by Talbot Mundy
“All right. But how will you get out of it?”
“Through needle’s eye of opportunity! See — here is darkness. Curse me, sahib!”
Jeff did a perfect performance. He even scandalized the driver, and an Indian cabman is no chaste stickler for polite speech. The babu went into a paroxysm of indignant righteousness, stopped the taxi, clambered out, and held the driver’s close attention while we slipped out through the far door. As we vanished down a side-street I could hear the babu’s voice, disconsolate, in Hindustani:
“Drive on! Drive on! It is bad enough to have one’s ears burned. Look not backward lest you lose your eyesight! Drive on! Let us swiftly be rid of such blasphemous drunkards!”
Jeff’s Kashgar costume blended him into the Delhi darkness, and his intimate familiarity with Delhi slums and by-ways made it a simple matter to find our way to Benjamin’s. But my European clothes were more conspicuous and it seemed likely that one of the ubiquitous government spies would turn in a report before morning of my having been seen wandering the street — a white man walking with an Asiatic. It would be simple to follow us to our destination. I suggested to Jeff that it might be wiser for me to walk alone to the hotel.
“Trust Benjamin,” he answered, but I did not. I was in a mood to trust no one and nothing.
However, Jeff’s confidence was not misplaced. Systems of spies in contact with a centralized bureaucracy and backed by armed force, automatically foster similar resources in the governed. Short of extermination, never in the whole world’s history has any government succeeded in suppressing a nation’s freedom of communication or destroying its ability to conspire and contrive expedients. Even the Prussians failed in Belgium. Drasticism and alertness only sharpen wits.
There was a man near Benjamin’s back door who saw us coming while he held the attention of two constables by telling them a long unlikely tale about conspiracy to loot the store and carry off the daughter of a nearby silversmith. He threw his arms up in apparent despair at their incredulity. But that was a signal. Instantly, from nowhere, there exploded one of those sudden riots that sweep like a flurry of wind down-street and carry all before them until they cease in an equally sudden calm and no man knows what caused it or why nobody was hurt. Both constables were swept around a corner, blowing whistles and trying to use their truncheons on the heads of men who merely pushed them down an alleyway and vanished, while we entered unobserved through Benjamin’s back door.
“Tschuh-tschuh! You have been a long time on the way!” said Benjamin. “I expected you sooner.”
Others also expected us. Benjamin led us to a cellar of whose existence even Jeff was ignorant — and Jeff once lay hidden in Benjamin’s place for days on end, when secret agents of the since exterminated Nine Unknown were after him. There was a trap-door hidden beneath blankets heaped on a false floor that swung on a pivot. A stairway led between stone walls into a place resembling one of those chambers in the Roman catacombs where fugitives from authority survived in spite of ancient Rome’s intelligence department. It was lighted by imported American candles struck into ancient brass vases, and furnished with comparatively modern cots and camp-chairs bought by Benjamin from some expensively equipped explorer.
Forth from an inner chamber stepped Vasantasena, looking like an actress of classic tragedy. She had beaten her breasts. She was demanding deeper misery than anyone had ever felt. Her eyes burned like those of a parched and hungry tigress.
“She mourns her women,” remarked Benjamin. “They — and her faith in Dorje and in all her false gods — all were burned in her house. There is only hate left.”
Vasantasena did not speak, but I thought she did not hate Benjamin, although she might have said she did, if she were asked. Behind her, Baltis stared out of the inner gloom and scolded:
“Mon Dieu! You think, you two, that destiny awaits your leisure? Jeemgreem is over the roof of the world and face to face with Dorje! He fights his duel. Meanwhile you go, I suppose, to ask the military to believe in an engine-less airplane — or perhaps to ask for permits to go to Chaksam!”
“Can you suggest anything?” Jeff asked her.
“Enfin. You turn to me? At last, eh? It is I who shall suggest? Imbecile! If you and Jeemgreem and the rest of you had tr-r-rusted me — But how could I expect it? It is my karma. Even Dorje did not trust me! He believes he burned me, along with Vasantasena whom he mistrusts also. Always one last straw makes insolence intolerable. Life after life I have to teach that dog not to be tr-r-reacherous to me. And now — in the end — at last he forces me to turn on him! You look at me? You do well. You can do nothing without me!”
