ADVENTURE TALES #5

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “You can talk to her in a whisper, Higginson. And it’s up to you to watch, Hurree Chuckerjee — un­der­stand?”

  “Listen is obey, sahib!”

  “It’s all right,” Winchester said to Pailloux. “The windows of the room are barred with iron, and there are sen­tinels in the street.”

  “Very well,” said Higginson. “I’ll talk to ’er. And then, if I’m right and I myke the lydy ’fess up, all ye’ve got to do is look for the — now — thing after she owns up — and, gents, she’ll own up soon enough! And then, after ye’ve found it, yell squash that there gun-runnin’ indictment against me and let me go back to me ship — and wot ho for the briny and Liverpool and the barmaids of the Old Crocodile!”

  “Agreed!” said Mr. Win­chester.

  *****

  A MINUTE later, Marie Campbell sim­u­lated surprise and indignation when the baboo took her by the arm, calling, “Ho, memsahib!” and when im­mediately ­after­ward Winchester, flanked by Higginson and the French­man, walked up to her and told her, with a thin laugh, that he wanted “this person, Mr. Hig­gin­son, able-bodied sea­man,” to have a few minutes’ private conversation with her.

  “I don’t know Mr. — oh —” she cried, “whatever his name!”

  “Aw — lydy,” cut in the sailor, with every appearance of hurt feelings, “don’t yer remember Truthful ’Arry?” He appealed to the judge. “That’s gratitude, yer ’Onor! After it was me who ’elped ’er to —”

  Marie cut in rapidly, afraid the sail­or’s imagination might defeat its own ends.

  “I don’t know you,” she repeated.

  “Don’t you?” smiled the judge.

  “But, Miss Campbell,” exclaimed Higginson, winking a watery blue eye at her, “don’t yer recall as ’ow yer told me only larst week —”

  “I don’t remember a thing!”

  “You will remember — presently,” said Judge Winchester. He turned to the sailor.

  “Higginson,” he said, “come straight to my private office when you are through with Miss Campbell. Know where it is, don’t you?” He smiled disagreeably.

  “Yes, yer ’Onor. It’s the third door beyond the turning of the corridor, ain’t it?”

  “Mon Dieu, no!” exclaimed the French­man.

  “Indeed, no!” echoed Mr. Win­ches­ter. “It’s the fourth door. Be care­ful! I shall in­struct the guards to let you pass.”

  “Thanks, yer ’Onor,” said the sailor, pulling at his forelock. The two men walked away, while Hurree Chuck­erjee and Higginson stepped fully into the room, closing the door, the former re­maining near the thres­hold all the while play­ing ner­vously with the butt of his revolver while the lat­ter walked up to Marie.

  “Now, lydy,” he said in a loud voice, “I ’ad a long talk with the judge, and I promised ’im I would myke yer ’fess up. Now — come through!”

  “I don’t know you!”

  “Aw, ’ow yer ’urts my feelings!”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Look a-’ere!” Higginson sat down close to Marie and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Wot ho, but ye’re a bloom­in’ good actress!”

  “Am I not?” Marie whispered back.

  “Right-o! I got yer note, lydy — and now — wot are we goin’ to do with it — as the monkey sed when ’e ’ad grabbed the red-’ot poker?”

  So they conversed in low, tense ac­cents for several minutes, while Mr. Hurree Chuckerjee looked on, wild-eyed, staring, all the nerves in his cowardly baboo body writhing as he saw the powerful play of the back muscles beneath the sailor’s thin shirt. He touched the sacred wool thread of his caste that circled his obese waist, and he prayed silently but fervently to an assortment of his favorite Hindu ­deities. For he knew these rough ­sea­faring sahibs, and he did not trust them — no — not at all. Which proved that he had more than a little com­mon sense as well as, evidently, more than a little experience on docks and water­fronts in the days be­fore he left Calcutta for a life of ad­venture in yellow China.

  But, alter all, it appeared that Mr. Hurree Chuckerjee’s fears had been groundless. For just at that moment Higginson turned away from the girl and walked up to him, a sunny smile in his watery blue eyes and a laugh on his lips.

  “Mister ’Indu,” he said, “it’s done!” “Yes-s-s, sahib?”

