by Talbot Mundy
“Joe!”
That tone of voice would normally have made him nervous. True, in a sense he was on the defensive now — on guard, at any rate; but he was guarding a new resolution, not dreading the outcome but rather coolly looking forward to it. The coffee had already been set on a small table under a hanging lamp. There were four wicker chairs. He sat down facing Cummings, intuitively choosing the antagonist who, at the moment, most needed watching.
“Fat fool,” he reflected.
“Joe,” said his mother, “you make me ashamed.”
“You’ve told me that so often,” he retorted, “that I feel I was born for just that purpose.”
“Must you insult me in front of Mr. Cummings?”
“No. Shall I leave you alone with him?”
“Have you had too much champagne?”
“Probably.” He had had two glasses and left two-thirds of the second one.
Cummings waddled to his rescue. “No, no, Mrs. Beddington. In fact, I noticed I couldn’t help noticing all through dinner how abstemious he was. If you or I had been thrown from a horse—” Joe finished the sentence mentally: “ — you’d have broken your fat neck, you ridiculous duck — you poodle’s poppa.”
“I hope he didn’t hurt himself more badly than the doctor seems to think,” said his mother.
“They’re in cahoots already,” Joe reflected. “I’d better open the can for them and let the gas out or they’ll blow up.” Aloud, he retorted: “The doctor was drunk and too busy lying about Amrita and Miss Weems to know which end of me was my head. I told him, by the way, to send in his bill to you, Mother — just as I told Hawkes not to; but Hawkes seems to have misunderstood.” To himself again: “There, that ought to start the bung and let things ooze a bit.”
It did. “Now, Joe, you listen. If you’re going to be rude to Mr. Cummings, as you were to Maharajah Poonch-Terai, and to me just now, I’ll have you know beforehand I won’t stand for it. You’ve embarrassed Mr. Cummings badly — for political reasons — by insulting the Maharajah; and you’ve embarrassed me more than I can tell you by getting yourself mixed up with that illegitimate Eurasian girl that Miss Weems is trying to foist on decent people.”
“Illegitimate — Eurasian — foist?” said Joe. He could feel his face flushing with anger. “Naturally and of course, I don’t care whether she’s illegitimate or not. But whoever says she is Eurasian is a liar; he may have that in his teeth. As for foisting, I’d like proof of it.”
“Official information,” Cummings began, “confidential, of course-”
Joe interrupted him. “Head waiter at the Waldorf — soles a la meuniere very good to-day, sir. Confidential information means that the kitchen is overstocked with something nasty.”
“Joe, go to bed. I insist. I will get the doctor for you.”
“Thanks, no, I’m all right,” he answered. “By the way, pay Muldoon and tell him to go to hell. I’ll pay Hawkes.”
“Where will you get a thousand pounds? You fool, Joe! I’ve learned all about that girl from Mr. Cummings. Sergeant Hawkes is her lover. The whole story of Amrita is a trick to get your money — can’t you see that? You’ll be blackmailed and all New York will know it. Annie Weems is—” “I don’t agree with you,” Joe interrupted. “However—” He had a sudden inspiration. He remembered Rita’s speech, and his own promise to try not to see her again. Test destiny and his mother at the same time. He had more than a suspicion of her attitude toward Cummings — none whatever of Cummings toward her — piteous little tradesman — sell himself — marry her — live for the rest of his life like some one’s poodle —
“Tell you what, let’s take to-morrow’s train for Bombay, and the next boat for New York. In fact, I’ve decided to do that.”
“Joe, do you mean, you would think of going off and leaving me here?”
“Come, too.” His eyes were watching Cummings. Fat ass. Like a poor relation, scared he’ll miss a tip at Christmas. Steal my heritage? I guess not. “Come home with me, Mother. India’s a hell of a country, anyhow.”
Cummings couldn’t keep still. “Your mother has made very definite arrangements to remain here until she has photographed every square foot of the caverns. Men engaged. Paraphernalia wired for and on the way. Expensive, definite arrangements.”
“She can change ’em.”
“Joe, I won’t hear of it. It’s not only myself I have to think of. Mr. Cummings has gone to tremendous trouble. I couldn’t be so rude as to let him do all that and then leave him flat for the sake of your bad temper.”
