by Talbot Mundy
Cyprian began it, naturally, beaming on them with his loose, old lips and eyes that never betrayed secrets.
“So you failed? I see you failed,” he said, glancing from face to face. “He gave you the slip, that Portuguese?”
“They killed him,” Grim answered simply.
“Ah! A longer spoon than ever! Too bad! But his hat — you found his hat of course?”
“No. Missing!” answered Jeremy. “He had a five-pun’ note inside the band, with my signature.”
Cyprian’s lips moved, but he said nothing audible.
“Worse than that!” King added. “In his pocket should have been a paper on which he had jotted down terms he was prepared to make with us. We wouldn’t sign it, but the terns were down and an enemy would draw conclusions.”
“Gone too?” asked Cyprian.
“Yes. Taken,” King answered. “Pocket was inside-out.”
“Worse yet!” put in Ramsden. “All those ancient coins have disappeared. Here’s the bag — empty!”
“All except this one!”
Jeremy held up the one he had given pledge for. Cyprian took it, turning it over and over in a hand as soft and smoothly wrinkled as a royal grandmother’s.
“Coins gone? Hat gone? Eh?” said Cyprian. “That hat — he kept his memoranda on a strip of parchment inside the sweat-band. If we had the hat — well — if we had the hat, I might have fitted his key into my lock, as it were. Well — so we are worse off than before!”
“Much worse!” remarked Chullunder Ghose. “Flesh creeping, holy one! This baba, consumed by elementary anxiety, calls attention to arresting key of situation, which is: Enemy lurking in ambush, is now aware of opponents’ identity. Opponents being us! Alarming — very! Unseen, and selecting opportunity with exquisite precision, will sneak forth and smite us shrewdly, wasting no time! Verb. sap. ! Your obedient servant, sahibs !”
“He knows,” said Cyprian nodding. “He knows.”
Ramsden half-unconsciously clenched two enormous fists, and Cyprian laughed.
“If we could deal with them in that way their secret would have been the world’s five thousand years ago — wouldn’t it?” he said whimsically. “No, my friends. They may do violence to us; we must admit that possibility. But it behooves us to use other means. We are lost if we try violence — babes in the wood, eh? No whit safer then than Sennacherib’s Assyrians. We might as well walk barefoot into a cavern full of snakes! But the Lord slew the Assyrians. The Lord, too, fought against Sisera. Wisdom! We must be wise! You understand me?”
He was trying to be all things at the same time to seven men of differing creeds, not one of which was his, and he was much too wise to venture on the freehold of religion, although that, and no other motive, was the impulse that had kept him laboring for fifty years. He knew that Jeremy, for one, would openly rebel at the first suggestion of creed or dogma, to say nothing of Narayan Singh and Ali of Sikunderam, who perhaps were not so important, although quite as unwilling to be compromised.
“Nobody understands a damned thing!” answered Jeremy. “I know what we saw — a dead Don minus hat, and his pockets inside-out. We all know what the woman said. I’ve heard you. It all amounts to nothing, plus one gold coin—”
“Perhaps I’d better hear about the woman,” Cyprian suggested.
Jeremy told him, reproducing the whole scene and Gauri’s conversation, down to the last remark of Gauri when she saw da Gama lying dead.
“‘See? See? They fooled him, and the fool tricked me! I am a greater fool! I tell you, none but a fakir has the better of a fakir! Men say of me, and such as me, that I learn secrets. Phagh! Go and be fakirs , all of you! That’s what Gauri thought of it,” said Jeremy.
“And she was right. She was right,” said Cyprian.
Whereat Jeremy whistled. He smelt adventure coining down wind — unexpected — just the way he likes it best. Chullunder Ghose, who loves to feel his own flesh creep, made a noise like a stifled squeal and shivered.
“Padre sahib , be advised by me!” he interrupted. “Being far from affluent baba perspiring much for underdone emolument, am nevertheless like package of Autolichus containing products of experience! That Mister Ross can be a fakir , yes. He is so clever, he can even imitate himself, same being most difficult of all cynicisms. But he is Australian. His deity is Nth power of Irreverence, same if brought in contact with high-church parties lacking sense of humor, being much more dangerous than dynamite with fuse and caps! I speak with feeling! Mister Ross will make conjuring tricks with seven-knotted bamboo rod of holiest mahatma, and we are all dead men — families at mercy of the rising generation — oh, my aunt!”
