by Talbot Mundy
But I think Jeff felt the kind of premonition I did. And I know Chullunder Ghose turned gray beneath his weathered ivory skin.
CHAPTER 32. “Dorje!”
There was a sensation — tension — as we three strode toward the center of the room. The face had vanished, leaving behind the same sort of effect that a monster might produce by peering, head and shoulders, from a pond and then submerging. There were the ripples. What was it? The dancing-girls were awestruck and as suddenly quiet as birds that have seen the shadow of a hawk — until the music resumed, and then one of them laughed and they all joined in, not knowing why. That gave us opportunity to speak. Chullunder Ghose tried to control his voice, but it came in a scared whisper, and there was sweat on his jowls:
“Rammy sahib, have you seen the garden? There is something there that the girls think is Indra’s chariot. They are forbidden to look, so they have all peeped. They are forbidden to speak of it, so they told me.”
“Grim got wind of it,” Jeff answered. “That’s why he wanted a room to himself. Maybe he has contrived to see it.”
“It has neither wings nor wheels,” said the babu.
“Get a move on,” Jeff insisted, “and wake up, babu-ji. Let’s overlook no bets.”
They were already dancing again, in several groups in front of the seated men-folk, and the dance was neither so restrained nor decent as it had been. But that was obviously done to disguise a very different excitement. We were watched, as we walked to the door beside the dais, by every eye in the room. As we passed through the door and I closed it behind us there began a buzz of conversation, blended with the music and the clash of anklets and the rhythmic thump of bare feet.
We found ourselves in a low, wide passage, lighted by one lamp. There was a door in front of us and a door on our left.
“Straight ahead,” said Jeff. But Chullunder Ghose, more scared than I had ever seen him, had nevertheless completely re-established self-control. His wits were functioning.
“There might be a window here,” he remarked. “That business of overlooking bets is why Napoleon lost Waterloo!”
He tried the left-hand door, and being a native of that land he knew the likely ways to open it. He groped — found something — pressed — pulled. The door moved inward, and the lamplight shone into a bare room not much larger than a good-sized closet. On the floor, face upward, lay the Pathan. He was gagged. His arms were tied. A knife — his own, it might be — stuck hilt-upward from his throat, and they had spread his coat neatly beneath him to prevent the blood from pouring on the floor.
“Women did that,” said the babu. “Men would have spoiled a curtain or a carpet. But they were experts. See how the edge of the blade is upward. Amateurs strike edge-down. I am all in favor of annihilating the Pathans, but what had this one done, I wonder.”
He was about to stoop over the body to look, I suppose, for clues on which to base deduction. Jeff seized him by the shoulder, too late. Before he could get that door shut, the other door at the end of the passage opened and two women stood there, smiling. One, obviously, at the first glance, was Vasantasena; she was wearing some of the jewelry that Benjamin had sent for Baltis, but even without that there could have been no doubt of her identity.
She was not young. She may have been forty-five or fifty years old. But she had the kind of ageless spirit in her that Salome may have had, that makes experience and maturity more luring and much deadlier than youth, because more interesting and alert with calculated guile. The day had gone by when she counted on mere surface charm, or even on mere familiarity with what men crave. She had become an artist.
And at that, she was no faded flower. She was a strong tree. She had the figure of a naiad. There was passion in her eyes, and humor. At the corners of her mouth there lurked that laughter at the inconsistencies which makes life tolerable; it might make even hell endurable, and heaven something else than abstract ennui.
She spoke English easily, but with an accent which suggested that she knew too many languages to speak even one of them thoroughly well. I have no idea why she spoke to me, unless it was because I was so obviously not an oriental. She looked like a woman who would inevitably tackle difficulties first.
“You mock my enemy? You admire his happening? But I prefer you should mind your own business. Yes?”
“When in doubt,” said Jeff out of the corner of his mouth to me, “go forward.” And he led the way. Then, aloud, to her, in the sort of guttural and toothy Hindustani that a man from Kashgar speaks: “The Lord Dorje sent for us.”
“For me also,” she answered. “Should I tell him it was you who slew that Orakzai Pathan, perhaps he may reward you. Who knows? Or he may take pity on the poor dead homeless one and send you to keep him company. Let us go and inquire.”
