Almost as he concluded his soliloquy a ticca-gharri made its appearance, and, without being hailed, pulled up beside him. It was evident that their meeting was intentional, for the driver asked no question of his fare, who simply took his seat, laid himself back upon the cushions, and smoked his cigar with the air of a man playing a part in some performance that had been long arranged.
Ten minutes later the coachman had turned out of the Chitpore Road into a narrow bye street. From this he broke off into another, and at the end of a few minutes into still another. These offshoots of the main thoroughfare were wrapped in inky darkness, and, in order that there should be as much danger as possible, they were crowded to excess. To those who know Calcutta this information will be significant.
There are slums in all the great cities of the world, and every one boasts its own peculiar characteristics. The Ratcliffe Highway in London, and the streets that lead off it, can show a fair assortment of vice; the Chinese quarters of New York, Chicago, and San Francisco can more than equal them; Little Bourke Street, Melbourne, a portion of Singapore, and the shipping quarter of Bombay, have their own individual qualities, but surely for the lowest of all the world’s low places one must go to Calcutta, the capital of our great Indian Empire.
Surrounding the Lai, Machua, Burra, and Joira Bazaars are to be found the most infamous dens the mind of man can conceive. But that is not all. If an exhibition of scented, high -toned, gold-lacquered vice is required, one has only to make one’s way into the streets that lie within a stone’s throw of the Chitpore Road to be accommodated.
Reaching a certain corner, the gharri came to a standstill and the fare alighted. He said something in an undertone to the driver as he paid him, and then stood upon the footway placidly smoking until the vehicle had disappeared from view. When it was no longer in sight he looked up at the houses towering above his head; in one a marriage feast was being celebrated; across the way the sound of a woman’s voice in angry expostulation could be heard. The passers-by, all of whom were natives, scanned him curiously, but made no remark. Englishmen, it is true, were sometimes seen in that quarter and at that hour, but this one seemed of a different class, and it is possible that nine out of every ten took him for the most detested of all Englishmen, a police officer.
For upwards of ten minutes he waited, but after that he seemed to become impatient. The person he had expected to find at the rendezvous had, so far, failed to put in an appearance, and he was beginning to wonder what he had better do in the event of his not coming.
But, badly as he had started, he was not destined to fail in his enterprise; for, just as his patience was exhausted, he saw, hastening towards him, a man whom he recognised as the person for whom he waited.
“You are late,” he said in English, which he was aware the other spoke fluently, though he was averse to owning it. “I have been here more than a quarter of an hour.”
“It was impossible that I could get away before,” the other answered cringingly; “but if your Excellency will be pleased to follow me now, I will conduct you to the person you seek, without further delay.”
“Lead on,” said the Englishman; “we have wasted enough time already.”
Without more ado the Babu turned himself about and proceeded in the direction he had come, never pausing save to glance over his shoulder to make sure that his companion was following. Seemingly countless were the lanes, streets, and alleys through which they passed. The place was nothing more or less than a rabbit warren of small passages, and so dark that, at times, it was as much as the Englishman could do to see his guide ahead of him. Well acquainted as he was with the quarter, he had never been able to make himself master of all its intricacies, and as the person whom he was going to meet was compelled to change her residence at frequent intervals, he had long given up the idea of endeavouring to find her himself.
Turning out of a narrow lane, which differed from its fellows only in the fact that it contained more dirt and a greater number of unsavoury odours, they found themselves at the top of a short flight of steps, which in their turn conducted them to a small square, round which rose houses taller than any they had yet discovered. Every window contained a balcony, some larger than others, but all in the last stage of decay. The effect was peculiar, but not so strange as the quiet of the place; indeed, the wind and the far off hum of the city were the only sounds to be heard.
Now and again figures issued from the different doorways, stood for a moment looking anxiously about them, and then disappeared as silently as they had come. All the time not a light was to be seen, or the sound of a human voice. It was a strange place for a white man to be in, and so Simon Carne evidently thought as he obeyed his guide’s invitation and entered the last house on the right hand side.
Whether the buildings had been originally intended for residences or for offices it would be difficult to say. They were almost as old as John Company himself, and would not appear to have been cleaned or repaired since they had been first inhabited.
From the centre of the hall, in which he found himself, a massive staircase led to the other floors, and up this Carne marched behind his conductor. On gaining the first landing he paused while the Babu went forward and knocked at a door. A moment later the shutter of a small grille was pulled back, and the face of a native woman looked out. A muttered conversation ensued, and after it was finished the door was opened and Carne was invited to enter. This summons he obeyed with alacrity, only to find that once he was inside, the door was immediately shut and barred behind him.
