by Talbot Mundy
“Get out my bag, I said!”
“To hear is to obey!” Ismail grumbled, reaching with his long arm through the window.
The engine shrieked again, somebody whistled, and the train began to move.
“You’ve missed it!” said Saunders, amused at Ismail’s frantic
disappointment. The giant was tugging at his beard. “How about your
trunk? Better wire ahead and have it spotted for you.”
“No,” said King; “it’s still in the baggage room a the
other station. I didn’t intend to go by this train. Came down here
to see another fellow off, that’s all! Have a cigar and then let’s go
together and look those prisoners over!”
Chapter IV
Men boast in the Hills, when they ought to pray;
For the wind blows lusty, and the blood runs red,
And Law lies belly upwards for a man to wreak his fancy on it.
Down in the plains, in the dust of the plains
Where law is master and a good man ought to boast,
They all lie belly downwards praying for their Hills again!
The rear lights of the train he had not taken swayed out of Delhi station and King grinned as he wiped the sweat from his face with a dripping handkerchief. Behind him towered the hook-nosed Ismail, resentful of the unexpected. In front of him Saunders eyed the proffered black cheroots suspiciously, accepted one with an air of curiosity and passed the case back. Around them the clatter of the station crowd began to die, and Parsimony in a shabby uniform went round to lower lights.
“Are you sure—”
King’s merry eyes looked into Saunders’ as if there were no world war really and they two were puppets in a comedy.
“ — are you absolutely certain Yasmini is in Delhi?”
“No,” said Saunders. “What I swear to is that she has not left by train. It’s my business to know who leaves by train.”
“What can you suggest?” asked King, twisting at his scrubby little mustache. But if he wished to convey the impression of a man at his wits’ end, he failed signally.
“I? Nothing! She’s the most elusive individual in Asia! One person in the world knows where she is, unless she has an accomplice. My information’s negative. I know she has not gone by—”
King struck a match and held it out, so the sentence was unfinished; the first few puffs of the astonishing cigar wiped out all memory of the missing word. And then King changed the subject.
“Those men I asked you to arrest — ?”
“Nabbed” — puff— “every one of ’em!” — puff — puff— “all under” — puff — puff— “lock and key, — best smoke I ever tasted — where d’you get ’em?”
“Had they been in communication with her?”
Puff — puff— “You bet they had! Where d’you get these things?”
“Not her special men by any chance?”
Puff— “Gad, what smoke! — couldn’t say, of course, but” — puff — puff— “shouldn’t think so.”
“Well — I’ll go along with you if you like, and look them over.”
Both tone and manner gave Saunders credit for the suggestion, and Saunders seemed to like it. There is nothing like following up, in football, war or courtship.
“I see you’re a judge of a cigar,” said King, and Saunders purred, all men being fools to some extent, and the only trouble being to demonstrate the fact.
They had started for the station entrance when a nasal voice began intoning, “Cap-teen King sahib — Cap-teen King sahib!” and a telegraph messenger passed them with his book under his arm. King whistled him. A moment later he was tearing open an official urgent telegram and writing a string of figures in pencil across the top. Then he decoded swiftly,
“Advices are Yasmini was in Delhi as recently as six
this evening. Fail to understand your inability to
get in touch. Have you tried at her house? Matters
in Khyber district much less satisfactory. Word from
O-C Khyber Rifles to effect that lashkar is collecting.
Better sweep up in Delhi and proceed northward as quickly
as compatible with caution. L. M. L.”
The three letters at the end were the general’s coded signature. The wording of the telegram was such that as he read King saw a mental picture of the general’s bald red skull and could almost hear him say the “fail to understand.” The three words “much less satisfactory” were a bookful of information. So, as he folded up the telegram, tore the penciled strip of figures from the top and burned it with a match, he was at pains to look pleased.
“Good news?” asked Saunders, blowing smoke through his nose.
“Excellent. Where’s my man? Here — you — Ismail!”
The giant came and towered above him.
