by Talbot Mundy
“You understand?” he asked. “All that Father Cyprian asks for is the books.”
“And you?” da Gama demanded, sneering again. It seemed to be his policy to get on terms with strangers by provoking. “You care only for money?”
Grim dug into the folds of his loose upper garment and produced a telegram from his employer in New York.
INVESTIGATE AND REPORT ON PERPETUAL DISAPPEARANCE OF SPECIE IN INDIA. MELDRUM STRANGE.
He passed it to da Gama, who read it and cocked one eyebrow:
“Your alibi?” he suggested, pronouncing the word as if it were Portuguese, which for undiscoverable reasons made it more offensive.
Grim ignored that.
“We want to discover what has happened to the billions of dollars worth of gold and silver that has been won from the earth during the thousands of years since mining was first commenced. The cash in circulation doesn’t account for one per cent. of it. Where is the rest?” he explained.
“What if you find it?” asked da Gama.
“If you help, you may have as much of it as you can use,” Cyprian interposed.
“Father Cyprian wants the nine books,” Grim repeated. “He wants to destroy the knowledge that has enabled certain unknown men for thousands of years to drain the world of its supply of gold and silver. I wish to discover where the gold and silver is. You may have enough of it if your help amounts to anything.”
“I also desire to know where the gold and silver is!” remarked Ali ben Ali, from his seat on a cushion in a corner. “I, too, desire enough of it!” he added, sticking his long-knife point-downward in the floor and laying the palm of his hand on the hilt to stop its trembling. “My heart quivers as the knife does!”
It was easy to believe him. At that moment his gray-shot beard framed avarice and not much else, except the ruthlessness that gave it energy. His eyes contained the glint of morning on the Himalayan crags. Ali ben Ali of Sikunderam saw many visions at the mention of the magic name of gold and silver.
“I cut throats with an outward thrust!” he added meaningly, pulling up the knife again and glancing at the Portuguese.
Then Athelstan King took a hand.
“The same men who own those nine books keep the secret of the gold and silver coin,” he said, speaking downright as his way is.
“How do you know?” da Gama sneered.
“Because like you I have devoted years to the pursuit,” King answered; and in his eyes there was the sort of steely gray strength of the hunter who looks up-wind and into sunlight.
“Pursuit?” Da Gama was at his usual occupation, sneering. “Did you catch much?”
“You, at any rate!” King answered; and Chullunder Chose observed the opportunity for self-advertisement.
“His honor having given orders to this babu — said babu having followed same,” he smirked, wiping sweat from his hairy chest with a handkerchief, perhaps to call attention to the diligence with which he had labored.
Then he chose to emphasize and illustrate dexterity by throwing down the handkerchief and catching it between his toes.
“You’re simply a prisoner,” said King, looking straight at the Portuguese.
“This,” said Narayan Singh, on the floor beside Ali of Sikunderam, “is the writing of one Dilji Leep Singh, who swears that he helped you steal books out of a temple, but was never paid for it. He will be a witness if required.”
Narayan Singh laid a paper on the floor just within range of da Gama’s eye, and it was that that really turned the trick. He had imagination. He could see defeat.
“You may have a fair share of the money, if we find it with your assistance,” Grim reminded.
“And I have forgiven you,” added Cyprian.
“But I cut throats with an outward thrust,” said Ali ben Ali of Sikunderam.
“Oh, what is it you want?” the Portuguese exclaimed, throwing up his clenched fists suddenly — theatrically. “Am I briganded and held to ransom after twenty-five years? All right! I surrender! Write down your promises, and I will tell!”
CHAPTER II. “Produce but the gold, thou Portuguese!”
BUT they wrote no promises. It was da Gama, desperate to the point of daring them to take his life and never sure that Ali ben Ali or the Sikh would not accept the challenge, who wrote down terms on a half-sheet of paper.
“Hell! There! My minimum! Without you sign that there is not a torture in the universe severe enough to make me talk!”
