The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  “He’s late now,” nodded Hollis carelessly. Then he glanced at Wong Li’s intent face again. The Chinaman had a blood score to settle with Fo Lon. The man looked like a snake about to strike, he thought. And a Chinaman goes about revenging an injury with almost a religious fervor of fanaticism. He glanced toward De Bacourt, who had also noted the Oriental’s change of expression. Hastily the Frenchman called a waiter.

  “I wonder why, Andy,” said the girl mischievously, heedless of the by-play, “I thought all along you were innocent. But you did make it hard for me—when you went to meet that blond Lemoire girl. I reckon it was because I hated her so.”

  Hollis’s reply was frozen on his lips. He heard De Bacourt’s muttered exclamation—saw Wong Li’s right hand steal toward his capacious left sleeve. The Frenchman rose, but Hollis had heard Wong’s sibilant indrawing of breath, and was before him. Sliding around the table, he caught up the girl bodily in her chair and swung her away from the table. As he did so two shots echoed through the room.

  Hollis’s glance flew from Wong, crouched over the table, a blue revolver smoking in his hand, to another Chinaman reeling to the floor, weapon in hand, a few yards away.

  It was the Chinaman who had been his companion in the smoking compartment. Wong Li’s score was settled.

  “Take her to the street; I’ll follow,” cried De Bacourt in his ear.

  Through the alarmed crowd that stumbled from the upper floor of the Chinese Delmonico’s to the street, Hollis carried the startled girl. Finding a taxi at Mott and Pell Street, he put her inside and waited for De Bacourt.

  He was forced to admire the calmness of the Frenchman. De Bacourt appeared, quietly bearing Hollis’s hat and coat, and bowed to Ruth.

  “Monsieur,” he said gravely, “I owe mademoiselle a thousand pardons for that unfortunate scene. The fact that I did not suspect Fo Lon would be there does not excuse my fault. My only consolation is that she is now in better hands than mine.”

  With that he kissed Ruth’s gloved hand ceremoniously, bowed politely to Hollis, and departed down the crowded street, swinging his stick jauntily.

  Hollis turned to the silent girl at his side and drew a deep breath.

  “Professor de Bacourt is all right, Ruth,” he said; “but he’s mistaken if he thinks he will have you for a pupil.”

  She laughed a trifle unsteadily.

  “Why, Andy, that’s what I came here for.”

  But he had seen the startled look, aftermath of the scene in the restaurant, replaced by a shy light in her eyes.

  “No, you didn’t,” he corrected happily. “You came here to see the sights of New York—after you’ve married me.”

  THE VILLAGE OF THE GHOST (1921)

  “Yes, sahib, it is undoubtedly true. There is a devil in the castle, and that is why no one else will sleep there.”

  Jaswat Das, khitmatgar—butler—inclined his head gravely and Sir A. Cunningham did not smile. Years of service in the Honorable East India Company and as Resident of the Jumna district of upper India had made Cunningham very well acquainted with the demonology of India. Moreover he knew that Jaswat Das, his butler, was relating the common talk of the countryside.

  It was the year of Our Lord 1802 and the two white men sat under the chenars by the Jumna River bank just outside the walls of Agra. Squatting on the ground in front of them, the butler looked from his master to the stranger.

  “How do you know, Jaswat Das, that there is a demon in the castle if you have not seen him?” inquired Cunningham.

  The other white man asked no questions, contenting himself with listening closely to what the native said.

  “Because, sahib, the men of the village have seen him. Sometimes the demon takes the form of a snake and sometimes that of a deadly sickness. When he is in his own body he looks like an old man with long hair and a face the color of old ivory; he wears a black khalat that covers his human body down to the ankles so that no one can tell what his form is really like. He has lived in the castle for a hundred years and it is said he once inhabited the form of the daughter of the potail (proprietor) of the village.”

  “Then why,” pursued the Resident, “did the demon slay the two sahibs who went to Bhir when he has never molested the villagers?”

  “The two feringhi died because they slept in the castle of Bhir that was the demon’s home.”

  “Aye, Jaswat Das, that is true. But natives—even the Potail—have slept in the castle at various times and have come to no harm.”

