Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “I will marry a white woman. Then you will see!” he said angrily. He expressed his indignation rather by suppressing it than by any noticeable emphasis.

  Norman Galloway put his hands behind his head and blew cigar smoke at the ceiling.

  “My good fellow,” he said, smiling, “how much experience have you had yet of bucking against the central government? You know, however much I personally admire an independent spirit, I obey orders.”

  The younger man’s face grew vaguely darker. The eyes narrowed just a trifle. Galloway, rolling the cigar between his fingers, noticed.

  “And if I should die today,” he went on pointedly, “there would come another in my place who might be less sympathetic.”

  “My father will die very soon now and I shall be in his place,” said the princeling. “He has been what you call a wise ruler. That means he has taken orders from you. He has stayed home. He has subscribed to famine funds. He has bought as much of the government loans as he could possibly afford. He has lent you troops to act as baggage-guards in your European war. He has swallowed all sorts of indignities. I am going to be different.”

  “My dear boy,” Galloway blew cigar smoke again at the ceiling and his voice was patient to the verge of condescension, “your father began, let me tell you, by doing his best to be what you call different. It isn’t mentioned nowadays and I don’t want to dig up a forgotten issue, but the reason why he was not encouraged to grow personally rich was just that very ‘difference’ that you propose for yourself. He was likely to use sudden wealth unwisely—”

  “By which you mean, without first asking your permission!” said Rundhia Singh.

  “Why yes, I daresay I meant that, if you prefer to put it that way. You see, ruling princes are in the peculiar position that, while nominally independent, they must actually look to us to keep them on the throne. That makes us, so to speak, the guarantors. We’re like the endorsers of a note. We’re liable. So you see, it’s only fair that we should specify the terms on which that guarantee shall hold good. The risk is entirely sufficient without adding to it by giving young princes permission to do anything they please.

  “You spoke of marrying a woman not of your own race. Two or three rajahs have tried that. There are always women of a certain character, or lack of it, who can be found to undertake the obvious risk of — er — racial incompatibility. Most of them do it for money. You haven’t money — none to speak of — none that would attract a latter-day adventuress. I see your point, of course. You think that, though we can control your financial transactions, we could not control your wife’s if you should put your money in her name.

  “Well, that may be; I express no opinion for the moment as to that. But I can tell you this, that there is at least one rajah who married a woman of my race and settled an enormous fortune on her — a vastly greater fortune than anything you can control or hope to acquire. The wife lives in the south of France and spends the money; and the rajah, I assure you, has nothing whatever to spend. He keeps up what appearances he can in a palace long ago grown shabby, and grows old regretting that impulse to be ‘different.’ I would be sorry to see you make the same mistake.”

  Rundhia Singh uncrossed his knees and rapped at one of his long boots with a rhino riding-whip. He stared at the toe of the boot, his lips moving as if he were choosing and rejecting phrases.

  “You were rich,” he remarked suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Galloway, “I lost the greater part of a considerable fortune through the failure of a bank. What of it?”

  “You could be rich again if you would be my real friend instead of talking like an idiotic English schoolmaster!”

  Galloway laughed. Rundhia Singh stood up and with a gesture like a woman’s, shook the end of the turban over his shoulder.

  “Well, I will go to the club,” he said, and hesitated, then added with a thin smile: “You are throwing away a fortune.”

  Galloway threw the end of his cigar into an empty flower-pot near the window and held out his hand.

  “So long then. Look in again whenever you feel inclined for a chat. I wish you’d ride one of my ponies — he needs skilful schooling. Will you? Good — I’ll send him to the club this afternoon.

  Galloway stood motionless until he heard the prince’s pony go cantering up the drive; then he bit the end off another cigar and shouted —

  “Framji!”

  Entered a benevolent appearing, handsome, middle-aged man in a black alpaca frock coat, wearing the Parsee headdress that is like a polished cow’s hoof upside down. His features were as refined as those to be seen in Persian miniatures. His manner was that of an up-to-date mortician, bland, alert, exceedingly considerate, tactful and unobtrusive. He kept his hands folded in front of him and waited to discover whether or not the situation justified a smile.