“All right. You stay. I’ll go.”
“Certainly not. I won’t be left here without my escort. You will stay because I wish to stay.”
Joe saw his chance:
“All right then. You pay Hawkes. Otherwise I go straight home and raise the money.”
“Joe, have you gone crazy? I never heard anything like it. To think a son of mine would walk into such a trap with his eyes wide open, and then — what did Doctor Muldoon say to you?”
“What you paid him to say, I don’t doubt.”
“Joe Beddington!”
“I’m satisfied that Hawkes produced the goods. He drove a smart bargain, but I promised. So he gets his money now or I go home to get it for him.”
“Have you dated the girl? Are you in love with her?”
Joe knew what she was capable of saying next. She saw him flinch.
“Fallen for her, have you? Well — you’ve made your bed — you lie on it. If you can’t take good advice from Mr. Cummings—” Cummings, leaning back, observant, hands folded on his stomach, took his cue and sat upright:
“Joe, let me tell you something. Did you hear the Maharajah, shortly before dinner, say he wanted to coax a secret from me? He pretended he was joking, but he was not. He wanted to know how much I know about his schemes to get that girl Amrita from the temple into his own seraglio. I happen to know he offered money to Miss Weems, although I don’t know how much. I understand Hawkes paid him a visit yesterday, on the pretense of mending a rifle. Hawkes is the girl’s lover — you needn’t doubt that for a moment; the two of them, with Miss Weems aiding, are simply using you as an argument to make the Maharajah raise his bid; and any money Hawkes can get from you will be just that much added. Believe me, my boy, you are being duped.”
“Played for a sucker,” said Mrs. Beddington. “Your father would turn in his grave if he knew it.”
It was Cummings turn to flinch at that remark; it shocked him to hear such expressions from a lady. Perhaps the shock stiffened him for a moment; or the flinty indignation in Joe’s eyes may have found in him a trace of iron. He leaned forward and laid a fat hand on the edge of the table:
“I will ask the police to work on this. If they can prove conspiracy — that’s always rather difficult to prove, but—” Joe interrupted him: “In a land where witnesses are bought and sold, I imagine almost anything can be proved, especially by a Government official.”
It was almost a pity to waste such an insult on Cummings, but the fat hypocrite had to be made to understand that any move he might make would be scrutinized. Joe’s mother set her face like flint. Joe recognized the symptoms — eyes — mouth — knew he must give her her head and let her crash or conquer; neither he nor any other man could stop her now.
“Joe, go and get my check-book.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what she paid her Indian servant for. The lazy rogue was sitting at the end of the verandah, doing nothing. However, he restrained that impulse — went and fetched the checkbook and a fountain pen. It gave him time to consider his own next move, he knew exactly what was coming.
“What are Hawkes’ initials?” she demanded.
Cummings told her. She wrote out a check for a thousand rupees.
“There, give that check to Sergeant Hawkes. Tell him it’s on account; and get him to write a receipt for what the money’s for.” She turned to Cummings. “If there’s a criminal law in India�
��” He nodded.
Joe pocketed the check and glanced at Cummings with an added feeling of contempt. Mean little swine. Sell his soul for a meal-ticket. God, what an alderman he’d make — what a piker he’d be — how he’d nibble at graft — how he’d squeal when the big boys passed the buck to him.
“All right, I’ll go and look for Hawkes. Good night, I may be back late.”
He strolled off, both fists in his pockets — found his servant — told the man to bring a lantern — then walked down the drive in the dust, not turning once to look at Cummings and his mother in a pool of lamplight on the hotel verandah. What was the use of looking? He knew. Telling that futile nincompoop how she has trained her Joe with sympathetic firmness — always gets him to obey her, though he may seem obstinate at times — terrible problem, only sons — terrible responsibility and some boys never seem to grow up. Hell, yes; and she’ll tell him all about the trust deed — how it gives her full control of all the money. Won’t he wriggle — won’t he eat out of her hand — and won’t he whimper when he wakes up!