After the darkness of the street and the semi-obscurity of the stairs, the dazzling light of the apartment in which he now stood was almost too much for his eyes. It was not long, however, before he had recovered sufficiently to look about him. The room was a fine one, in shape almost square, with a large window at the further end covered with a thick curtain of native cloth. It was furnished with considerable taste, in a mixture of styles, half European and half native. A large lamp of worked brass, burning some sweet-smelling oil, was suspended from the ceiling. A quantity of tapestry, much of it extremely rare, covered the walls, relieved here and there with some superb specimens of native weapons; comfortable divans were scattered about, as if inviting repose, and as if further to carry out this idea, beside one of the lounges, a silver-mounted narghyle was placed, its tube curled up beside it in a fashion somewhat suggestive of a snake.
But, luxurious as it all was, it was evidently not quite what Carne had expected to find, and the change seemed to mystify as much as it surprised him. Just as he was coming to a decision, however, his ear caught the sound of chinking bracelets, and next moment the curtain which covered a doorway in the left wall was drawn aside by a hand glistening with rings and as tiny as that of a little child. A second later Trincomalee Liz entered the room.
Standing in the doorway, the heavily embroidered curtain falling in thick folds behind her and forming a most effective background, she made a picture such as few men could look upon without a thrill of admiration. At that time she, the famous Trincomalee Liz, whose doings had made her notorious from the Saghalian coast to the shores of the Persian Gulf, was at the prime of her life and beauty—a beauty such as no man who has ever seen it will ever forget.
It was a notorious fact that those tiny hands had ruined more men than any other half -dozen pairs in the whole of India, or the East for that matter. Not much was known of her history, but what had come to light was certainly interesting. As far as could be ascertained she was born in Tonquin; her father, it had been said, was a handsome but disreputable Frenchman, who had called himself a count, and over his absinthe was wont to talk of his possessions in Normandy; her mother hailed from Northern India, and she herself was lovelier than the pale hibiscus blossom. To tell in what manner Liz and Carne had become acquainted would be too long a story to be included here. But that there was some bond between the
pair is a fact that may be stated without fear of contradiction.
On seeing her, the visitor rose from his seat and went to meet her.
“So you have come at last,” she said, holding out both hands to him. “I have been expecting you these three weeks past. Remember, you told me you were coming.”
“I was prevented,” said Carne. “And the business upon which I desired to see you was not fully matured.”
“So there is business then?” she answered with a pretty petulance. “I thought as much. I might know by this time that you do not come to see me for anything else. But there, do not let us talk in this fashion when I have not had you with me for nearly a year. Tell me of yourself, and what you have been doing since last we met.”
As she spoke she was occupied preparing a huqa for him. When it was ready she fitted a tiny amber mouthpiece to the tube, and presented it to him with a compliment as delicate as her own rose-leaf hands. Then, seating herself on a pile of cushions beside him, she bade him proceed with his narrative.
“And now,” she said, when he had finished, “what is this business that brings you to me?”
A few moments elapsed before he began his explanation, and during that time he studied her face closely.
“I have a scheme in my head,” he said, laying the huqa stick carefully upon the floor, “that, properly carried out, should make us both rich beyond all telling, but to carry it out properly I must have your co-operation.”
She laughed softly, and nodded her head.
“You mean that you want money,” she answered. “Ah, Simon, you always want money.”
“I do want money,” he replied without hesitation. “I want it badly. Listen to what I have to say, and then tell me if you can give it to me. You know what year this is in England?”
She nodded her head. There were few things with which she had not some sort of acquaintance.
“It will be a time of great rejoicing,” he continued. “Half the princes of the earth will be assembled in London. There will be wealth untold there, to be had for the mere gathering in; and who is so well able to gather it as I? I tell you, Liz, I have made up my mind to make the journey and try my luck, and, if you will help me with the money, you shall have it back with such jewels, for interest, as no woman ever wore yet. To begin with, there is the Duchess of Wiltshire’s necklace. Ah, your eyes light up; you have heard of it?”
“I have,” she answered, her voice trembling with excitement. “Who has not?”
“It is the finest thing of its kind in Europe, if not in the world,” he went on slowly, as if to allow time for his words to sink in. “It consists of three hundred stones, and is worth, apart from its historic value, at least fifty thousand pounds.”
He saw her hands tighten on the cushions upon which she sat.
“Fifty thousand pounds! That is five lacs of rupees?”
“Exactly! Five lacs of rupees, a king’s ransom,” he answered. “But that is not all. There will be twice as much to be had for the taking when once I get there. Find me the money I want, and those stones shall be your property.
“How much do you want?”
“The value of the necklace,” he answered. “Fifty thousand pounds.”
“It is a large sum,” she said, “and it will be difficult to find.”
He smiled, as if her words were a joke and should be treated as such.
“The interest will be good,” he answered.
“But are you certain of obtaining it?” she asked.
“Have I ever failed yet?” he replied.
“You have done wonderful things, certainly. But this time you are attempting so much.”