  “Who’s available, Framji, for serious work?”

  “Sivaji.”

  “Good. Send Sivaji to Tonkaipur, and let him stay there until he finds out what young Rundhia Singh is holding up his sleeve. Incidentally, let him find out, if he can, whether the rajah is dying a natural death or whether it’s poison. Young Rundhia Singh is growing much too cocky about coming to the throne, and he just now hinted he would like to bribe me. That means he expects to make a bag of money. Sivaji must ferret out the facts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Parsee’s classically perfect features eased into a smile of confidential understanding.

  “Sivaji will need money,” he remarked.

  “Usual pay and expenses,” Galloway answered. “Not an anna more. Give him fourteen days’ advance and send him packing. Tell him if he succeeds there’ll be a present out of the private fund; if not, it’s his last important assignment. He’s to report direct to me in writing as often as necessary, and he’s not to use the ordinary mail. Registered won’t do either. He must send his reports by runner and we’ll pay the messenger at this end. That’s all.”

  Framji vanished with the unobtrusive tread of a distinguished personage’s butler. Galloway sat down at the desk, drew out a bulging envelope and proceeded to study the contents, turning sheet after sheet of closely written manuscript face downward as read. He was presently disturbed by an assistant Hindu clerk, who murmured something to him in a voice like a strangled parrot’s.

  “Show him in!” he snapped, and went on reading.

  There came a heavy, yet active tread, beneath which the office floor creaked; then heavy regular breathing. Some one stood before the desk, but Galloway took no notice until he had finished the papers and returned them to the desk drawer, which he locked.

  “So it’s you?” he said then, staring.

  “Have walked up from Hanadra,” said Chullunder Ghose. “Have also answered likewise thirty thousand questions, tongue cleaving to roof of mouth in consequence.”

  “Boy!” Galloway struck a bell on the desk. “Sit down — that big chair will bear up under you.” Then to the white-robed servant who appeared in answer to the bell: “Give Chullunder Ghose a mango-bass with ice in it.”

  “Am not so rigorously bound by caste as all that,” said Chullunder Ghose, his fat face widening in a grin.

  “Oh, all right. Bring the brandy at the same time.”

  Nothing further was said until the tinkling tall glass appeared on its silver tray and brandy had been poured into the mango-juice and imported soda-water.

  “In the hope that I may dance at your Honor’s wedding!” Chullunder Ghose remarked then, drinking deep.

  “You fat rascal, what have you been doing now?” asked Galloway. “If you’re in trouble, mind you, I told you last time it would be useless to come to me again.”

  “Adamantine drasticism! Sahib, it is easier to rid oneself of fatness than of rascally proclivities. Am orthodox immoralist. Difference between me and other people is, that they act legally for immoral reasons, whereas this babu acts illegally for moral ones. Am just now duck in clover.”

  “Duck? In
clover?”

  “Quack-quack! Certainly. Am wandering physician — mystifex — uncertified M.D. with troupe of performing Burmese charlatans. Can pull teeth, cure colic, cast a horoscope — permit me, sahib — can cast good one now this instant. Saturn being in conjunction with moon in constellation Scorpio, on Friday thirteenth, much intrigue is indicated. Verb. sap.”

  “Spill the beans, confound you!”

  “Beans too precious, sahib. Show me basket first. Maybe there are holes in it.”

  Galloway stroked his chin, one elbow on the desk.

  “All right,” he said after a moment, “you may speak in confidence.”

  “Prerogative of deity! Who other than an immortal God — or an Englishman — would dare to say that, knowing he will not be mocked! Who other than a babu would believe him? Well — on this occasion there is bacon with the beans.”

  “Come on now, don’t waste time. Explain yourself.”

  “Am impresario.”