“Same being Portuguese opinion, anarchistic possibly! This babu risking personal humiliation volunteers advice — be skeptical!” remarked Chullunder Ghose, rolling off-center so as to reach the door of a small cupboard.
He pulled out a gallon jar of whisky and shoved it along the floor sufficiently noisily to attract da Gama’s notice. Father Cyprian walked out, saying nothing, and Narayan Singh relocked the office door behind him.
“Advice not being asked, same tendered deferentially, which is—” said the babu, pausing— “give him one drink, subsequently withholding remainder of contents of gallon jar pending answers to questions. No water on any account!” he added, pursing up his lips.
The sweat broke out on da Gama’s forehead. He was no hero, but was gifted with imagination. As long as the priest stayed he had banked on that unbegged forgiveness, calculating, too, that the priest would tolerate no illegal violence in his presence. But Cyprian was gone, and he looked around the room. They all knew, and he knew they knew, what the whisky torture meant to a man of his disposition. He shoved the crumpled half-sheet into his pocket and capitulated.
“What do you want to know?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Give him one drink,” ordered King, and then, when the Portuguese had tossed that down his throat— “Where did you find those coins?”
“In the ruins of a temple. I cannot describe the place.”
“Why not?”
“It has no name.”
“You can lead us to it.”
Da Gama nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I can lead, but you will find nothing. That is, I removed the gold — you see it. You may search a thousand years. I brought it all. I am intelligent — me. You have not the intellectual requirements. Yet I tell you, I know nothing — nothing! Only Cyprian the priest is capable, for he has books. But the fool thinks they are wicked, and he won’t tell! He is a dog in a manger — a miser — a—”
“Never mind him. Tell us what you know,” King interrupted.
“I know that none of you will live unless you cease from interference with the Nine Unknown!”
“Put that whisky back into the cupboard!” Grim ordered.
Chullunder Ghose obeyed. It was stifling in the office and for the second time the Portuguese capitulated.
“There is only one course worth trying,” he said, trying to moisten his lips, which had grown dry at the mere mention of the whisky jar. His tongue looked a size too large. “You must subsidize me — support me. You must get those books from Cyprian and let me read them. You will all fail otherwise. I am the only man who ever lived who carried the search for the Nine Unknown the little way that even I have gone. I am the only one who found anything. They have made several attempts on my life. What chance would you have to escape them? Whisky please.”
Grim shook his head.
“Then water!”
“Earn your drink,” Grim answered.
“Tshaa! Well — it doesn’t matter what I tell you! You will be useless without me. You lack the required intelligence. The problem is vertical, not horizontal. All the clues are cut off — blind from underneath. There — you do not understand that. What is the use of telling you? The Nine Unknown are at the top. That is a simple statement. Nine individuals, each independent, collectively forming a self-perpetuating board — each known to all the other eight but to no other individual on earth — not known, that is to say, to any other person in the world as being a member of the Nine. You understand that?
“Each of
the Nine, then, appoints nine others known only to him, and each of whom supposes his principal to be merely a servant of the Nine. They think the orders they receive from him are second-hand orders, passed along. Thus, there are eighty-one first lieutenants, as it were, who think themselves to be second-lieutenants. And each of those eighty-one employs nine others, in turn known only to himself, making seven hundred and twenty-nine third lieutenants, each of whom knows only eight, at most, of his associates, but all whom are at the service of the Nine, whom they know neither by sight nor name. You follow me?
“Every one of the seven hundred and twenty-nine third lieutenants has nine men under him, of his own choosing, each of whom again has nine more. So the chain is endless. There are no clues. If you discover, say, a fourth lieutenant, all he knows is the identity of the individual who gives him orders and, perhaps in addition to his own nine subordinates the names of eight associates, none of whom knows more than he.
“When one of the Nine Unknown dies, the other eight elect an individual to take his place. None but they even guesses that a vacancy was filled. None, except the Nine, knows who the Nine are. Each first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth lieutenant is responsible for nine; and they to him. Nothing is written. No muster-roll.”
