by Talbot Mundy
He entered briskly. There was a flower on the lapel of his well-cut British suit. He looked well, lithe, humorous. His olive skin, fresh from the barber, shone with apparent youth, although he was almost fifty years of age. He was a small-boned man, with rather hairy hands and small feet. Nothing about him except his eyes suggested danger, importance, or even much experience. But the crows’ feet at the corners told their tale, and his eyes were slightly simian, brown, brilliant, a bit too close together, with a habit of narrowing slightly after one swift, penetrating glance.
He sat down, He and the Rajah usually conversed in French or English to avoid being understood by servants, who were always lurking where they should not and who always carried tales to the zenana. The Rajah scowled. Syed-Suraj smiled.
“You’ll be dead soon,” he remarked, “so be gay. Let the money-lenders worry.”
“Damn the money-lenders,” said the Rajah. “I would sell my entire State for the price of a trip to Europe.”
“But you can’t, dear boy. It’s mortgaged for more than it’s worth. Why be impractical? Besides, imagine what might happen if you went away. You know as well as I do that the priests are playing poker with a whole pack up their sleeves. They’d frame you in your absence. They already accuse you of neglect — of withholding temple revenues — of personal defilement—”
That last was a sore point and the Rajah sputtered, cursing the priests of Kali in a language enriched by ages for just that purpose. The expense of being undefiled was bad enough — they have a special rate for Rajahs — but the worst part was the tedious ceremonies. He shuddered to think of them.
“And,” said Syed-Suraj, “they again demand fulfillment of your promise to rebuild that damned old temple in the jungle. You would have made that promise over my dead body, had I been here when you came to the throne.”
“But, damn your eyes, I had to make it,” said the Rajah. “They pretended they knew all about my elder brother’s death. If a lying rumor had come to the ears of the British that he died of poison—”
“Yes, that might have been inconvenient. But rumor and proof, dear boy, are not the same thing, even if your brother’s death was slightly opportune, and even if he was cremated rather in a hurry. The point is now, that you can’t keep your promise about that because you lack the necessary funds. They know that. Nevertheless, they are using pressure — propaganda — and that tiger. If you shoot the tiger they will charge you with sacrilege, which won’t cut any ice except with half the population, who will probably refuse to pay their taxes. Swallow that one! If you don’t go and shoot the tiger you will hear from Smith about it—”
“Damn Smith! Damn his middle-class morality! Oh, damn his father and his mother and his—”
“Smith is all right,” said Syed-Suraj. “As a representative of the British Raj at the court of a reigning Prince he is rather a joke, I admit — or a bore, whichever way you look at it. But what if he weren’t lazy and had some brains and self-respect? You’re lucky to have such a fossil to deal with. When he retires on pension, two or three months from now, you’ll be out of luck; there can’t be two politicals like Smith in India, and if there were, the law of averages would keep them from sending the other to succeed this man. I advise you to get things straightened out before a new man comes in Smith’s place.”
“To hell with the British!”
“Not so loud!” said Syed-Suraj. “They, too, have their difficulties, but their ears are as long as a mule’s and—”
“Blather! Their day’s done. They’ve lost their grip on India — lost it, I tell you. They’ll be gone in a couple of years. And then the deluge. Then we’ll have the old times back again.”
“Not yet! And meanwhile, Smith will be compelled to make himself a nuisance. How can he help it? The British have sent that fat scoundrel, Chullunder Ghose, to spy and report—”
The Rajah sat suddenly upright. “Isn’t that brute dead yet? I arranged—”
Syed-Suraj interrupted: “Yes, I know you did, and it was very thoughtless. He’s the C.I.D.’s pet undercover man. Do you remember when he came two years ago and asked you to employ Hawkes? Do you remember I cautioned you not to refuse? He wanted Hawkes placed here to keep an eye on you. If you had turned Hawkes down, Chullunder Ghose would have flooded the State with Hindu spies, and those dogs would have framed you for the sake of their own advancement; whereas Hawkes plays cricket. Nobody could make Hawkes tell a lie or shirk work. He’s a good servant and he saves you money.”
