Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Is this he?” a quiet voice asked, and then he heard a voice he would have known in any crowd as Jimgrim’s:

  “Sure. Say, Ali? What did you keep the prisoner dry for? And what does the locked-up office and broken glass mean? Bhima Ghandava sahib and I have had to come the back way because of a police guard on the stairs and in the passage. Why?”

  Ali explained and, drawing the two aside, told partly why he gave the prisoner no drink.

  “He believes SHE still lives,” he added, wondering what Grim would make of it.

  Grim glanced at Ghandava.

  “Loose him and let him go!” advised Ghandava, almost instantly.

  “By gad, sir — by the Big Jim Hill — I do believe you’re right!” Grim answered.

  “Ye are mad! — both mad!” said Ali, staring stupidly. “Good enough. Let the prisoner go!” commanded Grim.

  CHAPTER XVIII. “He has whatever she had!”

  IT was Grim, returning from the Chandni Chowk that afternoon, awaking them one by one, who summoned another conference in Ghandava’s great, cool library. Ghandava had disappeared, but the smell of artful cookery ascended from below-stairs, and the green-lined chela kept himself in evidence at intervals, incurious and yet alert. He never seemed to listen, nor to keep from listening, but hovered in and out like a house-mouse busy with affairs behind the scenes. Once he was gone for a whole hour.

  “Giving my imagination utmost creeps!” as Chullunder Ghose remarked.

  “Ghandava fears only this,” said Grim: “The prisoner may be too incensed by Ali’s ill-treatment. He was a wabbler to start with. You remember, when we caught him in the minaret he was flinching from doing murder in Benares. He’ll return to his superiors, because there’s nowhere else for him and he may flop hack altogether. He’ll say the snake-woman is alive and that we’ve hidden her. His murderous instincts may have been so stirred up by Ali that he’ll volunteer to identify and kill us all as opportunity permits.”

  “Why should Ghandava worry about our getting killed?” asked Jeremy, unimpressed.

  “He’s in with us,” said Grim.

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone. Benares!”

  Jeremy whistled. Again he saw adventure coming to him on the wing down-wind, and liked it.

  “You see,” said Grim, “they won’t rest while they think we’ve got that woman. They’ll not look for her corpse while they think she’s alive, and they’ll probably try to kill us one by one until we give her up.”

  “Tell ’em she’s dead then, and where to find the body,” Jeff suggested. “Where’s Ali and where did he hide it?”

  “No!” Grim answered instantly. “Let’s get a woman to represent her! Keep them tracking us — you get me? Let them think their woman has swapped horses — joined us. One man we’ve let go will give them ground for that idea. The other — the big one — will tell ’em we’re cahooting with the Nine Unknown—”

  “How’ll he know that?” Jeff objected.

  Grim signified the green-lined chela , who had come in through one door, apparently to set a book in place, and walked out through the other at the rear.

  “He showed him the way out. He told him that,” said Grim.

  “Oh glorious! Oh exquisite! What ignorant West would call ‘Telepathy’!” Chullunder Ghose exclaimed. “Mahatma, knowing what outcome of conference will be, wills that chela shall say thisly and do thusly! Krishna! This is—”

  “Billiards!” said King, and prodded him in the stomach with the window-pole.

  “I forsee fortune!” Narayan Singh announced. But what he means by fortune is the opportunity to use his faculties, including swordsmanship.

  “Thou second-sighted butcher!” said the babu.

  “Chup! “* commanded King.

  “You see, it’s this way,” Grim resumed. “Ghandava knows how we hit this trail, considers we’re honest, and says we’re useful to his employers. We’re helping to put the hat on these criminal Nines, whose hour, by his account of it, has come. He plans to reciprocate. He’ll let us see what we started after.”

  “The gold?” demanded Ramsden.

  “So I understand him.”

  “Books! Tut-tut! The books!” said Cyprian, emerging with a big book in his hands from behind the detached case.

  But Grim shook his head. Ghandava had said nothing about showing where the secret books were kept. Cyprian shrugged his shoulders, losing interest, and if he cared that men had died he did not show it. Probably he wanted not to seem to know too much.