She led the way, along another passage, to the right. The other woman was a mere mute sycophant with scandalized, serious eyes, who opened and shut doors and did her best to make us feel we were in the presence of might, and mystery. She was the sort that kings, queens, and presidents employ to call attention to the brilliance that might shine better without such advertising. She ushered and fussed us all into a room whose wooden walls were covered with astonishingly painted indiscretions of smiling gods and gazelle-eyed goddesses.
At one end was a dais heaped with cushions, and beyond it was a door. Above the dais was another balcony, exactly like the one in the room we had left. Shaped something like a horseshoe, and extending around two thirds of the room, its center exactly opposite the dais, was a deep lounge, also heaped with cushions. At the end that faced the dais there were windows concealed by painted iron shutters and embroidered curtains. There were many flimsy little tables; only one bright lamp, that looked like gold encrusted with precious stones, was suspended by gold chains from the ceiling.
Grim sat on the dais, cross-legged. He was dressed in a brown Tibetan cloak, like a monk’s. But it was lined with scarlet silk that rather chastened the face of austerity, and he had a golden girdle that suggested there may possibly be solaces on earth as well as abstract affluence in heaven. Benjamin had stained and rubbed his skin until it looked like leather; and if that had been my first introduction to Grim, I don’t think that anything, ever again, could have made me like or trust him. He looked treacherous, proud, cruel, arrogant, calm — almost, for the moment, I believed his was the face that had looked from the balcony in the other room. Almost. Grim’s was not quite large enough — not coarse enough. But the resemblance was astonishing. I could hardly recognize him.
With a gesture that was equally unlike his own he signified that we might take our places on the horseshoe lounge. Vasantasena, solemn as a priestess, set us the example, but as she led the way I thought her back suggested laughter and excitement, and I know Chullunder Ghose did.
“Sahib,” he whispered, “Jimmy Jimgrim is in Dutch dam — desperately now. Believe me. Go and talk to him. As European you cannot be expected to have any manners. Go now.”
So instead of following Vasantasena I turned back toward the dais.
“Chief,” I said aloud, “I have a message for you.”
“Speak low,” he commanded, in Hindustani. So I bowed toward him, whispering:
“What do you want us to do? Chullunder Ghose believes we’re trapped.”
“I think so, too,” he answered.
“They murdered a Pathan—”
“I know that. There is nothing to be done but carry on and see what happens. If you get the opportunity, tell Jeff he’s not to try to rescue me. I’ve seen something, through a window. If I disappear, you fellows try to follow, but don’t try to keep me from getting killed, or any rot like that.”
I think he would have said more, but Baltis entered, through the door on the right of the dais facing the one that we had used. And she was no longer the victim of Grim’s indifference. Demurely, but with confidence and laughter in her eyes, she climbed on to the dais and arranged a heap of cushions near him so that she might
lie on her elbows and study his face. She spoke low, but I overheard her:
“Jeemgreem, if you love me you shall live — not otherwise!”
She was excited. She looked like a refinanced gambler staking all her new resources on one throw. The part suited her. There was something sportsmanlike as well as tempting in manner. I believe her plan was to persuade Grim to escape that minute, although she afterwards insisted that she had no plan whatever but was trusting to the inspiration of a moment. Or — she may have intended murder: she was capable of that. She began to whisper to Grim, and in his part of Dorje he could hardly object to her laying a hand on his shoulder. Had not Dorje as many wives as Solomon? And has a wife no privilege?
Vasantasena called me and I faced about. She beckoned. I wanted to make sure that Baltis should not draw a knife and drive it into Grim’s heart. But there was that message to Jeff, who was seated near Vasantasena, and he made a motion with his hand for me to come and sit beside him. Then I noticed an expression on Chullunder Chose’s face — horror again. He was looking upward at the balcony, which I could not see from where I stood. Perplexed, I decided to go and tell Jeff what Grim said; and as I took my place beside him he and I together saw the face the babu had already seen.
It was the same we had seen in the first room, in exactly the same attitude. This time, — though, it did not speak; it vanished. And before I had finished giving Jeff Grim’s message the door on the right of the dais opened. It opened wide. Someone in the gloom beyond the door was examining the room. A dull voice made an exclamation — one word. Then the owner of the face came striding in and someone closed the door behind him. Baltis almost shrieked; I saw her seize Grim’s arms, and Grim shook himself free. Vasantasena chuckled with a sound like poison bubbling in a cauldron.
