by Talbot Mundy
“Who the hell did you suppose it was? Get down off there — or let me up — I’m scuppered!”
“What has happened, Hawkesey?”
“I’ve a message for you. Lost my elephant! He went into a panic when a buffalo got up and startled him. He crashed into the jungle and brained the mahout on a branch; he brained him deader than a doormat. Then he bogged himself in a mud-hole, and I jumped. He couldn’t climb out. Last I saw of him was bubbles, where his trunk blew ‘Last Post’ through a foot o’ stuff like blue soup. He’d a bullet in him. Soon as I saw he was there for keeps I shot him; then he sank in half a jiffy. That was mid-day. I’ve been walking ever since.”
“I thank you, Hawkesey!” said the babu.
“What for, dammit?”
“Oh, for getting in the way of trouble! You are a very dependable person, Hawkesey! Now I am an optimist! I think that all is well from now on!”
“Cheese it! Hoist me up there. Any liquor?”
“Catch!” Copeland summoned strength enough to throw his whisky-flask. Hawkes recovered it out of the mud, up-ended it and drained it empty. Then the elephant knelt in the mud and Hawkes stared at Copeland by the aid of the flashlight while he leaned against the big beast’s heaving flank.
“I hope that whisky wasn’t all you had,” he said politely. “‘Struth, but I needed it.”
“I’ve another bottle,” said Copeland.
“What is the message, Hawkesey?” asked the babu.
“F.9 — scarecrow in his birthday trousseau and a pair o’ specs. You know him?”
“I have known him when he wore a top-hat, Hawkesey! I have seen him ride a bicycle in plus-fours. He is a very important liar. What did F.9 tell you?”
Hawkes delivered the message. “It’s as Greek to me,” he said, “as algebra. He sassed me when I asked him to explain it. Does it mean much?”
“Hawkesey, yours will be the winning uppercut at Armageddon! Did you shoot that tiger?”
“No chance, dammit! Wish I had! I saw him kill and eat a bloke who asked him to! I never saw the like of it. If I’d been drinking I’d have known I had the D.T.’s. And I didn’t shoot that woman, either; but I will if she ever gets in range o’ my express!”
“F.15 and F.11?”
“On the job. F.9 is with ’em. It was they who tied me so I couldn’t shoot the tiger.”
“God reward them for it! Hawkesey—”
“What now?”
“Are you all in?”
“You’re a Pharaoh, that’s what you are! Do you think I’m a blinkin’ Israelite to go on making blinkin’ bricks for you without no blinkin’ straw? I want supper and sleep.”
“That message, Hawkesey, means that your employer has been paying a physician from Madras to poison his cousin. But because that cousin, Prince Jihangupta, has a body-servant who is loyal; and because F.9 explained the danger to that body-servant, something else was substituted for the poison. So the doctor from Madras is seeking other means of killing him, and we must hurry to prevent it.”
“I’m not stopping you,” Hawkes answered. “I can reach home on foot all right, if I take it easy. Got a sandwich?”
“Your employer, Hawkesey, is behind us. Or at least, I hope he is behind us. He will not come quite so fast as we did, being fonder of his comforts.”
“Don’t I know it. Elephants give him a gut-ache. When he rides ’em you’d think he was going to his own funeral.”
“He may be going to it, Hawkesey. Who knows?”
“Hey? What? Someone set an ambush for him? Maybe I’d better wait right here and warn him as he goes by!”
“Wait, yes. But there isn’t any ambush, Hawkesey. Nobody will kill him. Tell him all that you have seen within that temple. But neglect to tell him that you know he ordered you to shoot the tiger, with intent to sack you afterwards for having committed sacrilege by entering a sacred and forbidden place!”
“The hell he did!”
“It is as true as that I sit here,” said the babu.
“Then he’s worse than I took him for!”
“Lot’s worse, Hawkesey.”
“And he’ll sack me anyhow, if I admit I’ve been into the temple. Sacred places are expressly mentioned in the contract; I mayn’t touch ’em.”
“So we understand each other. Had I asked you not to tell him what you saw in there, we might have argued half a night about it! You are quite right; you would be a fool to tell him.”
