Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Sure, I get you.”

  “Eh — you have a good working party.”

  “Fine!” said Dick. “Just about broke in. Got the gang working pretty well to rights at last.”

  “Would you — eh — it would take a long time to get such another party of laborers — eh — trained to work well and swiftly?”

  “Months!” said Dick. “Unless you’ve got tame wizards up your sleeve.”

  “Eh — I was wondering — eh — whether you would be content to — eh — take your working party and — eh — do a little work for me elsewhere?”

  “I’m right set on puzzling out this fault in the reef,” Dick answered promptly.

  “My contract reads—”

  “For compensation, of course,” said Gungadhura. “You would be adequately — eh — there could be a contract drawn.”

  “I wouldn’t cancel this one — not for hard cash,” Dick retorted.

  “No, no. I do not ask that. It would — eh — not be necessary.”

  “Well, then, what’s the proposal?”

  Dick settled himself back against the masonry crossed his feet, and knocked out ashes from his pipe. The maharajah walked twice, ten yards toward the entrance and back again.

  “How long would it take you — eh — to — eh — what was it you said? — to puzzle out this fault?”

  “No knowing.”

  “A short — eh — additional delay will hardly matter?”

  “Not if I kept the gang in harness. ’Twouldn’t pay to let the team-work slide. Costs too much in time and trouble to break ’em in again.”

  “Then — eh — will you go and dig for me elsewhere?”

  “On what terms?”

  “The same terms.”

  “You pay all expenses and — what am I to dig for?”

  “Gold!”

  “Do I get my percentage of the gross of all gold won?”

  “Yes. But because this is a certainty and — eh — I pay all expenses — eh — of course, in — eh — return for secrecy you — eh — should be well paid, but — eh — a certain stated sum should be sufficient, or a much smaller percentage.”

  “Suppose we get down to figures?” Dick suggested.

  “Fifty thousand rupees, or one per cent.”

  “At my option?”

  Gungadhura nodded. Dick whistled.

  “There’d have to be a time limit. I can’t stay and dig forever for a matter of fifty thousand dibs.”

  Gungadhura grew emphatic at that point, using both clenched fists to beat the air.

  “Time limit? There must be no time lost at all! Have you promised to

  be silent? Have you promised not to breathe one little word to anybody? —

  Not to your own wife? Not to Samson? — Above all not to Samson?

  Then I will tell you.”

  Gungadhura glanced about him like a stage conspirator.

  “Go on,” said Dick. “There’s nobody here knows English except you and me.”

  “You are to dig for the treasure of Sialpore! The treasure of my ancestors!”

  “Fifty thousand dibs — or one per cent. at my option, eh? Make it two per cent., and draw your contract!”

  “Two per cent. is too much!”

  “Get another man to dig, then!”

  “Very well, I make it two per cent. But you must hurry!”

  “Draw your contract. Time limit how long?”

  “Two weeks — three weeks — not more than a month at the very utmost! You draw the contract in English, and I will sign it this afternoon. You must begin to dig tomorrow at dawn!”

  “Where?”

  “In the grounds of the River Palace — across the river — beginning close to the great pipal trees.”

  “They’re all outside the palace wall. How in thunder can I keep secret about that?”

  “You must begin inside the palace wall, and tunnel underground.”

  “Dirt’s all soft down there,” said Dick. “We’ll need to prop up as we go.

  Lots of lumber. Cost like blazes. Where’s the lumber coming from?”

  “Cut down the pipal trees!”

  “Man — we’d need a mill!”

  “There is no lumber — not in such a hurry.”

  “What’ll we do then? Can’t have accidents.”

  “Pah! The lives of a few coolies, Mr. Blaine—”

  “Nothing doing, Maharajah sahib! Murder’s not my long suit.”

  “Then pull the palace down and use the beams!”

  “You’d have to put that in writing.”

  “Include it in the contract then! Now, have we agreed?”

