Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Natives understand directness from an Englishman, and can parry it; but from another native it bewilders them, just as a left-handed swordsman is bewildered by another left-hander. The babu blinked.

  “How much had you seen when you ran to warn me this afternoon?”

  The babu looked pitiful. His fat defenseless body was an absolute contrast to the Sikh’s tall manly figure. His eye was furtive, glancing ever sidewise; but the Sikh looked straight and spoke abruptly though with a note of kindness in his voice.

  “There is no need to fear me,” he said, since the babu would not answer. “Speak! How much do you know?”

  So the babu took heart of grace, producing a voice from somewhere down in his enormous stomach and saying, of course, the very last thing expected of him.

  “Grief chokes me!” he asserted.

  “Take care that I choke thee not, babuji! I have asked a question. I am no lawyer to maneuver for my answer. Did you see that trooper killed?”

  The babu nodded; but his nod was not much more than tentative. He could have denied it next minute without calling much on his imagination.

  “Oh! Which way went the murderer?”

  “Grief overwhelms me!” said the babu.

  “Grief for what?”

  “For my money — my good money — my emoluments!”

  Direct as an arrow though he was in all his dealings, Ranjoor Singh had not forgotten how the Old East thinks. He recognized the preliminaries of a bargain, and searched his mind to recall how much money he had with him; to have searched his pocket would have been too puerile.

  “What of them?”

  “Lost!”

  “Where? How?”

  “While standing here, observing movements of him whom I suspected to be murderer, a person unknown — possibly a Sikh — perhaps not — removed money surreptitiously from my person.”

  “How much money?”

  “Rupees twenty-five, annas eight,” said the babu unwinking. He neither blushed nor hesitated.

  “I will take compassion on your loss and replace five rupees of it,” said Ranjoor Singh, “when you have told me which way the murderer went.”

  “My eyes are too dim, and my heart too full with grief,” said the babu. “No man’s memory works under such conditions. Now, that money—”

  “I will give you ten rupees,” said Ranjoor Singh.

  This was too easy! The babu was prepared to bargain for an hour, fighting for rupee after rupee until his wit assured him he had reached the limit. Now he began to believe he had set the limit far too low.

  “I do not remember,” he said slowly but with great conviction, scratching at his stomach as if he kept his recollections stored there.

  “You said twenty-five rupees, eight annas? Well, I will pay the half of it, and no more,” said Ranjoor Singh in a new voice that seemed to suggest unutterable things. “Moreover, I will pay it when I have proved thy memory true. Now, scratch that belly of thine and let the thoughts come forth!”

  “Nay, sahib, I forget.”

  Ranjoor Singh drew out his purse and counted twelve rupees and three quarters into the palm of his hand.

  “Which way?” he demanded.

  “Twenty-five rupees, eight annas of earned emolument — gone while I watched the movements of a murderer! It is not easy to keep brave heart and remember things!”

  “See here, thou bellyful of memories! Remember and tell me, or I return this money to my purse and march thee by the nape of thy fat neck to the police station, where they will put thee in a cell for the night and jog thy memory in ways the police are said to understand! Speak! Here, take the money!”

  The babu reached out a fat hand and the silver changed owners.

  “There!” said the babu, jerking a thumb over his right shoulder. “Through that door!”

  “That narrow teak door, down the passage?”

  But the babu was gone, hurrying as if goaded by fear of hell and all its angels.

  Ranjoor Singh strode across the street in a bee-line and entered the dark passage. He had seen the yellow light of a lamp-flame through a chink in an upper shutter, and he intended to try directness on the problem once again. It was ten full paces down the passage to the door; he counted them, finishing the last one with a kick against the panel that would have driven it in had it been less than teak.

  There came no answer, so he kicked again. Then he beat on the door with his clenched fists. Presently he turned his back to the door and kept up a steady thunder on it with his heels. And then, after about five minutes, he heard movement within.

