Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Forward!” he commanded. “Straight to that door you came through!”

  Then over his shoulder to the Maharajah’s officer: “Twenty men! Dismount ’em, and follow me!”

  The priest went on a run, astonishingly undignified. The crowd, after one yell, grew dumb with amazement. Twenty troopers and their officer, all casteless, not enamored of the priests, swept Craig along between them, so that it almost looked to the crowd as if Craig were arrested. They began to yell again.

  Molyneux came to a halt at a little side door between two projecting corners of the temple wall and ordered the troopers to drive out members of the crowd who had packed themselves in there in the hope of seeing something.

  “Tell ’em to open it!” he ordered, squeezing the priest’s neck. “Say if they don’t I’ll break it down!”

  He backed up his threat by beckoning the troopers forward, and the priest, squirming and discovering no hope, cried out. Like an echo to his cry the troopers’ carbines thundered on the wood; and someone inside drew the bolt.

  Molyneux let go the priest’s neck and jumped in with Craig at his heels. Diana nearly upset them both, dashing between them, yelping and then throwing up her head to make the great dome echo to her hunting-call. Then she led them in a series of elastic leaps, with toenails clattering and slipping on the marble, toward the rear of the building, where in lamp-lit gloom stood Elsa, at bay, surrounded by a dozen priests, with someone’s blue repeating pistol in her right hand.

  “My wife! Elsa!”

  Craig ran forward, reckless of the priests, who backed away before Diana’s reawakened fury. The dog seemed to think they had killed her master. She charged back and forth to lick him and savage them alternately.

  “Elsa! What does this mean?”

  “What?”

  “This costume?”

  “They took my clothes away and—”

  That was enough for Molyneux. He was bending over Ommony to feel his heart-beats.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “In the dark! Mr. Ommony brought me up those steps—”

  “Admit the diwan!” Molyneux commanded. “Where’s the high priest? Summon Parumpadpa!”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked Elsa, resuming his slapping of Ommony’s wrists with an eye on Diana, who appeared to view his ministrations with mistrust.

  But she and her husband were being foolish and she didn’t even answer him.

  The diwan entered, leaning on a man’s arm, and almost in the same second they brought in Parumpadpa, two priests on each side doing their best to enhance his dignity. But better gild the lily! He was all arch-priesthood typified. The long beard, nearly to his waist, and his robes of office made it seem a sacrilege to speak above a whisper.

  But Molyneux kept him waiting. There were signs of life in Ommony, so he shook him and raised him up, then set him with back against the pillar. Not noticing the high priest yet, but holding Ommony by the lapel of his coat, he turned his head and whispered to the diwan.

  “We’ve got to use tact! Get me?”

  The diwan nodded and tried to hide a smile.

  “The less said the better. You understand? His Majesty’s Government would rather avoid a scandal.

  “Does he know English? No? Will you interpret? Excellent! Hullo, this fellow’s coming to! How now, Ommony? Feeling better?”

  Ommony murmured something. Molyneux stooped to listen — nodded.

  “Craig, come over here, please. Will you be satisfied if they pay for the cost of repairing your mission from the temple funds? Yes? Well, that’s a Christian attitude. I like a Christian. Mrs. Craig, does that seem all right to you? Good.”

  He turned to the diwan.

  “Tell them that, please!”

  Parumpadpa listened with amazement he could hardly contain. He had expected personal indignity. Not knowing where Elsa had been, he could only suppose Ommony had broken in somehow and found her in the crypt, where some of his priests, he thought, must have concealed her without his knowledge. If so, these terms were mild. He gave assent, not bargaining, with all the dignity at his command.

  But Ommony tugged Molyneux’s coat, and he bent his head once more to listen.

  “Oh! Ah! Yes, I get you!”

  He turned to the diwan.

  “Tell him this serious offense is against His Highness the Maharajah almost as much as against these innocent people.”

  The diwan interpreted. The high priest bowed.

  “Law — order — His Highness’s government must be respected.”

  The high priest bowed again, but with slightly more reserve. “Unless he wants His Britannic Majesty’s Government to interfere and mete out punishment there must be an apology to His Highness the Maharajah—”

  Parumpadpa almost let a smile escape him, but concealed it with another stately bow. Ommony whispered again.

