by Talbot Mundy
Not a sign or a word from Rita. Truly Joe did not understand her. But he understood his mother; and she was quick to see the dumb resentment in his eyes. She fired her last shot — hypocritical — astute — astonishing — a stroke of genius:
“Joe! Listen to me. If I thought you really loved this woman and if I believed she really loved you I would even overlook all the unpleasantness and receive her as one of the family. I would give her the chance to prove that you and she could get along together and that you wouldn’t be a social misfit. Can I say more?”
But a last shot, if it misses, leaves the locker empty and no threat to bluff with. It had gone wild. Joe dismissed it with a gesture, too tired and too indifferent even to feign indignation. He knew — and his mother knew he knew — what she would do to Rita if he fell for that suggestion, and if Rita fell for it. Slow murder. One dynamic and relentless will incessantly alert to break, humiliate and kill a gentler one. It was not worth arguing.
He gazed at Rita. And the most discouraged, blindest duffer could have read the sadness in her eyes. He yearned to her, but she gave no sign that she knew that. And she seemed to expect him to speak. So he said it:
“Am I dismissed? You’ve said your last word?”
“Joe, is there anything else that I could say?”
“I suppose not.”
He, however, also had a last shot; and he meant to aim it straighter than his mother aimed hers. Physical strength had seeped out and his wound was hurting, but he preferred to fire his final salvo standing up. So he called to Bruce:
“Would you and Hawkes mind helping me a minute?” So they sat down on the bed on either side of him and he put an arm around each shoulder. Then they stood and raised him to his feet, he feeling weaker than he looked, erect between them. He addressed his mother as a man might speak to an opponent taken in the act of cheating:
“You heard just now what Rita said. So you can’t say any longer that I am being influenced by her. I understand — for reasons that I don’t quite understand — that I have lost her. I assure you — also, doubtless, for a reason that you will not understand — that you have lost me. I have done my best to serve you loyally, until now. I don’t regret that, since it leaves me not in your debt. But I refuse to serve you another minute, in any capacity, on any terms or for any consideration. Good-by.”
There seemed nothing else to say. His shot had gone home. It had left him feeling empty and discouraged, but it made his mother angrier than he had ever seen her. He saw no sense in standing up to the fish-wife fury that he saw was coming, so he signed to Bruce and Hawkes and let them lower him back on the bed, where he could sit with pillows to support him. He heard Hawkes — not that Joe was interested now in anything, but Hawkes spoke with a growl of mistrust, adding vehemence to nearness:
“Where have those two buzzards been?”
He looked up — saw that the two coachmen from the land of Poonch were entering the room. He had not noticed them go out; they had been squatting with their backs against the end wall, opposite the Yogi. Joe felt it was none of his business, but he was grateful for any interruption since it postponed his mother’s commination speech. Hawkes seemed irritated out of all proportion to the circumstances:
“Speak up. Where have you two blighters been?” It was Albert Cummings, shrunk but reinflated with a new importance, entering the room, who answered:
“Bruce, is every one accounted for? These coachmen say that when the Maharajah came in through the courtyard door there was a flash of lightning. They say they distinctly saw some one else enter the room. They describe him as a small man, who could hide in a very small space.”
“Pipe-dream!” Hawkes was scornful, but the scorn was vaguely unconvincing. Bruce glanced at him sharply. Rita, too. However, Hawkes insisted: “Where could a mouse hide? Under the bed’s the only place; there’s no one there.”
“What is under the sheet?” asked Cummings.
“Corpses, sir. His Highness Maharajah Poonch-Terai and Amal.”
Annie Weems left her place by the Yogi and knelt near the sheet — rearranged it — tidied it a little — made it look less ghastly.
“Are you sure there is no one hiding under there?” asked Cummings. Death seemed dreadful to him; he spared his nerves the horror of a personal inspection.
“You may see if you wish. Am I to raise the sheet?” asked Annie Weems.
“No, no. I’ll take your word for it.” He strode nearer, glanced swiftly, once at Joe, and then led Mrs. Beddington out of the room. “No place this for a lady.”