  “I guess so. If I think of anything else I’ll talk it over with you when I bring the contract round this afternoon.”

  “Good. Then I will give you the map.”

  “Better give it me now, so I can study it.”

  “The — eh — risk of that is too great, Mr. Blaine!”

  “Seems to me your risk is pretty heavy as it is,” Dick retorted. “If I was going to spill your secret, I could do it now, map or no map!”

  Three times again Gungadhura paced the tunnel, torn between mistrust, impatience and anxiety. At last he thrust his bandaged face very close to Dick’s and spoke in a level hard voice, smiling thinly.

  “Very well, Mr. Blaine. I will entrust the map to you. But let me first tell you certain things — certain quite true things. Every attempt to steal that treasure has ended in ill-luck! There have been many. All the conspirators have died — by poison — by dagger — by the sword — by snake-bite — by bullets — they have all died — always! Do you understand?”

  Dick shuddered in spite of himself.

  “Then take the map!”

  Gungadhura turned his back and fumbled in the folds of his semi-European clothing. He produced the silver tube after a minute, removed the cap from one end, and shook out a piece of parchment. There was a dull crimson stain on it.

  “The blood of a man who tried to betray the secret!” said Gungadhura. “See-the knife of an assassin pierced the tube, and blood entered through the hole. It happened long ago.”

  But he did not pass the tube to Dick that he might examine the knife mark.

  “These notes on the edge of the map are probably in the hand of Jengal Singh, who stole it. He died of snake-bite more than a year ago. They are in Persian; he notes that four of the trees are dead and only their roots remain; therefore that measurements must allow for that. You must find the roots of the last tree, Mr. Blaine, and measure carefully from both ends, digging afterward in a straight line from inside the palace wall by compass. Is it clear?”

  “I guess so. Leave it with me and I’ll study it.”

  The maharajah kept the tube and left the parchment in Dick’s hands.

  “This afternoon, then?”

  “This afternoon,” said Dick.

  When he had gone, Dick resumed the very careful building of the masonry, placing the last stones with his own hands. Then he went out into the sunlight, to sit on a rock and examine the parchment with a little pocket magnifying-glass that he always carried for business purposes. He studied it for ten minutes.

  “It’s clever,” he said at last. “Dashed clever. It ‘ud fool the Prince of Wales!” (Dick had astonishing delusions as to the supposed omniscience of the heir to the throne of England.) “The ink looks old, and it’s not metallic ink. The parchment’s as old as Methuselah — I’ll take my oath on that. There’s even different ink been used for the map and the margin notes. But that’s new blood or my name’s Mike! That blood’s not a week old! Phew! I bet it’s that poor devil Mukhum Dass! Now — let’s figure on this: Mukhum Dass burgled my house, and was murdered about an hour afterward. I think — I can’t swear, because he didn’t let me hold it, but I think that tube in Gungadhura’s hand was the very identical one that I hid under the cellar floor — that Mukhum Dass stole — and that the maharajah now carries in his pocket. This map has blood on it. What
’s the inference?”

  He filled his pipe and smoked reflectively.

  “The inference is, that I’m accessory after the fact to the money-lender’s murder, unless” -

  He finished the pipe, and knocked the ashes out.

  “ — unless I break my promise, and hand this piece of evidence over to Norwood. I guess he’s arch-high-policeman here.”

  As if the guardian angel of Dick’s conscience was at work that very minute to torment him, there came the sound of an approaching horse, and Samson turned the corner into view.

  “Oh, hullo, Blaine! How’s the gold developing?”

  “So-so. Have they found the murderer of Mukhum Dass yet?”

  Samson dropped his reins to light a cigar, and took his time about it.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Hum! You either exactly find the murderer, or you don’t!”

  “We’ve our suspicions.”

  “Leading anywhere?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “If I was to offer to put you next to a piece of pretty evidence, how’d that suit you?”

