by Talbot Mundy
“Would you like a tip from me?” he asked her.
I was standing where I could see her very clearly in the bright light from the window. For the first time, I thought she showed genuine terror, although she did her utmost to conceal it. Jeff exudes good nature. It had touched her, and like an animal at bay she saw an opening but suspected it because it looked too opportune. Jeff looked almost too guileless.
“Advice costs the giver nothing, but when was it not expensive to take?” she retorted.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t take advice from you,” said Jeff, “if it cost me a fortune not to. But I thought you might be more astute than I am.”
“That is quite true. I am more astute than you are.”
But Jeff appeared to have lost all interest. “Then you don’t need my advice,” he answered.
“Tchutt! You talk like a woman. What is it? If I listen to you, need I do what you say?”
“I have changed my mind,” Jeff answered. “Why should I advise you?”
“Because I ask it! Are you so ungallant that you can see me, in what must look to you like an extremity, and yet withhold from me whatever you think might help me?”
“It was a mere idea,” said Jeff.
“Ideas are the source of actions. Tell me then, what is it?”
“Put your faith in Grim, that’s all. Fool anybody else, but don’t play tricks with him; there’s neither fun nor money in it.”
“Phooh! You think your Jeemgreem is a paragon perhaps — a reincarnation of all the strength of all his former lives, and all the weaknesses forgotten? A dangerous man to deceive?”
“I don’t have to think about that,” said Jeff, “I know it.”
That was a typical Jeff Ramsden statement. When he praises Grim he has no more use for modesty than a buffalo has for a bicycle. However, underneath exaggeration Jeff moves subtly toward his objectives; he was aiming at her strangely erroneous fixed idea that Jimgrim packs a deadly species of malice among his equipment. And even I, who am not a connoisseur of such matters, could guess that she, to put it mildly, had not yet dismissed the desire, and perhaps the intention to make Grim love her. She was not by many a dozen the first ambitious woman to conceive that plan or something like it.
“Bah! He hates me,” she said suddenly.
“I never knew him to hate anyone,” Jeff answered. “Grim likes people. That’s why he understands ’em. That’s why the worst crooks trust him.”
“Yes, and then he betrays them to the police.”
Jeff laughed. “I have seen Grim eat with murderers and sleep with rebels. He doesn’t consider it his business to bring them to justice, and I’ll bet you Grim has saved more criminals from gun and gallows than any other ten men living. But he can protect himself — none better.”
“Then you advise me I should trust him?”
Jeff nodded. Grim came in then, leaving the door slightly ajar, and we could hear Bonfils and the Prefect talking rather noisily in the corridor. I think the Princess was intended to understand that neither Bonfils nor the Prefect had an ear to a keyhole. Grim walked straight up to her.
“You’ll have to go to Paris,” he said, offering her a cigarette and lighting hers and his with one match. “A lot depends on you, of course, but probably they’ll overlook things if you undertake to help us run down Dorje. You will leave by ‘plane, this afternoon, with Bonfils.”
For as long as sixty seconds the two looked into each other’s eyes and neither spoke. Then Grim said:
“Dorje has lost the fight on this front. Nobody knows yet where the rest of those brass gadgets are, but they’ll be traced. You can probably help. I advise you to give them a list of everyone you know who is in sympathy with Dorje or in any way connected with him.”
“But I have no list,” she answered.
“All right, tell the names you can remember. After that, your usefulness in France is at an end; and even if it weren’t you would be shot or stabbed as an informer. So you join my crew and work with me. Is that agreeable?”
“You mean — you send me against Dorje?”
“No. I will lead you against him.”
“Jeemgreem, if I swear to you—”
He interrupted, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “Oaths,” he remarked, “are ashes — of emotion. Nobody was ever bound by one. A fellow does things, or he doesn’t; it depends on the fellow himself. Dorje probably will do his best to scupper you for having joined us, but you must take your chance of that. We shall all be taking chances.”
“Jeemgreem — do you realize — what terr-r-iffic chances?”