Rita stood still. Joe kept wondering why she stood there. Did she mean to prolong the parting agony? Well, all right; he would give her any satisfaction in his power. There was not much he could do or say, but he would rather say it standing. Could he? He didn’t want witnesses, not even decent ones like Bruce and Hawkes. He staggered to his feet and stood there, swaying.
“Rita. Since it’s good-by, and I don’t quite understand it, let me say this, lest you misunderstand me. I am a free man, and I have nothing in the world that by any stretch of imagination could be called a fortune. I am beholden to no one — not even to you; because I have offered you all that a man can offer, and you refused it. I’ve no motive, in fact, for telling anything except the truth. It’s this: I love you. And, God pity me, I don’t think I can ever even try to love another woman. That’s all.”
Then he let his knees yield and his weight sway backward until the pillows seemed to rise and meet him mid-way.
“All is all I need, Joe!”
She was seated on the bed beside him before his head ceased swimming. He discovered himself in her arms. And again, he did not understand, but this was a misunderstanding that he could tolerate. He closed his eyes, marveling — wondering millions of unanswerable questions, of which only one was formulated:
“Had he character enough to make a go of it?”
He decided he neither knew nor cared. He loved her. And he knew, by God, that Rita loved him.
CHAPTER XXIX. “I have delivered judgment.”
A tart disgusted exclamation from Joe’s mother brought him back to reality. Reality, as usual, was irritating, because his mother was rearranging some one’s plans. Some one, was Albert Cummings:
“Really I’d rather you’d wait at the end of the passage. This isn’t decent. Do go.”
“No, I’ll sit here. And besides, I’ve something more to say to Joe before I turn my back on him for ever.”
There was not much light, because Cummings’ lantern had been set down on a table and he was standing between it and Joe. But Joe could see his mother. He could also see Ram-Chittra Gunga, at the opposite end of the room, still perfectly motionless and resembling an ancient carving because of the yellowish dim light and soft rich shadow cast by the night-light at his feet. The sight of him offended Mrs. Beddington. She proceeded to give him a piece of her mind:
“You’re an old fraud! You can fool people with your tricks, but when you’re found out in the end they’ll take no pity on you. If there’s such a place as hell, you’ll go there!”
Cummings puffed importantly to disguise his alarm. “Don’t — please don’t — for your own sake. You can have no notion what trouble a man like that can make. It sounds ridiculous, but—” He was interrupted by Ram-Chittra Gunga’s voice. The old man answered her:
“Where are you?”
“Hush!” said Cummings. “Hush!”
Then the Yogi again: “Are you in heaven? As much of me as you know anything about is in hell also. It is wise to be partly in hell. Is light not partly in the darkness? It is what you bring to hell, not what you find there, that is important. The effect that you have on hell is more important still.”
He relapsed into silence. Cummings fussed pompously:
“Please — please don’t argue with him. Captain Bruce — my carriage will be here in a few minutes — I have just seen the lamps in the distance. I am going to take Mrs. Beddington back to her h
otel. May I ask you to remain here — you and Sergeant Hawkes until I can send some one to relieve you and to take charge of the prisoners?”
“What prisoners?” Bruce asked him. “I don’t know of any.”
“Oh, well — if you wish to stand on technicalities — I will arrest them formally.” He pointed at the Yogi. “I arrest you! Mr. Beddington, you, too, are under arrest. So are you, Hawkes. So are you, Miss Weems.” He avoided even looking at Rita. “So is that young woman, and these two coachmen.”
“There are five men out under the cloister,” Bruce reminded him.
“Yes, yes. Will you bring them in here?”
“Bring ’em yourself. As you remarked not long ago, the military shouldn’t interfere in civil matters. Under protest — if you insist — I will take temporary charge of any one you choose to tell me is a prisoner. However, it’s your responsibility.”
“Very well, I will go and arrest them. I will record your protest.”
Armed with his flash-light, Cummings chested his way importantly toward the courtyard door.