  He congratulated himself then that the noise he had made had called the attention of passers-by and of all the neighbors, and though he had had no fear and no other intention than to enter the house at all costs, he certainly had that much less compunction now.

  He heard three different bolts drawn back, and then there was a pause. He thought he heard whispering, so he resumed his thunder. Almost at once there followed the unmistakable squeak of a big beam turning on its pivot, and the door opened about an inch.

  He pushed, but some one inside pushed harder, and the door closed again. So Ranjoor Singh leaned all his weight and strength against the door, drawing in his breath and shoving with all his might. Resistance ceased. The door flew inward, as it had done once before that day, and closed with a bang behind him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Long were the days and oh! wicked the weather —

  Endless and thankless the round —

  Grinding God’s Grit into rookies together;

  I was the upper stone, he was the nether,

  And Gad, sir, they groaned as we ground!

  Bitter the blame (but he helped me to bear it),

  Grim the despair that we ate!

  But hell’s loose! The dam’s down, and none can repair it!

  ’Tis our turn! Go, summon my brother to share it!

  His squadron’s at arms, and we wait!

  A REGIMENT is more exacting of its colonel than ever was lady of her lord; the more truly he commands, the better it loves him, until at last the regiment swallows him and he becomes part of it, in thought and word and deed. Distractions such as polo, pig-sticking, tiger-shooting are tolerable insofar as they steady his nerve and train his hand and eye; to that extent they, too, subserve the regiment. But a woman is a rival. So it is counted no sin against a cavalry colonel should he be a bachelor.

  There remained no virtue, then, in the eyes of Outram’s Own for Colonel Kirby to acquire; he had all that they could imagine, besides at least a dozen they had not imagined before he came to them. There was not one black-bearded gentleman who couched a lance behind him but believed Colonel Kirby some sort of super-man; and, in return, Colonel Kirby found the regiment so satisfying that there was not even a lady on the sky-line who could look forward to encroaching on the regiment’s preserves.

  His heart, his honor, and his rare ability were all the regiment’s, and the regiment knew it; so he was studied as is the lot of few. His servant knew which shoes he would wear on a Thursday morning, and would have them ready; the mess-cook spiced the curry so exactly to his taste that more than one cook-book claimed it to be a species apart and labeled it with his name. If he frowned, the troopers knew somebody had tried to flatter him; if he smiled, the regiment grinned; and when his face lacked all expression, though his eyes were more than usually quick, officer, non-commissioned officer and man alike would sit tight in the saddle, so to speak, and gather up their reins.

  His mood was recognized that afternoon as he drove back from the club while he was yet four hundred yards away, although twilight was closing down. The waler mare — sixteen three and a half, with one white stocking and a blaze that could be seen from the sky-line — brought his big dog-cart through the street mud at a speed which would have insured the arrest of the driver of a motor; but that, if anything, was a sign of ordinary health.

  Nor was the way he took the corner by the barrack gate, on o
ne wheel, any criterion; he always did it, just as he never failed to acknowledge the sentry’s salute by raising his whip. It needed the observant eyes of Outram’s Own to detect the rather strained calmness and the almost inhumanly active eye.

  “Beware!” called the sentry, while he was yet three hundred yards away. “Be awake!”

  “Be awake! Be awake! Beware!”

  The warning went from lip to lip, troop to troop, from squadron stables on to squadron stables, until six hundred men were ready for all contingencies. A civilian might not have recognized the difference, but Kirby’s soldier servant awakened from his nap on the colonel’s door-mat and straightened his turban in a hurry, perfectly well aware that there was something in the wind.

  It was too early to dress for dinner yet; too late to dress for games of any kind. The servant was nonplussed. He stood in silence, awaiting orders that under ordinary circumstances, or at an ordinary hour, would have been unnecessary. But for a while no orders came. The only sound in those extremely unmarried quarters was the steady drip of water into a flat tin bath that the servant had put beneath a spot where the roof leaked; the rain had ceased but the ceiling cloth still drooped and drooled.