  “Where’s Ali?” Ramsden asked again.

  “Gone with two sons in search of Gauri. She looks enough like the woman of the snakes to pass for her in a pinch with the lights turned low. At any rate, she’s our lone chance,” Grim answered.

  “Pooh!” said King. “She’ll funk it.”

  “Broke. House burned. Past the bloom of youth. Funk nothing!” Grim retorted. “She’ll jump at the hope of a lakh of rupees.”

  “Who’ll pay her the lakh? “ wondered Jeremy.

  “That was the bargain we made — a lakh in return for her help if we find the money.”

  “And if we can’t collect?”

  “Grim, Ramsden and Ross must pay her a solatium.”

  “And if Ali can’t find her?”

  “Then the plan’s down the wind.”

  But it was not, although Ali came within the hour and swore that neither he nor either of his sons could find the woman.

  “She is doubtless already in the household of a priest,” he swore resentfully. “I could have scared the fool! By Allah! She would have obeyed if I had found her!”

  “Oh, my God! Hinc illae lacrimae! “ remarked the babu, voicing the collective gloom. “We get a mental glimpse of gold and lo, it vanishes physically with the veil of an immodest woman!”

  But they were reckoning again without the green-lined chela . Fastidious, ascetic, handsome, one would have selected him no more than a church verger to know Gauri’s whereabouts. Yet he came in smiling — said they should be getting ready — and offered to find Gauri soon enough.

  “For I have means within means,” he explained, without explaining.

  “Get me a carriage. Send me home!” commanded Cyprian.

  But that was vetoed instantly. The battle in the office was as sure to cause investigation as a fire does heat. Cyprian might have been seen passing in and out on several occasions, and if inquiry should lead to his house there were the furnace and the ashes of burned books to excite suspicion further.

  “Stay here, Pop, until we come back from Benares, or our bargain’s off!” said Jeremy.

  “You mean — you mean?”

  “If you leave this house before we return, and we find books, we’ll keep ’em!”

  “Take the padre-sahib with us!” urged Narayan Singh. “He is old and little. Somewhere we can hide him.”

  Behind the old priest’s back the green-lined chela shook his head, disparagingly. But there was no need. Cyprian, loaded down with more than weight for age, would have refused that anyhow. Nor did his empty nest, with its secret squirrel-horde of books gone, attract him any more than the prospect of answering awkward questions. There would be no servant — no tidings — none of the associations that had made the place worthwhile.

  “I will stay here,” he said simply, and returned, black book in hand, behind the bookcase.

  Then came the game of getting ready. Little, little details are the nemesis of dams, designs and men. They had to think of all the details of manner and habit, and they ended up by lamp-light, weary, with the green- lined chela looking on. Then, after supper in the room below, it was all to do over, for Gauri came with her maid and drilled them, while Ali snored and dreamed of vengeance on every man in India who had worn, did wear, or ever should wear a yellow smock; and it happened thus that their edifice of make-believe was crowned — pluperfect.

  For Gauri was a pauper. Shabby clothes were all she had, so she and the maid, whose
lack of fortune was involved in hers, were as sharp-eyed and hungry for a chance as adjutants* at dawn.

  “How did you come here?” Ramsden wondered, when they paused between rehearsals.

  Gauri glanced at the snoring Ali, shuddered at his long knife, and explained:

  “They said he — that one — looked for me. I was afraid. His knife is his god. Better trust one who worships his belly. Better trust Chullunder Ghose! I ran and hid. But another in a green-lined cloak came, saying Ali wanted me in behalf of a sahib in the Street of Shah Jihan. One who overheard him told me, and I went to see. There a man with a caste-mark such as I never saw met me and brought me hither. That is how I came. Now — ye say Ali slew that woman whom ye wish me to resemble? Slew her without witnesses?”

  They nodded, waiting. Something was in the wind, for her eyes shone.

  “Pay me for my services whatever jewelry she had!”

  “But—” Jeff Ramsden’s thoughts were a bar behind the rest as usual.

  She interrupted him.

  “He has whatever she had,” she said simply.

