by Talbot Mundy
“Brass-face is a brick!” said Ommony.
“That brick struck this babu once. Not again!” said Chullunder Ghose, and he was on his way instantly — anywhither except in the direction of the station.
“Stop!” commanded Ommony.
“But that Brass-face sahib—”
“Shan’t hurt you this time.”
“Sahib, he hurts all and sundry. His bowels are merciless! He is chucker-out-bouncer for Government when illegality shall be done under mask of high-handed individual mistake. He thrashed a Maharajah! He will enter temples and desecrate holiness at moment’s notice on any whim of caprice. He deprived me of government office, leaving self, family, and numerous dependents at mercy of chance emolument. He kicked me twice in same place, which is manifestly unfair. He—”
“I tell you, I’ll protect you.”
“Sahib, he will get you next! He is Administration whips and scorpions, laying on hard! Not known as Brass-face because he is gentle. By no means. Believe me.”
“Brass-face is my friend,” said Ommony quietly.
“Krishna! You and he will then run universe. But if he kicks me, I will poison him.”
“My kingdom for a horse!” laughed Ommony.
“Wireless! Telephone’s best. I must talk with my sister or Molyneux. I don’t care which. Both for choice.”
“This brute’s about finished,” said Charley.
“You’re too heavy for him anyway.”
“He’ll have to serve. Chullunder Ghose! Feed Charley sahib and find him a place to sleep.”
“Am I God of Hebrews, producing manna in wilderness?” the babu answered impudently.
“You heard what I said. Work a miracle, confound you! He eats before dawn, or you catch it! See you later,” he called back to Charley, driving his heels into the flanks of the miserable plug.
Say what you like about oats (and they’re needful), but it is the will of riders that makes horses gallop when reason declares they can’t do it. Ommony rode, not using stick or heels too much, those being inefficient substitutes for horsemanship. The lean beast scattered three good leagues behind him, and most of the dust that covered those, until in the glimmer of a false dawn he fetched up foundered near the house of an old-time friend of Ommony’s.
The friend came forth with half a dish-rag on his loins and a turban big enough for two men, grinning, and as pleased to be of use as a dog to see his master.
“Aye, sahib, verily; and in haste! The fleetest animal in Hind! A mare I bought from the army, cast for vice because the fat soldiery were afraid of her. A beast with a heart, and legs. Behold her eye! She has but the one, and lo, the white of it! Deal not gently with her, sahib. Best to let her feel a strong hand on the rein; and beat her thrice over the buttock as she rears. See — I will stand here, thus, and strike her with a lathi. Aye, sahib, I will feed the other carrion, though he isn’t worth the meal. Come again, sahib! Come soon! Nay, no payment! Nay, the mare is thine!”
So Ommony came to the station on a squealing bay of nearly seventeen hands, who took three fathoms at a spring, and tried to savage him as he dismounted. And as he might have guessed if he had stopped to think of it, he found Sir William Molyneux asleep and snoring serenades to Miss Ommony, who leaned rather bored from the window of the front compartment.
She refused to kiss Ommony, objecting to his whiskers; but she was a nice little middle-aged spinster, with a twinkle in her grey eyes and the same way of carrying her chin half-tilted toward the tree-tops that Ommony, and some sea-captains, have.
“He’s really ramping,” she said calmly, glancing at the open car-window whence the snores came.
“I think it’s a good thing he found me waiting at Sisso Junction and brought me along in his train. He says you play too much politics and he’ll break you for it if you don’t reform, even if he is your friend. You’d better humour him. I know there’s no hope of reforming you, but you needn’t emphasize that.”
So Ommony entered the other compartment and awoke Molyneux, who was sleeping fully clothed in deference to mid-Victorian proprieties. (His father was a bishop.)
“Hah Uh-huh-hurrum!” said Molyneux, sitting up, wide awake instantly and searching through vest pockets for his monocle.
“Yes, I know all about that, sir,” said Ommony.
“Point is—”
“The point is, what the devil do you mean by the presumption! Why in blazes didn’t you refer Strange to the central government, and leave them to tell him to go to hell?”