Jeremy smiled, pleased; he likes applause. Head suddenly on one side like a terrier’s who hears the word cat, he watched Cyprian’s face, alert.
“There is truth in what Chullunder Ghose says — truth, and exaggeration,” Cyprian announced. “There is always danger in attacking deviltry. But exaggeration in such cases is” — he was going to say a sin, but checked himself— “a serious mistake because it terrifies.”
Every man in the room except Chullunder Ghose smiled broadly at that. Cyprian smiled too, and none of them, except perhaps the babu, realized that he had chosen that means of eliminating any shade of terror from the argument.
“You!” he said suddenly, pointing a finger at Jeremy. “You! Are you able to govern yourself? Can you understand that if you play this part, one laugh at the wrong minute may mean death?”
“I hope I’ll die laughing — in my boots,” responded Jeremy.
“Your death — and others!”
“Whose, for instance?” Jeremy came back at him. “I’ve seen men in India I’d kill for sixpence each!”
“These — your friends,” said Cyprian.
“That’s different. All right. I don’t laugh. I make up as the lousiest-looking holy man you ever saw. What after that?” demanded Jeremy.
Cyprian looked hard at him. In one soft palm lay the gold coin, and he tapped it with a forefinger.
“This is our only point of contact,” he began. “You must take it and do tricks. You must challenge the Nine in public! It is dangerous, and others must go with you to prevent abduction. Are you willing?”
“Bet your life!” said Jeremy. “Who comes?”
“Oh, my God!” remarked Chullunder Ghose, aware of the wheels of Destiny.
“My young friend Jeremy, do you command sufficient self-control to let yourself be disciplined by our babu?” asked Cyprian.
The padre’s lips moved pursily, as if he were masticating something, and his face was toward Jeremy, who grinned, but his mind was already far away considering something else. Grim noticed it and grew aware that Cyprian had made his mind up without waiting for the answer. Quick work! But Grim is constitutionally cautious.
“How about the babu?” he objected. “Can Chullunder Ghose—”
Cyprian banished the objection with a gesture.
“You must be dumb, friend Jeremy — dumb!” he went on, forcing deep thought to the surface through a sieve that strained out all unnecessary words — particularly all unnecessary argument. “Chullunder Ghose must talk.”
“My God! You see me shudder?” exclaimed the babu, not exaggerating.
His fat shoulders heaved as if an earthquake underlay them, and a kind of grayness settled on his face. Nevertheless, none doubted his intention. A century or two ago he would have braved the Holy Inquisition out of curiosity.
“Whatever is said, Chullunder Ghose must say,” repeated Cyprian.
“Hear me say it now, then! Caesar, moriturus te saluto ! Speech, committing me, silence absolves actual offender! My belly shakes, yet family must eat. Sahibs , increase my microscopical emolument!”
Never was a man more serious. Chullunder Ghose, all clammy with anxiety, rolled his handkerchief into a ball and caught it with his naked toes repeatedly; but King moved over, and sat on a cushion on the floor beside him.
“Yo
u and I have tackled worse than this together,” he said.
“Ah! Yes. You and I! But this Australian! He would tie a knot in the tail of Hanuman* himself, and trust to irreverence to get him out of it! He will cry, Cooee! — and pretend to a Brahman that such is colloquial lingua franca of the gods!”
“It is!” laughed Jeremy. “Australia’s God’s country. If I can’t talk the dialect, who can?”
“Peace, peace!” said Cyprian, smiling. “Let us joke afterward. Colonel King, may I trust you to instruct friend Jeremy — drill him, that is? We cannot afford mistakes.”