“What am I charged with?” Joe asked.
“You will be told that at the proper time.”
“No good reason that I see for arresting any one.” Bruce grumbled. “And if any one, why not me too? I was in here when it all happened.”
“Why not my mater then? She was in here too,” Joe suggested.
Cummings ignored such farcical objections. He opened the courtyard door and stepped out. Apparently he had to do a little searching amid the cloister shadows. The door swung shut behind him. Mrs. Beddington moved nervously — opened her mouth as if to speak — decided not to — closed it again as if she had swallowed something that did not taste good. Hawkes, with his back like a ramrod and a cast-brass expression, faced Bruce:
“Sir, if you had fifty rupees you could lend me until pay-day—” “What on earth for?”
“Luck money. There’s chances, sir, no officer should take. But if you’d trust me—” Mrs. Beddington snorted. “Trust that man? I would as soon trust a cobra!” She shuddered.
“All right, here are fifty dibs,” said Bruce. “And now what?”
Hawkes walked to the sheet that covered Poonch-Terai and Amal. He stooped and raised one corner of it.
“Come on,” he remarked. “Step lively!”
Mrs. Beddington smothered a scream as the sheet moved. Joe’s eyes almost popped out of his head. It looked as if Amal had come to life and was sitting up-right.
“Come on — nobody won’t hurt you.”
Chandri Lal, the scrawny, wiry, small-boned man of cobras, crawled out on his hands and knees and was jerked to his feet by Hawkes’ hand underneath his armpit. Groping with his foot under the sheet, Hawkes kicked out his circular basket. The lid came off. It was empty. Hawkes stooped and gave it to him.
“Now then. I’m your friend, and nobody’s arrested you yet. Take this.”
Fifty rupees changed hands.
“You can get to hell-and-gone with fifty rupees. Run and hide. You understand that? But the day you come and find me — secretly — at night — there’s fifty more — maybe a hundred more. Now — never mind who killed the Maharajah — that’s his business and he’s busy minding it. But you came in here with him. You came in and hid. What for?”
Chandri Lal’s eyes sought Mrs. Beddington. “Did you come in to kill her? Why?”
“Aren’t you leading your witness?” Bruce asked.
“Kindly lock that door, sir. We don’t want Mr. Cummings here for half a minute.”
Bruce strode to the door and stood there with his hand on the enormous key. The Yogi suddenly broke silence:
“I demanded judgment!”
Chandri Lal trembled at the sound of his voice. Hawkes stared at Mrs. Beddington. She stood up.
“Rattled!” Joe whispered to Rita. He felt as suddenly excited as if a bull were in the ring. “I don’t believe the snake-man knows a thing against her. How can he? But she thinks he does. Look at her face.”
Joe’s mother saw him whispering. She started toward him. “Joe,” she began, then hesitated. “No, no, I will speak to Albert. Let me pass, please.”
“That’s right. Go and tell him to arrest you,” Hawkes suggested sweetly.
She ignored Hawkes — sailed straight up to Bruce. “Will you open that door?” Bruce opened it. She went out.
Bruce closed the door behind her, but they could hear her shouting “Albert! Albert!”
“Now,” said Hawkes, “I’ll bet the drinks. We’re going to see a perishing proconsul swap sides — sudden! Git, you — git, you heathen! Out there through the front door. You’re too innocent. Us criminals are no fit company for a nice little man like you. Go forth, my son, and kill another Maharajah. Kill the next one ‘fore he gets fresh.”
He shoved Chandri Lal by the shoulders. The man was so bewildered that he dropped his basket. Hawkes kicked it along in front of him, bundled him out through the door and along the passage. A door slammed. Hawkes returned, winking at Rita. “It’s a nice night now,” he said — then faced Bruce and saluted: “Orders, sir?”
Bruce stepped back from the courtyard door. It opened. Cummings entered, closing it behind him. He stood silent, irresolute, awkward, trying to look self-controlled. But his hand, with which he stroked his chin and concealed his mouth, was shaking.
