by Talbot Mundy
“Then what?”
“Then what? Damn you, I will let the priests win! I will let you abdicate! And you shall die in prison in the Andamans, where they will neither give you champagne nor expensive women! Shoot me — go on, shoot me! I am unimportant. I am only the one person who can save you from enforced abdication!”
“Curses on your black soul!” said the Rajah.
“If I thought I could trust you—”
“You can’t! You can’t trust anyone,” the babu answered. “My employers trust me. That is all you can depend on. It is your luck that they don’t want any scandal. They have sent me to preserve them from the bad embarrassment of forcing you to abdicate, at this time when political strain is too severe already. You can no more trust me than I trust you. But you can use your judgment. Have the whisky and the women left you any?”
“Damn you—”
“Do I get the elephant?”
“When?”
“Now!”
“Do you mean you are for me, not against me?”
“I am dead against you! But I have my orders to save you from the Andamans. Do I get he elephant?”
“Yes.”
“Give the order.”
“Presently. About Hawkes? What do you wish done about him?”
“I will tell you about Hawkesey when the elephant is at the front door.”
“You annoy me,” said the Rajah. “I advise you, it is dangerous to do that.”
“Is it?” asked the babu, bulging out his stomach. “Let me tell you then, that I am fat from too much danger that has never happened! It is you who are in danger. I would rather see you dead than prosperous, so hurry up! Unless I have an elephant in fifteen minutes—”
“Twenty,” the Rajah answered. With an air of bitter resignation he returned the nickel-plated weapon to the drawer. “It will take them all of twenty minutes to get him saddled. Wait here.”
“While you shoot the doctor? It will take me twenty minutes to instruct him,” said the babu. “It is not so simple as, perhaps, you think, to save your face and keep my conscience at the same time! Let us hope you have no conscience; that may save your Presence from the horror of repentance at the end!”
CHAPTER 14. “We nibblers at the thread say nothing”
Behind Hawkes was the light from the fire he had built. He also held a flashlight that exactly indicated where he was, although it also aided him as long as he kept it switched on. It showed him a hole in the wall, down which the inscrutable woman slid, heels first; and it showed him her head at the foot of the hole, when she landed on something firm and waited for him. But he switched it off then, in order to spare one hand for his rifle and the other for groping. He could slide in the dark, and he did. But when he switched it on again before reaching the bottom it made him a mark for any one who might be lying in wait for him.
Suddenly, then, he remembered he was naked from the waist up — no spare ammunition; all the extra shells were in the pocket of his coat that was waiting its turn to be dried at the fire. His curiosity, or possibly the woman’s weird appearance, or her magnetism, whatever that is, had obliterated caution. He cursed himself and instantly decided to climb back, to get his coat and reconsider tactics. A bat in his face increased his eagerness. He directed his flashlight up the hole — and felt his feet seized from beneath him.
He had carried his rifle muzzle-upward, to protect the sight, and from habit, and because the butt might come in handy to provide a purchase on the rough wall. Now there was no room to turn the weapon end for end; it was as useless as a protest in an earthquake. Worse, it occupied his right hand. And he clutched at his watch with his left hand — that precious watch that he kept in the padded, buttoned pocket underneath his belt. So he dropped the flashlight, heard it clatter downward, and the next he knew its rays were focused on him.
He was jerked out from the hole so violently that he was almost stunned when his head struck masonry; but he hung on to the rifle and his thumb snapped off the safety catch as automatically as his other hand had gone to the protection of the watch. He could see nothing except his flashlight pointed at him. He was lying in a pool of white light on a black floor — onyx — black marble — something smooth and slippery; and he discovered that his feet were in a noose. He sat up suddenly to aim his rifle at the flashlight, and was equally suddenly jerked to his back again. Someone snatched his rifle then and twisted it out of his grip. Whoever that was, whispered:
“Sorry to be so rough, sahib — take it easy!’” Good plain English! But the noose around his feet was plainer than a hint too. So was the butt of his own beloved .577, poised in the path of the flashlight, over his nose and near enough to explain exactly what it meant. He saw now that the woman held the flashlight; but the rope that held his feet went taut into the dark beyond her.