King nodded. In all India there was none else who had traveled, as King had done, from end to end of India in different disguises, penetrating the reputedly impenetrable. If King had but possessed a tithe of Jeremy’s gift of doing marvels with his hands, he would have been the man to send. But you don’t discover jealousy in men of King’s attainments. A trace of that would have made them fail a hundred times. Both he and Grim were safer men than Jeremy, and knew it; but they were also much less brilliant, and knew that too. As far as courage went there was nothing to choose, although they would all have picked on Ramsden if asked who was least amenable to fear; and Ramsden, knowing too well what it cost him to control those thews of his, would have picked Narayan Singh.
“You know there is a Hindu festival at Benares very soon?” said Cyprian. “I am old, or I would go with you. I know those ceremonies. I could guard against mistakes. Now, understand: the danger is abduction! There will be a million men and women in Benares — more! You — disguised — unknown — you could vanish as easily as seven pebbles from the beach! So you must all go, each to watch the others. Be two parties. Jeremy, Chullunder Ghose, Ramsden — one. The other, all the rest of you, pretending to be strangers to the first. But all Hindus, mind — able to claim acquaintance if you must.”
“We shall be in next world very presently!” remarked Chullunder Ghose. “What is object of this impropriety?”
Cyprian made a noise with his tongue. He did not like the word impropriety. He answered looking anywhere but at the babu.
“The Nine Unknown must keep themselves constantly informed. In order to know they must observe. To observe they must go, or send their representatives. To be in touch with the mind of the mass — which their purpose must be certainly — they will take care to attend the festivals, in person or by proxy. If one of their number should go to Benares — as is possible — extra precautions will be taken of course to preserve incognito. But in any case there will be at least one of their principal lieutenants there to bring dependable reports. You understand that? Now—”
The old man was warming up. He moved in his chair restlessly and kept wiping his lips on a lawn handkerchief. His gestures, losing the indeterminate, painstakingly tactful quality, were becoming imperative.
“In cryptographic books in my possession it is laid down as inviolable rule that one of the Nine always visits Benares at this season of the year. They receive money — gold and silver — that accumulation never ceases. And the East changes slowly; without a doubt a great deal of the money even in these days of banks goes to Benares, Hardwar, Prayag and such places by porter at the times of pilgrimage. Someone is there to receive it. You understand?”
Ramsden opened his mouth at last. Economy — constructive, pioneer economy was his long suit.
“It would take a freight-train to haul the money. The amount that disappears in one year—”
“Could be carried among a million pilgrims without attracting notice,” Cyprian retorted. “Do you realize your opportunity? Contact is our problem! If, by challenging attention, you can once make contact with the Nine Unknown, you may leave the rest to me! We will presently find the books! Then you may have the money — anyone may have it! The books — those nine books — they are the true goal.”
“If the cash really goes to Benares, it would take a train to haul it out!” Ramsden insisted. “In that case we need only watch the railway—”
“Who said the money is hauled out again?” Cyprian retorted testily. “For all you know there is a hole under a temple in Benares—”
He checked himself, aware that for the first time he had awakened incredulity. Even Chullunder Ghose allowed an expression of mockery to light his face up suddenly. Ali of Sikunderam exploded:
“Allah! If the Hindus had that much money in a hole beneath a temple, the Hills would have smelt it years ago! Moreover would the English not have learned of it? They smell gold as a thirsty horse smells water in the plains. And if the English were afraid to take it on a pretext, would the Hills refrain? Would that bait not have brought the lashkars * yelling down the Khyber? And would guns have held them back in smell of all that loot? Allah! Show me but one sack of gold, and I will show you how hillmen plunder — I and my sons!”
But Ali of Sikunderam was wax in Cyprian’s hands. Swift, subtle flattery turned his indignation into boasting, out of which net there was no retreat.
“You and your sons — invaluable! Splendid! You should have a part, but oh, the pity of it! You are Moslems.”
“Aye! The pity of it!” answered Ali. “When the sirkar needed men to go to Lhassa who should not upset the heathen bellies of Thibetians with a true religion, was I chosen with three sons to make that journey because we could not act Hindu? Doubtless! Bring me a thousand Hindus, and if one of them can pick me out of a crowd as not being a Hindu of the Chattrya caste, I will go back to my Hills and hold my peace!”
“But not in Benares. You would not dare in Benares,” suggested Cyprian.