  The khitmatgar nodded understandingly.

  “True, sahib. Yet you do not remember that the folk of the village when they wanted to sleep in the castle always made holes in the walls first. Then they lighted fires within and rushed about, firing their weapons and making great outcry. In this way they made a spell and the demon did not hurt them.”

  “Yet if the people of Bhir did not make offerings to the ghost, it would attack them?”

  “Assuredly, sahib—either in the form of a snake or a sickness. Their women folk would be childless and their cattle would die.”

  “Very well, Jaswat Das. Still, in spite of their fear of the ghost of Bhir castle, the villagers and the merchants endure the demon, you say?”

  Patiently Jaswat Das explained, knowing the wisdom of his master and suspecting rightly that his story was for the benefit of the strange sahib who sat in uniform and with a sword at his belt beside the Resident.

  “Aye, sahib, it is so. For Bhir has waxed prosperous since the coming of the ghost who takes much wealth, but gives more. The merchants have rugs and store of gold in their houses—and fair wives.”

  Cunningham frowned thoughtfully at this. The district of Bhir, beside the great river Junina, had long been a thorn in his side.

  “For how much silver,” he asked the butler, “would you take up your abode in the castle of Bhir?”

  The dark eyes of Jaswat Das widened and he salaamed.

  “Ai, my lord—I am but a poor khitmatgar. In my sahib’s command are many soldiers who are paid to be killed. Give them the silver and a piece of gold for their families and let them die. Has not the demon of Bhir castle slain travelers who came within the district? Have not strangers dropped out of sight overnight, without a trace of the manner of their going?”

  “Enough, Jaswat Das. You have my permission to depart.”

  * * * *

  When the two Englishmen were alone Cunningham turned to his companion with a smile that was not altogether merry.

  “There, Malcolm, you have the native side of the mystery of Bhir. Let me add a few words of my own to show how heavily it weighs upon the success of our affairs in the district.”

  Punctuating his remarks by prodding his cane into the dust at his feet, the Resident explained that following upon the signing of peace between the English and the Nawab Of Oudh, the Northern Provinces had been established along the Jumna. Rajputana was on friendly terms with its white allies. Everything had gone well except in the district of Bhir—a fertile district, eagerly exploited by Portuguese traders a hundred years ago.

  In that quarter a malignant force had been at work against the feringhis. This power for evil had been located in the ruins of the castle of Bhir—a citadel built by a long-dead raja and deserted for three generations.

  “It began with the death by sickness of Mr. Powell, a commissioner of the company, three years ago. He was robbed of his revenues after he had established himself in the castle. The fortress, you know, overlooks the countryside, the highway and the river, and seemed to him the most suitable and honorable quarters.

  “And then, last year a worthy gentleman who was my friend took over the office of magistrate and collector of Bhir. He also availed himself of the castle. Certain hostile manifestations of an uncanny nature alarmed him—so I am informed by his native cook who fled the place before him—and he was hastening back to me when he disappeared. He literally vanished, horse, revenues, servant and all, on the highroad.”

  C
unningham sighed.

  “Added to the untimely death of these two kindly and respected gentlemen is the loss of several couriers sent by them to me—both English and native troopers. We were never able to trace them after they started forth on the high road. Nor were we ever able to learn how they died.”

  With that the Resident rose and began to pace back and forth, his ruddy face palpably worried. His young companion gazed reflectively at the river.

  “Bhir,” mused Cunningham aloud, “is attracting miscreants and malcontents who believe that we fear to send a magistrate there. They think the proprietor-ghost is friendly to them, and hostile to us kafirs—unbelievers, you know. The mystery is still unsolved, and unless we can occupy the castle Bhir may become the keystone in an arch reared against our rule in northern India.

  “Anticipating your natural questions, Captain Malcolm,” he resumed, “I will add that none of the neighboring rajas is unfriendly to us. Nor have the people of Bhir displayed untoward feelings openly. The ghost alone stands revealed as our enemy.

  “And now, my dear Captain Malcolm,” he concluded, “what do you make of the tale of Jaswat Das?”