“That is true,” said Benjamin.
“It is indeed true!” She pushed past Vasantasena, who, in spite of her trade and her tragedy, preserved the oriental woman’s nervousness in presence of alien men. “Can you persuade Vasantasena? But you need her also! Why? Because she craves revenge — and she will take it from you, unless you help her to avenge herself on Dorje.”
“That is true,” repeated Benjamin.
“Did I say that I love Jeemgreem? Bah! He is not lovable. He is a man of ice that no warmth melts! But Dorje is hateable! And I hate! Dorje needs Jeemgreem to be his lieutenant. He will not kill him before he has exhausted every temptation, and every threat, and perhaps even every torture to persuade Jeemgreem to yield and obey. He will show Jeemgreem buried cities and all the marvels that were in the world when the world was Atlantis and the Deluge had not yet made men savages.”
“He can do it,” said Benjamin.
“But in the end he will have to kill Jeemgreem, because Jeemgreem will not yield to him. So you men shall obey me.”
“Go to hell,” Jeff answered.
“Unless you obey me, you shall never rescue Jeemgreem!”
“Better make peace with her,” Benjamin whispered.
“Tschahyeh! Women without children, what are they? Devils! Devils!”
Jeff stuffed his fists in his pockets and stared at Baltis.
“You obey me, or you lose your friend Jeemgreem!” she gloated. “I am not afraid to lose him. I am weary of him. He bores me. I go after Dorje now because I hate him and fear nothing. But you are afraid!”
Benjamin’s spectacled book-keeper opened the trap-door, peered at us and spoke with a squeak that resembled the plaint of the trap-door hinges. Down the steps came Chullunder Ghose, and one could guess by the subdued triumph of his stride that he had either good news or a more than usually fantastic scheme in his head.
“Salaam!” he remarked with an air of patronizing impudence. “If I were civilized enough to wear a hat, I would remove it to you! You are damn-bad, devilish — enterprising woman! Sahibs — we win!”
“Do not trust him. That one is a bad one,” murmured Benjamin. He had never forgiven, and never would forgive Chullunder Ghose for some trick played on him in days gone by.
“You? What have you done?” demanded Baltis. Her eyes narrowed almost into slits. She glanced at Vasantasena; for an agonized second she believed the babu and Vasantasena had a secret understanding. But Vasantasena’s dully disillusioned, tragic face killed that suspicion.
“Done much!” said the babu. “Am obese with muchness. Much news. Sahibs, I learned less than an hour ago that they ascribe the burning of Vasantasena’s house to rivalry between three schools of prostitution, two of them resenting the entertainment of an alien by Vasantasena who thus brought discredit upon an ancient profession; and your honors are accordingly to be deported before further complications can ensue.”
Vasantasena, looking like death, with irregular seams and splotches where the tears had washed cosmetic from her face, turned on her heel with an exclamation of disgust and disappeared into the inner room, her right hand feeling for support against masonry, her left hand beating the air so that her bracelets clashed a dirge of melancholy. I heard a cot creak as she threw herself against it on her knees.
“Listen to me first,” Benjamin sugges
ted. But the babu was in haste, although he pretended he was not.
“You may tell them afterwards,” he said, “that once I tricked you out of rupees sixteen hundred. At the moment I am speaking of important matters.”
“Step on her!” said Jeff. “How do we overtake Grim?”
CHAPTER 34. “I will bet you pounds Egyptian fifty that the Jewess overboils the eggs!”
“Dorje,” remarked Benjamin, “will go by way of Chak-sam because there he has a relay post. But his goal is beyond the Kwen-lun Mountains, to the north and west of Koko Nor. And he will not travel by day, for fear of being seen; so he will come to earth at a place, this side of Katmandu, which has no name and is not on any map. It is in a valley amid mountains. It is reputed sacred. Even the people of Nepal avoid it. He will stay there all day, until after dark. But how shall you find the place? How get there? Ten days — or it might be eight — or even seven — I have one who could guide you, and the Middle Way is open, unknown even to the secret service. But in seven, eight, ten days, where is Dorje? Gone! And Jimgrim with him! And the Roof of the World to be crossed! And then the Kwen-lun Ranges! Hey-yeh! It is the end of Jimgrim!”
