Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Does she never consult an astrologer?”

  Lynn laughed: “She did once — at Atlantic City. I was with her, and she intended to have my horoscope cast too, just for fun, because it was a rainy day and there was nothing else to do. But the astrologer didn’t get around to me. Aunty wouldn’t tell him her right age. She made herself out to be ten years younger than she was, because she said it was none of the astrologer’s business. And the astrologer told her she had a weakness for men and must be very careful about a dangerous love affair within six months. He also told her that she didn’t know how to manage people. Then she walked out. No, Aunty doesn’t believe in astrologers.”

  “But you? You believe in them?”

  “I think the answer is no. I know so little about them — practically nothing. But aren’t they charlatans? I’ve always been told that they are.”

  “Oh, many of them are,” the Maharanee admitted. “There are charlatans in all professions. We have a very good court astrologer. I will order him to cast your horoscope. In fact, I have already consulted him about it.”

  “What fun! But please do keep it secret from Aunty. She would have conniption fits.”

  “Very well, we won’t tell her. But from what the astrologer has already told me — and perhaps partly also from my own intuition — I am beginning to believe, Lynn, that you are a very fortunate arrival in the midst of our perplexities.”

  “If good fortune means having a good time, then I agree with you,” Lynn answered. “It doesn’t need a horoscope to prove that. I’m having a grand time.”

  “We love you and we will all do our best to make you happy,” said the Maharanee. “But the astrologer says this is a time of great crisis for us. I believe you are a sending, as we call it. There are many sendings just now, and they are badly mixed. They are contradictory and in opposition to one another. His Highness my husband is so anxious to make a good impression on Captain Norwood. It is so important. Will you help us to make a good impression on him?”

  “But I might do the wrong thing! I might say the wrong word. I might commit some indiscretion. Am I in on an intrigue?”

  “Yes, dear, a very serious intrigue.”

  “Oh, what fun! Is it dangerous?”

  “The astrologer says that it might become dangerous.”

  “Maharanee dear, this sounds wonderful! Is it a real dark oriental intrigue?”

  The Maharanee laughed amiably, after a second’s hesitation and with noticeable effort:

  “Yes, dear, it is certainly dark. It is secret, and it has to do with a diamond mine, but I hope you won’t mention that to anyone.”

  “I’m glad you warned me. Of course, I won’t mention it.”

  “All walls in India have ears,” said the Maharanee. “And we have a saying in Kadur that diamonds see in the dark.” With a movement of her sari she threw off a mood as if it were something tangible that obeyed the law of gravity. She laughed gaily: “But let us forget the darkness. This evening let us play at being unconventional and unimportant. Let us have fun!”

  “Grand! A picnic.”

  “Yes, a picnic. Kadur never had a picnic. This will be the first time in all Kadur’s history.”

  Chapter Five

  CAPTAIN CARL NORWOOD’S tent faced the Kadur River. About a mile away, it resembled a moonlit irregular ribbon of silver streaming from the enormous temple; and the temple was a citadel of mystery that loomed against Indian night. There was a stillness that seemed like the womb of music, into which the clatter and voices from the camp kitchen fell naturally and the hoofbeats of a cantering horse thudded on dusty earth like calculated drum-beats.

  A shadow that was a horse was reined in with unnecessary vigor. A palace messenger dismounted. Norwood’s servant, careful for his master’s dignity, accepted a silver tube with the air of conferring a favor. He handed the tube to Norwood on a brass dish, after he had kept him waiting until he had found the dish and cleaned it. It suggested magic, as if he were wiping away the possibility of dangerous contagion.

  Norwood opened the tube, after he had made sure that the servant had withdrawn to a sufficient distance. He drew out a letter written by the palace secretary on beautiful paper that smelt of old rose leaves. He scowled, raised his eyebrows, scratched his red head, lowered his eyelids a little so that the corners of his eyes suggested he was staring through a haze of improbabilities in search of a clue. Then he went to the table and wrote, inserted his own letter into the tube and returned it to the messenger, who cantered away.

