by Robert Bloch
"Sorry," the Nizam answered. "I'm afraid I can't oblige you, Mr. Harmon."
"Never mind the double-talk." Race told him. "Bring on the dancing-girls!"
"Devi-dasi? they are confined to their temples."
"So take me to your temple!" Race laughed, then broke off as he realized none of the others were joining in.
The Nizam stared at an imaginary spot on the table-linen before him. "Perhaps it would be wise, Mr. Harmon, if I explained the customs of my country. Nonbelievers are not welcomed in our places of worship. There is a certain—prejudice, shall we say? You see, there is still ignorance amongst my people. They even resent the notion of a stranger approaching a pariah, such as the water-carriers in the village. It would be most embarrassing if an outsider were to exhibit any—any—"
"So you heard about that, eh?" Race waved his glass. "I get the message. Hands off, is that it? Yankee, go home!"
"Please, Mr. Harmon—"
"Never mind. You heard about old Race, huh? That's why you locked up the harem."
"I assure you, I have only one wife. At the moment she happens to be in purdah. She is untouchable."
"Untouchable?" Race grinned. "Sure they're all untouchable, aren't they? Well let me tell you something. Nobody upstages me. And if I want a little poontang, I'm gonna get it, understand?"
"Poontang?"
"What's the matter, don't you niggers understand plain English?" Race stood up, ignoring Simon's frantic gestures. "Ah, forget it. Where's the head?"
The Nizam glanced at his major-domo. Race watched them, fuzzily alert for any indication of anger. That's what he was waiting for; just let the nigger blow his top and he'd really let him have it.
But there was no anger, merely a quiet exchange of glances and a nod. Then the bearded Sikh rose and gestured politely, and Race followed him out of the room and down a long, dim corridor.
For a moment there was silence in the dining-hall behind; then everybody started talking at the same time.
Covering up, Race thought. The civilized bit. Well, if they wanted to be polite to niggers, that was their business. He knew what he wanted to do. What had that snotty spade said about his wife? She was in purdah, whatever the hell that was. And damned lucky, too, because right now, if he could find her
"Here we are, sir." The bearded man bowed and stepped aside. Race entered a modern bathroom.
Three minutes later he stood before the mirror, shaking the cold water out of his eyes and toweling off his face. He'd sobered somewhat, just enough to feel a sneaking distaste about rejoining the others in the banquet hall. Maybe the best idea was to just cut out of here.
He stepped into the deserted hall, moving slowly past a row of closed doors. That is, they had all been closed when he'd followed the major-domo. Now one of them was slightly ajar. As he passed he was aware of a heavy, musky scent drifting into the corridor.
Race halted and peered into a darkened room. Moonlight filtered from barred windows. Beneath the windows was a couch. On the couch was a girl. Her sole garment was a sari and she wore no ornaments, but such artifices were unnecessary. She was young and lovely, and when she rose in wide-eyed wonder the sari's transparency disclosed an undulating outline in the moonlight.
"Hot damn!" Race muttered, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"Sir—"
The girl moved back towards the couch.
"Sir—"
Race grinned and reached for her.
"Please, sir—it is not permitted. I am untouchable—"
Her knees pressed against the couch and she fell. Race held her there, his hands ripping the soft silk, feeling the incredible warmth of the body beneath. For a moment she writhed in resistance, until his lips found the fiery crater of her mouth, its tongue erupting like molten lava.
"Untouchable, huh, baby?" Race whispered. "Well, we'll see about that—"
* * * *
He left her sobbing, without a word. What the hell was there to say? He knew she wouldn't talk, and neither would he. If anybody back at the banquet hall asked where he'd been so long, he'd tell them he got sick, heaved his cookies. Nobody would ask any questions.
But sometime, just before they pulled out of here for good, he'd find a way of letting the Nizam know what happened. That uppity nigger thought he was so damned smart, handing out a line of jazz about keeping his hands off all the chicks. It would be a real gasser to see his face when he found out somebody had scored with his wife.
Well, he'd played it cute, but Race had the last laugh. It was all he could do to keep from busting out right now when he walked back into the banquet scene.
He got a real break because nobody even seemed to notice when he came in. They were all standing around some guy in a white suit at the head of the table.
Then the Nizam looked up and saw him.
"Feeling better, Mr. Harmon?" he asked.
Race nodded, trying to hold back the grin.
"That is good. But if you felt ill, you could consult with Dr. Ghopura, here."
Race blinked. "You called a doctor for me?"
"No—it just so happened that he arrived a few moments ago. I asked him to fly in from Bombay."
"It is useless, of course," the little doctor said. "If what you told me is true, the patient will surely die. All I can hope to do is ease the suffering in the terminal phase. I only pray you have kept her isolated."
"Wait a minute!" Race's throat was dry. "Your wife—she's sick—?"
"My wife is in purdah, Mr. Harmon, in Bombay. We are speaking about a poor untouchable from the village whom I discovered the other day. I brought her here immediately to avoid panic and the spread of contagion, for the disease is invariably fatal."
"What disease?"
"Cholera."
The Nizam shrugged and turned away. "Doctor, if you will come with me, please? Her room is right down the hall—"
Everything started to whirl. Just before he fell, Race thought he saw the Nizam exchange a smile with his major-domo, but he could not be sure. All he was sure of was the pain flooding his head and throat. It was a hot pain—hot and throbbing, like the mouth and tongue of the untouchable.
THE END
* * *
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Table of Contents
THE OLD COLLEGE TRY
BLACK BARGAIN
DAYBROKE
THE PAST MASTER
A GOOD
FOUNDING
FANGS OF VENGEANCE
DEATH IS AN ELEPHANT
PHILTRE TIP
METHOD FOR MURDER
UNTOUCHABLE
Table of Contents
THE OLD COLLEGE TRY
BLACK BARGAIN
DAYBROKE
THE PAST MASTER
A GOOD
FOUNDING
FANGS OF VENGEANCE
DEATH IS AN ELEPHANT
PHILTRE TIP
METHOD FOR MURDER
UNTOUCHABLE