“Probably not. Thank heaven, few of us do realize the long odds that we’re up against or most of us would quit before the game starts. But let me make a few points just a mite more clear to you.”
I was afraid he was going to threaten her. She was just of the type that instantly responds to threats by seeming acquiescence and by secretly swearing to teach the threatener a lesson. She, too, thought he was about to threaten and her face assumed a sweetness that disguised a very different emotion. But Grim took us all by surprise.
“I know that Dorje has the jump on us, and that it is going to be very difficult to checkmate him. I regard you as the most important member of my crew. I’m going to have to look to you for information and advice. I can’t waste time mistrusting you. You will find when you reach Paris that a body not unlike yours has been found in the river, removed to the morgue and identified as that of the Princess Baltis. There will be a verdict of suicide — a verdict comprehensible to anyone who knows anything about your recent doings. It may possibly reach Dorje’s ears. Let’s hope so. It releases you from momentary danger, and it saves the face of the authorities who might have a hard time otherwise in explaining to one another why you are not under close arrest. You are dead. You are no longer the Princess Baltis.”
“Am I not — no longer Number Seventeen?”
“No number. Find a new name. Get a passport — Bonfils will attend to that. Meet me in Cairo at Brown’s Hotel.”
“You leave at once?”
“No. But you do. They won’t want you in Paris a minute longer than they have to keep you there. Go straight to Cairo, hold your tongue, and wait for me.”
He took no notice of her excitement; she was as breathless as a caught fish. He turned to Jeff and, taking Jeff’s arm, walked to where I was standing.
“You two fellows mind going to Cairo? I’ll take a ‘plane to London. Whoever gets to Cairo first waits for the rest. Are we all agreed? Then so long.” But he turned again toward the Princess Baltis. “Madame Anonyme — au revoir. J’espère que vous êtes bien réincarnée encore une fois.”
“Jeemgreem,” she retorted, “vous êtes incroyable. Mais je commence à le croire, quand-même que tout le monde le dit!”
CHAPTER 8. “Am sadist. Masochism to the devil!”
“Am most absqueamious babu.”
It was a full, rich baritone, outside the door of Jeff’s bedroom in Brown’s Hotel. I did not recognize the voice, but evidently Jeff did, for I heard his answer:
“You fat rogue, come on in. I’m glad to see you.”
I followed, having fretted for more than a week in Cairo with nothing to do except wonder what was keeping Grim in London. Jeff had remained almost incommunicado all that time, because people know him and they know that where he is Grim will presently appear. He preferred not to answer questions. People don’t know me, so I had wandered about a bit; but I don’t care much for Cairo or tourists, and I had not gone far for fear of missing Grim’s arrival, so I was rather naturally bored.
“Am squeamish, so abstain from politics — verb very sap. This babu greets you, sahib. You should see my passport. Red ink — green ink — certifying me as almost abstract personage, so guileless and incompetent — so useless as to be above suspicion. Let me show you.”
“Damn your passport. You may have forged it for all I know, and who cares? Why are you here?”
&
nbsp; “Jimgrim cabled me from London, one word— ‘Cairo.’ Here I am, delivered right side up, in one piece. What next?” He was wearing a black alpaca jacket and beneath that the rather sketchy orthodox Bengali costume that revealed enormous hairy legs. He was immensely fat. His feet were encased in new red Damascus slippers, which he kicked off as he passed the threshold. He had a huge head and large alert brown eyes that viewed me with suspicion. Jeff introduced him:
“Babu Chullunder Ghose — an old friend.”
I had heard of him. Who has not, who has heard of Jeff and Grim? But it seemed incredible that this mountain of obesity could be the brave man who had scaled the passes into Tibet and had brought Jeff’s journal back with him. He looked incapable of walking five miles. He was sweating and his feet looked fat and useless. But he was a good-looking man, with a buttery ivory skin and rather heavy jaws black-shaded with the roots of whiskers.
“No use asking how you are,” said Jeff. “You’re broke, of course, but otherwise—”
“Am worse than broke. Am indigent.”
“But otherwise top-chop. What’s going on in India?”