“All right,” said the Rajah, “but Chullunder Ghose is—”
“Sui generis. He might be much worse. Bump him off — and see then what descends on you! It might be utterly impossible to prove you ordered it, but nobody would doubt it. The C.I.D. would be out for revenge; they value that man. They would send a mob of expert second-raters, who would do exactly what the priests want — frame you and force you to abdicate. The priests, you know as well as I do, want your cousin on the throne.”
“He’ll never get there,” said the Rajah. “He already has what he thinks are ulcers of the stomach. If your doctor from Madras is half as good as you pretend, the priests will soon have the mortification of conducting funeral ceremonies for their darling nominee for my throne. I see humor in that.”
Syed-Suraj blew his nose and glanced at the Rajah’s face over his handkerchief.
“Well,” he remarked, “his death won’t help you at the moment. Neither would it help in the least to kill that fat babu.”
“I have ordered him killed.”
“Then countermand it.”
“It is too late.”
“He is probably your best friend in the circumstances. He is not a trouble-maker. He has a genius for pulling the plugs of trouble and letting it pour down the drain. That is undoubtedly why the C.I.D. have sent him.”
“He is dead,” said the Rajah. “That is, he’s as good as dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I can’t do any more than give you good advice.”
“Oh yes, you can.” The Rajah stood up. He chested himself. He struck the attitude that always had effect with certain sorts of women, but that did not deceive Syed-Suraj for a moment. “Take my Rolls-Royce, and go and borrow money for me. Go to Ram Dass; he has plenty.”
“Twenty-five percent,” said Syed-Suraj.
“What do I care?”
“He will also take a note for twenty-five percent more than he really lends you.”
“I will sign it.”
“And Ram Dass will show your note to the priests.”
“To hell with them!”
“They will say you now have money and must rebuild that temple immediately.”
“What? During the monsoon? Impossible! Go and get me some money.”
“You might offer me a little douceur!”
“Damn it, what becomes of all the money that you wheedle from me?”
Syed-Suraj closed his eyes a trifle. Then he contrived to look hurt.
“Any one of the servant-girls in your zenana costs you more than I do,” he retorted. “Most of what you give me is spent on your business — on informers, for instance. Do you think spies work for nothing?”
“I am certain you don’t,” said the Rajah. “Dammit — all right — five percent. And don’t ask for another rupee for a twelve-month. Do you hear me?”
CHAPTER 4. “This is from the fat babu who ate your dinner”
Across the border, five hundred yards from the railway station, in a corrugated iron barn that faced a yard at the back of the Sikh’s dispensary, by the light of a gasoline lantern Stanley Copeland labored and forgot the weather. Rain drove in between the joints of the iron walls and drummed on the iron roof. Sometimes the lantern blew out at critical moments and the Sikh had to come to the rescue with his flashlight. The operating table was a thing of planks and trestles that had to be scrubbed at intervals with soap and water. There was a very slim supply of anaesthetics, and the Sikh was ignorant as well as nervous, a
lthough willing. There were no nurses — no trained help whatever.
But the Sikh had snatched at opportunity. The moment he was sure Copeland really would come he had gone hard at work at propaganda. He had promised that the greatest surgeon in the world would operate, free, gratis, and for nothing, on anyone, no matter who he was or what might be the matter with him. And the only reason why the Sikh had not been at the train to meet Copeland was that his dispensary was chock-a-block with patients clamoring for first turn. He had had to drive them out into the rain and lock the door on them before daring to leave the place; they might have wrecked it.