  “ — and compensation in some form acceptable to His Highness.”

  Parumpadpa frowned.

  “I understand this temple’s revenue is drawn in part from a tax on all cut lumber. Will it be acceptable to His Highness if that revenue is transferred to the State for the specific purpose of planting trees?”

  “I believe so. I may say, ‘Yes,”’ said the diwan. He interpreted, and Parumpadpa scowled.

  “Tell him he may agree to that or do the other thing!” said Molyneux, glaring at the high priest.

  And the high priest yielded. There was no alternative.

  “Pens, ink, and paper!” Molyneux commanded. “We’ll sign up now and get it over with.”

  So they set a table under the dome of Siva’s temple, and for the first time in all history a contract between Church and State was drawn up and signed in that sacred edifice with Parumpadpa’s signature, witnessed by Molyneux, and lacking nothing but the Maharajah’s seal to make it absolute.

  “There!” exclaimed Molyneux, throwing sand on his own signature to dry the ink. “Tact! That’s the stuff! I told you I’m an oil-can! Assure His Eminence I have a deep respect for high priests. I like a man who takes his gruel standing up. Yes, sir; convey him my compliments!”

  He put an arm like a grapnel around Ommony and, saluting the high priest with the other, started for the door.

  “Why, hullo, you’re making a quick recovery! Guts, Ommony! By gad, sir, I like guts in a man! Why, damme! You can walk alone! What’s happened?”

  “Trees!” said Ommony. “I see trees!”

  “Still light-headed, I perceive. I wonder what hit you. The less said the better, of course. I mean to ask no questions. All’s nicely settled. But between you and me, my boy, I’ve a notion you’ve put something over.”

  “No. Someone else did.”

  “Who then?”

  “Diana! She euchred the Ephesians! Shall we go, sir? It must be dinner- time. Mrs. Craig and I had no lunch.”

  “Guts! By God, yes, that dog has guts!” said Molyneux. “We’ll have to stitch that wound up for her, Ommony. I see she’s still bleeding a bit. You hold her, and I’ll stitch. By gad, sir, I admire a dog with guts!”

  THE END

  THE LOST TROOPER

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. “Talk about transmuting elements—”

  CHAPTER II. “Grim’s a bird — you ought to meet Grim.”

  CHAPTER III. “Protection looks best from a long way off.”

  CHAPTER IV. “In the name of Him Who never sleeps it is a bargain!”

  CHAPTER V. “Suppose we stage an accident!”

  CHAPTER VI. “Yemen — a thousand miles away — that hardly sounds like Jeremy!”

  CHAPTER VII. “A member of a strangely free and independent, brave and disrespectful sect.”

  CHAPTER VIII. “Miyan, you are a great magician!”

  CHAPTER IX. “Ask the camel of Jmil Ras!”

  CHAPTER X. “You’re a fallen angel, Ramsden!”

  CHAPTER XI. “Allaho Akbar!”

  CHAPTER XII. “Ross, Ramsden, and Grim. Grim, Ramsd
en, and Ross.”

  CHAPTER XIII. “Oh, I say!”

  CHAPTER XIV. “By Allah, it is too late!”

  CHAPTER XV. “Ali Baba! Ali Baba!”

  CHAPTER I. “Talk about transmuting elements—”

  HOW can you begin a tale at the beginning, when it has as many beginnings as there are people in it? I don’t see that these critics who make literary laws have done much else than shut out two-thirds of the best tales by making it impossible to tell them.

  At any rate, as I’m telling this one; and as nobody need listen if he doesn’t like, I’m going to begin it where I please, which happens to be in Berlin, Germany, which I visited long enough after the Boer War for men who fought all through it, to show themselves there without having to have police protection.

  My business is prospecting, and I hadn’t made my little pile in those days — hadn’t attained, in other words, to that only essential of contentment in this world: the ability as well as the inclination and the right to suit yourself as to what you’ll do next, where you’ll go, and how.