“Bow to the Lord Dorje,” said Vasantasena, awkwardly, in English.
The newcomer faced Grim and smiled, showing stained and irregular teeth. Then he stepped to one side of the dais and faced us all. He had his hands behind him and he stood like a man too used to power to assert his own authority — his feet apart — shoulders a trifle stooping — big head hanging forward — strong — lean — dressed like Grim, except that this man’s cloak and hood were lined with yellow and not scarlet silk. The hood was thrown back, showing a crisp crop of short black hair.
“Who are you?” Grim asked, speaking English too. I think Grim knew already.
“I was Dorje!”
Silence, for about a second. Then a gasp from Baltis. She began to speak to him in rapid French. Instead of answering, he pointed at her with one finger of his left hand and then swung his arm in the direction of the lounge where we sat. She obeyed him; and when she had sat down near me he spoke to her in English in his dull, disinterested voice:
“You failed. And your sister (he pronounced it shishter) let the cipher out (he pronounced it shypher). Do not lie to me.”
“Dorje—” she began.
He interrupted. “You know what you get.”
Then he turned toward Grim, and he and Grim observed each other for several seconds.
“It would be usheless,” he said presently, “to try to kill me, I am well protected.”
“Probably,” said Grim.
“Am I to take your name — since you have taken mine? I like mine better. They have spelled yours to me. Jinkrin?”
“Jim Grim.”
“Grim, eh? Libra — sun in Taurus — moon in Aries — born, I dare shay, probably at high noon. Courage — judgment — why should you shuppose you could defeat me?”
“Try anything,” said Grim.
He nodded. “I alsho. I will try you. You are coming with me. Bright young — what is your name? Jinkrin — Jinkrin? — never mind it, I will give you a good name — you shall be my—”
Baltis and Vasantasena, almost with the same voice, interrupted:
“Dorje! Dorje!”
He snapped his fingers. It was like a whipcrack. Both doors opened. In came three men through either door, all hooded; and as Jeff and I sprang to our feet they turned long tubes toward us.
“Keep still, you fellows. No use courting certain death,” said Grim. Chullunder Ghose began to test the iron shutters, Baltis walked forward.
“Very well,” she said, “kill me!”
Dorje made a gesture with his finger and the tube-men held their weapons up. She approached Dorje. He turned and struck her — one blow that sent her reeling backward. She fell, writhing. I picked her up; she was winded; not hurt badly.
“Nothing doing, you fellows,” said Grim. “No sense in bucking the impossible.”
Vasantasena began to suspect there was something wrong with her arrangements. She shook her waiting woman — whispered — shoved her, and the woman went running toward the right-hand door. One of the tube-men turned his weapon on her. I suppose it went off, but there was neither sight nor sound; the woman merely fell dead, and Dorje took no notice. I could smell no gas. Vasantasena screamed and Jeff swore savagely between his teeth.
“Come!” said Dorje, pointing to the door. Grim glanced at us. “So long, you fellows.”
Dorje snapped his fingers. The door opened. Dorje gestured with his head. Grim walked out. Dorje followed. The six tube-men stood and faced us with their backs toward the open door until someone outside whistled. Then they backed out one by one, the last man closing the door after him. We heard the heavy bolts click.
I went in a hurry for the other door, but that was locked, too, on the outside. I examined Vasantasena’s waiting woman. She seemed lifeless, but I laid her on the lounge beside the window. Jeff was wrenching at the shutters.
“Get me a tool — a weapon — anything!” he grumbled, “Dammit, let’s get out of here!”
Chullunder Ghose went looking for a tool. He overturned the dais — found a two-foot-high bronze image underneath it, almost solid — brought that.
“Anybody else smell fire?” I asked. “Smell it?” said Jeff. “Can’t you hear it?”