“Because they wouldn’t have told him to,” Ommony answered. “They’d have referred it home, and Whitehall would have asked the Treasury; the Treasury would have called bankers into consultation; and the bankers would have backed up Strange on the scratch me and I’ll scratch you principle. Farewell, forest!”
“What’s this about the priests?
“They’re offering Strange the Third Degree.
“What for, by Halleluiah?”
“Same old game. If he recognizes their authority by submitting to that they’ll let him occupy the Panch Mahal in peace. If not, no.”
“And the idiot consents? By Gad, he must mean business! He realizes if the priests once recognize him as lawful life-tenant he’ll have a status here no government could upset. The priests ‘ud construe eviction of him into insult to them. ‘Twon’t do. Got to stop it. You’ve made a balls of this!”
“Hear both sides first,” said Ommony. “The priests are willing to take our side, on condition they get title to the Panch Mahal.”
“We can’t do that. It belongs to the rajah.”
“No, he’s sold it to Strange.”
“Worse and worse! If we refuse to register the transfer that means a fight through three courts against Strange and his millions. Complications, Ommony! It won’t do.”
“You haven’t heard all yet. Did you bring the padre? There’s a lady in this—”
“Not your sister? For Heaven’s sake! Yes, the padre’s coming. Couldn’t imagine why you wanted him.”
“A Madame Zelmira Poulakis—”
“What? Zelmira Poulakis! I met her in Delhi. She’s charming.”
Molyneux found his monocle at last, screwed it in, and stared at Ommony, frowning over it as if the weight of brow were necessary to keep it in place.
“You’ll meet her again then. She’s here.”
“The hell you say!”
“She’s crazy enough to want to marry Strange.”
“Crazy my eye! The man’s richer than Croesus.”
“And as pleasant as physic! However, she wants him. If she gets him, she’ll call him off from interfering with the forest. I don’t doubt she’ll do anything we ask about the Panch Mahal.”
“But could she call him off?”
“Oh, yes. He’s run away from her. She’s the real reason why he’s hiding in the Panch Mahal this minute.”
“Hates her, eh?”
“No.”
“‘Fraid of her?”
“No. Afraid of himself. He’s got bachelor’s bile. He’s afraid if he sees too much of her he’ll discover his heart somewhere, and ask her to marry him, and be a bachelor no more, amen.”
“How sure are you of this?”
“As that I sit here. It all depends on you, sir.”
“Dammy, what have I done?”
Molyneux sat silent for as long as it took Ommony to charge his pipe.
“Dammy! Eh? A woman in it!” he said at last. “She’s a charming woman, Ommony. I’d say she’s brains.”
“She’s all right.”
“Yes, I think so. The whole of Delhi was after her, self included. She turned us down one after the other. Knows her p’s and q’s. Can she be trusted?
“I understand she has been trusted by some of the most suspicious crooks in the world,” said Ommony.
“By Gad, sir, so have you!” said Molyneux. “That’s a recommendation. Umti-tiddle-i-um-tum-tum. But suppose Strange bolts for it and lays
his case before the central government?”
“He can’t, sir. He’s in pyjamas in the Panch Mahal. No clothes, no horses, no servants, no possible messenger except Jeff Ramsden, who’s in pyjamas too; no telegraph — telephone — nothing.”
“Got his cheque-book with him, I suppose! He can buy what he needs. There’s always someone after money.”
“No, the place is watched.”
“By whom, for instance?
“Babu Chullunder Ghose for one.”
“That rascal? That settles it! Strange can give us all the slip the moment he’s inclined.”
“No, sir. Chullunder Chose is in Zelmira Poulakis’ pay and in the secret, expecting what he calls a ‘competency’ if she pulls this off.”
“By dammy, the thing looks water-tight!” said Molyneux.
“Depends on you, sir.”
“Confound it, no! It’s you. If you’ve misjudged the situation — hell! we’ll all be in the soup! I admit I’ve never had cause to regret trusting you. But that’s the way it goes; you trust a man, and trust him, until he lets you down finally; it’s human nature.”
“Up to you, sir.”
“What do you want of me?” demanded Molyneux.
“Tobacco and cigars. The more the merrier. I’ll take them to the Panch Mahal to keep Strange and Ramsden from going mad, while I get some sleep.”