  “Tell Moses I want him.”

  Moses O’Leary came and stood in the door of the tent. He was a picture of controlled alertness. In the lamplight the whites of his eyes made his skin look darker. His effort to seem casual increased the suggestion of tense excitement. There could be absolutely no doubt whatever that Moses Lafayette O’Leary was in his element and minding everyone’s business, including his own.

  Norwood stared at him: “Where were you, that you came so quickly? Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, sir.”

  “Well, don’t get too virtuous. I’ve been invited to the palace for supper.”

  “I haven’t had time yet, sir, to find out much about what’s doing at the palace.”

  “Has anyone from the palace been enquiring about me?”

  “Yes, sir. Prince Rundhia’s servant came asking if you’d need to borrow a horse. He knew you didn’t, because we were standing right under our horses’ noses when he asked the question. Besides, I weren’t the right person to ask. But he slipped me a box o’ the Prince’s cigars and asked a lot about you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Me? I told him you’re the mildest man on earth, and how nothing interests you so much as running surveys.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Same as I told you — not much. He had his orders, and he hadn’t had time to forget ’em, and he’s scared o’ the Prince. I got a line on the Prince all right. His brains are made o’ curry powder and red pepper. He’s about as safe to tackle as a she-cobra that has just laid her eggs. He’s what they call a steamer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing for nothing. Lavish — at cent per cent. He’d give you anybody’s money, if he knew what he was getting for it.”

  “If I should hear of your taking his money, you’ll find yourself in serious trouble.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “I’m incorruptible.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “Nothing, excep’ what I’ve already told you. There’s a Mrs. Harding and a Miss Harding at the guesthouse. Mrs. Harding has a hurt foot and has been attended by Prince Rundhia’s doctor. Miss Harding has already met Rundhia, and they’ve talked.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “He’s no good.”

  “No good in what way?”

  “No self-respect. Scared. He lets the Prince brow-beat him — takes a tongue lashing without answering back — lets himself be treated like a dog — no dignity excep’ when the Prince isn’t looking.”

  “Nothing new about Noor Mahlam?”

  “No. I reckon they’ll call him off. He was just a try-out, that’s all he was — sort o’ skirmisher to feel out the lay of the land. I kept raising my price o’ purpose. They don’t trust a buzzard like that one with three hundred rupees. Soon as he tells ’em my price is three hundred, they’ll figure that means two hundred for him and a hundred for me. They’ll give him five rupees and call him off. But they’ll be satisfied that I’m out for the money, so they’ll leave the next move up to me. They’ll figure I’ll go hunting for Noor Mahlam. They’ll watch. There’ll be one of them casual, accidental, chance acquaintances show up, who’ll really know the inside works and try to hook me proper. Then we’ll learn something.”

  “Find out all you can about
Prince Rundhia.”

  “That ought to be easy. I could go to the bazaar tonight and — Could I draw some money?”

  “You may have five rupees.”

  “That’s awful little.”

  “It will save you from thinking you’re important. All I want from you is information. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. But sometimes you have to buy information.”

  “Not with my money,” Norwood answered. “But isn’t it Government money?”

  “Here are five rupees. Take them. Stay sober and keep out of mischief.”

  “You mean stay away from women? Maybe I’d better write a list o’ questions on a pretty sheet o’ paper and go to the temple and ask them folk to write the answers, so I’ll get ’em straight!”

  “Don’t be impudent.”

  “Well, sir, what do you expect me to do?”

  “Do you know where to stable a horse if I let you take one?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a stable right down near the red-light district, where the talk’s hot. It’s the stable where the moneylenders keep the cattle and horses they’ve attached for debt. They have to keep ’em there until they’re sold at auction. It’s a good clean stable; there’s regular inspection by a Government vet. No glanders. No anthrax.”

  “All right. You may take the bay mare. Get a move on.”

  “Couldn’t I have ten rupees, sir? Five is awful little. It’ll cost money to stable the horse and—”

  “No. I have given you five. Tell the sentry that if a car comes for me from the palace, he’s to send it back and say I’ll come on horseback.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember: what I really need is to know what the temple priests are up to.”