Pride has its very peculiar way with individuals, no two reacting quite alike. It made Hawkes silent. It was pride in his own resourcefulness that told him, if he said nothing and did nothing, surprising opportunity would offer him the upper hand in due time. Why waste effort? Why not fool the adversary, meanwhile, with a show of sulky submission? He lay still, hoping his hands would escape being tied. But that was a vain hope.
He who held the rifle set a lean knee on his neck and pinned him to the hard floor, forcing him to writhe to one side to avoid suffocation. He raised his hands to strike at the knee, or to seize and twist it. Both hands were instantly caught and drawn tight in another noose. The pressure on his neck ceased, but his hands were pulled over his head and he lay stretched like a felon awaiting the rack. It was a very neat job; even Hawkes admitted that. He was as angry as a noosed gorilla, and about as likely to forgive his assailants, but he was curious too. He had bumped his head, but why in thunder had they been so thoughtful not to hurt him worse than that? And why the devil did the woman stand there saying nothing?
He began to be drawn, on his back, by the feet. Whoever had charge of his hands kept that rope taut enough to make struggling useless. As he passed the woman she spat on him. Suddenly, then, the torch was snatched out of the woman’s hand and switched off. He heard a blow that sounded as if the woman’s arm had struck someone, and he heard a knife go slithering along the floor. After that he was dragged in great haste, scraped around a corner, down some steps, where the man behind him raised him by the shoulders, presumably to save him from being skinned on the stone treads, and then carried by two men through a door. He heard it slam behind him.
“Sahib,” said a voice, “we thank you in the name of our employer.”
“What for?” Sullenness was melted by astonishment; Hawkes could not keep his tongue still.
“That you let us avoid the wrath of our employer.”
“Who’s he?”
“He insisted we are not to hurt you. Did we?”
“Damn your eyes, who is he?”
“But he ordered us to seem to be your honor’s enemies, in order that your honor may assist us.”
“Turn a light on!”
“But we are to warn your honor not to use the rifle — not yet.”
“Strike a light, I tell you! Let me up, God dammit!”
“Babu Chullunder Ghose said also that your honor is depended on to listen to us two and not be angry with us.”
“What’s his number?” Hawkes asked.
“C.3.”
“What’s yours?”
“We are F.11 and F.15.”
“O.K., I’ll listen to you. Dammit, if you’ve hurt my rifle—”
“Take it, sahib. It is unhurt.”
The spokesman switched on the flashlight that he had snatched from the woman in passing. He grinned.
“She had a knife under her goatskin, but I knew it. Slash your throat and feed you to the tiger too soon — that was her idea. But I tricked her. And now I shall have to persuade her all over again.”
Hawkes stood up, kicking his feet free from the noose. He examined his rifle.
“What the hel
l d’you mean by too soon?” he demanded. Then he stared at two men dressed in yellow smocks, their hair a mess of yellow clay. They looked like religious pilgrims; on their foreheads were the yellow-ocher signature of Kali’s chosen. They were worshipers of Death, if signs meant anything. One of the men was lighting a hurricane lamp in a corner. He was using Swedish safety matches. As soon as the lamp was properly alight the other man switched off the flashlight.
“Let us save that. We shall need it. She — that woman — knows you are the Rajah’s agent. She supposes you have come to kill her tiger. She would have knifed you if we hadn’t coaxed her to reserve you for a special offering to Kali. We persuaded her that there would certainly be trouble unless the tiger kills you in the open and it looks like accident. And we agreed to tie you, and then loose you in the tiger’s way some evening. But you see what she is; she can’t wait. She’s a bad one.”
“Why not noose her then, the same as you did me?” Hawkes asked him. “Drag her to Kutchdullub. Chuck her in the clink. I’ll interview her tiger. Let me get my eye on him at fifty or a hundred—”
“Steady, sahib! He who sent us is an artful person. If we take this woman to the kana, who can prove anything against her? But it will prove to the priests that we are their enemies; and the priests will prove it to the people, who will riot. One priest is a better liar than a hundred lawyers, and a lawyer is no duffer at it, God knows. They will turn lies loose against us like a swarm of hornets. And the worst is, they will say the British have a hand in it. They will say that the British are aiming plots at their religion, we being men of the C.I.D., which is a British agency. It would be true; and the truth is deadly dangerous, except as one friend to another.”
