by Talbot Mundy
“Come back, Warrington!” he ordered peremptorily.
Warrington obeyed, but without enthusiasm.
“I can run faster than that fat brute, sir!” he said. “And I saw him go into the temple. We won’t find Ranjoor Singh now in a month of Sundays!”
He was trying to wipe the mud from himself with the aid of the loin- cloth.
“Anyhow, I’ve got the most important part of his costume,” he said vindictively. “Gad, I’d like to get him on the run now through the public street!”
“Come along in!” commanded Kirby, opening the door. “There has been trouble enough already without a charge of temple breaking. Tell the risaldar to drive back to quarters. I’m going to get this musk out of my hair before dawn!”
Warrington sniffed as he climbed in. The outer night had given him at least a standard by which to judge things.
“I’d give something to listen to the first man who smells the inside of this shay!” he said cheerily. “D ‘you suppose we can blame it on the babu, sir?”
“We can try!” said Kirby. “Is that his loin-cloth you’ve got still?”
“Didn’t propose to leave it in the road for him to come and find, sir! His present shame is about the only consolation prize we get out of the evening’s sport. I wish it smelt of musk — but it doesn’t; it smells of babu — straight babu, undiluted. Hallo — what’s this?”
He began to untwist a corner of the cloth, holding it up to get a better view of it in the dim light that entered through the window. He produced a piece of paper that had to be untwisted, too.
“Got a match, sir?”
Kirby struck one.
“It’s addressed to ‘Colonel Kirby sahib!’ Bet you it’s from Ranjoor Singh! Now — d’you suppose that heathen meant to hold on to that until he could get his price for it?”
“Dunno,” said Kirby with indifference, opening the note as fast as trembling fingers could unfold it. He would not have admitted to himself what his fingers told so plainly — the extent of his regard for Ranjoor Singh.
The note was short, and Kirby read it aloud, since it was not marked private, and there was nothing in it that even the babu might not have read:
“To Colonel Kirby sahib, from his obedient servant, Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh — Leave of absence being out of question after declaration of war, will Colonel Kirby sahib please put in Order of the Day that Risaldar- Major Ranjoor Singh is assigned to special duty, or words to same effect?”
“Is that all?” asked Warrington.
“That’s all,” said Kirby.
“Suppose it’s a forgery?”
“The ring rather proves it isn’t, and I’ve another way of knowing.”
“Oh!”
“Yes,” said Kirby.
They sat in silence in the swaying shay until the smell of musk and the sense of being mystified became too much for Warrington, and he began to hum to himself. Humming brought about a return to his usual wide-awakefulness, and he began to notice things.
“Shay rides like a gun,” he said suddenly.
Kirby grunted.
“All the weight’s behind and—” He put his head out of the window to investigate, but Kirby ordered him to sit still.
“Want to be recognized?” he demanded. “Keep your head inside, you young ass!”
So Warrington sat back against the cushions until the guard at the barrack gate turned out to present arms to the risaldar’s raised whip. As if he understood the requirements of the occasion without being told, the risaldar sent the horses up the drive at a hard gallop. It was rather more than half-way up the drive that Warrington spoke again.
“Feel that, sir?” he asked.
“I ordered that place to be seen to yesterday!” growled Kirby. “Why wasn’t it done?”
“It was, sir.”
“Why did we bump there, then?”
“Why aren’t we running like a gun any longer?” wondered Warrington. “Felt to me as if we’d dropped a load.”
“Well, here we are, thank God! What do you mean to do?”
“Rounds,” said Warrington.
“Very well.”
Kirby dived through his door, while Warrington went behind the shay to have a good look for causes. He could find none, although a black leather apron, usually rolled up behind in order to be strapped over baggage when required, was missing.
“Didn’t see who took that apron, did you?” he asked the risaldar; but the risaldar had not known that it was gone.
“All right, then, and thank you!” said Warrington, walking off into the darkness bareheaded, to help the smell evaporate from his hair; and the shay rumbled away to its appointed place, with the babu’s loin-cloth inside it on the front seat.