  “Well, sir, I’ll try to find out.”

  “That’s impossible. Those people don’t spread their secrets through the red-light district. But you may be able to pick up information, a hint here and a hint there, that will give me a chance to guess what they’re up to. Don’t be in a hurry. Don’t try to find out too much all at once. Don’t ask too many questions. Listen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night. I’ll expect a report from you tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Six

  NOTHING was ever quite like it in Kadur’s history. Plumbing, electric light, modern furniture, and even the will to do it can’t make an Indian palace, dusty with tradition, lend itself to what the Maharanee kept insisting was a picnic. She wanted to-be so modern and unconventional that even Rundhia would approve. Sullenly defied by the outraged head-steward, whose turban almost rose from his hair with horror, she dismissed him and took charge.

  Lynn, on the other hand, wanted to “go oriental.” The servants, who lived by tradition and rule of thumb, pretended not to understand the Maharanee. They pretended to understand Lynn. There were at least fifty servants. Every single one of them believed that sanity had fled, along with his own dignity, religion and the gods knew what else. Only Lynn’s gales of laughter saved the Maharanee from tears. The Maharajah sulked in his study, examining postage stamps.

  The eventual compromise was something between a bean-feast and a banquet, in the glass-roofed patio, amid a forest of potted palms and canaries in silver cages. There were Chinese lanterns and an utter drunkenness of flowers. The long table was loaded with silver and gold. But there were paper napkins (those were Lynn’s suggestion). There were eight important-looking men to wait on table, instead of sixteen; they grinned at Lynn’s embroidered black silk Chinese pajamas, as the voters grin at a reforming politician.

  The Maharanee summoned the Keeper of the Jewels, selected a cluster of the most famous diamonds from the Kadur collection, and pinned it artfully on Lynn’s black silk. Lynn looked stunning in embroidered black silk. It showed off her eyes and her golden hair. Excitement made her parted lips so kissable that the Maharanee had qualms of conscience.

  “Darling, my nephew Rundhia is a bad boy! Be careful!”

  Lynn laughed. The prospect of annoying Aunty was delicious. Aunty would be scandalized by high jinks in a palace. Aunty was one of those people who think that palace life should be like one endless coronation ceremony in Westminster Abbey. She could count on Aunty to keep Rundhia within bounds; the old spoil-sport had no other motive for attending the supper. And there would be Captain Norwood. Was he the man she had seen when the carriage door flew open? Hah! It was a grand, exciting world.

  “Maharanee dear, I don’t think caviar looks decent in a silver soup tureen. Let’s serve it on toast in the usual way.”

  The first arrival was Rundhia, in dinner jacket and turban of cloth of silver, critical of the cocktails; he introduced ingredients learned in Europe. He watched Lynn. He made apparently random remarks to discover her system, in case she had one. He could strip a woman naked with his eyes, and re-clothe her with flattery.

  “Miss Harding, you look innocent, gay and very beautiful. But I mistrust you. Your emotions seem to me to be too honest. You will go home and laugh at us all.”

  “Going home soon,” Lynn answered. “Aunty didn’t laugh when she said that. She meant it.”

  “Is that what amuses you?”

  “No. I’d rather stay here. I love it.”

  “I wonder what you mean by love it. Do you love us?”

  “I love the Maharanee. And I love these pussyfooted eastern nights. I’m wild about it all. I can’t bear the thought of going home yet.”

  Rundhia smiled.

  The sheep-faced Maharajah entered, toadied by attendants, who arranged the cushions for him in a chromium-plated armchair at the end of the long room. He was shocked by Lynn’s pajamas, but the Maharanee managed him: she was devoted, deferent, overwhelming. He became obedient; he complimented Lynn in curiously perfect English. Too polite to speak any other language than English in Lynn’s presence, he frowned sullenly at Rundhia and refused a cocktail:

  “Your Bengali didn’t bring my tonic.”