“By Allah, in Benares they shall think me a double-holy Brahman born in paradise! I will have the sadhus kissing feet within the hour!”
“So. Excellent!” said Cyprian. “That is, if you dare.”
“I would like to see the thing I dare not do — I and my sons!” answered Ali.
“You speak of them as yours. I would rather heat them pledge themselves,” said Cyprian.
“By Allah, they will swear to what I bid them swear to!” answered Ali. “If I say a hill is flat, they prove it! If I say a Hindu wears his belly inside out, they demonstrate that, too, on the nearest unbeliever! If I bid them be Hindus, they will even shave themselves and look that part. Wait and see! I will bring them in.”
He strode to the door to tell Rahman, who was standing guard, to go and summon them. Rahman went off to obey and the door was closed again, but opened a minute later by Chullunder Ghose, who leaned his whole weight on the knob and used it suddenly. Manoel, the butler, entered on his knees and fell face-downward, saying nothing, amid silence.
“Eavesdropping!” exclaimed Cyprian at last.
The Goanese did not answer — too afraid, or too wise. He lay with his face between his hands in an attitude of abject supplication.
“Put him outside for the present,” ordered Cyprian; and Ramsden took Manoel by the waistband, tossing him into the pantry as you throw a stick into the fire.
“I tell you,” said Cyprian, “we war with powers! The Nine’s spies are everywhere. More than once I have suspected Manoel, but—”
The door burst open again. It was like a thunderclap in that quiet sanctuary. Rahman stood with a hand laid flat on either door-post, leaning in, his eyes screwed tip and glinting like the heart of flint.
“They are gone!” he said.
“Allah! My sons gone?”
Ali leaped up and drew his knife, though none, not even he, knew why.
“All gone!” answered Rahman. “There was no fight, for there is no blood. I think they went of their own will.”
“By Allah, then they saw the prospect of a fight!” swore Ali.
He stood on feudal right that instant — claimed Ramsden’s help, they two having plighted troth over a restored knife, and there is no pledge more inviolable.
“Brother, I need thy strength,” he said with dignity.
And Ramsden did not hesitate. Believing that his wits are slow and that strength is all he
has, he volunteers for all the odds and ends and heavy work, the others conceding the point to avoid discussion, but setting far too high a value on him to risk him unnecessarily. (You may discuss a man’s thews to his face, but not his spirit.) So they trooped out behind Jeff, Jeremy leading, leaving only Grim alone in the room with Cyprian.
It had occurred to Grim, as intuitions do come to a thoughtful man in a flash sometimes, that if the guard left in the street had gone so suddenly there was a chance that someone hoped to gain advantage by their absence.
If so, then Cyprian was the obvious objective. If not, even so it would do no harm for one of the party to stay and protect the old man.
He offered no excuse, no explanation; simply stayed.
CHAPTER VI. “They fled before me!”
HAVING eased his mind concerning the requirements of another world, Fernandez de Mendoza de Sousa Diomed Braganza began to speculate on the improbabilities of this one — improbability of credit in the first place. None had been so foolish as to underwrite the fire risk on his hotel. It was a dead loss. It was equally improbable that any of his erstwhile guests would pay their bills, since the books were burned; they would blame him for the loss of their effects, and probably bring suit against him.
He knew equally well that the police would be in search of him that minute to arrest him on a charge of criminal responsibility. He knew his wisest course would be to go to the police and surrender himself because Father Cyprian, the next-door-to-infallible, had said so, and, deciding to do that, he hurriedly reviewed another long list of improbabilities — acquaintances, who had been friends before the fire, who might be asked, but probably would not consent to furnish bail.
So he turned to the left when the padre’s front door shut behind him, minded to call on one acquaintance on his way to the police. That circumstance prevented him from seeing the arrival of Grim, Ramsden, Jeremy, King and all the others, who approached Cyprian’s from the opposite direction. They were within before Diomed turned and retraced his steps. So all he saw were Ali’s sons in the dust under the tree — them and the constable opposite, who was rubbing at his jaw-bone with the end of a yellow truncheon to assist the processes of thought.