  My particular pet delight is independence. But in those days I was trying to get a syndicate of Prussian von’s and zu’s to finance an undertaking in what was then known as German East Africa. Looking back through the smoke of adventurous years I should say now that it would have been about as easy to persuade the U.S. Government to finance a claimant to the throne of France. I cooled my heels, spent money in a very bad hotel, and dare say I should have been insulted finally, if it weren’t for my odd inch or so above six feet and the muscle that carries it upright. Even in those days the Prussians weren’t openly rude to anyone they weren’t sure they could lick.

  But I made a profit, for I met an Australian named Jeremy Ross. It was worth a trip half around the world to make that man’s acquaintance.

  He was swearing at the methods of the same hotel proprietor and trying to tap the same financial sluices. We had two common grievances, which is sufficient basis for friendship in most circumstances; and, as we both were, comparatively speaking, broke, we walked about together a good deal, seeing what Berliners thought were sights, while the syndicate of von S and zu S considered how to put one over on us — an entirely vain devotion of super-thought on their part, as well as a waste of our time.

  Even in those days I had reached the point of tolerating other people’s manners and notions right up to the chalk-line where they trespass on my liberty. But Jeremy Ross hadn’t traveled as much, or met as many weird varieties as I had of the “manners” that “mayketh man.”

  Having served through the Boer War as a trooper in the First Australian Horse, he had a profound contempt for, and enmity against all officers who were not Australians risen from the ranks. But he didn’t include all Australian officers in his catalog of the blessed by any means, having, as he put it, “eaten dirt from twenty-five too many of them.”

  “Talk about transmuting elements,” said Jeremy. “Turning iron into gold is nothing to it. Take a chap who’s a good mining mate and a decent trooper, with no more use for the airs of officers than you’ve got, put a couple of imitation bronze stars on his shoulder, and you’ve turned him into a cocky ass, who’ll slate you for fatigue if you tell him as much as where he came from and where he’d go if he’d take advice. Officers ought to be elected, that’s what I think; and I can think as good as anyone.”

  The sight of a three-inch red collar with gold lace on it to Jeremy was more irritating than a red flag to a black bull. A monocle acted on him as fulminate of mercury does on dynamite. So a jaunt shoulder-to-shoulder with him through the streets of Berlin was hardly a soporific. He took to imitating the swagger of the Prussian officers, with a silver coin stuck in his eye by way of emphasis. And Jeremy Ross is noticeable — a regular “corn-stalk,” still wearing his big felt hat — lean, long-legged, striding like a horseman, none too comfortable on his feet; a handsome fellow, whom the women glanced at twice, which in itself was good ground for a quarrel in the Prussia of those days. So the Prussians had to notice him.

  Still, somehow or other I contrived to keep him out of actual difficulties, even when he refused to give up his chair at a restaurant table in order that a party of Uhlan officers might have the corner of the beer-garden to themselves. I daresay the size of the two of us, added to our obvious unity of determination, had something to do with the officers’ haughty retirement from the scene; but the proprietor wouldn’t serve us after that, and Jeremy’s wrath boiled over. He reached the conclusion that all Prussian arrogance was bluff, and when we strode out together after half-an-hour I knew that trouble was inevitable. But I liked him finely, and stood by.

  It came even quicker than I expected. We were walking up a street that leads into Unter den Linden, remarking the free figure and neat ankles of an American girl going the same way about twenty yards in front of us. The sight started Jeremy to bragging about the female loveliness of New South Wales.

  “None like ’em! None like ’em anywhere. A man couldn’t be a polygamist in New South. One of our girls is worth a hundred from anywhere else in the world, and do your own picking. I’m going home again. A man’s a fool to leave Australia.”

  The girl ahead of us was a tourist obviously. She was carrying parcels in both arms and had a camera slung over her shoulder by a strap. She was unused to Berlin, for she tried to take the wall of a monocled, high collared von in cavalry uniform who came clinking his saber and spurs down-street. I suppose nobody but the traffic cop in her home city had ever challenged her right of way before.