  “Sorry,” said Rundhia. “He was attending to Mrs. Harding. He hasn’t forgotten it.”

  Then came Norwood. Hot night though it was, he was in full mess uniform, not whites. Shorter than Rundhia; but five feet eleven inches is, after all, plenty, if it’s built right and properly carried. Rundhia’s six feet one, and almost perfect features, somehow weren’t so noticeable after Norwood came into the room. Norwood had red hair and one of those bits of moustaches that draw attention to the line of the lips. His red shell jacket gloved a vigorous torso. There was nothing meek about him; nothing arrogant. He was a British gentleman in uniform, as unself conscious as a visitor at the zoo.

  He recognized Lynn instantly. His expression changed to let her know he recognized her. But he was imperturbable. Nothing surprised him. The palace chamberlain presented him to the Maharajah and the Maharanee. He was gracious to them. The Maharanee introduced him to Lynn. He studied her. He smiled. He said:

  “How do you do. We have met, I believe. I am very curious. Don’t tell me. It might spoil the fun of finding out. Am I to sit next to you at dinner? I was always lucky.”

  Then he walked up and shook hands with Rundhia: “Pleased.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  It suggested the well-oiled motion of machine-guns getting ready. They were enemies, at sight, as charmed to meet each other as match and powder barrel. Lynn knew it instantly. The sheep-faced Maharajah stared as if he saw a rare stamp in someone else’s collection. The tactful Maharanee shepherded along a servant with the cocktails and made conversation.

  Then Aunty arrived. After that, there was nothing to do but to listen to Aunty’s distant condescensions. She was wonderful. Even Rundhia admired her spunk. Dressed in a formal evening gown on purpose to make Lynn feel ashamed of herself, taped and strapped by the doctor until she could hardly move, in torture from the twisted ankle, she proposed to dominate that company. She did, until Norwood subdued her. She wasn’t used to being snubbed by mere captains.

  “What do Engineer
officers do?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” he said, “except answer questions. Why? I might lend you a man who can do things.”

  Rundhia twisted the radio dial; his face was again under control by the time he had found a fox-trot. He snapped his fingers to a servant to roll the rug off the parquet floor. Norwood was at the wrong end of the room to seize that opportunity. Rundhia danced with Lynn. Norwood went and talked to the Maharajah, whose conversation seemed to have been learned from a book on “how to be polite to strangers.” The Maharanee talked to Aunty, who was as proud of Lynn’s dancing as she was exasperated by Lynn’s behavior. Lynn was cutting up for Aunty’s benefit, and there was nothing that Aunty could do about it.

  Norwood’s conversation with the Maharajah was interrupted by the arrival of the Bengali doctor, followed by a servant with a big blue goblet on a tray. The Maharajah swallowed the contents of the goblet in one long draught and Norwood noticed that he became immediately more at ease. But Norwood was also watching Rundhia, who left off dancing with Lynn and accompanied the Bengali to the door, talking to him low-voiced.

  Norwood promptly commandeered Lynn. He didn’t dance as well as Rundhia, but well enough; and while he danced he talked candidly, instead of hinting as Rundhia did.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d stick to champagne. The cocktails taste phoney.”

  Lynn wasn’t sure she liked him. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure she didn’t.

  “Why were you rude to Aunty?”

  “She was rude to me,” he answered.

  “She had an accident today, so she isn’t herself.”

  “Who is? You, for instance? Princess? Cinderella on her night out? Or rebel? You know what happens to rebels, don’t you, unless their friends are reliable?”

  A great gong boomed. It was as ancient as the palace. It was the bronze voice of memory.

  “Picnic!” exclaimed the Maharanee. “No formality. Lynn, dear, lead the way. We will all follow.”

  So the Maharajah came last, to the servants’ horror, and it was Lynn who contrived the seating. Norwood’s luck suffered a flat tire. He found himself between the Maharanee and Aunty. Rundhia and Lynn sat opposite; the Maharajah at one end of the table, the Maharanee at the other.