“What then?”
“Say that you have heard his cousin will be there at daybreak.”
“What for?”
“To destroy the tiger and to get the credit.”
“But I haven’t heard it.”
“Are you deaf? I told it to you. You may say I told it to you. You may say I am encouraging his cousin to get up out of bed and to steal a march on him and kill that tiger for the sake of gaining popularity, and, at the same time, putting hooks into the priests of Kali, who will have to behave after that, or else be shown up. You may tell the Rajah I am very angry with him for his several attempts to have me murdered.”
“How can I speak civil to him?” Hawkes asked.
The babu leaned out of the howdah, thrusting his face into the rays from the flashlight.
“Be a good sport, Hawkesey! You have done so perfectly that I am prouder of you than a cuckoo that has laid a fresh egg in a foul nest! Don’t go now and spoil it! Swallow anger for the sake of—”
“Damn you, I’ll do anything for you,” said Hawkes, “so cut the Sunday sermon. I’ll wait here and—”
“Offer to go with him to the temple and to help him kill that tiger!”
“Did you hear me say I’m all in?”
“Play the little gentleman, and—”
“What else?”
“Dogged does it, Hawkesey! Here are seven sandwiches. But drink rain — no more whisky! And expect me when you see me. I depend on you to be a true-blue British bulldog of the sort whose ignorance is priceless, and whose errors are so honest that the gods convert them into pitfalls for the enemy!”
“Oh, go to hell!”
“Auf Wiedersehen, Hawkesey!”
“Bong swoir! And the same to you, sir. Thank you for the snifter.”
Then the elephant rose to its feet like something rocked up by an earthquake, and resumed the sucking, plugging sway into the darkness.
“It’s a hell of a night to leave a good guy sitting in the rain,” said Copeland.
“What are good guys for?” the babu answered. “To be put in paper wrappers in a glass case?”
CHAPTER 22. “You shall drink with it to your own health, you devil!”
Pictures burned themselves from then on into Copeland’s mind. They were lurid, with gaps between them, like the midnight glimpses from a railway window. Some of them were like remembered fragments of a nightmare. There was one where the elephant swam the river; part of it was a fantastic fight in darkness with a tree that whirled down-flood. It entangled the elephant’s legs; he tried to dive beneath it, and its branches caught the howdah trappings. Tree and elephant at last were flung against the far bank.
Then there was a two-hour wait beside a smoky bonfire while they fed the elephant on wet rice; and a little whisky for his disposition. Copeland dried and cleaned his rifle by the intermittent glow of firelight, coughing and rubbing the smart of the smoke from his eyes. The mahout refused further duty at that stage, until he was beaten with a fire-brand by the babu, who threatened to kick him into the fire and leave him there. He meant it. He clutched him by the beard and throat and forced him backwards. The mahout capitulated and was given about an ounce of whisky.
Then on again, into the folds of foothills, where the trees went by like black ghosts. There the going became rocky and the elephant’s tired feet began to hurt him, but he was driven mercilessly.
“Show me man or beast who doesn’t have to suffer at some time without knowing why,” said the babu in answer to Copeland’s protests. “Mos
t of us suffer without reward, but this big simpleton will get a hot mash, with some sugar in it, and a gallon of arrack.”
Measureless and timeless darkness — then an oil-lamp throwing wet light on a gate amid enormous trees. A gate-house, and a sleepy gate-man with his turban all awry, who sulkily refused admission.
“I will crash that gate, you son of sixty dogs!” the babu yelled at him. He ordered the mahout to charge it, head-on, but the gate-man ran into the gate- house for his key and let them pass in. Then a winding drive amid a dumpy maze of feathery bamboo and scented shrubs. A dark house. One dim light beneath a portico. A huge bell, that the babu tolled like the knell of hastened destiny. An angry group of servants at a dark door — one wax taper, and a voice like a barking watchdog’s.
“He is ill. You may wait outside until the morning. This is no time to disturb His Highness.”