It need surprise nobody that Colonel Kirby found time first to go to his bathroom. His regiment was as ready for active service at any minute as a fire- engine should be — in that particular, India’s speed is as three to Prussia’s one. The moment orders to march should come, he would parade it in full marching order and lead it away. But there were no orders yet; he had merely had warning.
So he sent for dog-soap and a brush, and proceeded to scour his head. After twenty minutes of it, and ten changes of water, when he felt that he dared face his own servant without blushing, he made that wondering Sikh take turns at shampooing him until he could endure the friction no longer.
“What does my head smell of now?” he demanded.
“Musk, sahib!”
“Not of dog-soap?”
“No, sahib!”
“Bring that carbolic disinfectant here!”
The servant obeyed, and Kirby mixed a lotion that would outsmell most things. He laved his head in it generously, and washed it off sparingly.
“Bring me brown paper?” he ordered then; and again the wide-eyed Sikh obeyed.
Kirby rolled the paper into torches, and giving the servant one, proceeded to fumigate the room and his own person until not even a bloodhound could have tracked him back to Yasmini’s, and the reek of musk had been temporarily, at least, subdued into quiescence.
“Go and ask Major Brammle to come and see me,” said Kirby then.
Brammle came in sniffing, and Kirby cursed him through tight lips with words that were no less fervent for lack of being heard.
“Hallo! Burning love-letters? The whole mess is doin’ the same thing. Haven’t had time to burn mine yet — was busy sorting things over when you called. Look here!”
He opened the front of his mess-jacket and produced a little lace handkerchief, a glove and a powder-puff.
“Smell ’em!” he said. “Patchouli! Shame to burn ’em, what? S’pose I must, though.”
“Any thing happen while I was gone?” asked Kirby.
“Yes. Most extraordinary thing. You know that a few hours ago D Squadron were all sitting about in groups looking miserable? We set it down to their trooper being murdered and another man being missing. Well, just about the time you and Warrington drove off in the mess shay, they all bucked up and began grinning! Wouldn’t say a word. Just grinned, and became the perkiest squadron of the lot!
“Now they’re all sleeping like two-year-olds. Reason? Not a word of reason! I saw young Warrington just now on his way to their quarters with a lantern, and if he can find any of ’em awake perhaps he can get the truth out of ’em, for they’ll talk to him when they won’t to anybody else. By the way, Warrington can’t have come in with you, did he?”
Kirby ignored the question.
“Did you tell Warrington to go and ask them?” he demanded.
“Yes. Passed him in the dark, but did not recognize him by the smell. No — no! Got as near him as I could, and then leaned up against the scent to have a word with him! Musk! Never smelt anything like it in my life! Talk about girls! He must be in love with half India, and native at that! Brazen-faced young monkey! I asked him where he got the disinfectant, and he told me he fell into a mud-puddle!”
“Perhaps he did,�
�� said Kirby. “Was there mud on him?”
“Couldn’t see. Didn’t dare get so near him! Don’t you think he ought to be spoken to? I mean, the eve of war’s the eve of war and all that kind of thing, but—”
“I wish you’d let me see the Orders of the Day,” Kirby interrupted. “I want to make an addition to them.”
“I’ll send an orderly.”
“Wish you would.”
Five minutes later Kirby sat at his private desk, while Brammle puffed at a cigar by the window. Kirby, after a lot of thinking, wrote:
“Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh (D Squadron) assigned to special duty.”
He handed the orders back to Brammle, and the major eyed the addition with subdued amazement.
“What’ll D Squadron say?” he asked.
“Remains to be seen” said Kirby.
Outside in the muggy blackness that shuts down on India in the rains, Warrington walked alone, swinging a lantern and chuckling to himself as he reflected what D Squadron would be likely to invent as a reason for the smell that walked with him. For he meant to wake D Squadron and learn things.
