Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Loaded bones, and liquor on the side?”

  “True ‘nuff.”

  “Possessing counterfeited money, too, I think?”

  “Yes, Misto’ Casey, sah, that was indicted against muh, but Ah’s the victim o’ conspiracy. Ah’s the goat, sah.”

  “Out on two thousand dollars. Who bailed you? Mrs. Aintree?”

  “Yes, sah, that lady took compassion on mah predicative.”

  “Why did she do that?” asked Casey.

  “Isn’t I a charter ‘riginal member o’ the P.O.P., an’ aren’t she leader?”

  “That’s a part of her duties, eh?”

  “A part o’ her prerogmative, Misto’ Casey, sah. She’s de Lo’d’s anointed, an’ she acts the part, sah, to perfection. She certainly do indeed.”

  “You’ve nothing against her, eh?”

  “Against de Lo’d’s anointed? No, sah, Misto’ Casey.”

  “You’d not be scared to have all her doings known?”

  “Ah convokes privilege. De fust rule of the P.O.P. is not to break de ninth commandment o’ Moses by bearin’ witness against her doings.”

  “Do you know anything about her that would make you afraid to report her doings?”

  “Ah do, sah. Ah’d be plumb skeered to report her doings.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t Ah said ‘at she’s de Lo’d’s anointed? Ah’s not ‘xac’ly anxious to be smitten, no, sah.”

  “So she’s a smiter, eh? Then if she had some gold plates in her possession, and you happened to know it, you wouldn’t admit it?”

  “Ah admits nothin’. Posimetively nothin’. Ah’m dumb.”

  “Even in view of that case down in Georgia? Even in view of this charge of possessing counterfeited money? Even in view of the fact that you know I’m a Federal officer — and might — might I said — be able to get the case against you dropped — you’re dumb, eh? Kind of a — fool, aren’t you?”

  “What you mean, Misto’ Casey, sah, ‘bout having the case against muh dropped? You mean Ah could go free?”

  “If you’re just a plain — ijjit,” Casey answered, “you’ll go to jail anyhow. Come on; what d’ye know.”

  “She’s de Lo’d’s anointed.”

  “Did she bring any gold plates back with her from Jerusalem?”

  “Ah’ve not seen um, Misto’ Casey, sah.”

  “You’ve heard about ’em, maybe?”

  Aloysius Jackson swallowed his Adam’s apple again, and looked miserable, but didn’t answer.

  “All right,” said Casey. “Ever hear of a man named Gulad?”

  “No, sir.”

  That answer was prompt and obviously truthful. You could see by the look of relief on the colored man’s face that he was glad to be able to answer unguardedly at last. But Casey wasn’t satisfied.

  “She was in Jerusalem; you know that? How many people returned in her party?”

  “Seven, sah. The sacred numbah, sah.”

  “Good. There were six when she left the States. Who is the seventh?”

  “Misto’ Moses.”

  “First or last name?”

  “He ain’t got but the one.”

  “Just plain Moses, eh?”

  “Jes’ Moses, sah.”

  “What sort of looking man is this plain Moses?” Casey demanded.

  “Colored gel’man, sah.”

  “What else? Tall — short — fat — thin — medium — two legs or wan — ears or fingers missing — scars?”

  “Medium, Misto’ Casey, sah. Medium jes’ about ‘scribes him.”

  “What kind of medium? Goes off into a trance. Spiritualist? That sort o’ medium?”

  “Medium-size, sah. His spirit ain’t medium. He’s de leas’ mediumest spirit ever was.”

  “You know him intimately?”

  “No, sah. Ah’s jes’ heard him talk.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “Doctrine o’ Moses, sah, an’ spoilin’ the ‘Gyptians an’ promised lan’.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Colored folks promis’ lan’ in Africa, Misto’ Casey, sah.”

  “I mean, where was it that you heard him talk?”

  Aloysius Johnson closed his mouth tight and put both hands into his hip pockets.

  “Ah don’t ‘xac’ly ‘member, sah.”

  “Show him that gold plate,” said Casey, turning suddenly to Allison; and Allison unwrapped it carefully.

  “Ever see one like it?” Casey demanded.

  “No, sah.”