“Shall I shoot my way in?” asked the babu. He seized the bell-rope — sent a clangor through the night that brought another group of servants on the run from the stables and out-houses. Some of them brought ladders and a chemical fire-engine. Light after light appeared at curtained windows; one jerked open with a screech of unoiled hinges and a voice called:
“What now? What the devil is it?”
“An important message from His Highness the Rajah of Kutchdullub!” the babu shouted, and the window slammed shut.
Then the doctor from Madras appeared in the doorway, in his blue suit and his watch-chain, with his necktie loose. His black beard looked as if he had been sleeping on it.
“You — I want you!” said the babu. The elephant knelt. He climbed out. “Come here — and talk English, or you may regret it!” Then he drove a group of servants out of earshot and beckoned the man from Madras to the side of the howdah. He approached with hesitation, that he tried to offset with an air of insolent importance.
“You?” he said, folding his arms on his chest. “I know you well by sight. Who are you?”
“No one of the least importance,” said the babu. “I am from His Highness of Kutchdullub, who is not pleased. You are too slow! He has sent another doctor — this one — who must see the Prince instanter!”
“He is too ill.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Have you it in writing?”
“Do you take His Highness for a born fool? You are to receive your payment in a certain place at daybreak. After that you may go to the devil. I will take you to the place, and I will be a witness that you are paid-in full — as a precaution against blackmail!”
“I have never heard of such indignity. I—”
An acetylene light in the hall was turned on suddenly. A very weary looking man with strange eyes, in a yellow turban and a yellow robe of flowered silk, came and stood in the doorway. He was shadowed by a servant ready to support him; as he appeared to fear his master might fall backwards. Chullunder Ghose promptly salaamed with both hands to his forehead. Behind them he whispered to Copeland:
“Get out of the howdah!”
He almost pulled Copeland out. He hustled him towards the door.
“Prince Jihangupta,” he said, “it is my privilege to introduce to Your Highness Doctor Copeland of the United States of America who comes in great haste—”
“Why?” the Prince asked, staring. He appeared not to see distinctly. Copeland muttered one word: “Digitalis!”
“He congratulates you!” said the babu.
“I am flattered. But on what account does he congratulate me — and at this hour?”
“Her Majesty Queen Victoria had to be haled out of bed by Lord Melbourne to be told she had succeeded to a throne,” the babu answered. “So we have a precedent to go on. May we speak to Your Highness in private?”
The Prince swayed, but the servant caught his elbows. Then he turned on his heel and led the way into a small room, where his servant lighted candles. It was furnished almost like a monastery cell — wood-paneled, severe, no ornaments, a vaulted ceiling. The servant remained; he merely withdrew into a corner at a sign from the Prince and stood still and alert — a very old man with a young one’s quickness.
“Well, what is it? Is my cousin dead?” the Prince asked.
“Not yet,” said the babu.
Copeland interrupted: “You will be, unless you listen to me! How much digitalis have you taken?”
“But it was not digitalis!” said the Prince, and sat down.
“Let me see your wrist,” said Copeland. He did not touch it; he could see the tell-tale needlemark from where he stood. “How many shots have you had?”
“Two. He — my doctor — says that two more will restore my health entirely.”
“Send that servant for my bag,” said Copeland. But the servant said his say then. He was voluble and he even shed tears. Chullunder Ghose interpreted:
“Who am I to know about such matters? But I know that these hurt no one, so I substituted these for what the doctor gave him — and he lives!”
The servant produced a tin box from his sash. On its cover, in big white words, were the name and the claim of a patent capsule so notorious that reputable druggists will not sell it and some governments refuse to let it pass their frontiers. He went on with his story, and Chullunder Ghose interpreted:
“Today he took a little syringe. What could I do? And he squirted something into the Bahadur’s arm. He did it twice. And now what? Will he die in spite of all my watching?”
“Tell him to bring my bag,” commanded Copeland.
But the servant was afraid to leave his master, so Copeland himself went for the bag, and that took several minutes, because the mahout had taken the elephant towards the stables and was busy arguing about accommodations. When he returned he found the babu talking to the Prince like an auctioneer to a baulky bidder. He caught the end of a sentence:
“You are not the first Prince I have talked to! If it isn’t priests, it’s money-lenders! If it isn’t drink, it’s women! I am nothing but a babu, but I don’t keep my brains in my belly, and I will ruin you unless you listen to me!”