But all at once it occurred to him that he had left the babu’s loin-cloth on the inside front seat of the shay; and, because if that were seen it would have given excuse for a thousand tales too many and too imaginative, he hurried in search of it, taking a short cut to where by that time the shay should be. On his way, close to his destination, he stumbled over something soft that tripped him. He stooped, swung the lantern forward, and picked up — the missing leather apron from behind the shay.
The footpath on which he stood was about a yard wide; the shay could not possibly have come along it. And it certainly had been behind the shay when they left barracks. Moreover, close examination proved it to be the identical apron beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Warrington began to hum to himself. And then he ceased from humming. Then he set the lantern down and stepped away from it sidewise until its light no longer shone on him. He listened, as a dog does, with intelligence and skill. Then, suddenly, he sprang and lit on a bulky mass that yielded — gasped — spluttered — did anything but yell.
“So you rode on the luggage-rack behind the carriage, did you, babuji?” he smiled. “And curled under the apron to look like luggage when we passed the guard, eh?”
“But, my God, sahib!” said a plaintive voice. “Should I walk through Delhi naked? You, who wear pants, you laugh at me, but I assure you, sahib—”
“Hush!” ordered Warrington; and the babu seemed very glad to hush.
“There was a note in a corner of that cloth of yours!”
“And the sahib found it? Oh, then I am relieved. I am preserved from pangs of mutual regret!”
“Why didn’t you give that note to Colonel Kirby sahib when you had the chance? Eh?” asked Warrington, keeping firm hold of him.
“Sahib! Your honor! Not being yet remunerated on account of ring and verbal message duly delivered, commercial precedent was all on my side that I should retain further article of value pending settlement. Now, I ask you—”
“Where was Ranjoor Singh when he gave you that ring and message?” demanded Warrington sternly, increasing his grip on the babu’s fat arm.
“Sahib, when I have received payment for first service rendered, my disposition may be changed. I am as yet in condition of forma pauperis.”
Still holding him tight, Warrington produced twenty rupees in paper money.
“Can you see those, babuji? See them? Then earn them!”
“Oh, my God, sahib, I have positivelee earned a lakh of rupees this night already!”
“Where was Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh when he—”
Footsteps were approaching — undoubtedly a guard on his way to investigate. The babu seemed to sense Warrington’s impatience.
“Sahib” he said, “I am very meek person, having family of wife and children all dependent. Is that rupees twenty? I would graciously accept same, and positivelee hold my tongue!”
The steps came nearer.
“I was on my way to D Squadron quarters, sahib, to narrate story and pass begging bowl. Total price of story rupees twenty. Or else the sahib may deliver me to guard, and guard shall be regaled free gratis with full account of evening’s amusement? Yes?”
The steps came nearer yet. Recognizing an officer, the men halted a few paces away.
“Sahib, for sum of rupees twenty I could hold tongue for twenty years, unless in meantime deceased, in which case—”
“Take ’em!” ordered Warrington; and the babu’s fingers shut tight on the money.
“Guard!” ordered Warrington. “Put this babu out into the street!”
“Good night, sahib!” said the babu. “Kindlee present my serious respects to the colonel sahib. Salaam, sahib!”
But Warrington had gone into the darkness.
CHAPTER 8
The Four Winds come, the Four Winds go,
(Ye wise o’ the world, oh, listen ye!),
Whispering, whistling what they know,
Wise, since wandering made them so
(Ye stay-at-homes, oh, listen ye!).
Ever they seek and sift and pry —
Listening here, and hurrying by —
Restless, ceaseless — know ye why?
(Then, wise o’ the world, oh, listen ye!)
The goal of the search of the hurrying wind
Is the key to the maze of a woman’s mind,
(And there is no key! Oh, listen ye!)
— from Yasmini’s Song.
SO in a darkness that grew blacker every minute, Warrington swung his lantern and found his way toward D Squadron’s quarters. He felt rather pleased with himself. From his own point of view he would have rather enjoyed to have a story anent himself and Yasmini go the round of barracks — with modifications, of course, and the kneeling part left out — but he realized that it would not do at all to have Colonel Kirby’s name involved in anything of the sort, and he rather flattered himself on his tact in bribing the babu or being blackmailed by him.