  “Perhaps you’d like another drink before you go,” said Galloway suggestively.

  “Before I go, yes, but not yet! You wait and see!” the babu answered, visibly enjoying Galloway’s impatience. He proceeded to mop sweat from his face with an enormous handkerchief for the purpose of keeping the official waiting.

  “John Duncannon!” he said then, wiping the back of his neck, but watching Galloway, his eyes not missing the vague trace of irritation that the other let escape him.

  “Well? What of him?”

  “Yankee — American — U.S.A. Turner, Sons and Company, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania — tr-r-r-illionaires!”

  “Damn!” remarked Galloway under his breath. Then aloud, “I might have known you’d not miss that bet!”

  “Sahib, that is sweetest compliment, excepting one — have just received a month’s expenses on account! Am now fiduciary — one might say in partnership with Turner, Sons and Company of Pittsburgh — P-A — Pay — no pun intended!”

  Galloway lighted a cigar and let it go out again, crossed his legs, uncrossed them and sat staring at Chullunder Ghose.

  “I could lock you up, of course,” he remarked at the end of about two minutes.

  “Nay-y-y! You bought pig in poke! You agreed this is matter of confidence!”

  “Well — all right. Why is Mr. Duncannon here? I issued him a hunting permit and particularly cautioned him to keep away from temples. Information comes that he has been into a temple. What had you to do with that?”

  “Nothing. This babu missed that bet! Was traipsing with personally conducted circus of world-famed Burmese magicians, through Sirohe country where peasants prefer toothache, the bellyache and barren wives to parting with a small emolument. Arrived at Hana-dra destitute of all but honor and five baskets containing performing snakes. Mutinous Burmese adherents were contemplating murder — of me! I had no money for their wages. Found U.S.A. tr-r-r-illionaire decidedly hokee-mut in government dak. Hired self to same for fabulous remuneration — plus expenses.”

  “What do you mean by fabulous remuneration?”

  “Over the hills and far away — payable on receipt of goods!” Chullunder Ghose explained. “Must help self from expense account.”

  “What’s his object?”

  “Oil!” said the babu; and his smile was oilier than the word. His fat face beamed amusement. Galloway looked serious.

  “I’m told he forced his way into a temple after he had shot the Gnani’s tiger.”

  “So am told. In fact, our Uncle Sam admits it. Nevertheless, the Gnani made short work of him. Tee-hee! Sahib, his hair smelt like Parsee tower of silence! The holy Gnani doubtless gave him soma, causing sleep, obliterating memory. Crœsus Americanus probably thought it was milk! From personal olfactory investigation this babu imagines that his Reverence’s servants, doubtless in absence of orders to contrary, defiled intruder’s sleeping head with asafetida on way to dak bungalow, where they seem to have carried him in stretcher, there leaving him to die or otherwise, this babu engineering otherwise.”

  “Well, I’m due at the club,” remarked Galloway. “Where is your American?”

  “At Kaisar-i-Hind Hotel.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Same might have advantages — likewise disadditto,” said Chullunder Ghose, finishing his drink and setting the glass prominently on the desk.

  Galloway rang the bell and ordered more drink. When the servant had gone Chullunder Ghose drew his legs up under him and holding the refilled tumbler in his right hand, looked very straight at Galloway across the rim of it.

  “Somebody knows something,” he said, then poured the contents of the tumbler down his throat. “As thus,” he went on, gasping as he set the tumbler down, “somebody went to United States with story of much oil in Rajputana.”

  “Who?” demanded Galloway.

  “Not me!” the babu answered. “Must have been immoralist, selling same misinformation to rival concerns. Lichtig, Low and Pennyweather of New York — also tr-r-rillionaires — have clapped hot noses on same cold scent! Curtis Pennyweather, no less, of Lichtig, Low and Pennyweather, is already in Mount Abu.”

  “I know it. He lunches with me at the club,” said Galloway and leaned back staring at the ceiling. “Well, what do you suggest?” he asked, throwing away the spoiled cigar and biting the end off another one.