  He was obviously lying. His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he fidgeted nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

  “You’ve seen a couple o’ dozen or more of ’em recently, now haven’t you?”

  “No, sah.”

  “All right,” said Casey, “that’s as good as ‘Yes.’ “ He opened the door and whistled; a plain-clothes policeman appeared.

  “Take him downstairs and keep an eye on him until you hear from me,” he ordered; and Aloysius Jackson went out as he came in, walking like a cripple.

  CHAPTER IV. “His name was Gulad.”

  THE door had no sooner shut on Aloysius Jackson than Casey’s air of optimism left him.

  “Ye’ve a bad case,” he said. “The plates weren’t stolen from ye. They were taken from this old temple whiles y’r backs were turned, and maybe that’s ag’in’ the law of Agypt, but ye haven’t proved that this man Gulad took them, nor what he did with them. If Mrs. Aintree has them how are ye going to prove that she didn’t come by them legally? Possession, me boy, is nine points of the law. That colored man who came to Boston under the name o’ Gulad will be sent back, for it’s illegal to enter the country under a false name. But the real Gulad, who’s a citizen, didn’t change his name until after he got here; and he has a perfect right to call himself Moses or Murphy if he wants to, as long as his passport is O.K.

  “Ye’ve got to prove first that the gold plates exist at all except in somebody’s imagination. Then ye’ve got to prove that he has no right to them, and that you have the right to charge him with the theft. Then ye’ll have to produce an extradition warrant, and on top o’ that ye’ll have to satisfy a judge that he’s the identical man, and that there’s evidence enough to justify his extradition. It don’t look good to me. There’s no law against importing bullion or antiquities. This isn’t a case for me at all. I’ve nothing to do with romance, as I told me friend Ramsden this morning. But though the son-of-a-gun looks like an iliphant, Ramsden is really as romantic as a schoolgirl. It’s a clear case for him and his new daytective company. Ye’d better hire Ramsden to look into the romantic end of it, and ye might make use of Aloysius Jackson to begin with.”

  “How?” demanded Brice and Allison together.

  “Me friend Jeff Ramsden must consider that. It’s my guess that if that black man is brought to trial the jury will acquit him. But I can throw a scare into him, and I will. I’ll see him prisently, and send him up here for Ramsden to confabulate with. And now I’ll have to be leavin’ ye, for I’ve work to do. Me friend Jeff Ramsden knows how to get in touch with me at any time.” Brice and Allison sat looking at each other gloomily. They didn’t recover, even when Aloysius Jackson came shambling in again.

  But Aloysius Jackson was another who had not recovered. He was suffering from the Appleton, West Virginny, blues — sick at the stomach with dread of Terence Casey and the law, and of me in the bargain. When I shifted my bulk to answer the bedroom phone Aloysius Jackson jumped.

  It was Casey at the phone.

  “Y’r man’s amenable,” he advised. “Me and the bull downstairs had a session with him, and he’ll eat out o’ your hand from now forward. Keep him scared, and threaten him with me if he gets sassy.”

  Casey rang off, and I surveyed Aloysius Jackson for a minute.

  In addition to him I had to impress Brice and Allison, for a mistrustful client is bad, and two are worse — especially if one of the two is a norma
lly suspicious Scotsman. I didn’t feel nearly as confident as I may have looked.

  I said, “Do you want to die?”

  “No, sah, Misto’ Ramsden.”

  “Do you want to be all smashed up with this?”

  I showed him a fist, and neither of mine is ornamental.

  “Mr. Ramsden,’sah, Ah nevo done you no harm.”

  “You’ve got to do me some good.”

  “Ah’s shoh willin’.”

  “Where does Mrs. Aintree stay?”

  “‘Partment seven, Roscoe House, Riverside Drive, sah.”

  “Where are the P.O.P. meetings held?”

  “Fifty-ninth an’ Ninth. Big top room, sah.”

  “How many entrances to the big top room?”

  “Two, sah. Front way up f’r or’nary members. Rear way, back stairs f’r ‘nitiates.”

  “When’s the next meeting?” “‘Morrow night, sah, nine o’clock.”

  “Any gallery in that big room?”