  “Right-o! The little lydy ’as de­cided to jolly well spill the truth. ’Aven’t you, Miss Campbell?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said demurely. “And now for me interview with the judge,” the sailor went on as he crossed to the threshold.

  “The third door, eh, Mr. ’Indu?”

  “No!” cried the latter, waving pudgy, excited hands. “The fourth! The judge warned you most especially, Hig­gin­son sahib!”

  “That’s so,” admitted the able-bodied seaman. “Forgetful ’Arry — that’s wot me shipmates calls me, when they don’t call me Truthful ’Arry.”

  “You must not make a mistake about the door!” implored the baboo.

  “I ’opes as I won’t. Wot’s behind that other door, Cully, that ye’re all so bloody well frightened about it?”

  “Nothing, sahib.”

  “Right o! Secret diplomacy — wot?”

  “You must be careful,” repeated the baboo. “Perhaps I had better come with you part of the way — until you meet the guards.”

  “I do think you ’ad better. Although,” — the sailor hesitated — “are you allowed to leave this ’ere lydy alone?”

  “It is against regulation fifteen, par­a­graph eight. But, sahib, the windows are barred and I shall lock the door. For the first time in my life I shall therefore not adhere strictly to the printed regulations.”

  “Yer are a broad-minded josser!” came the hearty reply “Let’s go!” And Higginson put his left arm through the baboo’s right with a friendly smile, and then, the very next moment, before the latter knew what was occurring and how, it seemed to him that an entire firmament filled with a million blight stars was bursting somewhere in the back cells of his brain while a terrible pain shot knife-like through his eyes.

  What had really happened was that Higginson had suddenly reverted to the shirtsleeves diplomacy and tactics of the quarterdeck. With great rapidity he had drawn his left arm from the baboo’s right, had turned with catlike agility, had thrust his left hand into the baboo’s eye, his right into his throat, and the man went down as though he had been struck by a high-power bullet.

  “Quick! We ain’t got much time!”

  *****

  HIGGINSON turned to the girl, and, with her help, inside of a few seconds they gagged the baboo securely with the sailor’s handkerchief and the girl’s gloves. Working feverishly, they tore the waist-shawl from the unconscious man and, with that and the sailor’s coat and belt, tied him hand and foot. Then the sailor helped himself to the baboo’s revolver and motioned to Marie to follow him.

  “If we meet the guards, it’ll be all right. The judge told them to let me pass — and that goes for you, too. We only ’ave one chance.”

  “You mean — that third door be­yond the turning they all seem so scared about?”

  “Right-o!” — as his hand turned the knob. “ ’Ere we go, all aboard for Blackpool! Step out plucky and un­concerned-like.”

  “I will.”

  They left the room, quickly closing the door behind them, and a few steps farther down the corridor they met one of the guards, a big, red-faced Tat­ar in full uniform and heavily armed. Higginson walked up to him casually.

  “Did the judge tell you —”

  “All light. Top-side plenty good!” came the reply in pidgin-English, and the Tatar soldier kept on his way, un­sus­pectingly turning his back while the sailor whispered rapidly to the girl:

  “Sorry I ain’t got no time to fool with Queensberry rules. I got to treat ’im as I did ’is nibs back in yer room. Can’t afford to have ’im prowlin’ round —”

  Again, with tremendous agility, he turned. Up
flashed his right hand which held the revolver, the steel butt hitting the Tatar on the lower part of the brain. The man went down with­out a sound.

  “Got to shyke a leg!” said Hig­gin­son to Marie, the light of battle in his blue eyes. “Ain’t got no time to tie and gag ’im. Still — that sleepin’ powder I administered to ’is bean will keep ’im in the arms of Murphy for a jolly good while.”

  “You are such a sweet and peaceful soul, Mr. Higginson!” smiled the girl.

  “I am!” maintained the sailor stoutly. “Peaceful ’Arry — that’s wot me pals calls me. I’m a bleedin’ lamb until some blighter steps on me toes —” He interrupted himself, pointed. “Look! ’Ere’s the turning!” They made it at a run, hand in hand. There was no other guard about. “Now, then —” as they stopped in front of the third door.

  “Shall we —” breathed Marie, won­der­ing what lay beyond the threshold.