  Well, the Prussian behaved according to type. He bore what he had been taught to think was dignity in mind, shouldered her out into the middle of the side-walk, knocking both parcels from her hands; and then he smirked at her with a view to starting flirtation. According to the code, she ought to have felt flattered by his attention; but being merely an American, uneducated in such matters, and seeing he made no attempt to spoil his corset by stooping to pick up the parcels, she looked about for a man. She seemed bewildered — hardly indignant at first — I think she was too much taken by surprize for that. The Prussian probably mistook her blush for a symptom of admiration for himself, for he murmured something and tried to take her arm.

  She shook herself free of him at almost exactly the same second that Jeremy’s fist took the Prussian in the jaw, sending him crupper over neck into the gutter. And it proved entirely characteristic of Jeremy that he ignored the Prussian forthwith, picked up the lady’s parcels, and began a flirtation in his own way, on his own account. You’d have thought, if there had been time to think, that no such incident as spoiling a Prussian’s dignity had ever taken place in his young life.

  The Prussian didn’t do much thinking. He was automatic. He scrambled to his feet, livid and bristling with all the rage he felt entitled to, and drew his saber. He didn’t shout, or even swear. He had seen Jeremy and me together, and it was all one to him which of us had struck him. He came for the nearest of us, which happened to be me. And I didn’t do much thinking either.

  A man with a long saber is at a disadvantage at close quarters against any one with strength enough to use his hands as nature intended. I don’t like bloodshed, particularly mine, so I took his toy away from him and broke it. I have been told since that that is considered a horrible indignity to put on a military person, and if I had realized as much at the time I dare say I wouldn’t have broken the thing. I could have thrown it across the street, for instance. However, the harm was done.

  Most of the mere civilians in sight proved their meanness by scattering for cover — didn’t want to be called as witnesses, most likely. The only non-military gent who took an interest in the proceedings was a cabman, who drove past, turned and drove back again, willing to be anybody’s friend at so much per. I gave the Prussian the two pieces of his sword, supposing he would enjoy making himself scarce at once, and signaled to the cabman to come and get him. But there were lots of things I didn’t know in those days.


  Jeremy was still talking to the girl — Miss Eliot I remember her name was. Honestly, I believe he had almost forgotten the whole incident. When the Prussian beckoned and a policeman came running with drawn sword, Jeremy didn’t realize in the least that he was the goal — or rather, that the nearest jail was goal, and we three meant for footballs.

  Several officers passed across the street half a block away, and our friend with the broken sword shouted to them. I knew enough German to get the gist of his remarks, and enough of politics to be aware that jail is no place from which to address your embassy, if you hope for satisfactory results. Besides, five more officers were straining their corset laces badly in a hurry to help their man; even with Jeremy to aid me, I couldn’t take all their swords away. It was time now to act first and think afterwards.

  The policeman was loud-mouthed and importunate. He ordered us, Miss Eliot included, to march to the jail in front of him, and seemed to expect us to do it. I’m told we broke no less than nine laws by refusing to obey him; he brandished his sword in my face, but did not strike, and I believe the ass thought I was trying to help him when I seized Jeremy by the neck and shook him, to make him see sense. He wanted to stay there and fight all Berlin. I caught the eye of the cabman, who drew up as close to us as he dared on the far side of the street. It did not take any persuading to get Miss Eliot into the cab, but I had to use violence on Jeremy, who has never since quite forgiven me for spoiling what he swears would have been a gorgeous victory. He went into the cab backwards, using bad words freely.

  That sort of thing was evidently not unknown in Berlin, for the cabman needed no instructions. He whipped the pretty good horse to a gallop, and turned two corners before speaking. Then, slowing down to a trot as he turned a third corner, he leaned back to drive his bargain. He said he supposed that the gnädige Herrschaften had the British Embassy in mind.

  But Jeremy and I were as one man in denouncing that suggestion. “The whole British Empire isn’t worth a damn to a chap in trouble,” laughed Jeremy. “They’d simply hand us over to the Square-heads. Maybe yes, if we had coronets embroidered on our underwear, but the socks I stole from a duke in the Boer War made the squadron jealous on the trooper going home, so I auctioned ’em off to the crew and as like as not they’re in Hongkong or Yokohama. No, we can’t pose as dukes. Let’s try your embassy.”