“Simonization process, sahib. Spraying worn-out car of Juggernaut with juice of observations made by Royal Commission. Have you ever seen an old Ford held together by the new paint? Let us hope much. Let us not be too prophetic. Did you mention whisky?”
Jeff ordered drinks. Chullunder Ghose sat cross-legged on Jeff’s writing- table like a big fat Buddha. Rolling his handkerchief into a ball he tossed and caught it in his bare toes. I decided that his feet were neither fat nor useless.
“How did you get here?” Jeff asked.
“Flew. Never again! This belly of mine contains no gyroscope. Lost one stone, five pounds, seven ounces. During a number of hours lost also all belief in Providence, under whatever name. Nevertheless, recovered somewhat after landing. But I still need whisky.”
“How did you find me?”
“Came here first, naturally; Rammy sahib’s habits are as spots on leopard — changeless. Clerk at desk, without looking in register, said no Jeff Ramsden staying here. Damn-liar. Had you not been here, he would have looked in register. I told him greatest art is lying, therefore he should marry and study art. He told a Sudanese to show me to the front door, but I had already seen that. So, since they would not let me use the elevator, and since I had seen a letter addressed to you in a pigeon-hole numbered 118, I walked upstairs. In all the universe, I wonder, is there any sweeter music than the melody of cracked ice in a tall glass? Strange, that whisky should be vilified by almost all religions except this babu’s. A Hedonist with Epicurean tendencies. After you, sahib. Yes, please — just above the pretty — quite a bit above it — and now fill her up-ah! Sahibs, may the world not lack the crazy men we need to keep us crazy also!”
That was talk. He only sipped his whisky, eyeing me over the top of the glass. He seemed to be waiting for Jeff to hint I might be trusted, before asking questions that perhaps I had no right to hear.
“Jeff, sahib, did you ever almost die of curiosity?” he asked at last.
“Don’t doubt I died of it lots of times,” Jeff answered.
“That’s what kills us all and gets us born again. Crosby is curious too. He’ll listen in.”
The babu bowed in my direction with the gesture of a Buddha bestowing benison. “Am flattered. May your honor not regret same. Who is the Princesse Chalawan de Sitlab en Siam?”
“I never heard of her,” said Jeff. “Why?”
“It is the why-ness of things that brought this otiose babu through space, like Arjuna’s arrow — air — sick — very. Why Cairo? Why should Jimgrim wish to see me? Why should a polylinguistic princess by the name of Chalawan de Sitlab, occupying semi-regal suite in this hotel, suborn its servants to inform her instantly when visitors approach your honor?”
“How the devil do you know that?” Jeff asked.
“Am blameless. Devil that resides in Jimgrim urging, this babu was victim of impulse. Never yet has Jimgrim sent for me to kiss me. Inference is obvious that Jimgrim is again on war-path, meaning that this babu will work and not get paid for it — except, of course, as stipulated — stipulation not yet argued. Have wife who thinks money is only proof of masculine fidelity. Am sole support of seven married sons, whose offspring suggest astronomical figures, and whose contempt for this progenitor increases in proportion to his debts. Consequently, must please Jimgrim. So, when was approached in corridor by Negroid lackey asking if I visit one-eighteen, lied instantly — quicker than trigger of automatic. Walked full length of corridor looking at numbers on doors, turned at the end of corridor and saw said individual considering me from mat in front of door of Suite A, squatting on it. Naturally, went at once to Suite A which is at opposite end of corridor. Screen in front of door. Door open to admit draught — maybe — possibly — perhaps; but it is easier to hear when door is not shut. Do I bore you, sahib?”
“Bore ahead. We’re listening.”