“Got to admit that babu’s quite a huntsman!” he told himself, beginning to hum. “One day, if the war doesn’t account for me, I’ll come back and take a fall out of that babu. Hallo — what’s that? Who in thunder — who’s waking up the horses at this unearthly hour? Sick horse, I suppose. Why don’t they get him out and let the others sleep?”
He began to hurry. A light in stables close to midnight was not to be accounted for on any other supposition than an accident or serious emergency, and if there were either it was his affair as adjutant to know all the facts at once.
“What’s going on in there?” he shouted in a voice of authority while he was yet twenty yards away.
But there was no answer. He could hear a horse plunge, but nothing more.
“Um-m-m! Horse cast himself!” he straightway decided.
But there was no cast horse, as he was aware the moment he had looked down both long lines of sleepy brutes that whickered their protest against interrupted sleep. At the far end he could see that two men labored, and a big horse fiercely resented their unseasonable attentions to himself. He walked down the length of the stable, and presently recognized Bagh, Ranjoor Singh’s charger.
“What are you grooming him for at this hour?” he demanded.
“It is an order, sahib.”
“Whose order?”
“Ranjoor Singh sahib’s order.”
“The deuce it is! When did the order come?”
“But now.”
“Who brought it?”
“A babu, with a leather apron.”
Warrington walked away ten paces in order to get command of himself, and pinch himself, and make quite sure he was awake.
“A fat babu?” he asked, walking back again.
“Very fat,” said one of the troopers, continuing to brush the resentful charger.
“So he delivered his message first, and then went to hunt for his loin- cloth!” mu
sed Warrington. “And he had enough intuition, and guts enough, to look for it first in the shay! I’m beginning to admire that man!” Aloud he asked the trooper: “What was the wording of the risaldar-major sahib’s message?”
“‘Let Bagh be well groomed and held ready against all contingencies!’” said the trooper.
“Then take him outside!” ordered Warrington. “Groom him where you won’t disturb the other horses! How often have you got to be told that a horse needs sleep as much as a man? The squadron won’t be fit to march a mile if you keep ’em awake all night! Lead him out quietly, now! Whoa, you brute! Now — take him out and keep him out — put him in the end stall in my stable when you’ve finished him — d’you hear?”
He flattered himself again. With all these mysterious messages and orders coming in from nowhere, he told himself it would be good to know at all times where Ranjoor Singh’s charger was, as well as a service to Ranjoor Singh to stable the brute comfortably. He told himself that was a very smart move, and one for which Ranjoor Singh would some day thank him, provided, of course, that —
“Provided what?” he wondered half aloud. “Seems to me as if Ranjoor Singh has got himself into some kind of a scrape, and hopes to get out of it by the back-door route and no questions asked! Well, let’s hope he gets out! Let’s hope there’ll be no court-martial nastiness! Let’s hope — oh, damn just hoping! Ranjoor Singh’s a better man than I am. Here’s believing in him! Here’s to him, thick and thin! Forward — walk — march!”
He turned out the guard, and the particular troop sergeant with whom he wished to speak not being on duty, he ordered him sent for. Ten minutes later the sergeant came, still yawning, from his cot.
“Come over here, Arjan Singh,” he called, thinking fast and furiously as he led the way.
If he made one false move or aroused one suspicion in the man’s mind, he was likely to learn less than nothing; but if he did not appear to know at least something, he would probably learn nothing either.
As he turned, at a distance from the guard-room light, to face the sergeant, though not to meet his eyes too keenly, the fact that would not keep out of his brain was that the fat babu had been out in the road, offering to eat Germans, a little while before he and the colonel had started out that evening. And, according to what Brammle had told him when they met near the colonel’s quarters, it was very shortly after that that the squadron came out of its gloom.