  She had cast her die, and she was a gambler heart and soul. Nothing — no argument could change her once the stakes were down; and she had named the stakes — her neck against whatever Ali’s loot amounted to!

  So Ali had to wake up, she protesting that the best way would have been to loot him while he slept. Grim did the explaining, taking all for granted, to save time.

  “Ali, there is an argument. You settle it. One says, whoever finds this gold should have the whole of it; the others, that all should share and share in any case. What say you?”

  And if the North loves one thing it is playing Solomon, pronouncing wise decisions, justice in the abstract being one thing and according it another.

  “We being friends,” said he, “what injures one is injury to all; and by Allah, what profits one should profit all of us. So we should share and share alike.”

  Grim looked disappointed — subtlest flattery!

  “Then if I alone should of my own skill win a treasure, should you share that?” he demanded.

  “By the Prophet of Allah, why not?” Ali answered, delighted to have Jimgrim on the hip. “Whatever any of us finds while our agreement lasts belongs to all, to be shared between us.”

  Grim might have jumped him then, but Grim was wise.

  “Then could the vote of all of us dispose of the discovery of one?”

  “Why certainly, by Allah, yes!” said Ali. “Was that not agreed in the beginning?”

  “Then let us vote on this,” said Grim: “Gauri offers her service for the jewels you took from the woman you slew in the office! Someone should propose a motion! Let us see the jewels anyhow.”

  Trapped — aware that he was trapped, and on the horns of his own verdict — Ali looked about him; for the East may not be made to hurry even in dilemma, having earned that right by studying dignity for thirty thousand years. He had two sons. Conceivably he might tempt Chullunder Ghose, or threaten him, and cast four votes. Omitting Cyprian, who might, or might not vote, that left the odds five to four against hint, for he knew Narayan Singh would side with his Western friends, and there was no doubt in his mind whatever what they would do.

  He might refuse to show the loot. He might walk out, explaining he would think the matter over, and naturally not return. He who had lost so many sons had a right to consider himself — to recompense himself as best he could. Yet he was not quite sure of the value of his loot. The gold was heavy enough, but the ear-studs might be glass. In the long, long pause that followed Grim’s question he even considered the thought of betrayal — for he was born north of Peshawar, where treason and a joke are one. But he knew that if he went to the police, then he would have to do his own explaining of perplexing matters that were best let lie. Moreover, the police might — nay, would search him.

  And the men he faced were men. In his own storm-tempered, hillman way he loved them.

  “It was knowing that myself must first comply with the decision, that I answered as I did,” he said with dignity, hitching to the front beneath his shirt the leather-pouch in which he carried his own secrets. “Lo, I set example. Look! By Allah, let none say Ali of Sikunderam fell short of an agreement!”

  Handful after handful he pulled out the necklace — little golden human skulls on a string of golden human hair — the bracelets — the anklets — the brooches — and the earrings last. He tossed the earrings into the midst of the heap, half-hoping none would notice them; but by the light he saw in Gauri’s eyes he knew that whether they were glass or not they, too, were gone for just so much of the forever as a woman could withstand his siege.

  “Lo, I have given five sons and now this!” he said with dignity. “As Allah is my witness, I give, knowing there is recompense.”

  “Someone should make a motion,” Grim repeated.

  “What I give is given,” said Ali, gesturing magnificently. “I will not vote.”

  Ramsden picked the necklace up and weighed it in his hand.

  “This ought to be enough alone,” he said. “It’s worth about — at least—”

  “No! No! All or nothing!” Gauri screamed, and her eyes looked nearly as infernal as the woman’s in the temple had done. “See! Look! The ear- studs — Kali emeralds! — none like them!” Then her voice dropped. “I must wear those — all those,” she added, confidently, knowing her case was won. “The priestess’ insignia! Mine! Keep your lakh of rupees! I choose these!”

  They agreed, for they had to. Even Ali agreed to it. But his wintry eyes met hers, and she breathed uneasily as she put her head through the ugly golden necklace and the maid set the studs through the holes in the lobes of her ears.

  “Each emerald a fortune!” the maid whispered. But Ali heard it.