“If it is the end of your croaking, then I will sing” said Chullunder Ghose. “Tell me: would you offer rupees sixteen hundred for the means of reaching Jimgrim?”
“More than that,” Benjamin answered.
“You may charge off the extra for interest. I no longer owe you rupees sixteen hundred! Do you wish to come with us and see Jimgrim before noon? No? Then you must take my word for it. But we shall jolly well need breakfast before daybreak, so you had better tell your fat daughter to cook it. Rammy sahib likes three cups of coffee, if the cups are big ones; otherwise, five. Five of us — say twenty cups of coffee and enough eggs for a regiment, with fruit, bread, butter and whatever else you have!”
“It shall be done,” said Benjamin. “But, dog of a babu, if you play a trick on us—”
“Trick? Me? Am simple person. Let us sit.”
We squatted on an Afghan blanket, all except Baltis, who stood with her back to the wall and her arms folded, watching us as if she knew we meant to leave her there and follow Grim without her aid.
“Pursuing purpose of deceiving taxi-driver, this babu as per pre-arranged plan took hold of wheel and brought about collision with a bullock-cart, whose driver turned out to be person of malevolence. In ‘cut off nose to spite face’-ishness he swung his bullocks so that taxi-driver could by no means make a lightsome get-away, not knowing that a wheel of taxi-cab was broken but intent on breaking taxi-driver’s head with butt of cudgel used for stimulating foot-pound — kilowattic-energy of bullocks. God is very good to this babu. In course of altercation, during which a constable admonished both of them with his truncheon and whistled for help, there came unstipulated godsend in the form of five-passenger, high-speed, ram-you-damn-you, nickel-plated French motorcar, driven with exhaust wide open by a drunken citizen of France, who put on brakes in nick of time to let this babu give good imitation of casualty with at least three broken legs.
“Same had sobering effect. Nevertheless, sobriety not yet adequate to cause suspicion when this casualty climbed in without assistance, sighing ‘Take me to the hospital — be swift — will show way — straight ahead!’ The constables, not having time to take number of car, and being now three in number, wrought much havoc with the indignant drivers, who yelled for help, and there were the makings of a riot, so that I do not think our driver will remember us. Such men’s heads hold only one idea. Even that one will have been made to hibernate by blows from the police. So I commended all those men to God, who doubtless loves them, and directed my attention to the officer at wheel of this amazing vehicle that passionately scorched through streets in search of hospital that fortunately lies in opposite direction.
“Self, am lightning calculator. Frenchmen are the only ones who drive through streets at that speed. How many Frenchmen in Delhi? Ten? Not probably. Of those, how many drive a car like lunatics possessed of sixteen extra senses and a drunkard’s luck? How many Frenchmen get drunk? Very few, unless the English entertain them. Q.E.D. that this one has been entertained. Why? Aviator? Why not? May he not be that one who has piloted the plane that brought our beautiful Princess from Cairo? Bold guess, but am seldom timid.
“Self, am also super-P.F.D., which means, am perfectly familiar with damsels, due to wife of bosom, to say nothing of three daughters who are married and have husbands who dislike work as infra dignitatem. Verb sap, very. Woman in our hour of ease is opportunist. In predicament, in an airplane, juxtaposed to handsome aviator of a naturally amorous and gallant disposition, woman become Einsteinian in her relativity to all the inhibitions. Aviator, taking off, beside her on back seat, not improbably is introduced to sandwich in the form of kilowattish love-stuff between slices of imaginary past history and promises of future bliss as unrestricted as prospectus of an oil-stock salesman. Not improbably, this aviator has been dated up and now is looking for his Cinderella, who has very likely given an indefinite address. I take a chance — about as big as if I bet you that the sun gets up next Tuesday morning. I lean over back of front seat and say ‘Baltis!’ in gentleman’s ear. Instantly invented new word — Baltistics — meaning curvature of ace on consequence of mixture of champagne with aviator-complex, amorousness, starlight, secret service trendishness of mind and the seductive genius of her who now observes me as if I were Dick Whittington letting cat out of bag in order to become thrice Lord Mayor of London.