He took the bronze, obscene god from the babu and began to rain blows on the iron shutter, making enough din to awaken Delhi, while Vasantasena beat her breasts and rushed here and there, trying the doors, screaming, beating on the panels with her fists — then running back to scream in Jeff’s ear, until I dragged her away. I could hear dim, distant screams now and the crackle of flames. There was a hot stench. Smoke began to creep along the floor cracks, and there was more of it, up where wall met ceiling. There was nothing to do but watch Jeff work. I saw flame lick under the door before he broke the shutter down at last with a crash of window glass, and found another outside shutter of thick teak. He could not smash that, but the bolt broke.
“Out with the women!”
I had the curtains ready. Four of them tied end to end were long enough. The floor was well alight now and the heat was terrific, but I almost had to throw Vasantasena through the window. I believe she wanted to commit suttee. However, she went down hand over hand fast enough when she found there was nothing else for it. I took Baltis then and held her while I slid to the ground. The babu followed me. Then Jeff, with his coat on fire; and before he reached the ground the flames had eaten through the rope, so that he fell at my feet and I smothered the burning coat with garden dirt.
“Now, where’s Grim?”
We had to run for it to escape the crashing timbers and the clouds of hot smoke bursting between cracking walls. The entire house was already done for — tinder, generations old and drier than match-wood. As I looked back the roof collapsed amid a roaring holocaust of sparks and flame. It was by the light of that that we saw where Grim had gone.
The thing — it resembled nothing we had ever seen — arose, not more than fifty yards away from us, from beyond a clump of ornamental trees that shaded a fountain in Vasantasena’s garden. It reflected the flames. It was long, cylindrical, had no propeller — no wings. It arose quite leisurely. It appeared to me made of metal and had fluted sides, like corrugated iron. I guessed its le
ngth at fifty feet, its diameter at fifteen. It shone like silver, blood-red where its corrugations caught in the firelight. It went straight up until it was almost lost to sight, then shot away toward the northeast. It appeared to me to go as fast as sometimes the moon appeared to move between the rifts of storm-blown clouds.
“Is that the end?” asked Baltis. “What now?”
“The beginning!” said the babu.
Jeff laughed. “We will talk about the end at Chak-sam on the Tsangpo River!”
CHAPTER 33. “Here is darkness. Curse me, sahib!”
No one — at least no one to whose credence anyone attached the least importance — believed one word of our account of the astonishing machine in which Dorje had escaped from Delhi; least of all the general, to whose house we hurried as soon as the fire-brigade and the police would let us, and who received us in pajamas. He had already received three accounts of the burning of Vasantasena’s house. He was inclined to believe a spy’s report that we set fire to it. His doubt of us was irritated by the fact that we had lost sight of Baltis and Vasantasena, who had escaped in the confusion.
“I will send my car for you to your hotel after breakfast,” he remarked.
“Checkmate!” said I, as we returned to our taxi. It was then three in the morning.
“He is,” Jeff answered. “Generals plug gaps through which they might attack the enemy and forget the one through which the enemy escape. He’ll send for us at about nine-thirty. We have six hours and twenty minutes.”
“In which to do what?” I demanded. I could see no prospect of our overtaking Grim or of ever learning what had happened to him.
“In which to thank God that we’re warned,” said Jeff. “Get out of this, Chullunder Ghose. Tell Benjamin we’re coming by the back door.”
But the babu had a better notion.
“Rammy sahib, Benjamin expects us. That Jew hears everything. He will have heard already that Vasantasena’s house is burnt. He will suspect the authorities of suspecting us. Therefore he will deduce we are in difficulties. To whom else should we go but to him? So he will keep the back door open, and he will stage a camouflage. And he will not suspect us of being such innocents as to arrive in the same taxi that has waited for us where a general’s myrmidons could murmidate driver of same. Let us emerge discreetly, you first. Thusly. At first dark corner you vociferously say, in driver’s hearing, I am stink in nostrils of obscenity, or some such platitude familiar to him, in order that his penny-wise profundity may leap to circumstantial conclusion. Get me? Visibly exasperated by your honor’s criticism, I stop cab and get into seat beside driver, for obvious purpose of borrowing from distance the enchantment is said to lend to disenchanted and humiliated objurgatee. I preoccupy attention of said driver while your honors get the hell from here into the shadows, if I may be excused for quoting poetry of U.S.A. United States. Thus we drive on, leaving you to find your way to Benjamin’s on foot, or even in another cab, as case may be.”