  Samson had to relight the cigar, in order to get opportunity to read Dick’s face before he answered.

  “I don’t think so, Blaine, thank you — at least not at present. If you’ve direct evidence of an eye-witness, of course—”

  “Nothing like that,” said Dick.

  “Well, I’ll be candid with you, Blaine. We know quite well who the murderer is. At the right moment we shall land on him hammer and tongs. But you see — we need to choose the right moment, for political reasons. Now — technically speaking — all evidence in criminal cases ought to go to the police, and the police might act too hastily — you understand me?”

  “If you know who the man is, of course,” said Dick, “there’s nothing more I need do.”

  “Except to be discreet, Blaine! Please be discreet! We shall get the man. Don’t doubt it! You and your wife have set us all an example here of minding nobody’s business except your own. I’d be awfully obliged if you’d keep yourself as far as possible out of this mess. Should we need any further evidence than we’ve got already, I’d ask you for it, of course.”

  “Suits me all right,” said Dick. “I’m mum.”

  “Thanks awfully, Blaine. Can I offer you a cigar? I’m on my way to take a look at the fort. Seems like an anachronism, doesn’t it, for us to keep an old-fashioned fort like this so near our own border in native territory. Care to come with me? Well, so long then — see you at the club again, I suppose?”

  Samson rode on.

  “A narrow squeak that!” said Dick to himself, stowing away the map that he had held the whole time in his right hand in full view of the commissioner.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The East to Columbia

  Sister Columbia, wonderful sister,

  Weariless wings on aerial way!

  Tell us the lore of thy loftiness, sister,

  We of the dark are astir for the day!

  Give us the gift of thy marvelous wings,

  Spell us the charm that Columbia sings!

  Oversea sister, affluent sister,

  Queen inexclusive, though out of our reach!

  How is thy genius ever unruffled?

  What is the talisman altitudes teach?

  Measureless meed of ability thine,

  What is the goal of thy heart’s design?

  How shall we learn of it? How shall we follow?

  Heavy the burden of earth where we lie!

  Only a glimpse of thy miracle stirs us,

  Stay in our wallow and teach us to fly!

  How shall we spring to Columbia’s call?

  Oh, that thy wings could unweary us all!

  “I am as simple as the sunlight!”

  Tess was in something very near to paradise, if paradise is constant assuaging of the curiosity amid surroundings that conduce to idleness. There were men on that country-side in plenty who would not have dared admit a Western woman into their homes; but even those could hardly prevent wives and daughters from visiting Yasmini in the perfectly correct establishment she kept. And there were other men, more fearless of convention, who were willing that Tess, if veiled, should cross their private thresholds.

  So there followed a round of visits and return calls, of other marvelous rides by elephant at night, because the daytime was too hot for comfort, and oftener, long drives in latticed carriages, with footmen up behind and an escort to ride before and swear at the lethargic bullock-men — carriages that bumped along the country roads on strange, old-fashioned springs.

  Yasmini was welcome everywhere, and, in the cautious, tenfold guarded Eastern way, kept open house. The women reveled in her free ideas and in the wit with which she heaped scorn on the priest-made fashions that have kept all India in chains for centuries, mocking the priests, as some thought, at the risk of blasphemy.

  Almost as much as in Yasmini’s daring they took ingenuous delight in Tess, persuading Yasmini to interpret questions and reply or, very rarely, bringing with them some duenna who had a smattering of English.

  All imprisoned folk, and especially women in the shuttered zenanas of the East, develop a news-sense of their own that passes the comprehension of free-ranging mortals. They were astonishingly well informed about the outer world — even the far-flung outer world, yet asked the most childish questions; and only a few of them could have written their own names, — they who were titled ladies of a land of ancient chivalry.

  “Wait until I am maharanee!” Yasmini said. “The women have always ruled India. Women rule the English, though the English hate the thought of it and make believe otherwise. With the aid of women I will change the face of India, — the women and the gods!”