Hawkes stared at the fellow’s straight nose and at his hungry, fierce eyes; they were fierce with savage laughter.
“If you couldn’t see a joke, you’d be a damned keen killer on your own hook, I’ll bet! What’s the game now?”
“Sahib, wait for C.3. He and we are mice that nibble at the thread by which a sword is hanging over someone.”
“Politics, eh?” Hawkes scorned the word; he never used it except as an insult.
“Nay, sahib, not so. Politics is talk, of which there is already too much. Is a politician he who lets the pythons strangle one another? Nay, a politician seeks the stronger side. Then he robs both the loser and winner and says: ‘Behold me, what a paragon I am!’ But we — we nibblers at the thread — say nothing, and rob no one.”
“I can’t wait here,” Hawkes said savagely. He hated mysteries. He had a .577 that he felt could easily solve this one. “C.3 wanted me to find out how they get a man-killer to come back when they call him. I’m to go to Kutchdullub and tell him. How’s it managed?”
“We will show you, sahib.”
“Any priests here?” Hawkes asked.
“No, not priests, but devotees, such as we are supposed to become when the spirit overcomes and overwhelms us. Do you understand that?”
“No,” he answered sulkily. He did not wish to understand it. But as thieves delight in teaching thieves, and scientists delight in teaching scientists, the C.I.D. exists because its members passionately love their art and teach it, as it might be music, to whoever has the O.K. of a master of their guild.
“It is the same as Thuggee, sahib. Thuggee never died out. It was a religion. A religion never dies, although, it can be changed into another form. So when the British set the C.I.D. to wipe out Thuggee; and its devotees, who slew by stealth for the sake of slaying, saw the shadow of the gallows — and the slayers, though they love death, love not that death; then they had to seek another way of worship. So they sought this. And it is also like the death beneath the wheels of juggernaut. And it is also like the death by suttee. Only this is far more dreadful.”
“And they like it dreadful?” Hawkes asked.
“Drama, sahib! They are unlike the little weaklings, who go in gangs and flatter one another. They are like lone criminals, on whom a spirit of crime has cast its shadow; or like great conquerors, on whom the breath of war has breathed. They achieve aloofness and aloneness. And the drama they devise is for themselves alone. It is not crime or conquest that they serve — or profit; and it is not fame they seek — or justice. Neither is it pride. And they are not mad — not as common madmen are. They see crime, or they see death as a drama; and themselves its climax. Slay — then be slain; it is all one.”
“They may kill ‘emselves for all of me,” said Hawkes.
“And why not, sahib? But a man must understand them if he hopes to serve the C.I.D. and grapple with the brainy ones who turn such drama to their own ends.”
Hawkes spat. He reached for his pipe and tobacco — remembered again that he had no coat on — swore irritably. Then he answered:
“Out o’ my line. I’m not C.I.D. I never would be. I like give and take above the bellyband. To hell with sneaking in and out o’ holes.”
“But if the secrets are in holes? You shall look at this one, sahib.”
F.11 signed to F.15, who took the lantern and led downwards into smelly darkness, by a flight of stone steps in the thickness of a wall whose seams not even an earthquake had been able to enlarge. The darkness stank. There was a silence that not even Hawkes’ boots could shatter with Fusilier tramp on the masonry.
“Where’s that woman?” Hawkes asked.
“You shall see her, sahib. I must tie your hands now. Even in the darkness that is better; one might come and feel you.”
No less suddenly than Thugs were used to whip their scarf around the throats of victims, F.11 noosed Hawkes’ arms. F.15 had snatched the rifle from his hand and he was pinioned like a gallows bird before he could start to resist.
“It must not be forgotten, sahib, that a death awaits your honor! It is by your honor’s death that we two may achieve the ecstasy that shall prepare us also for the embrace of Kali!”
Sullen silence fell on Hawkes again. He could have kicked and done some damage, but not enough to make the offense worth while. So he grinned while he gritted his teeth; he had had enough of indignities and somebody would pay — unless —
“Are these blokes fooling me?” he wondered. “They could have learned those numbers — easy. Am I for it?” He could feel the goose-flesh rising on his bare skin; and the stench of a charnel-house sickened him. “Chullunder Ghose said nothing about these men. Why, I wonder? Maybe they’ve been spying on him, that’s what!” He began to think about his mother and his sisters. “Dole!” How he hated the word.