  “Am thinking, now fat is in fire, better cook something,” Chullunder Ghose remarked, also staring at the ceiling. “U.S.A. Americans are very used to circumventing obstructiveness, being trained by prohibition. Shut lid here — peep out through crack there. Pad-lock? Remove hinges! Impose cash penalties? Form company to capitalize deficit thus created and sell stock in same at premium! Clap in prison? Convert prison into comfortable club, from behind convenient walls of which they control presidential election. Hang? Electrocute? Return as spooks at seances and manipulate affairs of nation by frightening old ladies of both sexes, who have vote! Only one way to put ultimate kibosh on hundred-per-cent U.S.A. Americans — same as dynamite — touch her off! — give her her head! — let her go, Gallagher! — step on her! — attaboy! — boof! — stand back! — and tidy up mess afterward! Positively something will happen. Better watch.”

  Norman Galloway nodded.

  “You propose then to bear-lead this Mr. Duncannon all over Rajputana?”

  “Sahib, like modern commander-in-chief, this babu will direct campaign from rear, being thus in good strategic situation for about-face.”

  “I may as well tell you now as later,” said Galloway firmly, “that there will be no prospector’s permits issued.”

  Chullunder Ghose folded his hands on his stomach and appeared well pleased with the announcement.

  “Main point is, sahib, this babu having established official confidence by coming straight with information to proper authority, expects—”

  “No use!” said Galloway. “There’s no fund from which to pay you a retainer.”

  If possible Chullunder Ghose looked even more pleased.

  “ — expects concessions.”

  “Such as — ?”

  “Look-the-other-way-iveness! There might be now and then irregularities not easily explainable at once. This babu is habitually most discreet.”

  “You’d better be! If you get into serious trouble you must take the consequences. Mind you, I shall watch you, so you’d better bear that in mind and report to me at intervals. Now I must hurry or I’ll be late for lunch.”

  CHAPTER III. The Pennyweathers

  The club at Mount Abu overlooks the polo-ground, which is a rather undersized field blasted from the rock and spread with mud; being fast in consequence, it lends itself to the extremely skilful technique of the Indian-born player, and at almost any hour of the day the benches are ablaze with color where the world’s most critical exponents of the game sit watching their friends at practice. Many of the princes of Rajputana spend the summer season at Mount Abu and they all have retinues of impecunious relatives. The cl
ub veranda is usually a splurge of sunshades, straw hats, topees, drab riding-coats and here and there the rose or yellow splendor of the headdress of a maharajah.

  Which is why the visitor to India invariably jumps to the conclusion that no British-Indian officials ever do any work, not realizing that overworked men and their wives must come away from the hot plains now and then for a vacation.

  So it was nothing new to Galloway when Pennyweather greeted him on the club veranda with rather tolerant superiority. The rigor of his nerve-devouring creed had lined and tightened Pennyweather’s face and ruined his digestion until he looked like a yellowish old man instead of fifty-five or so. But his dark eyes shone with intelligence; he was very well dressed in a dark-gray suit, had a pleasant voice and his smile looked genuine as he shook hands with the slow withdrawing movement of a man who liked to study every one he met. But he seemed to have nothing to say and made haste to introduce his daughter.

  “Dad’s so grateful, or, at any rate, he ought to be!” she said. “He can’t eat hotel food. He has had nothing but bottled jujubes since we left the ship.”

  “Beef and pepsin lozenges,” corrected Pennyweather.

  Galloway grinned genially.

  “Soup, canned lobster, curried goat — with a cocktail first and coffee afterward,” he announced and Pennyweather winced.

  Galloway looked at the girl with the bachelor’s eyes, that are so much more critical and superficially more discerning than a married man’s. He thought her overdone. There seemed a little too much art in her deliberate simplicity, a little too much confidence about her lack of shyness, too much restraint in not wearing more expensive clothes and too much care not to appear overcultured.