“How old is this organization?” King demanded.
“How old is India?” the Portuguese retorted. “How many dynasties have thought they ruled? They levied taxes and they all paid tribute to the Nine! If the money the Nine have received during all those ages had been invested at compound interest the whole world would be so awfully in debt that people would understand what has been happening and might possibly wake up. But there is wisdom in the books the Nine make use of — one book to a man, each book dealing with a branch of wisdom. They have simply hoarded money, letting the nations use gold as it is won from mines and only taking tribute of principal, not interest. Do you believe that?”
King, Grim, Ramsden and Jeremy nodded. Ramsden read aloud from a memorandum book:
“Last year the production of silver alone amounted to more than a hundred and sixty million ounces. The East absorbed more than a quarter of that—”
“And is howling for silver again!” said King. “Where did forty million ounces disappear to? There is some in circulation — not much; ornaments account for some of it; a little has been hoarded by the peasants, but it’s less in these days of high prices and taxes; where is the balance?”
“I have none of it, Lord knows!” exclaimed Chullunder Ghose, holding up both hands with pious resignation.
“Where did it disappear?” said the Portuguese. “Here is some” — he shook the chamois-leather bag— “but all I found was leavings in a crack of a temple cellar, where they stored the tribute a thousand years ago.”
“Nevertheless,” remarked Chullunder Ghose, “India continues swallowing gold and silver in measures of crores , that which is swallowed not reappearing in any discernible shape, contrary to teachings of political economy, which being religion of West is probably poppycock possessing priests with check-books and top-hats. Where is gold and silver? That is whole point.”
“Babylon had gold and silver,” said the Portuguese. “Where is it?”
Jeremy took twenty sovereigns from his belt. (He always carries them, they constituting his uttermost reserve, never to be spent, but to be bluffed with.) He jingled them from band to hand as if their music inspired him. Da Gama went on talking:
“Always India has imported gold and silver — always! But where is it? Some jewelry, but not much; the bracelets of one generation are melted by the next. A very small percentage disappears from wear. Of course, there is a little lost. A little more is buried and forgotten. But the balance — the accumulated surplus of at least six thousand years — I estimate it as a heap as great as the pyramid of Gizeh! And. where is it?”
Chullunder Ghose blinked. Ali ben Ali drew his knife and stuck it quivering in the floor again. Narayan Singh breathed sibilantly through set teeth. Jeremy palmed his twenty sovereigns in a pile, and they all disappeared except one, which was fascinating; he did it again and again, and you couldn’t tell where the nineteen were until he caught them out of air in his left hand.
“What became of the gold of Solomon?” da Gama asked. “He had so much of it. The records say men thought nothing of gold and silver during his reign. He died, and the gold went — where? Some say Solomon himself was one of the Nine Unknown—”
“Who says that?” King demanded.
“I for one!” da Gama answered. “But there are books. Ask Cyprian the priest. He has them. Where is the gold the Spaniards and the Portuguese shipped home from South America and Mexico? Where is all the product of the Rand and of Australia? They took seven billions of dollars worth of gold and silver from the Comstock — just one reef in Nevada — yet tell me: how much gold and silver is there in the world to-day? The greatest hoard — greater than all other known hoards put together — is in the United States Treasury, and it doesn’t amount to a hat-full compared to the total that is known to have been mined in the course of history! Where has the rest disappeared?”
“That’s what we’re asking you ,” Grim warned him; and Ali ben Ali drew the handle of his knife back and let go so that it hummed like a thing thrown.
“I must see the books that Cyprian the priest has,” da Gama answered, looking at the knife and shuddering.
“They give no clue to the treasure,” King answered.
Da Gama actually laughed, a thing he hardly ever did. It sounded like something breaking. Jeremy laughed too, like breaking water, and palmed all twenty sovereigns with one sweep, instantly showing the same hand empty.