So, instead of restricting himself to eyes, with occasional side-ventures to an ear or throat, Copeland had been forced to tackle almost all the horrible and crippling ailments known to Asia. He had amputated gangrened legs, attended to enlarged spleens, opened abscesses, adjusted and set compound fractures, cauterized dog-bites, treated ague, diagnosed and taken chances with afflicted kidneys, livers — anything and everything. And luck was with him, as it usually is with men who pull their coats off and go straight ahead at what needs doing, even though they don’t know how to do it. Nobody had died yet on the operating table. Seven days, of fourteen hours’ work each, had gone by and the waiting list still grew. The sleepless Sikh was half-hysterical, but happy. Copeland had begun to dream he really might amount to something some day, which is half the battle. He could see himself getting the high-priced custom in Chicago or New York. And then a messenger arrived — a dish-faced messenger.
He came in grinning, dripping, with a flour-sack hooded on his head and shoulders. He was otherwise naked except for a breech-cloth. In his hand he held a cleft stick, in which a note was tied securely, wrapped in a scrap of goatskin. He refused to wait outside although a cancerous nose was being amputated. He refused to give the message to the Sikh. He forced his way in and waited patiently, amused by the removal of the nose and now and then feeling his own to make sure it was still there. When the job was finished and he had given up the note to Copeland, he offered to help scrub the operating table. He was not in the least discouraged or offended by the Sikh’s rebuff, but watched the Sikh’s assistant for a minute and then, being quite a person, pushed the incompetent duffer aside and did the whole job perfectly, in quick time.
Copeland lit his pipe with the fourth or fifth match — matches and tobacco being damp. Then he studied the note before he opened it. He only vaguely recognized the dish-faced man and was not really sure he remembered him. There was nobody who ought to write to him; no one, in fact whom he knew on the country-side. The thing suggested trouble, or perhaps an urgent call for surgical help in some outlying district, so he scowled at it. However, he was the kind of man who likes to hit his troubles on the snout, not run away. So at last he opened it. The address read:
“To the Skin ’em alive-o Doctor sahib at the Sikh’s dispensary. — From Babu C.G.”
That was impudent, but not discouraging. Besides, the messenger was a genuine human being with a good grin, who appeared to believe in working while he waited. That, too, was a favorable sign. He unfolded the paper and read on:
“This is from the fat babu who ate your dinner. Cheerio. How are you? Please excuse the paper, but the nearest shop is more than twenty miles away and the miles are mud if you can find them under water. I am curious to know if you are still premeditating battle with a tiger? Or have you slain so many people on the operating table that the thought of even lawful murder sickens you? If you are still ferocious, oil your gun but wait for kubber. If you are still the gentlemanly sportsman that I took you for, be kind enough to hold your tongue about it, because silence feeds no flies, of which there are a lot too many. Please send back an answer by this messenger and tell me whether you would back your skill against a belly-trouble, said to be an ulcer but suspected by me to be more of a family token of regard. It might be possible to bag the tiger and assault the ulcer at the same time. Point is: will you do it?[BR] [BR] “Please don’t pay the messenger, it spoils him. Give him two spots of the cheapest whisky you can get and kick him forth to come and find me with your answer. Hoping the supply of crushed and otherwise intriguing eyes is holding out; and wishing with all my heart that you were here to buy me drinks and dinner — alas, I have none of either! I remain, Your Honor’s most respectful servant,
“C.G.
“P.S. — And remember, there is no such person!”
Copeland thought a minute — thought of the work to be done where he was, and of the mud and the rain outside. He almost tore the note up — almost told the messenger to say “no answer.” But the messenger grinned and the grin was good. And he remembered then that the fat babu had smiled like someone who was safe to bet on. So he handed the messenger two rupees and told him:
“Go and buy yourself some whisky. Come back when you’ve drunk it.”
Then he wrote on a piece of dispensary paper:
“From S.C. to C.G. This is a telegram. Try me. I don’t believe you.”
He folded it, sealed it with a lump of candle-grease, impressed his thumb- mark, wrapped it in the goatskin, tied it in the cleft stick, set it where the messenger could see it on a stool beside the door, then:
“Come on,” he said to the Sikh, “bring in your next case. At this rate it’ll be midnight before we’ve done a day’s work.”