  “Yessah. Back stairs go on up.”

  “You take me there tomorrow night,” said I, “and if you don’t hold your tongue you know what’s coming to you.”

  “Misto Ramsden, sah, they search that air gallery f’r strangers. You-all is a stranger.”

  “You’re the one who does the searching then,” I answered. “No back talk! Your only chance of a whole skin is to do exactly as you’re told.”

  “Yessah, Misto Ramsden.”

  “Meet me at my office tomorrow evening at six-thirty.”

  * * * * *

  HE slunk out of the room looking utterly despondent. It was tough to have to go back on the “white folks” who had bailed him out of the Tombs. I’ve met colored men who wouldn’t have done it, however scared they might be, for being afraid has nothing to do with being yellow. The test is, will you jettison your friends to save yourself, or to save them will you swallow your gruel — screaming or smiling — it doesn’t really matter which? There is no other criterion. Aloysius Jackson was yellow.

  That night I received carte blanche from Meldrum Strange who saw in a moment the international significance of Mrs. Aintree’s doings. “She’s playing for power. Some women take to that quicker than hop,” he grunted. “Go after her hard. Spare no expense. Follow up without waiting to consult me, but keep me posted.”

  It was nine o’clock when I left him. I went straight from his hotel to Roscoe House on Riverside Drive to call on Mrs. Aintree; and I had the advantage of her, for she did not know me from Adam’s off ox.

  It wasn’t exactly easy to get to see her, though, for her corps of followers had a system for keeping unwelcome visitors outside the door. They seemed to regard her as a she-pope, whom it would be sacrilege to intrude upon. However, the janitor downstairs regarded her otherwise. He said he intended to ask the agent to put her out, because all the other tenants were complaining.

  “She rented the apartment furnished,” he said. “Came alone, and. asked particularly whether the house was quiet. Didn’t want dogs, children, or noisy house-parties. Looked good to me, and I fell. She moved in with five others, and they’ve been receiving colored people all day long ever since — one after another — sometimes twos and threes. I’ve refused them the elevator; they’ve had to walk up, but they keep on coming. One comes half-a-dozen times a day. He’s up there now if I’m not mistaken.”

  I was met at the apartment door by five of the inner-guard, and said that I brought news from Jerusalem for Mrs. Aintree’s private ear. They were meek, but meekness is a much more difficult thing to deal with than audacity. They stuck to it that they were qualified to receive any message for Mrs. Aintree. They insisted that she was “not at home” to visitors, and might not be disturbed. However, I stumbled on the combination presently.

  “My message is from Moses in Jerusalem,” I said. “I’ll tell it to nobody but Mrs. Aintree.”

  “How did you discover her address?” a mild man of sixty asked suspiciously.

  “Moses of Jerusalem referred me to Moses of New York,” said I, and they let me in.

  “Is your name Moses?” they asked me. But I couldn’t guess the right answer to that, so said nothing.

  The room I was ushered into was just the place for a woman to sub-rent, whose means were nothing remarkable, and who wanted to make the utmost possible display. There was ten thousand dollars’ worth of furniture in that one room — Louis the Lover stuff, all gilt and rosy cupids, with mirrors wherever there was room for one. You couldn’t turn without seeing yourself reflected; and you could see whoever else was in the room from every possible angle by the simple process of selecting the right mirror.

  Mrs. Aintree came in presently, and the meek fraternity retired — two men and two women, all going out through the same door without waiting to be told to; the fifth member of the household was in the kitchen, for I heard a clattering of dishes through the open door.

  There was plenty of time to look at Mrs. Aintree, for she waited until the last of her team had left the room, and tried the door after them to make sure it was properly closed. I saw her from every viewpoint.

  She weighed considerably more than two hundred pounds, but carried the weight well. She would pass for a fine, big woman. A low-necked green and gold evening dress displayed her heavy shoulders, and exaggerated the forward tilt of her neck, producing an effect of great power; it was probably power of will, but there was somehow a suggestion of the washtub and physical strength won by leaning over it.

  Her hair was carefully curled and dressed, a shade between brown and gold. She had a fine, bold forehead, that could wrinkle into angry vertical creases when she chose to be overbearing; and her big, full face was almost manly. She might have been a tomboy in her ‘teens, and never have lost the yearning to compete with men.