Copeland poured a tumbler nearly full of brandy. “Drink that,” he commanded.
“But I never drink. It is against my—”
“Drink it!”
Then the doctor from Madras came in, his beard brushed and his necktie properly adjusted. He watched the Prince screw up his face as he drank; and he smiled as the Prince wiped teeth and lips with a purified handkerchief to offset the defilement from Copeland’s touch. Then he shrugged his shoulders:
“My responsibility has ceased! If that man’s medicines should kill you—”
“How much did my cousin offer you to poison me?” the Prince asked; and before he could answer the babu turned and faced him:
“Tell it when the Rajah pays you, dog of a hypnotist! Dog of a murderer! You are coming with us!”
The Madrasi turned towards the door, but the babu seized him and flung him backwards almost half across the room. Then he glanced at the Prince, and from him to Copeland.
“Can he travel?”
Copeland nodded. “Violent exercise is what he most needs. Put him on an elephant and sway him. That and the brandy ought to overcome the digitalis.”
“Will Your Highness give the necessary orders?” asked the babu, and the Prince staggered out of the room on the arm of his servant.
Then Chullunder Ghose nudged Copeland and the two of them faced the Madrasi. He showed his teeth; his hand was in his right hip-pocket. They approached him closer.
“If you have a pistol, draw it!” said the babu. Suddenly he kicked him, pounced and seized him by the arms. “You take his pistol, Doctor sahib!”
The Madrasi had no pistol. In his right hip-pocket were a hypodermic syringe in a silver case that also held a phial of digitalis, and a screw-lid wooden box that looked as if it might hold ink for refilling a fountain pen. Copeland opened it. He found a small glass bottle, drew the cork and sniffed once:
“Prussic acid!”
The Madrasi wilted. “Let me have that!” he said in a harsh voice. “It will save trouble for us all!”
Copeland gave the poisons to the babu. It was not his business. But he was curious. “Any ground-glass in the Prince’s stomach?” he asked.
“No, no,” said the Madrasi. “He has ulcers and—”
The babu interrupted: “Pah! The Prince is nothing but a hypochondriac, and morbid! He had belly-ache, and this man hypnotized him to believe it was ulcers! This man is a specialist, I tell you. Too many of his patients die of overdoses of some drug or other! Yet he has no money; he is blackmailed by the undertakers and the servants of the heirs who pay him to murder a rich relation!”
“You are a fat and filthy liar!” the man from Madras said savagely through tight lips.
“Tell that to the Rajah! Are you coming with us? Shall I tie you?” asked the babu.
“Listen to me; I will let you have that Prussic acid—”
“Give it to me!”
“You shall drink with it to your own health, you devil, if you will accuse the Rajah to his face, before us all, of having bribed you to murder the Prince!”
“Ha! Two sides of the same coin! He will simply shoot me.”
“Otherwise, you go to prison,” said the babu, “and await what happens in the prison to a man whom the police of this State find it inconvenient to send to trial!”
CHAPTER 23. “A tiger comes quick as a punch in the eye!”
Hawkes, with is head on a tree-stump and his rifle on his knees, fast asleep on a fallen monument beside the temple pool, snored louder than the bullfrogs. Sun was rising very dimly through a gray mist and the pool was like a mirror ruined by the damp — no ripple on it, but a patchwork of leaden lanes with silver-gray between them. Kali’s temple drooled, gray-ugly; it was like an ant-heap, except that the mist made semi-luminous the green of its marauding foliage, redeeming it a little. Two huge elephants — blue-black phantoms looking twice their real size — swayed amid trees at the edge of the jungle. Out of sight of those, but visible from where Hawkes lay, two other elephants stood stock-still waiting to be told to kneel and be unloaded; they were on the opposite side of the temple — away from the river. A mynah- bird squinted at Hawkes from a burned stump, scolded at something — and took wing.