“The greater the glory!” he answered. “I have prepared my plans, and I shall not fail. This is going to be the greatest undertaking of my life. If it comes off successfully, I shall retire upon my laurels. Come, for the sake of—well, you know for the sake of what—will you let me have the money? It is not the first time you have done it, and on each occasion you have not only been repaid, but well rewarded into the bargain.”
“When do you want it?”
“By mid-day to-morrow. It must be paid in to my account at the Bank before twelve o’clock. You will have no difficulty in obtaining it I know. Your respectable merchant friends will do it for you if you but hold up your little finger. If they don’t feel inclined, then put on the screw and make them.”
She laughed as he paid this tribute to her power. A moment later, however, she was all gravity.
“And the security?”
He leant towards her and whispered in her ear.
“It is well,” she replied. “The money shall be found for you to-morrow. Now tell me your plans; I must know all that you intend doing.”
“In the first place,” he answered, drawing a little closer to her, and speaking in a lower voice, so that no eavesdropper should hear, “I shall take with me Abdul Khan, Ram Gafur, Jowur Singh, and Nur li, with others of less note as servants. I shall engage the best house in London, and under the wing of our gracious Viceroy, who has promised me the light of his countenance, will work my way into the highest society. That done I shall commence operations. No one will ever suspect!”
“And when it is finished, and you have accomplished your desires, how will you escape?”
“That I have not yet arranged. But of this you may be sure, I shall run no risks.”
“And afterwards?”
He leant a little towards her again, and patted her affectionately upon the hand.
“Then we shall see what we shall see,” he said. “I don’t think you will find me ungrateful.”
She shook her pretty head.
“It is good talk,” she cried, “but it means nothing. You always say the same. How am I to know that you will not learn to love one of the white mem-sahibs when you are so much among them?”
“Because there is but one Trincomalee Liz,” he answered; “and for that reason you need have no fear.”
Her face expressed the doubt with which she received this assertion. As she had said, it was not the first time she had been cajoled into advancing him large sums with the same assurance. He knew this, and, lest she should alter her mind, prepared to change the subject.
“Besides the others, I must take Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh. They are in Calcutta, I am told, and I must communicate with them before noon to-morrow. They are the most expert craftsmen in India, and I shall have need of them.”
“I will have them found, and word shall be sent to you.”
“Could I not meet them here?”
“Nay, it is impossible. I shall not be here myself. I leave for Madras within six hours.”
“Is there, then, trouble toward?”
She smiled, and spread her hands apart with a gesture that said: “Who knows?”
He did not question her further, but after a little conversation on the subject of the money, rose to bid her farewell.
“I do not like this idea,” she said, standing before him and looking him in the face. “It is too dangerous. Why should you run such risk? Let us go together to Burma. You shall be my vizier.”
“I would wish for nothing better,” he said, “were it not that I am resolved to go to England. My mind is set upon it, and when I have done, London shall have something to talk about for years to come.”
“If you are determined, I will say no more,” she answered; “but when it is over, and you are free, we will talk again.”
“You will not forget about the money?” he asked anxiously.
She stamped her foot.
“Money, money, money,” she cried. “It is always the money of which you think. But you shall have it, never fear. And now when shall I see you again?”
“In six months’ time at a plac
e of which I will tell you beforehand.”
“It is a long time to wait.”
“There is a necklace worth five lacs to pay you for the waiting.”
“Then I will be patient. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, little friend,” he said. And then, as if he thought he had not said enough, he added: “Think sometimes of Simon Carne.”
She promised, with many pretty speeches, to do so, after which he left the room and went downstairs. As he reached the bottom step he heard a cough in the dark above him and looked up. He could just distinguish Liz leaning over the rail. Then something dropped and rattled upon the wooden steps behind him. He picked it up to find that it was an antique ring set with rubies.
“Wear it that it may bring thee luck,” she cried, and then disappeared again.
He put the present on his finger and went out into the dark square.
“The money is found,” he said, as he looked up at the starlit heavens. “Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh are to be discovered before noon to-morrow. His Excellency the Viceroy and his amiable lady have promised to stand sponsors for me in London society. If with these advantages I don’t succeed, well, all I can say is, I don’t deserve to. Now where is my Babuji?”
Almost at the same instant a figure appeared from the shadow of the building and approached him.
“If the Sahib will permit me, I will guide him by a short road to his hotel.”
“Lead on then. I am tired, and it is time I was in bed.” Then to himself he added: “I must sleep to-night, for to-morrow there are great things toward.”
CHAPTER I
THE DUCHESS OF WILTSHIRE’S DIAMONDS
To the reflective mind the rapidity with which the inhabitants of the world’s greatest city seize upon a new name or idea, and familiarise themselves with it, can scarcely prove otherwise than astonishing. As an illustration of my meaning let me take the case of Klimo—the now famous private detective, who has won for himself the right to be considered as great as Lecocq, or even the late lamented Sherlock Holmes.
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 169