“They’re in that handbag. What next?”
“Take my sister to the palace and introduce her to Madame Poulakis. Talk it over with her.”
“Dammy! First thing you know, the rajah will blow the gaff. He’s a cheap reptile.”
“Promise him a trip to Paris, sir. He’s got Strange’s money. The shell of him that returns in a year’s time won’t hurt anybody!
“Yes, that’s reasonable. The first demi-mondaine he hooks up with’ll put the hat on him for ever. All right, what else?”
“Nothing more now, sir. I’ll be off,” said Ommony. “Look after my sister. Good morning.” And Ommony mounted the vicious bay after a five-minute fight for mastery, and vanished in clouds of sunlit dust.
XI.— “WHO EATS CROW, EH? WAIT AND SEE!”
Chullunder Ghose meanwhile solved a problem with Alexandrian simplicity.
“He said I must feed you or catch it, sahib. How much can you eat?” he asked Charley.
“A horse. I’m hungry.”
“Carnivorous western blood-hunger! No remedy but this way, then?”
He led Charley to the front door of the Panch Mahal, gave Charley a rock, and bade him hammer on the wood with it.
“But remember: deaf and dumb!” he cautioned. Then he stepped aside, and hid behind the projecting masonry.
So it was Charley who received on head and shoulders the bucket of water that Jeff poured down from above the arch; and Jeff who received the rock, plunk in the chest, hurled by a pretty fair to middling bush-league pitcher’s arm.
“Try another exchange!” He suggested, and Jeff recognized the voice.
“You durned young hoodlum! You can’t come in here,” Jeff laughed. “Strange ‘ud—”
“Oh, yes, sahib! Oh, yes!” Chullunder Ghose came under the arch and made violent gestures implying intrigue — conspiracy — secrecy — urgency — silence. “Open and let us in!”
Jeff hesitated. His regard for Charley Wear was nearly as high as his opinion of the babu was low.
“He has promised me breakfast,” said Charley.
“Am magician!” said the babu, gesturing again.
“Can cook coffee — fried eggs — bacon — toast — Just think of it!”
Jeff glanced behind him to make sure Strange was out of earshot.
“We had some food, but it’s gone,” he answered.
“Thieves got away with it in the night.”
“Am thief-catcher! Will bring all back. Come, Charley sahib.”
He started off at a fast run round the corner, beckoning to Charley to follow.
“I’ll let Charley in,” said Jeff.
“No, no! Charley sahib is deaf and dumb cook’s assistant.”
Charley followed the babu. On foot, in the enormous turban, he looked exactly like one of those low-caste Hindu youths who do the chores around sahibs’ kitchens. Jeff shrugged his shoulders and returned to the courtyard, less in love than ever with intrigue of any kind.
Chullunder Ghose led the way at a surprisingly fast waddle around the building to the elephant stalls in the rear, and thence to what had evidently been the servants’ quarters in the place’s palmy days. There was a hut divided into cubicles for twenty or thirty men, but nothing in it at the first glance except rats and beetles. However, the babu seemed well acquainted. Without hesitation he jerked open a cupboard door, disclosing a man fast asleep on a long shelf. Bad language ensued in Tamil — lots of it. The fellow was as much annoyed by the incoming light and air as at being wakened; he was even angrier when the babu started cuffing him and dragged him out on to the floor. Observing then that Charley was the smaller man, and of lower caste, he flew at him, and was sent sprawling for his pains. Thereafter he decided to be reasonable, and, opening another cupboard with a key he kept hidden in his loin-cloth, disclosed the provisions that Ommony had brought on the elephant. Nothing had been harmed. No packages were broken. There were kettles — matches — rather stale bread — everything.
Chullunder Chose heaped the lot into an empty box and hove it on to Charley’s head.
“Act part, sahib! Act part complacently!” he whispered. Then, with a parting kick directed at the key’s custodian he led the way back to the front gate, through which Jeff presently admitted both of them. Strange, naked to the waist, was washing himself in the fountain, and as it never entered his head that Charley might be Charley, and as the box on top of the turban kept the face underneath in shadow, Charley got by undetected. The babu led straight to the kitchen, and half an hour later there was nothing lacking but cigars to make Strange almost pleasant company. Although he had missed his sleep, he was beginning to find the adventure amusing. It rather intrigued him to think that a middle-aged rich man like himself should be enjoying poor man’s fun.