“You swore she went North!”
“Ha, sahib! To Peshawur she went!”
“Did she start from this station?”
“From where else, sahib?”
But this was too much for Saunders, who stepped forward and thrust in an oar. King on the other band stepped back a pace so as to watch both faces.
“Then, when did she go?”
“I saw her go!” said Ismail, affronted.
“When? When, confound you! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“I expect he means to-morrow,” said King. With the advantage of looker-on and a very deep experience of Northerners, he had noted that Ismail was lying and that Saunders was growing doubtful, although both men concealed the truth with what was very close to being art.
“I have a telegram here,” he said, “that says she is in Delhi!”
He patted his coat, where the inner pocket bulged.
“Nay, then the tar lies, for I saw her go with these two eyes of mine!”
“It is not wise to lie to me, my friend,” King assured him, so pleasantly that none could doubt he was telling truth.
“If I lie may I eat dirt!” Ismail answered him.
Inches lent the Afridi dignity, but dignity has often been used as a stalking horse for untruth. King nodded, and it was not possible to judge by his expression whether he believed or not.
“Let’s make a move,” he said, turning to Saunders. “She seems at any rate to wish it believed she has gone North. I can’t stay here indefinitely. If she’s here she’s on the watch here, and there’s no need of me. If she has gone North, then that is where the kites are wheeling! I’ll take the early morning train. Where are the prisoners?”
“In the old Mir Khan Palace. We were short of jail room and had to improvise. The horse-stalls there have come in handy more than once before. Shall we take this gharry?”
With Ismail up beside the driver nursing King’s bag and looking like a great grim vulture about to eat the horse, they drove back through swarming streets in the direction of the river. King seemed to have lost all interest in crowds. He scarcely even troubled to watch when they were held up at a cross-roads by a marching regiment that tramped as if it were herald of the Last Trump, with bayonets glistening in the street lights. He sat staring ahead in silence, although Saunders made more than one effort to engage him in conversation.
“No!” he said at last suddenly — so that Saunders jumped.
“No what?”
“No need to stay here. I’ve got what I came for!”
“What was that?” asked Saunders, but King was silent again. Conscious of the unaccustomed weight on his left wrist, he moved his arm so that the sleeve drew and he could see the edge of the great gold bracelet Rewa Gunga had given him in Yasmini’s name.
“Know anything of Rewa Gunga?” he asked suddenly again.
“The Rangar?”
“Yes, the Rangar. Yasmini’s man.”
“Not much. I’ve seen him. I’ve spoken with him, and I’ve had to stand impudence from him — twice. I’ve been tipped off more than once to let him alone because he’
s her man. He does ticklish errands for her, or so they say. He’s what you might call ‘known to the police’ all right.”
They began to approach an age-old palace near the river, and Saunders whispered a pass-word when an armed guard halted them. They were halted again at a gloomy gateway where an officer came out to look them over; by his leave they left the gharry and followed him under the arch until their heels rang on stone paving in a big ill-lighted courtyard surrounded by high walls.
There, after a little talk, they left Ismail squatting beside King’s bag, and Saunders led the way through a modern iron door, into what had once been a royal prince’s stables.
In gloom that was only thrown into contrast by a wide-spaced row of electric lights, a long line of barred and locked converted horse-stalls ran down one side of a lean-to building. The upper half of each locked door was a grating of steel rods, so that there was some ventilation for the prisoners; but very little light filtered between the bars, and all that King could see of the men within was the whites of their eyes. And they did not look friendly.
He had to pass between them and the light, and they could see more of him than he could of them. At the first cell he raised his left hand and made the gold bracelet on his wrist clink against the steel bars.
A moment later be cursed himself, and felt the bracelet with his fingernail. He had made a deep nick in the soft gold. A second later yet he smiled.
“May God be with thee!” boomed a prisoner’s voice in Pashtu.
“Didn’t know that fellow was handcuffed,” said Saunders. “Did you hear the ring? They should have been taken off. Leaving his irons on has made him polite, though.”