  John Malcolm, who had not spoken until then, shrugged square shoulders. Two years before he had led the first embassy from the company into Persia; and at that time he was known as a veteran of Seringapatam.

  He had been in the Indian service since childhood and possessed a familiarity rare in those days with the native languages and manners. Malcolm’s homely face was expressionless; his uniform and accoutrements were more than a little travel-stained. Cunningham, a stickler for the niceties, fancied that the new officer sent to him from Calcutta seemed dull, even indifferent.

  “Nothing very palpable, sir,” responded Malcolm. A Scot by birth, he was reticent and slow to express an opinion.

  “But, zounds! My dear fellow, your experience with the natives must have taught you something. I am informed that you can do wonders.”

  “I regret, sir, that you have been misinformed.” Malcolm surveyed his muddy boots gravely, noticing that the Resident was glancing at them with some choler. Cunningham was brave in finery of lace and red coat, London cut. “What is your own opinion of the deaths, sir?”

  “Ha—you do not know?” The Resident chose to forget that Malcolm had dismounted only that morning from a week’s ride to Agra. “I judge that the story of the ghost has been devised to frighten us away from Bhir. Within Bhir are a number of wealthy Muhammadan merchants, who have bribed the lawless elements of the ghost’s village to kill our officials. Poor Powell, for instance, did not die until a month after leaving the castle. He was poisoned, because, Captain Malcolm, no physician could diagnose his illness.”

  “He died here, at Agra?”

  “Yes. But my other friend vanished on the way hither—a victim to some of the same cursed native witchery”—Cunningham checked himself—“trickery, I should say. Do you not think I am correct in this?”

  Malcolm considered his dusty boot through a half-closed eye. “And you say that strange natives, travelers on the highway, were killed on this road?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you, sir, can not have the right answer to this. Because the men died, not in the ghost-village of Bhir, but after they had left Bhir.”

  The Resident, chagrined, coughed and took snuff without offering it to his companion.

  “Moreover,” pointed out the Scot mildly, “it—the mystery of the ghost—can hardly be merely an attempt to frighten us, sir. Not if other natives were killed by the same agency.”

  “Hum.” Cunningham smoothed the lace at his throat moodily. “I repeat, sir, it is all part and parcel of the same damnable plot against me—against us.”

  A quick smile rendered the Scot’s hard face agreeable.

  “Sir, you will permit me to appeal to your own knowledge of native superstitions. Ghosts, to a Moslem, are nothing supernatural; and to a Hindu they form part of his religion. A native is seized with an epileptic fit; his family pay tribute to the suspected ghost; the man, perhaps, recovers and all is well—if he dies the ghost was not sufficiently propitiated. Haunts, distemper and demon-ridding are all part of their scheme of existence.”

  “Well, sir?”

  “It would never occur to the Bhiris to frighten away sahibs by a tale of what is to them perfectly natural phenomena.”

  “Ah.” There was respect in the Resident’s ejaculation. But it was with a dry smile that he drew a folded yellow sheet from the pocket of his coat. “Here, Malcolm, is evidence to support my view. Powell brought it back with him, having found it in the possession of one of the Bhir landholders.”

  Malcolm studied the sheet and saw that it was a lease deed, made out in the ordinary form, dated about a hundred and twenty years ago. The lessee was a Moslem of Bhir and the deed was made out on behalf of the ghost of Bhir.

  “Sheer hocus-pocus,” shrugged Cunningham. “Powell related that even up to three years ago all deeds in Bhir village were made out with the ghost as proprietor.”

  “And so, because Powell and the other usurped the place of the ghost, they died.”

  Cunningham laughed uncertainly.

  “You believe that? Really, I am surprised! Why, the name of the ghost-proprietor appears—

  “As Dom Gion. A curious name.”

  “More fiddlededee! It is not even the name of a native.”

  “Well, sir.” Malcolm looked up seriously. “Jaswat Das assured us that the familiar spirit of Bhir wore a full-length black cloak—which is not a native garment. In fact it smacks of the, ah—demoniac. The deed is not a forgery. You have asked for my opinion—”

  “I have sent for you, to that end.”

