed out, swung himself up on the box beside the coachman, seized the reins, and tugged at them, discovered that was no use, and jumped on to the back of the near-side horse! Both horses nearly fell, and in the time they had recovered he had their heads together and was tugging them to a standstill! Strength — such strength — he nearly wrenched their heads off! And he brought them to a standstill beside a street lamp at a crossing, trembling and too thoroughly conquered to bolt again whatever happened!
“The footman jumped down then, and the Indian struck him, calling him names and ordering him to go and stand at the horses’ heads. Then the Indian came to the window and asked what he should do next, and before I could think of anything to tell him to do he was back in the carriage with folded arms, shouting to the coachman to drive on.
“My servants didn’t obey him at once, and he was going to get out and kill them, I think, so I called to them to drive straight home, thinking I might be able to get rid of the Indian at the gate. But not so. There is a servant who lives in the gate-house. He opened the gate as soon as he heard the carriage coming but before we entered I called out to the coachman to stop, which he did, with the horses’ heads underneath the arch and the carriage outside. Then I thanked the Indian for having protected me and bade him good night. He bowed and got out; but instead of going away he climbed up behind on the foot-board and called to the coachman to drive on in.
“Nothing would make him get down again. He swore that he was my only protector, and that none should deprive him of the honor. He threatened to pull to pieces anyone who sought to interfere, and used such frightful language, and made such a noise that I was afraid he would wake the whole neighborhood and cause a scandal.
“It occurred to me that I have an Indian in the house who might be able to manage him — a gentle old philosopher, who used to be my husband’s friend, and whom I have allowed to live here since my husband died, because the house is so big, and he so quiet, and so dependent on charity in his old age, that it would have been hard-hearted not to. He is a wonderful old man. I have seen him calm human passions in a moment by his mere beneficence.
“So I made the best of an awkward situation by telling the coachman to drive on in. And Narayan Singh entered the house behind me, behaving like a family servitor except that he made more noise than ten ordinary men, and demanded to know which was my apartment, in order that he might lie down across the threshold and protect me. “Narendra Nath — that is the name of my old Indian friend — sleeps very little, spending most of the night on the floor above this one in meditation. I brought Narayan Singh into this room, and sent for Narendra Nath, who seemed to appreciate the situation without my saying anything. He is a very wise old man, and never makes unnecessary fuss. He began talking to Narayan Singh in his own language, and within five minutes the two of them were on their way upstairs together, as friendly as you please.
“I retired. It was already after dawn, and I needed rest after all that excitement. But déjeuner was brought to me a little after midday, and after my toilet was made I sent for both Indians, hoping to get to the bottom of the affair and perhaps to glean some amusement from it. Believe me, I was more than amused; I was amazed.
“Narayan Singh, although not yet sober, had begun to return to his senses, and the two men had struck up a strong friendship. The surprising thing was not that Narayan Singh should worship Narendra Nath, for he is a venerable old man, but that Narendra Nath, who has so few friendships, should reciprocate. The two men had sworn to be inseparable, and old Narendra Nath implored me with tears in his eyes to take Narayan Singh into my service.
“How could I refuse? I would do almost anything to oblige Narendra Nath. But a difficulty arose at once, which seemed to admit of no solution. It seems that Narayan Singh is a deserter from the British Army and liable to arrest for that at any minute. What was to be done? I couldn’t imagine.
“Narayan Singh spoke constantly of a certain Jimgrim and his two friends Ramsden and Jeremy — he spoke of you tout court — gave you no titles — and he vowed that you could accomplish anything — simply anything — between you. He spent about two hours telling me astonishing stories of your prowess, and it occurred to me at last that possibly you could get him out of the army in some way without his having to pay the penalty for desertion.
“But the problem then was how to reach you, and how to persuade you to take the necessary action, without letting the Indian’s whereabouts be known. I thought of a hundred methods. I even considered calling on you at Shepheard’s Hotel, where he told me you were staying. But finally I hit on the solution of getting Narayan Singh to write a letter, and sending my carriage for you, hoping that perhaps curiosity would induce you where persuasion might have failed.
“However, the task of persuading remains, doesn’t it! Can you arrange it, Major Grim, that Narayan Singh shal
l be discharged from the British Army, so that he may enter my service?”