  “We bloomin’ well got to!” replied the sailor. “It’s our only chance, lydy.” He touched the door rather gingerly. “Mebbe I was a fool doin’ wot yer arsked me in that there note yer wrote on the cigarette-box! Well — never mind. I likes the color of yer eyes. Come; step into me parlor.” The door opened easily enough. He peered in “Gawd — ain’t it dark? Well — can’t be ’elped. In we pops!”

  They crossed the threshold. Grop­ing with his fingers, he found that the door had an automatic latch on the inside. He snapped it shut, then turned away from the door, Marie at his side, both feeling warily with their feet.

  “Stairs!” she whispered, her heart beating like a trip-hammer.

  “Right-o!”

  They groped their way down the stairs slowly, carefully, perhaps a couple of dozen steps, worn slippery and hollow as by the tread of hundreds of naked feet, down, straight down. There was not even the faintest ray of light, and the air was heavy, terribly oppressive, stagnant. But they held on their course, carefully setting foot be­fore foot, hands stretched out at right angles from their bodies to give warn­ing of unfamiliar objects, and finally they landed dead against a wall.

  “Wot now?” asked Higginson.

  “Let’s see.”

  Presently, by groping tentatively here and there, they discovered that they had debouched on a narrow landing which stretched right and left. Which way should they go, they wondered. They had to turn somewhere, and so they chose the left, for no particular reason. But often since Marie speculated what would have happened to them and how the whole adventure would have ended had they gone the other way.

  Still they kept on, the sailor in front, Marie following, until suddenly there was a dull noise, Higginson let out an oath.

  “Gawd! That hurts!”

  It appeared that he had struck his forehead a terrific bump against a low beam that barred the way. He leaned down and investigated.

  “There’s space beyond. Careful, lydy!”

  Bending down, they stepped un­der the beam and, by feeling, found that they were in a small cubicle, less than five feet in height and no bigger than six or seven feet square. The road seemed to end there. They crouched low, wondering what next to do.

  “I’m goin’ to strike a match,” whispered the sailor.

  “You think you’d better?”

  “Ain’t nothing else to do. Got to.”

  Up flared the match with a brutal lemon flare, and they looked about quickly. There was no door — no­thing, except —

  “Look!” said Marie, and pointed at the low ceiling where, square in the center, a curved metal handle was pro­truding. The match flickered out. “What now?” asked Marie.

  “Got to try the ’andle, lydy,” said Higginson, with British stoicism.

  A jerk and twist — and suddenly half the ceiling slid to one side, into a well-oiled groove, sending down a flood of haggard light.

  “Come on!” said the sailor, and he lifted the girl through the hole in the ceiling and followed after.

  *****

  THE ROOM in which they found them­selves was empty. It was lit by the dull-red, scanty glow which came from an open-work silver brazier swinging on delicate jeweled chains from the vaulted ceiling. A tiny window was set high on a wall, and a door led. away from the left. On the wall opposite, another window, lower than the first and larger in size, was boarded by heavy wooden planks painted with bright and intricate designs of snarling golden dragons in a tossing sea of crimson and black. Higginson studied the first window speculatively.

  “Too ’igh up,” he decided, “even for an able-bodied seaman, and too small to crawl through — chiefly you in your evenin’ dress, lydy — why, it’d rip to shreds!”

  “Let’s investigate the other win­dow.”

  *****

  AFTER A FEW minutes’ examination they found a small crack in the board­ing and, since the sailor’s knife had been confiscated in prison, they used woman’s favorite weapon, a hair­pin, until they had enlarged the crack sufficiently to look through. At first, they saw nothing except a mass of ­vari­colored incense smoke. But presently Marie’s eyes grew used to it. She stared — and let out a scream, which she quickly suppressed.

  “Wot’s wrong?” asked Higginson.

  “Nothing much — only, I think, by escaping from the prison, we rather jumped from the frying-pan, into the fire. Look!” She pointed through the thin crack. “It’s the Temple of Horrors!”

  “ ’Orrors is bloomin’ well right,” admitted Higginson as, emerging from the swirls of incense smoke, he saw looming up ghastly images of people being killed by slow Chinese tortures; as presently, even as they watched, a farther door opened into the temple and, with a savage thumping of drums, a clash of cymbals and a shrilling of reed pipes, a procession of masked Chi­nese priests entered, led by a giant high priest who was naked to the waist.