  “There is a ghost in Bhir, somewhat old, of the name of Dom Gion.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Or a demon, if you prefer.”

  “Absurd!”

  “But unfortunately true. This deed relates that a stated tax is paid the ghost by Bhir. Powell and the other displaced the proprietor-spirit, and cut off its perquisites. Consequently they suffered.”

  Cunningham looked helplessly at the deep blue expanse of the river and the jungle mesh on the other side beyond which lay Bhir.

  “Yet the travelers on the high road—the natives, you know—did not trespass so,” he muttered.

  “Their fate was the product of sheer malignancy. Sir, you know the existence of a cult in northern India that worships Kali, the All-Destroyer. I think we find a center of the cult in Bhir and that our friend the ghost plays his part therein.”

  “Zounds!” Cunningham’s handsome face was utterly serious. He, too, had heard of Kali. “We must not let Bhir go. No matter how many sentries are killed off, a sentry post must be maintained, sir—at all costs.” He took snuff vigorously. “Now, Captain Malcolm, what precautions does your experience suggest, on behalf of the next officer I detail to the post?”

  Malcolm considered.

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  “Eh, what?” The Resident stared at his young companion. “You, sir? My dear Captain Malcolm, I could not call upon you, when my own men have vanished in Bhir and poor Powell—the only one to leave alive—died of an unknown disease.”

  “If you will be so good, sir, as to appoint me magistrate and collector of the district of Bhir for a time sufficient for me to investigate this matter? The ghost, you know, must be laid.”

  Cunningham was troubled. He had sent for the young captain of Sepoys to get his advice, which the Resident valued; now Malcolm had volunteered for the dangerous post. The peace of the Northern Provinces demanded a white man should remain in Bhir.

  “Confound me—I’m cursed if I don’t accept,” he acknowledged frankly. “Provided you will keep in touch with me. How many men shall I detail to go with you?”

  “None.”

  “Will you have your camp established near the river? It is safer than the village.”

  “I think,” smiled Malcolm, “I’ll camp i
n the castle of Bhir. It won’t do to give up our chosen post, you know.”

  Cunningham laughed.

  “Man, you are stark mad, but I’m blest if I don’t like you for it. Do you take snuff, Captain Malcolm?”

  II

  It was a few days later that Rawul Singh, a Rajput veteran, returned to his home in the Bhir valley after a long absence in the wars.

  Since the truce with the English the Nawab of Oudh had dismissed a great part of his soldiery without pay; the great chief Ranjeet Singh had sheathed the sword, and Rawul Singh would not serve under a Mussulman leader. So, having played his part in the recent battles with the English, Rawul Singh was glad to see the roof-tree of his hut near the Jumna road. He yearned to see his daughter, who was just reaching womanhood, and his son of ten years who would presently run forth to welcome him.

  Rawul Singh brushed up his truculent white mustache and swaggered in his saddle as he touched spurs to his tired horse. The silver ornaments on his harness were few; the purse at his girdle was empty.

  He was one of those good-hearted, utterly brave men who can not prosper, who are a prey to the merchant and money-lender, and who are born to be led, not to lead. Over his shoulder was a shawl, bought for Tala, his daughter. In one hand he held a small bow and arrows for the boy.

  In order to purchase these he had fasted on his journey.

  “Hai, Tala! Hai, little lion—it is thy father who calls. Fear not!”

  Smiling, he leaped from his horse and strode into the hut. It was in neat order, but empty. So also was the cattle-pen beside it. Rawul Singh laid down his presents and frowned. It was evening and his children should have been in the house, and the cattle penned, for there were jackals about.

  Convinced that the girl and boy must be in the village in spite of the late hour—because the aspect of the house revealed that they had been there not later than noon, as the ashes of the fire were still warm and water in the jars still fresh—Rawul Singh remounted and rode on to the outskirts of Bhir, no more than a gunshot away.

  Overhead towered the crumbling walls of the castle outlined by ruddy shafts of sunset. As the Rajput passed, hurrying to escape a storm that was overcasting the sky behind him, an eye of light winked out from the battlements of Bhir castle. Rawul Singh noticed it as he did everything within his field of vision.