Her smile as she asked that favor was the product of experience. She had tried it on a thousand different sorts of men, and used it now confidently. But Grim is a dry old rock, for all his vein of kindness.
“If I could see Narayan Singh himself, alone—” he suggested. And she found him harder to refuse than he did her, because his request was reasonable.
CHAPTER IV. “Jaldee jaldee Secret Society Shaitan-log Eldums Range Kabadar!”
Madame Zelmira Poulakis did not argue the point, but smiled exceedingly graciously and left the room by the amber curtain route.
The beads hadn’t ceased clicking behind her when Jeremy started humming the words of one of those songs that follow the British army eastward —
“Widows are wonderful …”
You had to admit it. Wonderful she was. But no wise fowler ever caught Grim yet by putting wonderful salt on his tail. He was unconvinced, and looked it.
“Did you spot any flaws in her story?” he asked, and I remembered that stiffening of the muscles I had noticed.
“To Hell with her story and your spots?” said Jeremy. “She’s perfect. Who cares if a woman draws a long bow? Let’s go odd man out to see who takes her to dinner tomorrow eight. D’you want to bet me I don’t pull it off?”
“Dine with her,” Grim answered, “but explain this first: Why did her friend not send servants for the police?”
“Scared stiff, of course,” Jeremy retorted. “What Cairene woman wouldn’t be?”
“Well, her servants wouldn’t be, for they hadn’t seen the Sikh. Why didn’t they run for the police without her orders? Did! she forbid them? If so, why?”
“How d’you know they didn’t go for the police?” Jeremy objected.
“It’s obvious. The police would have come here, questioned the servants, and taken Narayan Singh away. But there’s another point; while the horses were running away they must have passed more than one policeman standing on duty. Why didn’t the footman yell for help?”
“Too busy trying to climb on the carriage roof,” Jeremy suggested.
“D’you believe that? You saw the footman. The carriage was the same we came in, for the paint was off the wheels where they hit the curb when the horses bolted. I’m no athlete, but I could climb from that rear platform to the roof. I don’t care how fast the thing was going.”
“Mm-mm, yes. But the footman’s a Gyppy. He was scared,” objected Jeremy. “She told a straight story. Straight enough anyhow. There’s a gentleman friend somewhere, I suppose. You can’t expect her to drag him in.”
“Tell me, if you can, why the gateman here didn’t call the police, when the carriage stopped under the arch and Narayan Singh refused to go away. Couldn’t the gate-man, the coachman, and the footman have kept one Sikh outside the gate until the police came?”
“She didn’t want to wake the neighbors,” Jeremy remembered.
“Tut! Two more tuts! Half a hundred tuts!” Grim said. “You know Egypt as well as I do. There are only two things sacred in the whole country. Graft and privacy. You can commit any social crime in Egypt as long as you don’t trespass around the ladies’ quarters after dark. If she had summoned the neighbors, they’d have had their servants kill Narayan Singh. His body would have been tossed into the Nile and that would have been the end of the story. She knows that perfectly well. Now answer another question:
“Do you believe that drunk or sober Narayan Singh would desert from the Army, or pretend to desert, or imagine himself a deserter? He’d be much more likely to march up to Government House and accuse the High Commissioner of treason! Listen!”
The music that seemed to come downward from the roof, and might reasonably be supposed to come from the upper story of the next house, suddenly pealed louder for a moment, and just as suddenly grew quiet, as if someone had opened the door of a music-room and closed it,
It may have been thirty seconds before the door closed again — if that was the secret of the burst of sound. It left all three of us feeling strangely disturbed. I have felt the same sensation when tigers prowled close to a tent at night. When the amber beads rattled even Jeremy gave a nervous start, although cool gall is his life blood.
But it was only Zelmira Poulakis back smiling and looking archly shy. I got the idea that she knew what Grim had been saying. An idea, according to Heine the German poet, is “any damned nonsense that comes into a man’s head.” However, you don’t have to let people know everything that’s in your thought; Grim made a pretty good bluff at looking cordial, I followed suit, and Jeremy is always cordial to a good-looking woman.
“I am going to ask you to come with me,” she said.
She stood playing with the amber beads — stage-acting. She would have held breathless any audience that had paid for its seats; but you might say we were deadheads, a class that is notoriously super-critical.