CHAPTER 15. “Not yet!”
There was a goatskin on a shelf of masonry. It was sewn like an enormous short sleeve. F.15 used it to cover the lantern, and then it was pitch dark except for the blood-colored glow on his knuckles where the bail just topped the goatskin. So it felt like following a dead man’s hand into the morgue at midnight. Or a graveyard. Or a pit where paupers’ corpses lie awaiting God’s worms.
The abominable stench grew sharper as a passage curved round the roots of broken columns, amid debris over which Hawkes stumbled. There was only a glimpse now and then of a column lying prone beneath the wreck of a colossal roof — until the glimpses presently became a dim reality, and suddenly the passage opened on a segment of gallery, on which about a dozen tiny clay lamps flickered. There had been a balustrade round the gallery, but that had fallen. Perched round the edge, beside the little lamps, sat humans, chins on knees, like vultures at a Parsee charnel-tower. And the stench came upward, from a darkness that suggested death made solid. The little grease-fed, smoky flames round the gallery resembled yellow tongues that sought to slake undying thirst.
The human vultures glanced uneasily, as vultures on a roof do, at the sound of Hawkes’s boots on the masonry. Then they resumed their vigil, staring downward. F.11 whispered, so Hawkes sat between him and F.15, with his legs tucked under him; but they sat like the others, chin on knees, with their arms round their shins. The gallery was only three feet wide; Hawkes set his back ag
ainst the wall and shuddered. It would be a lot too easy for his guides to seize him, one on either hand, and shove him over. He could almost feel himself go. He shut his eyes — then opened them and forced himself to stare into the dark, polluted silence.
Then he saw eyes. They were green. They were not, they were red — no, green — no, one was green and one red. They were both green. They were moving. Up and down a trifle; then from side to side and back again — as much as twenty feet each way — faster and then slower. They were deep down somewhere, and no guessing how near — fifty — a hundred — a hundred and fifty feet away — no, fifty. And they seemed to be in mid-air. But they were too big for a bird’s eyes; and never a bird flew as that one did. They were enormous. No, they were not; they were yellow, and they shrank. They were two of the lamp-fires mirrored on stagnant water. But they vanished. And there they were again as big as ever, moving sideways, emerald — then blue-green. Much more swiftly they were moving.
Silence split so suddenly that Hawkes’s heart checked, then hammered on his ribs. It was neither a growl, nor a whine, nor a snarl, but all three, ending in a harsh cough.
“Tiger!”
Now he recognized them; tiger’s eyes, weird in darkness, made that way by nature to confuse all others. And it was easier to guess, now that he knew what they were. They were thirty feet down, and twice that much distant, moving to and fro behind a barrier of some sort, but he could only imagine the barrier. They were catching the light from the tiny clay lamps and reflecting it.
In the gruesome stillness Hawkes suddenly heard a footfall. It was heavy — careless; something rolled away as if kicked. It sounded unlike stone. And then there was light — a little blaze of tinder, leaping into crimson as a resinous torch caught fire. It was the woman. She was perched on a broken column, seated slightly above Hawkes’s level, to one side of a circular pit, whose roof consisted of a mass of fallen masonry supported by its own dead weight against surrounding walls. She shook her torch. Amid the leaping shadows, thirty feet beneath him, as he stared, Hawkes saw human ribs, skulls, thigh-bones, scattered amid fallen debris — then a tiger and tigress, she behind a barrier of upright stone bars, rubbing herself against them, as if fawning on the male. He stood as close as he could get to her, magnificent and startled, staring up at the torch. He blinked at the light. He snarled and showed his eye-teeth. His tail twitched in and out of shadow. He crouched. He slunk away towards the dark mouth of a tunnel — turned round a shapeless heap of masonry and changed his mind — turned back again and stared up at the broken gallery — then coughed and sprang like lightning at the column on which the woman sat. His leap fell short of her by twenty feet. He tried it three times. Then he slunk back to the tigress, who was frantic; she was flowing back and forth behind the stone bars like a shadow with emerald eyes.