He unbent toward Chullunder Ghose, and, while Charley made away with victuals in the kitchen, using appetite to offset dumbness, asked the babu question after question, seeking to throw light on the night’s events. Nothing suited the babu better than exercise of imagination, so Strange heard tales about the priests that, even though he mocked them with explosive snorts and hah-hahs, had some effect. His inborn incredulity (the rich man’s vade-mecum) had been undermined in the night. There had to be some explanation, and there might, after all, be something in the babu’s.
“They are great magicians, sahib! They can do things done of old in regular course of day’s work by wizards only mentioned now in fairy-tales.”
Strange encouraged him to talk on, since there was nothing else to do, and no tobacco. Jeff, disgusted, went to the kitchen to interview Charley, and together they made the round of the upper storey, Jeff looking for something to explain the disappearing snake of the night before, and Charley scouting on his own account. They both found what they wanted.
There was a room whose one window provided a full view of every inch of the courtyard. It faced a blank white wall on the far side; and the wall was overshadowed by a cornice. Charley considered that with an appraising eye. Beside the window, just above the floor and on a level with the tiles of the verandah roof that ran along the whole of one side of the courtyard on their left as they looked out, was a large round hole, closed easily by a lid that swung on hinges. The floor-dust was considerably marked with the impress of naked feet; there were spots where two men might have knelt beside the hole; and there was a long smear where something had obviously been dragged across the floor.
“That settles that!” said Jeff, thinking less than ever of intrigue and priestly magic.
“Yes, that settles that,” said Charley. “Problem now is how to get the stuff in here un
observed.”
“That ought to be easy enough,” Jeff mused; then turned and stared at Charley suddenly. “What do you know about it? You weren’t here last night! You didn’t see that snake they pulled along the roof.”
“I was thinking of something else,” said Charley. “Let’s go, Jeff. I don’t want Strange to catch me up here. We can talk outside.”
They found a stair within a turret that let them reach the courtyard without having to pass Strange, and, closing the outer gate behind them, went and sat with their backs against a wall in a recess between two buttresses, where Jeff’s pyjamas were not so likely to attract attention. There they talked until it was after nine o’clock, Jeff grumbling away steadily and Charley just as steadily insisting that Strange “had it coming to him.”
“Anyone who plans to rough-house him has me to fight first,” Jeff said definitely, more than once.
“Aw, shucks! They’ll only make a fool of him,” Charley argued. “They’ll fix it so he marries a nautch-girl. I’ll have a picture of the ceremony, and we’ll rub that in. He’ll be told afterwards it’s regular, and the only way out is by public divorce, which’ll get in all the papers, naturally. See him wince? That’s where Zelmira comes to the rescue. She’s fake with the priests and calls the whole thing off — on terms.”
“I never heard such rot!” Jeff exploded, beginning to laugh. “Strange isn’t an idiot. He’ll turn the tables on the lot of you, or my name’s Johnson. Zelmira will lose out, and serve her right!”
Charley was about to offer further explanation, but they were interrupted. Sitting in a recess between two buttresses of the outer wall, they had neither seen nor heard three horses cantering steadily toward them in the soft dust. Zelmira Poulakis, Miss Ommony, and Sir William Molyneux, all mounted on the rajah’s Arabs, drew rein in front of them, and Jeff got to his feet, buttoning his pyjama jacket nervously. Zelmira laughed. Miss Ommony looked sympathetic.
“Seen anything of Ommony?” demanded Molyneux.
To Jeff’s disgust Zelmira introduced him. To his chagrin Miss Ommony held him in conversation. To his utter discomfiture Zelmira and Molyneux rode off in search of Ommony, leaving Ommony’s sister still conversing with him and exhibiting no inclination to leave off. He couldn’t be abrupt and walk away. He couldn’t command her to follow the others. She dismounted, springing down from the saddle as easily as a twenty-year-old, and stood in the dust before him. He had to hold her horse for her.