He passed oil, and King followed him, saying nothing. But at the next cell he repeated what he had done at the first, taking better care of the gold but letting his wrist stay longer in the light.
“May God be with thee!” said a voice within.
“Gettin’ a shade less arrogant, what?” said Saunders.
“May God be with thee!” said a man in the third stall as King passed.
“They seem to be anxious for your morals!” laughed Saunders, keeping a pace or two ahead to do the honors of the place.
“May God be with thee!” said a fourth man, and King desisted for the present, because Saunders looked as if he were growing inquisitive.
“Where did you arrest them?” he asked when Saunders came to a stand under a light.
“All in one place. At Ali’s.”
“Who and what is Ali?”
“Pimp — crimp — procurer — Prussian spy and any other evil thing that takes his fancy! Runs a combination gambling hell and boarding house. Lets ’em run into debt and blackmails ’em. Ali’s in the kaiser’s pay — that’s known! ‘Musing thing about it is he keeps a photo of Wilhelm in his pocket and tries to make himself believe the kaiser knows him by name. Suffers from swelled head, which is part of their plan, of course. We’ll get him when we want him, but at present he’s useful ‘as is’ for a decoy. Ali was very much upset at the arrest — asked in the name of Heaven — seems to be familiar with God, too, and all the angels! — how he shall collect all the money these men owe him!”
“You wouldn’t call these men prosperous, then?”
“Not exactly! Ali is the only spy out of the North who prospers much at present, and even he gets most of his money out of his private business. Why, man, the real Germans we have pounced on are all as poor as church mice. That’s another part of the plan, of course, which is sweet in all its workings. They’re paid less than driven by threats of exposure to us — comes cheaper, and serves to ginger up the spies! The Germans pay Ali a little, and he traps the Hillmen when they come South — lets ’em gamble — gets ’em into debt — plays on their fear of jail and their ignorance of the Indian Penal Code, which altereth every afternoon — and spends a lot of time telling ’em stories to take back with ’em to the Hills when they can get away. They can get away when they’ve paid him what they owe. He makes that clear, and of course that’s the fly in the amber. Yasmini sends and pays their board and gambling debts, and she’s our man, so to speak. When they get back to the ‘Hills’—”
“Thanks,” said King, “I know what happens in the ‘Hills. Tell me about the Delhi end of it.”
“Well, when the wander-fever grabs ’em again they come down once more from their ‘Hills’ to drink and gamble, — and first they go to Yasmini’s. But she won’t let ’em drink at her place. Have to give her credit for that, y’know; her place has never been a stews. Sooner or later they grow tired of virtue, ‘specially with so much intrigue goin’ on under their noses, and back they all drift to Ali’s and tell him tales to tell the Germans — and the round begins again. Yasmini coaxes all their stories out of ’em and primes ’em with a few extra good ones into the bargain. Everybody’s fooled— ‘specially the Germans — and exceptin’, of course, Yasmini and the Raj. Nobody ever fooled that woman, nor ever will if my belief goes for anything!”
“Sounds simple!” said King.
“Simple and sordid!” agreed Saunders.
King looked up and down the line of locked doors and then straight into Saunders’ eyes in a friendly, yet rather disconcerting way. One could not judge whether he were laughing or just thinking.
“D’you suppose it’s as simple as all that?”
“How d’you mean?”
“D’you suppose the Germans aren’t in director touch with the tribes?”
“Why should they be? The simpler the better, I expect, from their point of view; and the cheaper the better, too!”
“Um-m-m!” King rubbed his chin. “On what charge did you get these men?”
“Defense of the Realm — suspicious characters — charge to be entered later.”
“Good! That’s simple at all events! Know anything of my man Ismail?”
“Sure! He’s one of Yasmini’s pets. She bailed him out of Ali’s three years ago and he worships her. It was he who broke the leg and ribs of a pup-rajah a month or two ago for putting on too much dog in her reception room! He’s Ursus out of Quo Vadis! He’s dog, desperado, stalking horse and Keeper of the Queen’s secrets!”