  Suddenly Kirby threw himself backward into a long chair, and the servant made ready for swift action.

  “Present my compliments to Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh sahib, and ask him to be good enough to see me here.”

  The servant saluted and was gone. Kirby relapsed again into the depth of the chair, staring at the wall in front of him, letting his eye travel from one to another of the accurately spaced-out pictures, pieces of furniture and trophies that proclaimed him unmarried. There was nothing whatever in his quarters to decoy him from his love. There were polo sticks in a corner where a woman would have placed a standard lamp, and where the flowers should have stood was a chest to hold horse-medicines. There was a vague smell about the place of varnish, polish and good leather.

  The servant was back again, stiff at the salute, within five minutes.

  “Ne hai.”

  “Not there? Not where? Not in his quarters? Then go and find him. Ask where he is. Hurry!”

  So, since the regiment was keyed to watchfulness, it took about five minutes more before it was known that Ranjoor Singh was not in barracks. The servant returned to report that he had been seen driving toward the bazaar in a tikka-gharry.

  Then entered Warrington, the adjutant, and the servant was dismissed at once.

  “Bad business,” said Warrington, looking thoroughly cheerful.

  “What now?”

  “One of Squadron D’s men murdered in the bazaar this afternoon. Body’s in the morgue in charge of the police. ‘Nother man who was with him apparently missing. No explanation, and the p’lice say there aren’t any clues.”

  He twisted at a little black mustache and began to hum.

  “Know where Ranjoor Singh is by any chance?” asked Kirby.

  “Give me three guesses — no, two. One — he’s raising hell with all the police in Delhi. Two — he’s at the scene of the murder, doing detective work on his own. I heard he’d driven away — and, anyhow, it’s his squadron. Man’s probably his second cousin, twenty or thirty times removed.”

  “Send somebody to find him!” ordered Kirby.

  “Say you want to have a word with him?”

  Kirby nodded, and Warrington swaggered out, humming to himself exactly as he hoped to be humming when his last grim call should come, the incarnation of efficiency, awake and very glad. A certain number of seconds after he had gone two mounted troopers clattered out toward the bazaar. Ten minutes later Warrington returned.

  “D Squadron’s squattin’ on its hunkers in rings an’ lookin’ gloomy,” he said, as if he were announcing some good news that had a touch of humor in it. “By the look of ’em you’d say they’d been passed over for active service and were meditatin’ matrimony.”

  “By gad, Warrington! You don’t know how near that guess is to the truth!”

  Kirby’s lips were smiling, but his voice was hard. Warrington glanced quickly at him once and then looked serious.

  “You mean—”

  “Yes,” said Kirby.

  “Has it broken yet?”

  “No.”

  “Is it goin’ to break?”

  “Looks like it. Looks to me as if it’s all been prearranged. Our crowd are sparring for time, and the Prussians are all in a hurry. Looks that way to me.”

  “And you mean — there’s a chance — even a chance of us — of Outram’s Own bein’ out of it? Beg your pardon, sir, but are you serious?”

  “Yes,” said Kirby, and Warrington’s jaw fell.

  “Any details that are not too confidential for me to know?” asked Warrington.

  “Tell you all about it after I’ve had a word with Ranjoor Singh.”

  “Hadn’t I better go and help look for him?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  So, within another certain number of split seconds, Captain Charlie Warrington rode, as the French say, belly-to-the-earth, and the fact that the monsoon chose that instant to let pour another Noah’s deluge seemed to make no difference at all to his ardor or the pace to which he spurred his horse.

  An angry police officer grumbled that night at the club about the arrogance of all cavalrymen, but of one Warrington in particular.