“Must please Jimgrim, same being easy if you give him all he wants; but that is less easy. Jimgrim asks three questions and expects to be told everything from A to Z and from Einstein to twice two, all in form of telegram of ten words. Demanded to be told, accordingly, who lives in Suite A! Sudanese outpost on mat, probably unable to pronounce suborner’s name, instructed me to go to hell in Arabic. Stepped around screen, announcing self in tone sufficiently immodest to avoid arrest for burglary. Was confronted by Syrian maid, who told me name of her employer. Said employer, radiantly visible in mirror through crack of door of inner room, spoke rapidly to maid in Arabic, to this babu in Hindustani, to someone else invisible in French. Unless mirror lied (as I did) she is lovelier to look at than a daffodil in lotus-colored lingerie. She asked me, was I from Jimgrim? Naturally, I answered No, since truth is deadly and a half-truth even more so. So she asked me, did I come from Dorje? To which I naturally answered Yes, not knowing Dorje and being curious concerning everything to which I am ignorant. Then she summoned the maid and slammed the door. Plenty of time for observation. Noticed locked trunk. Name Baltis rather heavily obscured by red paint. Baltis — Sitlab backwards! Syrian maid — mystery — mystery — her Highness will be pleased to speak with me — alone — this afternoon — at four-fifteen. Thus mystified, this babu departed thence and hied him hither. Rammy sahib, in the name of all the devils in the universe, is our Jimgrim after Dorje?”
Jeff nodded.
“Oh my amiable aunt! Have you seen the papers? An explosion on a warship — a fire in Marseilles — a fire in Paris — fire in Geneva — an explosion of a magazine in Toulon — a fire in Lisle — a fire in Brest — a fire in Toulouse — and then silence!”
“Censorship,” said Jeff.
“And Jimgrim — leads us against Dorje? Oh, my infinite emotions! Yes, please. We shall not drink many before Dorje gets us.”
“You said you don’t know him.”
“Rammy sahib, who does? More — twice that much — fill her up with soda — thank you. Who knows who or where he is? All Asia brags that he is just beyond the skyline — coming — always coming. The King of the World is coming — they have said that for a hundred years — for a thousand years. Dorje is the genius who saw his chance to capitalize on all that advertising! It is what I myself have often thought of doing — would have done same, only I lack romantic appearance. There is something about me that makes men doubt my heroism. Doubters are not good diehards. Furthermore, I am afraid of consequences. Dorje is afraid of nothing.”
“How do you know all this?” Jeff asked him.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Have I not been wooed by a woman who said she was one of Dorje’s thousand concubines? Did she not tempt me to be one of Dorje’s million mouths? This babu has mouth which eats, I told her. May I eat for Dorje? But she requested me to feed her, saying Dorje expects help from every man. She ate my dinner — and then told me that I may speak for Dorje or be silent; but that if I speak against him silence will descend up
on me with a permanence suggested by a death certificate.”
“Why should they pick on you?” Jeff asked him.
“Why not? Is this babu not notorious for helping everyone except himself? Am form and substance of Gray’s Elegy — am mute inglorious Milton — personage called goat in U.S.A. — embodiment of hope eternal, which is but a pseudonym for Sisyphus or back-seat on a bicycle built for two. Such pitiable optimists as this babu build all the empires — and then die in agonies of unrewarded zeal. That is why Dorje picked on me.”
“Do you mean that Dorje personally picked you?”
“Why not? Winning consists in being won for. Verb sap. So if Dorje cannot pick winners, kites and crows will presently be picking Dorje. Self am best bet in the universe, provided quid pro quo is adequate. But there were too few quids and too much quo.”
“Have you a room?” I asked him.
“Not yet, sahib.”
So I went down to the desk and had a chat with Dougherty, who used to run a Raines Law joint in New York and is familiar with several angles of the hotel business. He made no bones at all about letting Chullunder Ghose have a room that has been used scores of times for some of the more refined and guileless diplomatic interludes. “It is the end room on that corridor and seems utterly above suspicion. On the one hand is a public lavatory, and on the other a sort of butler’s pantry and some linen-closets. Anyone might talk in there until doomsday without being overheard, if it were not for a narrow passageway between the closets and the outside wall that was once used to connect that room with the next one along the corridor. The passage has been boarded up at one end. The holes in the boards are usually plugged up, but not always. I myself had used those rooms in 1916 to discover a medical secret that was thought important to the Allies.”