  But her most remarkable features were her eyes and mouth. The eyes were magnificent: large and brilliantly blue, looking frankly at you, not afraid to challenge, possessed of a certain humor, too, that seemed to boast of seeing through you and being on the whole amused. Her lips were perpetually parted, displaying fine white teeth a little too widely spaced. The two upper incisors touched her lower lip, and gave the key to her character — vampire will-power, drawing sustenance from living people. That woman had no use for dead ones.

  I suspected her of considerable subtlety when put to it, but she chose to open on me with the crudest kind of hail-fellow-well-met stuff that ever a stock-salesman practised.

  “Mr. Ramsden? So glad to meet you. I was a little disturbed by an unknown caller at this hour, but the first glance reassured me. We become psychologists, don’t we, as we gain experience. I’d know you instantly for a man of calm and honorable purpose. I’m sure you’ve something tremendously interesting to talk about.”

  “I have,” said I; and she looked hard at me.

  Subtlety may be good, but I have none, and I hate it; don’t want any.

  “I’ve come to talk about your P.O.P. society,” I said.

  “Do you mean that you wish to join the P.O.P.?” she asked.

  “I want to know about it. What is its basis?”

  “The Mosaic Law.”

  “Is it a secret society?”

  “No,” she answered. “How can any universal law be a secret? But the Mosaic Law has always been misinterpreted. It was held to apply in the first place to the Israelites in Egypt, and to them only, but there is nothing universal about that. Every race, every people must eventually have its Moses who will lead them out of bondage; and everybody is a Moses who knows what Moses knew and acts as he did.”

  “Everything included?” I asked her.

  “How is one to make exceptions?” she asked. “Who shall draw the line, and where?”

  “Murder and spoiling the Egyptians are not objectionable?” I asked her.

  “Killing isn’t always murder,” she retorted. “Nor is spoiling the Egyptians theft — if done in the right way. Moses said: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ But he spoiled the Egyp
tians.”

  “And you are preaching that to ignorant people?” I asked her.

  “Everyone is ignorant who doesn’t understand the Law of Moses,” she retorted. “My field, however, is among the colored races, who need their Moses as badly as ever the Israelites needed theirs.”

  “Have you thought of the consequences?” I asked. “If they interpret literally your teaching that killing is not murder, spoiling isn’t theft, can you imagine what might take place in the United States, for instance?”

  “What happened to the Egyptians?” she answered. “Tyranny entrenched has no rights that anybody need respect. If people insist on suppressing the colored races, they must take the consequences, just as the Egyptians did. If the British insist on suppressing the colored races within their borders, they must also take the consequences. The same applies to the French, the Portuguese, the Spaniards, the Brazilians, the Italians — to every people that is holding colored races in subjection.”

  “And why should you be the Moses for the colored races?” I asked. “You’re not colored.”

  “No,” she said. “Neither was Moses an Israelite. Whoever understands the law of Moses becomes a Moses. I accept no responsibility. I teach. I do not make laws, but teach the law that was propounded on Sinai centuries ago.”

  “Why do you call your sect the P.O.P?” I asked.

  “People of Pisgah? It was from Pisgah that Moses saw the Promised Land. My followers rise to Pisgah heights and see what lies before them. They become prophets, in a degree that depends on individual inspiration and zeal.”

  “Do they perform miracles?” I asked, casting about for questions that might tempt her to keep on talking.

  “They become able to accomplish their purposes in ways that unenlightened people can not understand. I will give you an instance: Just as the Israelites were given laws engraved on stone tablets, and the Mormons have writing on gold, we needed a standard by which to test our authority and our actions. Well; you are familiar with the Bible, Mr. Ramsden? You recollect how patient Moses was? How he went into the wilderness for forty years—”

  “Yes,” I said; “he murdered an Egyptian and ran away into hiding.”

  “He found what he needed in the wilderness,” she answered severely. “An initiate of ours did the same thing. He, too, went into the wilderness — the same Egyptian wilderness. In considerably less than forty years he was led to find exactly what was needed — the law engraved on gold by the very hand of the original Moses himself!”