  “Aye, a fortune!” he said nodding. “Who should grudge a dowry to the queen of cows?” Which was a Hindu compliment, intentional, so understood and shuddered at. She knew the North, or rather the freebooting blades who came thence.

  “Wear them! Wear them! They become thee!” Ali urged her.

  So, with the jewels on and her hair arranged in heavy coils, the lady of delights — as Ali called her — looked not so unlike the priestess. All she lacked was, as Chullunder Ghose assessed it, “just a year or two of education.”

  The worst was that she thought a course of visiting from shrine to shrine and making little offerings to gods and goddesses in turn, along with favors to the priests, entitled her to know it all. Of men she was a shrewd enough judge. She could weigh the chance of wrath and pick a living in the trough of evil. But of women — save such women as herself — she knew scarce anything, and that distorted.

  “Self, knowing women too well, can attempt conversion,” said Chullunder Ghose and set to work to try to teach her how a priestess, used to the public eye and awe, would sit, and stand, and move about, and be.

  Time and again she flung herself to the floor in tantrums, cursing the fat babu in the names of the whole Hindu Pantheon. Repeatedly he coaxed her back to patience, helped by the maid, who kept reciting what the emeralds were worth — pure music! — music that had charms to soothe the Gauri’s breast.

  “Even so they tell me chorus girls are taught to act as duchesses!” said the babu. “Failing all else shall escape to London and start academy of female manners! Watch me, Gauri — beautiful Gauri — goddess among women, watch me — walk like this!”

  And in spite of stomach big enough for two men, hams that would have graced a Yorkshire hog, and a costume not intended for solemnities — his turban was pink — he walked across the room with perfect grace — Falstaff playing Ophelia, surpassing good.

  She imitated him. He sighed.

  “Thus, sahiba .” None had ever called her that. The title is for wives of honest husbands, and she softened, even to the brink of tears. “You are a queen — a goddess. All know it. That is not enough, though. You, you the goddess, know it! You are not afraid of what they th
ink. You do not want them thus to think. They do so think. You know they think. You are a goddess! Now, Bride of the Mountains, walk across the room again.”

  “Aye, Bride of the Mountains!” murmured Ali.

  Chullunder Ghose had meant a pious compliment, for one of the names of the Daughter of Himavat, the Bride of Siva, Him who sits upon the peaks, is Gauri. But Ali misinterpreted, and Gauri understood. The jewelry was hers; and she was Ali’s — no escape! She burst into tears again, beat on the floor with her fists, had hysterics, and obliged the poor babu to start again at the beginning.

  Then the road! Old India by night in yellow smocks beneath an amber moon, with an ox-cart following, in which the women lay — a two-wheeled, painted cart with curtains, driven by the green-lined chela and drawn by the same two splendid Guzarati beasts well fed and rested in Ghandava’s stable! The ancient gate — the guard, too sleepy to make trouble, too respectful to draw curtains, and aware of the weight of silver in shut palms — then the wide way flowing on forever between shadows so silent and drunk with color that the creaking of a wheel alone recalled a solid world.

  And Jeremy — drunker than the shadows were! Full — flooded — flowing over with delight; the memory of wild Arabia awake within him and a whole unknown horizon beckoning in moonlight to adventure such as Sinbad knew! He danced. He sang wild Arab songs — as suitable as any, since an unknown tongue was all conditions called for. He flicked a long silk handkerchief with imitative skill. And the few, afraid night-farers drew aside to let the short procession pass.

  Jeff Ramsden, striding like a Viking with a rod across his shoulder, meant ostensibly for vicious dogs, a calf like Samson’s showing under the yellow smock, and an air of ownership. He owned the earth he trod on. Good to see.

  Then King and Grim together, yellow-smocked and striding just as silently, more modern, more in keeping with the picture and matched, as it were, in the setting by Chullunder Ghose, who walked after them without enthusiasm, not needing to pretend, except to creed; pink turban gone, he, too, was in orange-yellow.

  Then Narayan Singh, in yellow like the rest, a little too ostensibly unarmed. The hilt of something swinging as he strode was exaggerated by the smock that covered it, and his shadow resembled a monster’s.