CHAPTER 5. “I need a new knife, sahib”
Chullunder Ghose sat in the dark cart, enjoying motion after days of sitting still and being talked to by ignorant villagers. It was slow motion; the big wheels sank deep in the mud and the horses paused at frequent intervals to gather strength; but the horses were as keen as the driver on reaching the journey’s end, so they pulled their best. The silence — he enjoyed that also — was comparative; the important thing was that the driver made no conversation. Countless millions of frogs made such a din that he could hardly hear the splashing of the horses’ hoofs or the squeak of an oil-less wheel. But none of those facts excused carelessness; the business of being “purposely misunderstood” demands unceasing and acute attention.
It may be that the comfort of a heavy blanket made him sleepy. He felt sure, too, that he had left behind a village that was friendly to himself, whatever hatreds or intrigues might dwell there. But probably he himself could not have told exactly why he let his normally alert and intensely intelligent senses slumber while he mused and pondered. He was chuckling over the letter he had sent by messenger to Doctor Copeland, and envying the almost superhuman skill and courage of the messenger who swam that swollen ford without as much as hesitating on the brink, when his turban fell over his eye and he felt a blow on the back of the head that almost stunned him. But he had felt the blow. He could still feel it. Therefore he knew he was not too badly hurt, and in the dark the odds were in his favor yet, whoever the enemy might be. Between him and the driver was a curtain of heavy cloth that made the inside of the cart so absolutely dark that he knew his assailant must have struck at random. Probably some enemy had crawled in over the cart-tail and was now crouching amid the litter of empty sacks and goatskins, waiting to see what his blow had accomplished. Those thoughts took a fraction of a second.
In another fraction of a second Chullunder Ghose had stripped his blanket off and bulked it, holding it at arm’s length in his left hand. Beneath it, with his left foot, he kicked on the floor of the cart to suggest his own whereabouts. He felt a club hit the blanket. He pounced. A man as wet as a fish, and as slippery, writhed in his grasp, and even the babu’s prodigious strength was hardly enough to hold him; he had to grab the man’s hair and almost strangle him with his left arm while he thumped him breathless with his right knee. The driver heard the intense, swift struggle, and pulled the curtain aside to ask what the trouble might be. Chullunder Ghose mastered his breath:
“Another passenger. He overtook us. I invited him to ride.”
“He should pay,” said the driver. “Such a journey as this may break my cart and harm my horses. It is enou
gh that—”
“It is enough that your crows’ meat pull so feebly that this cripple overtook us!” the babu retorted. “Drive on. I will pay you with a kick in the teeth if I hear another word from you!”
“Shameless ingrate! I will turn back,” said the driver.
“Try it! See what happens!”
It was too late to turn back; it was already nearly as far to the encampment by the ford as it was to the city. And to turn about meant facing wind and rain. The driver made a virtue of convenience.
“I made a promise. It is better that I keep it. I will pray your honor to be generous.”
He closed the curtain, and Chullunder Ghose relaxed the pressure on his assailant’s throat, but he did not let go of his hair. He seized an arm and twisted it.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Besides being a jungle-bum with less brains than an animal, what are you?”
“Have pity, sahib!”
“Answer before I break your neck, you murderer!”
“And if I answer, what then?”
“Pity, perhaps; and perhaps a thrashing; possibly a rupee. Who knows? Was it Soonya who sent you?”
“Nay, nay, sahib! We of the village laid our heads together.”
“And the honey of united wisdom came forth?”
“Sahib, we thought if your honor should make complaint in the city about the tiger, then there might be trouble from the priestess.”
“You should have said that to me before I left you.”
“But we did not think of it until your honor crossed the river. Then we guessed that your honor had lied about being a spokesman for the dok-i-tar sahib who skins eyes. Some said you are probably a politician; and we agreed that much trouble might come, and of that we have plenty, without more of it.”