“Will she marry him? I wouldn’t put it past her. She can’t live without some one to bully. She could introduce him at home as a prominent Anglo-Indian official — the man who taught Viceroys how to behave. She’d do it to spite me, if she thought I’d discovered my soul is my own. Well — all right — let her. She’s smart, but he isn’t; she can only use him for a poodle. She can’t run the business without me. Gee, they’d rob her to a frazzle. Give her her head. Let’s see what happens.”
He had no idea where to look for Hawkes — no real intention of any kind except to get away from his mother for a while and think things out. Think what out? He would certainly not try to trap Hawkes; he would give the man the money and a letter with it — payment on account for services rendered satisfactorily to the undersigned — something brief that lawyers couldn’t twist into what it didn’t mean. Lawyers pretty much like doctors — half a dozen good ones to the hundred thousand. The client pays; the prison or the undertaker buries the mistakes, and what price glory?
Chandri Lal emerged out of a shadow disappeared into another one.
“Here, you!” A chink of silver. “Get me a gharry. Wait a minute — where’s Hawkes? Know where to find Hawkes — Sergeant Hawkes — you understand who Hawkes is?”
“Oh, ah, Hawkessee. Yes, sahib. Yes, sah — You come along, you follow.”
“Bring a gharry. I’ll walk along — you overtake me.”
There was no need any longer for the lantern so he dismissed his servant. He walked along the dusty road that lay like a river in silver moonlight. He had walked about a mile before the gharry overtook him — one horse and a loose shoe — click-clack — click-clack. Chandri Lal was on the box beside the driver, snakes and all, the driver extremely nervous of the snakes and cursing their owner in fervent undertones.
They drove straight toward the temple — a long drive, skirting the city the longest way undoubtedly. Joe knew where they were going — knew intuitively — wondered where an intuition came from; understood, too, that Chandri Lal had bargained with the driver for a percentage of the fare. Better do something to stop ’em driving around all night long —
“Here, you — five rupees for you if you find Hawkes in fifteen minutes.”
First turn to the right instanter, and the shortest kind of short-cuts — alleys barred even to one-way traffic, where the hubs scraped door-posts. A sleepy constable blew his whistle and ran after them but Joe gave him some money and that was that. The constable seemed interested in the rear end of the gharry and asked incomprehensible questions. Joe supposed a license plate was missing, or perhaps there ought to be a rear light — some such triviality. He gave the man another rupee and ordered the driver to get a move on. Damned disgusting smell of dead air in the narrow streets; he almost wished he had let them take the longer way around.
What was he doing anyhow? Crazy business, driving all over an Indian city in search of — Hawkes? To hell with Hawkes. Did he give one continental damn whether he ever saw Hawkes again? He did not. Rita! Why lie to myself about it? Looking for her like a mad man hunting Jesus on the town dump. Fat chance of seeing her that time of night. Probably get slugged on the head for his trouble. Not even a revolver in his pocket — nothing — not much money either — lean pickings — some satisfaction in that — no fun in financing thugs. Taken for a ride, eh? — bumped off like a rabbit — well, it wouldn’t pay ’em. Turn back? Over my dead body. See this through or never look at my face in a mirror again. Foolishness? Sure. But who’s wise?
The gharry came to a standstill at the edge of the grove of trees outside the temple wall — around the corner of the wall from where the Yogi’s beehive hut was. Pretty dark place. Music and chanting beyond the wall — soft, dreamy stuff, but lots of volume — smother the sound of a hold-up —
“Funny, I don’t feel scared. All the same, better keep both eyes lifting.”
He left the gharry standing there and followed the wall toward the corner, glancing back to make sure that the driver had understood and was waiting. He saw the ayah step out from between the rear wheels. She was as black as the night a mere shadow but there was no mistaking her. He lost sight of her in less than a second as she was swallowed by the deeper night within the grove of the trees.
“That’s what troubled the cop, eh? Stealing a ride on the axle. Can you beat that? And I paid him a rupee extra for her fare!”
Turning his head again he found Chandri Lal within a yard of him, his wide flat basket balanced on his flattened turban and his whole being apparently a-quiver with fear or excitement. But that might have been the effect of moonlight streaming through the branches, some of which reached almost to the temple wall.