And now, you fellows who are never afraid of women, laugh if you like. As I got off the divan I turned to hide the movement of my right hand, making sure that the automatic pistol wasn’t caught in the pocket lining. The dead weight of it felt good. That’s how much Zelmira Poulakis had me hypnotized.
Grim strode forward, and before he reached the curtain I whispered to Jeremy to keep behind me with both eyes lifting. He was humming a tune to himself, and his careless mood annoyed me.
I can’t explain why I felt that way. Fear was ridiculous, as in the last analysis it always is; but I can close my eyes today and recall the sensation as vividly as if it had happened an hour ago.
She led us almost completely around the house through a series of magnificently furnished rooms with polished floors that must have needed an army of servants to keep them in shape. Some of the rooms had cut-glass electric chandeliers that blazed like clustered diamonds. And she walked through it all on high French heels as a goldfish swims in water — her natural habitat — she would have missed it if it weren’t there, I daresay, but as it was, thought no more about the splendor than the air she breathed.
She led us at last up a rosewood stairway that had rose satin panels painted with Venuses and cupids, up two flights to a floor on which simplicity seemed all the rule again. There was a big, square landing done in plain white plaster, with an open stairway at each end and six oak doors on either side set deep in the wall.
And now we were in the midst of that infernal music. You could recognize it now. It was the stuff they play in Hindu temples when the entrance is barred to visitors and lord knows what strange rites are going on inside. It makes goose-flesh rise all over you — perfectly bloodsome stuff.
Zelmira Poulakis opened a door on the right without knocking and led the way into a room so blue with incense smoke that for a moment you could hardly breathe or see. There weren’t any windows. Such light as there was came from about a dozen glowing colored lamps, and when your eyes got used to the smoke the place looked like the interior of a temple.
There was a high, gold-painted screen at one end, carved into the semblance of writhing snakes; and a huge wooden image of a god with more than his share of arms was set on a platform in the middle with its back up against the screen. The music was coming over the top of the screen, and through it, permeating the whole place, so that you seemed to breathe that beastly noise instead of air. There were a few rugs and cushions on the floor. And on our side of the screen the room had only two occupants besides ourselves.
Facing us as we entered, cross-legged on a small rug with his back toward the image of the god, sat Narayan Singh, scarcely recognizable. He was naked to the waist. The hair on his breast was glistening with a mixture of sweat and scented oil. His beard, which is usually curled and crisp, was straggling wild. And his long black hair, that he usually keeps tucked under a turban so neatly that you don’t guess it’s there, was knotted drunkenly to one side.
But his eyes were the worst of him. Half as large again as usual, as if he had been staring into th
e hell he promised we should know all about if we obeyed his summons. Yet they were hardly the eyes of a drunkard. At the first glance they looked terror-stricken, but the suggestion of fear vanished as you watched them. He seemed to be gazing out of this world into the next, and although Grim called him by name he took no notice whatever.
Facing Narayan Singh, cross-legged on a second rug, Narendra Nath sat meditating; and, as our hostess had assured us, he was venerable. Have you ever seen a man so advanced in years and free from care that he looks actually almost young again? That was Narendra Nath. He had a white beard falling nearly to his waist, thinner than a Westerner’s beard would be, showing the line of his lean jaw. He was as bald as a bone, but had bushy eyebrows, underneath which shone luminous dark eyes.
The moment we entered he clapped a turban on his head, which made him look twenty years younger. To look from his eyes to his hands was like bridging a century in half a second. His hands were like a mummy’s, but his eyes were a youth’s, full of laughter and love — though love of what might be another problem.
Zelmira Poulakis and we three all greeted him, but he merely glanced once at us and said something in an undertone to Narayan Singh, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The Sikh seemed to be in a trance, and I suspected hasheesh on top of the whisky.
“You see, he is not really in a fit state to go away,” said our hostess. “Narendra Nath will care for him, and under that kind influence he will soon recover. But the days will go by and the offense of desertion from the Army will increase. Now that you have seen him, can’t you do something about it?”
Old Narendra Nath’s bright orbs sought Grim’s as if a great deal hung on the verdict, and for a space of several seconds I alone observed Narayan Singh. His eyes moved at last, closing in the process to their natural size. He studied each face swiftly, making sure he was unobserved, caught my eye, winked, smiled, nodded, and resumed his former mask of semi-hypnotized immobility.