“Brakes — four — functioning as when irresistible force meets immovable obstacle. Invitation to climb into front seat. Why am I? Who am I? This babu’s abominable belly being wrong-side-uppish from attempting to continue with velocity while vehicle skids to a standstill, took time to consider problem. Thought being unconditioned by time and space, can do lots of thinking in thirty seconds. Decided I am messenger from Princess Baltis, sent in search of Prince Charming, burdened with her confidences, and political extremist — very. Said so, in so many words, each suitable selected for its vagueness and inspirational suggestiveness. Suggested also that we might do well to drive on, to avoid the impudence of curious policemen. So we began to circumscribe a square mile, like a puppy pursuing its tail; and we went so fast that I swear I could see the tail-light just in front of us.
“Speed, I find, exhilarates the brain. Though drunkenly. Threw logic and all laws of probability to hell. As unfettered and uncontaminated as a Christian Scientist in act of demonstrating money, I decided that improbabilities are all we have to go on in predicting destiny, but destiny is, nevertheless, the mule that must be driven. It is obviously not in the least probable that the French secret service will neglect its god-sent opportunities. Ergo — Q.E.D. — this aviator is the sort of gentlemanly patriot who does the fancy spying for his government. Why not? If he is any good, he may be even now establishing an unsuspicious character of drunken irresponsibility in order to conceal a deadly purpose.
“Do the French not wish to know any number of things about the British dispositions and preparedness in India? Is there anything that the French do not wish to know? They crave omniscience, in order to be better able to make us conscious of their culture.
“Multiplying guesswork by the square root of improbability; and knowing that our adorable Princess is an ex-French spy, like toad under the harrow of dilemma but astonishingly opportunist, this babu deduces that — in order to escape from observation, and in order to save time in reaching Dorje when she shall have learned his whereabouts — she will have dated up this aviator to give her a joy-ride after reaching India. She will have promised to show him things which nobody is meant to see. And perhaps she will have promised, should he set her down at some place indicated by herself, to do a little cultural observation for the French General Staff. That is what this babu would have done in said predicament; and is she less free with promises than I am? Promises are easier to make than pie-crust, and a whole lot easier to
break.
“We now descend to facts, like politicians after the election. A debacle, but — God pity us — a fact or two are necessary. I know that our adorable Princess has met Vasantasena, in whose now incinerated studio of chastity I simulated drunkenness and learned, from giggling girls, that someone has been sent to tell a Frenchman whither he should come to enjoy an evening’s, or an early morning’s devotion to culture. Obviously, our beloved Princess was the sender of the message — to this aviator. Six plus six are sixty-six. And the rest is easy.
“I discover his name, by saying I must not pour confidences into incorrectly labeled ears. His name is Henri de la Fontaine Coq. I peer into his mental processes by saying there is nothing to be done unless he can begin at daybreak. He reminds me he has had but one hour’s sleep since leaving Baghdad. I remind him that sleep is the curse of opportunists. He assures me in four-dimensional English mixed with aviation French that opportunity is a pretty oiseau which invariably comes into the cage that he has artfully prepared. So I demand particulars, assuring him that there are other plans in competition with his own. He grumbles. He remarks that the ‘plane in which he made his record-breaking journey is in need of readjustment. Men are working on it at that minute. He is to make a test at daybreak, to discover whether, with a full tank, he can now ascend to I forget what altitude. Thus grief gives birth to opportunity. I sharpen same before his eyes like butcher at a grindstone. He becomes excited. I tell him to convince the British Air Force and the authorities that he only intends to fly a little distance, by leaving his flight companion on the ground. Thus — should he receive a message from our puritanical Princess — he can ascend for purpose of picking up her and whoever is with her, though he does not yet believe that she will have companions. He will be disappointed when he sees us. I am sympathetic babu.”