“Then why d’you suppose she passed him along to me?” asked King.
“Dunno! This is your little mystery, not mine!”
“Glad you appreciate that! Do me a favor, will you?”
“Anything in reason.”
“Get the keys to all these cells — send ’em in here to me by Ismail — and leave me in here alone!”
Saunders whistled and wiped sweat from his glistening face, for in spite of windows open to the courtyard it was hotter than a furnace room.
“Mayn’t I have you thrown into a den of tigers?” he asked. “Or a nest of cobras? Or get the fiery furnace ready? You’ll find ’em sore — and dangerous! That man at the end with handcuffs on has probably been violent! That ‘God be with thee’ stuff is habit — they say it with unction before they knife a man!”
“I’ll be careful, then,” King chuckled; and it is a fact that few men can argue with him when he laughs quietly in that way. “Send me in the keys, like a good chap.”
So Saunders went, glad enough to get into the outer air. He slammed the great iron door behind him as if he were glad, too, to disassociate himself from King and all foolishness. Like many another first-class man, King sheds friends as a cat sheds fur going under a gate. They grow again and quit again and don’t seem to make much difference.
The instant the door slammed King continued down the line with his left wrist held high so that the occupant of each cell in turn could see the bracelet.
“May God be with thee!” came the instant greeting from each cell until down toward the farther end. The occupants of the last six cells were silent.
Numbers had been chalked roughly on the doors. With wetted fingers he rubbed out the chalk marks on the last six doors, and he had scarcely finished doing that when Ismail strode in, slamming the great i
ron door behind him, jangling a bunch of keys and looking more than ever like somebody out of the Old Testament.
“Open every door except those whose numbers I have rubbed out!” King ordered him.
Ismail proceeded to obey as if that were the least improbable order in all the world. It took him two minutes to select the pass-key and determine how it worked, then the doors flew open one after another in quick succession.
“Come out!” he growled. “Come out! — Come out!” although King had not ordered that.
King went and stood under the center light with his left arm bared. The prisoners, emerging like dead men out of tombs, blinked at the bright light — saw him — then the bracelet — and saluted.
“May God be with thee!” growled each of them.
They stood still then, awaiting fresh developments. It did not seem to occur to any one of them as strange that a British officer in khaki uniform should be sporting Yasmini’s talisman; the thing was apparently sufficient explanation in itself.
“Ye all know this?” he asked, holding up his wrist. “Whose is this?”
“Hers!”
The answer was monosyllabic and instant from all thirty throats. “May Allah guard her, sleeping and awake!” added one or two of them.
King lit a cheroot and made mental note of the wisdom of referring to her by pronoun, not by name.
“And I? Who am I?” he asked, since it saves worlds of trouble to have the other side state the case. The Secret Service was not designed for giving information, but discovering it.
“Her messenger! Who else? Thou art he who shall take us to the ‘Hills’! She promised!”
“How did she know ye were in this jail?” he asked them, and one of the Hillmen laughed like a jackal, showing yellow eye-teeth. The others cackled in chorus after him.
“Answer that riddle thyself — or else ask her! Who are we? Bats, that can see in the night? Spirits, who can hear through walls? Nay, we be plain men of the mountains!”
“But where were ye when she promised?”
“At Ali’s. All of us at Ali’s — held for debt. We sent and begged of her. She sent word back by a woman that one of the sirkar’s men shall free us and send us home. So we waited, eating shame and little else, at Ali’s. At last came a sahib in a great rage, who ordered irons put on our wrists and us marched hither. Only when each was pushed into a separate cell were the irons taken off again. Yet we were patient, for we knew this is part of her cunning, to get us away from Ali without paying him. ‘May Ali die of want,’ said we, with one voice all together in these cells! And now we be ready! They fed us before we had been in here an hour. Our bellies be full, but we be hungry for the ‘Hills’!”