“Was there no one else in here?” he asked.
“There was,” said Hawkes.
“Who was he, and where is he?”
“An important witness, sir, for the defense,” Hawkes answered. “The defendants will produce him if, as, when and why.”
“You’re impudent.”
“Me and my friends,” said Hawkes, “are not so used to being put under arrest for nothing, that we feel too dam’ respectful.” He was brazenly, deliberately insolent, with the air of a man who has surprises up his sleeve. “I’m on my rights. I ask to know what I’m charged with.”
“You are not charged. The arrest is canceled. It was a mistake, due to misunderstanding.”
“That apply to me, too?” Joe asked.
“All of you.”
Then Rita stood up. Joe had not yet seen her furious, but she was trembling now. He seized her hand and tried to pull her back beside him, but she broke free. Annie Weems got in her way — stammered “Rita, dear!” — was overwhelmed and borne along in a vortex of emotion, until they two, hand-in-hand, stood facing Cummings.
Gestureless, stock-still for a moment, mastering her voice, she stood trembling with indignation. She seemed to expect Cummings to speak. Her gaze embarrassed him. He stiffened himself, trying to look dignified.
“You, too,” he said. “It was a mistake. You are not—” She burst in on him, and her voice was cold with concentrated anger. “You arrested Sri Ram-Chittra Gunga! Is there nothing now you wish to say to him?”
Cummings nervously inclined his head toward the Yogi and made a weak, conciliating gesture with his left hand.
“It was a mistake — due to misunderstanding,” he stammered.
“Is that all?”
Cummings stroked his chin. “What else? I canceled it.”
“You? Who are you to wipe out with a word an insult paid to Sri Ram-Chittra Gunga?” Cummings shrunk away from her. He almost raised an elbow as if afraid she might strike him. But she was stock-still. “You have insulted Annie Weems, and Mr. Beddington, and Sergeant Hawkes — and me. I can forgive that. I can pity you for that. But you have blasphemed Sri Ram-Chittra Gunga. You have committed sacrilege. You cur! You yellow dog! You ignorant, presumptuous, cheap official!”
Cummings protested, stammering, spluttering: “I will not be spoken to like this! I—” Rita interrupted: “Dogs like you have died for lesser blasphemy! Are you much better than the man whose body lies beneath that sheet? Have you his courage? Do you dare to let the Black Light show your record? You, who have set your hunger for a woman’s moneybags so high that you despise him — BRING THAT WOMAN IN HERE
!”
Ram-Chittra Gunga made no sign or sound. Bruce opened the courtyard door. “Come in, please, Mrs. Beddington. You’re wanted.”
In she came, not jauntily. She looked terrified.
“I have demanded judgment!” boomed Ram-Chittra Gunga. “If it fall on my head, let it.”
Cummings made as if to speak, but Mrs. Beddington forestalled him.
“Joe! I’m your mother! Do you mean you would ruin your mother?”
“I will let things take their course,” Joe answered. He had not the slightest notion what was going to happen, except that he trusted Rita, and he doubted that Ram-Chittra Gunga would permit violence, or even malice.
Rita said her say then: “You! Who have accused me. Sri Ram-Chittra Gunga, in his wisdom, saw fit to admit you to the presence of the Black Light. You have seen such measure of your own guilt, as your own soul dared to let you see. Now speak.”
Mrs. Beddington stood still, her eyes wild, shame and indignation alternating. Suddenly she spoke past Rita:
“Joe! What am I to do now? Tell me!”
“Come clean,” Joe advised her.
“Joe have you put up that cobra-man to lie about me?”
Joe was silent.
“Speak,” said Rita. “You have faced the Black Light. Face me. Face Joe. We are far less dreadful.”
Cummings drew out a handkerchief and mopped his face. He had forgotten dignity; he sighed and bit his finger-nails, nervously watching the door for a servant to come and announce the carriage. Mrs. Beddington clenched and unclenched her fingers.
“Speak,” said Annie Weems, “it’s much best.”