  But she was careful of her promises, holding out no prospects that would stir premature activity among the ranks she counted on.

  “Promise the gods too much,” she said, “and the gods overwhelm you. They like to serve, which is their business, not to have you squandering on them. Tell the women they are rulers, and they will start to destroy their empire by making public what is secret! If you tell the men that the women rule them, what will the men do?”

  “Shut them up all the closer, I suppose,” suggested Tess.

  “Is that what they ever did? No. They will choose for them certain offices they can not fill because of inexperience, and put the noisiest women in them, and make mock of them, and laugh! Not for a long time yet must India know who rules her!”

  “Child, where did you learn all your philosophy?” Tess asked her, one night when they were watching the stars from the bedroom window-seat.

  “Oh, men taught me this and that thing, and I have always reversed it and believed the opposite. Why do men teach? To make you free, or to bind you to their own wheel? The English teach that English ways are good for the world. I answer that the world has been good to England and the English would like to keep it so! The pundits say we should study the philosophies. They made me study, hours and hours when I was little. Why? To bind me to the wheel of their philosophy, and keep me subject to them! I say philosophy is good for pundits, as a pond is good for frogs; but shall I be a frog, too, and croak about the beauties of the mud? The priests say we should obey them, and pray, and make offerings, and keep the religious law. I say, that religion is good for priests, which is why they cherish it, and add to it, and persuade foolish women to believe it! As for the gods, if they are anything they are our servants!”

  “Your husband is going to have an interesting time,” laughed Tess.

  Yasmini’s blue eyes suddenly turned soft and serious.

  “Do you think I can not be a wife “‘ she asked. “Do you suppose there is no mother-love in me? Do you think I do not understand how a man needs cherishing? Do you think I will preach to my husband, or oppose his plans? No! I will do as the gods do when the priests are asleep! I will let him go his own way, and will go with him, never holding back; and little by little h
e will learn that I have understanding. Little by little he will grow into knowledge of the things I know — and he will be a very great man!”

  There were no visits whatever from Utirupa, for the country-side would have been scandalized. Only, flowers came every day in enormous quantities; and there was a wealth of horses, carriages, jewels and armed men at his bride’s disposal that proved he had not forgotten her existence or her needs. She had claimed marriage to him by Gandharva rite, and he had tacitly consented, but she was not ready yet to try conclusions with the secret, octopus influence of the priests; and there was another reason.

  “If it should get to Samson’s cars that he and I are married, that would be the end of his chance of the throne of Sialpore. Samson is English of the English. He would oppose to the end the nomination of a maha-rajah, whose wife has notions of her own — as I am known to have! They like him — my husband — because he plays good polo, and will bet with them, and can play cricket; and because he seems to follow no special line of politics. But if it were known he had a clever wife — me for wife — they would have none of him! I shall be a surprise for them when the die is cast!”

  Tess was in almost daily communication with Dick, for, what with Tom Tripe and Sita Ram and about a dozen other sworn accomplices, Yasmini had messages coming and going all the time. Camels used to arrive long after dark, and letters were brought in, smelly with the sweat of loyal riders who had hidden them from too inquisitive police. Most of them carried back a scribbled word for Dick. But he said nothing about the treasure in his curt, anonymous, unsigned replies, being nervous about sending messages at all.

  Only, when in one letter he mentioned digging in another place, and Tess read the sentence aloud, Yasmini squealed with delight. The next day her own advices confirmed the hint, Sita Ram sending a long account of new developments and adding that “Samson sahib is much exercised in mind about it.”

  “All goes well!” Yasmini belled in her golden voice. “Samson has seen the hidden meaning of my letter! If I had told him bluntly where the treasure is, he would have laughed and forgotten it! But because he thinks he reads the secret of my mind, he flatters himself and falls into the trap! Now we have Samson caught, and all is well!”