“Where’s Hawkes? Go on — find him.”
Chandri Lal gestured toward the corner but appeared unwilling to lead the way. The singing swelled, as if there were a procession drawing nearer on the far side of the wall, within the temple area. Chandri Lal seemed to be trying to explain in pantomime that the music was the reason why he dared not trespass any farther.
“You can speak English. Say what you mean.”
But the man had grown suddenly dumb. Joe shrugged his shoulders. He walked forward, both fists in his pockets — just a mite more nervous than he had been — trying to disguise it, even from himself. He kept wide of the wall, heading for the bright moonlight beyond the deep shadow cast by the wall where it turned at nearly a right angle. The sound of the stringed instruments and singing made him feel as if he were taking part in a procession.
“Feel like a guy on the way to the gallows. Out o’ bounds, I guess. Well, who cares?”
“Hull-ut-uh — Who comes thurr-r-r?”
He nearly jumped out of his skin. An Indian trooper turbaned — bearded — armed with a club apparently — came looming out of the utter darkness near the corner wall. He looked enormous.
“So’s your old man,” Joe assured him. He had the white man’s gift of mocking his own terror and of at least appearing indifferent to climax. “One seat,” he said, “on the aisle, down front, for anything that’s doing.”
The trooper, holding out the club or whatever it was to bar further progress, spoke over-shoulder rapidly — a streak of gutturals with T’s and K’s exploding out of it like sparks. Footsteps, rapidly approaching. Hawkes, with a pipe in his mouth.
“Hell’s hinges! You, sir? All right — good boy, Magadh — pass and all’s well. Step this way, sir.”
Hawkes led through the darkness at the foot of the wall toward where moonlight was just touching the top of the Yogi’s dwelling, but he stopped near the narrow high door in the wall and kicked a stool into place for Joe to sit down. There was breathing all around him, and the occasional sound of shifting feet, but nothing visible except Hawkes’ shadowy shape, standing upright with his hands on his hips, and the glow in the bowl of the pipe in Hawkes’ mouth.
“Good job you came when you did and not later,”
Hawkes said.
“Why? What’s happening?”
“Nothing so far. Lucky for you it was Magadh at the corner; any of the others might have hit you first and challenged afterward.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“There ain’t going to be no trouble. But there might be a broken head or two. There’s liable to be a broken head or two — or maybe three or four — the more the merrier — no knowing.”
Hawkes pipe glowed contentedly. It glowed in time to chanting and the tom-tom beat of temple music.
“Rita?” Joe asked.
“Bet your boots it’s Rita. That dam’ Maharajah won’t rest happy till he’s raped her out o’ here. He’s all set for a surprise party to-night, but it was tipped off. I’d never ha’ guessed he’d have the guts to try this stratajum. He offered me money yesterday, God-dammim. Probably he only did it to make me think he’s that kind of a louse. I wish I’d took his money and then double-crossed him. But I’ve no common sense in crisises; I get that hot under the collar that I can’t act sensible for thinking up a snooty repartee.”
“Do you expect Rita through this door?”
“Pretty soon now — the whole dam’ shooting-match in single file — singin’ a hymn to the Bride of Siva — song about death being all my eye and Betty Martineau. It’s a cheerful theory but takes a heap o’ proving. Do you see that well-head yonder in the moonlight? That’s where somebody got killed about a million years ago — forget his name — some kind of nice old bishop, I don’t doubt, fond o’ teaching piety to folks like you and me who don’t know what it is. If I remember right, the story goes he raised a dead man that the king o’ those days had ordered executed; so the king sent soldiers who ambuscaded him near the well. They cut him to bits and chucked the pieces down the well. Since then nobody has used it, but they keep it in repair, and every anniversary they have a procession — at night, ‘cause they say he was killed at night — through this gate, ‘cause they say it’s the last gate he used — singing a special hymn that they say he taught ’em. Over near the well, on the far side, they have a small crowd of laymen waiting who are supposed to represent the soldiers who did the murder — or maybe they’re descendants of the soldiers, I don’t know; anyhow, they act solemn and sorry, and they all wear hoods o’ some kind, same as them in the procession. Do you see what an opportunity that is?”