“The hand deceives the eye!” said Jeremy. “And I’ve seen written stuff that fooled a banker’s clerk!”
“No book can fool me!” said da Gama, slapping his forehead and showing the cloven weakness as he smiled. “I know Sanskrit as Max Müller never dreamed of knowing it! Show me the books of Cyprian the priest and I will tell you where the treasure is!”
“You’re talking rot!” said Jeremy. “If Father Cyprian has the books and they contain the secret, why can’t he go straight and find the treasure? Eh? We wouldn’t waste whisky on you!”
“Pardon me, but it is little whisky that you waste,” da Gama answered. “As for Cyprian, the man is blinded by fanaticism. He knows a little Sanskrit — just perhaps enough to pass for erudition among ignoramuses — brut he will not read what he sees. He is purblind.”
“I read what I saw, and I know more than a little Sanskrit,” King retorted quietly, but da Gama was more than ever cock-sure and sneered back at him.
“If Cyprian the priest were not a fool,” he said, “he would have set his communicants to stealing books from me! For I have the keys to his books, and he cannot read his without mine. And all my keys are good for is to fit the locks that he guards like a miser! Get me his books, and I will unlock their secrets for you in a week. In ten days I will show you such a heap of gold and silver as will make you mad! I wish to see you mad! Have no fear that I will disappoint you!”
Nevertheless, there was not one man in the room who would have dared place Father Cyprian’s books in the hands of da Gama.
“Let’s see; you have escaped the vengeance of the Nine how many years?” asked Grim, and da Gana laughed again. He saw the point.
“Bring us your books, and you shall compare them with Father Cyprian’s,” said King. “Thereafter, the books are his, but you shall have as much as you can use of any gold and silver found.”
Da Gama hesitated. He had intellect, and worked it — prided himself on that. Few of the human passions, except drink and avarice and infidelity, had any influence with him, so he reviewed the situation on its merits, being candid with himself. Like Grim, he sought no solace but results, and he would have wondered why Grim despised him, had he been aware of it.
“I cannot bring my books,” he said. “They weigh too much.”
“Give me a drink,” da Gama answered, nodding. It was obvious he agreed, with a proviso.
The babu poured forth whisky into the office tumbler and presented it. Da Gama drank.
“We should have an understanding,” he said, smacking his lips. “There was wisdom in the accumulation of gold and silver by the Nine. Don’t disregard that. It all has to do with the Kali Yug [*] and its end that was prophesied six thousand years ago. The purpose is to cheapen money by the squandrous abundance of it—”
“Krishna!” gasped Chullunder Ghose.
“ — to abolish capitalism — do you see?” da Gama went on. “That will be the end of the Kali Yug . Capitalism is the age of darkness. To put in place of money — brains — intellect, that is the idea. To cheapen money by abundance, not of promises to pay, but of veritable gold and silver. Money being worthless, brains will count — intellect — you understand me? Have you intellect? No! Just habits! Have I intellect? Oh yes! But have I the reforming zeal? By no means! I am lazy. Let the world remain material and money-drunk; it suits me better! Can you accomplish anything without my intellect? No indeed. You cannot understand the Sanskrit, which is a language of conundrums. You would turn the floods of money loose and create a havoc. Money would be worthless, and you no better off. In the books the Nine Unknown possess is the only secret of how to prevent the havoc. It means high thinking, and that is hard work — too hard. I say, let us take advantage of the money, and not turn it loose. Let the Kali Yug persist! Let us be rich — wealthy — affluent beyond the dreams—”
“Nay, nay! There is no affluence beyond my dreams!” said Ali, plucking at his knife. “I could use a million crores of gold and silver! I would buy the North — and build a city — and raise a lashkar [*] such as Iskander’s [* *] — and — and speak not of millenniums! The world will burn my day out! Produce but the gold, thou Portuguese!”
“Produce the books!” said Grim.