  “Wanted to know, by the Big Blue Bull of Bashan, whether I knew when a case was serious or not! Yes, he did! Seemed to think the murder of one sowar was the only criminal case in all Delhi, and had the nerve to invite me to set every constable in what he termed my parish on the one job. What did I say? Told him to call tomorrow, of course — said I’d see. Gad! You should have heard him swear then — thought his eyes ‘ud burn holes in my tunic. Went careering out of the office as if war had been declared.”

  “Talking of war,” said somebody, nursing a long drink under the swinging punkah, “do you suppose—”

  So the manners of India’s pet cavalry were forgotten at once in the vortex of the only topic that had interest for any one in clubdom, and it was not noticed whether Warrington or his colonel, or any other officer of native cavalry looked in at the club that night.

  Warrington rode into the rain at the same speed at which he had galloped to the police station, overhauled one of the mounted troopers whom he himself had sent in search of Ranjoor Singh, rated him soundly in Punjabi for loafing on the way, and galloped on with the troop-horse laboring in his wake. He reined in abreast of the second trooper, who had halted by a cross-street and was trying to appear to enjoy the deluge.

  “Any word?” asked Warrington.

  “I spoke with two who said he entered by that door — that small door down the passage, sahib, where there is no light. It is a teak door, bolted and with no keyhole on the outside.”

  “Good for you,” said Warrington, glancing quickly up and down the wet street, where the lamps gleamed deceptively in pools of running water. There seemed nobody in sight; but that is a bold guess in Delhi, where the shadows all have eyes.

  He gave a quiet order, and trooper number one passed his reins to number two.

  “Go and try that door. Kick it in if you can — but be quick, and try not to be noisy!”

  The trooper swung out of the saddle and obeyed, while Warrington and the other man faced back to back, watching each way against surprise. In India, as in lands less “civilized,” the cavalry are not allowed to usurp the functions of police, and the officer or man who tries it does so at his own risk. There came a sound of sudden thundering on teak that ceased after two minutes.

  “The door is stout. There is no answer from within,” said the trooper.

  “Then wait here on foot,” commanded Warrington. “Get under cover and watch. Stay here until you’re relieved, unless something particularly worth reporting happens; in that case, hurry and report. For instance” — he hesitated, trying to imagine something out of the unimaginable— “suppose the risaldar-m
ajor were to come out, then give him the message and come home with him. But — oh, suppose the place takes fire, or there’s a riot, or you hear a fight going on inside — then hurry to barracks — understand?”

  The wet trooper nodded and saluted.

  “Get into a shadow, then, and keep as dry as you can,” ordered Warrington. “Come on!” he called to the other man.

  And a second later he was charging through the street as if he rode with despatches through a zone of rifle fire. Behind him clattered a rain-soaked trooper and two horses.

  Colonel Kirby stepped out of his bathroom just as Warrington arrived, and arranged his white dress-tie before the sitting-room mirror.

  “Looks fishy to me, sir,” said Warrington, hurrying in and standing where the rain from his wet clothes would do least harm.

  There was a space on the floor between two tiger-skins where the matting was a little threadbare. Messengers, orderlies or servants always stood on that spot. After a moment, however, Kirby’s servant brought Warrington a bathroom mat.

  “How d’ye mean?”

  Warrington explained.

  “What did the police say?”

  “Said they were busy.”

  “Now, I could go to the club,” mused Kirby, “and see Hetherington, and have a talk with him, and get him to sign a search-warrant. Armed with that, we could—”

  “Perhaps persuade a police officer to send two constables with it tomorrow morning!” said Warrington, with a grin.

  “Yes,” said Kirby.

  “And if we do much on our own account we’ll fall foul of the Indian Penal Code, which altereth every week,” said Warrington.

  “If it weren’t for the fact that I particularly want a word with him,” said Kirby, giving a last tweak to his tie and reaching out for his mess-jacket that the servant had laid on a chair, “there’d not be much ground that I can see for action of any kind. He has a right to go where he likes.”

  That point of view did not seem to have occurred to Warrington before; nor did he quite like it, for he frowned.