  They were followed by a dozen torch-bearers, their flaming torches light­ing up the interior with many colors. Then came a procession of sol­diers. They were officers, judging from the embroidered, insignia on their tunics, and they bore swords and pistols and daggers which, as if asking for divine blessing, they deposited at the feet of the idols, while, at the same moment, a chant arose, rather a long-drawn wail, in Chinese monosyllables. The high priest turned. He faced the crowd. He lifted his hands in an annu­lar, straight up-and-down motion, com­manding silence, which dropped like a pall. Then he bowed three times before a great statue of the Buddha. Another priest handed him a human skull on gold chains that was filled with burning embers. He blew upon them till they shot forth tongues of vermil­ion light. He bowed again, and like a herald, roared out a single Tatar word:

  “Kieng-sse!”

  “Kieng-sse!” The crowd took up the word in a mad, whirling chorus, and the sailor clutched Marie’s arm.

  “I knows that word!” he whispered raucously. “I’ve picked up a bit of Mon­gol lingo ’ere and there. A sacrifice — that’s wot the word means! That sanguinary blighter is arskin’ for a sac­rifice! I knows wot ’e’s drivin’ at! I fought in the Boxer war. Lydy — this ’ere ain’t no plyce for two peaceful Anglo-Saxons!” He dragged her away. “Wot’ll we do?”

  “The door!” She pointed at it.

  “And then wot?”

  “Carry on, Mr. Higginson!”

  “You’re a brick, Miss Campbell!”

  “And you’re a peach, Mr. Higgin­son!”

  He gave a gallant flourish.

  “I always did like Yanks, Miss Camp­bell.”

  “Sure I am one?”

  “My word — ain’t you? Can a duck swim? If you ain’t a Yank, then George Washington was an Eyetalian!” And Marie could have hugged him for the remark.

  They crossed to the door, opened it carefully, listened, looked. There was no sound. Then they stepped out into another corridor, bright-lit with swing­ing yellow lamps. It was really more than a corridor — more like a long hall, very high, with a vaulted ceiling. Up to a height of seven feet the walls were covered with stucco, white on white, ivory and snowy enamel skillf
ully blended with shiny white lac, and overlaid with a silver-threaded spider’s web of arabesques, as exquisite as the finest Mechlin lace, and of Sanskrit quotations in the Devanagari script, showing that the temple had been built many, many centuries earlier, in the golden days when Hindu priests first brought the peaceful words of the Lord Gautama Buddha from across the Him­a­layas and before the Mongols twisted the gentle message according to their tortuous, mazed mentality. The upper part of the walls, too, must have been decorated by ancient Indian crafts­men. For above the white stucco was a procession, a panorama of conventionalized Hindu frescoes — an epitome, a résumé of all Hindustan’s myths and faiths and legends and superstitions.

  The tale of a nation’s life, Asia’s civilization and faith — yes, and crimes and virtues and sufferings, here, in front of them, and Higginson was strangely silent, while a thought came over Marie that here she was an in­truder, not physically but mentally.

  “What can we do?” she asked out loud. “Hobson’s choice, don’t you think, Mr. Higginson?”

  “Right-o!”

  So they walked on, down that ever­lasting corridor, with all Asia’s gods jeering at them from the wall paintings, and looking left and right for a door, a window or some other avenue of escape, when very suddenly Marie was startled into complete immobility.

  *****

  DIRECTLY in front of them the cor­ridor came to an end, or, rather, it broad­ened out, swept out into a circular hall, the walls covered with slabs of delicate marble carved so that they looked like sculptured embroideries, with splendid Pekingese furniture of black teakwood, a profusion of en­ameled-silver ornaments, and the floor covered with huge Ming rugs of orange, gold, and imperial yellow.

  “Gawd!” whispered Higginson.

  Marie was near fainting. She steadied herself by clutching frant­ically the sailor’s strong arm.

  And yet the thing which had stirred them so profoundly was only a face — that of an old man, wrinkled, brown, immobile on a scrawny neck, which was like the slimy stalk of some poisonous, incredible jungle flower, the body, arms and legs wrapped in layers of thin muslin, sitting upright on a great chair of carved rosewood that was filled with a profusion of pillows in embroidered imperial Chien-lung silk.