by Talbot Mundy
She laughed. “The only story you and Jeemgreem need is an obituary notice. Your last opportunity was in that hotel room. Yes, you are quite right — I no longer need this.”
To my astonishment she leaned out then and dropped the automatic in the shadow of a passing bullock-cart.
“Now disobey me if you dare!”
I think she thought the taxi-driver certainly was one of Dorje’s men, and it was not my cue to disillusion her.
CHAPTER 31. “Grim seems to have dug up someone to ballyhoo him.”
We arrived at a gate in a wall, where, even though it was almost midnight, jewelers and such-like people sat on mats, through which we were observed by someone who was in no iron brackets. It was a rather wide gate, made of teak, with iron studs, and there was an iron-barred window in it, through which we were observed by someone who was in no haste to admit us. He gave the merchants ample time to pester us with offers of golden bracelets and I don’t know what else, which they insisted would procure us “great consideration” in Vasantasena’s salon.
I walked up to the grille in the gate and demanded, in Hindustani, in the name of nine abominable devils, why were we kept waiting; and I noticed that the merchants and their hangers-on kept at a discreet distance. There were probably government spies among them, but the spies undoubtedly already knew the rigmarole of word and counter-word; it would be impossible to keep such a formula secret from men who have nothing to do but ferret out such matters. Those who were not spies (if there is such a person in India) were careful to avoid the appearance of trying to listen.
The individual behind the gate suggested in excellent English that if I had nine devils with me I had better leave them outside. I remarked that, if so, nine would remain to enter with me. Then I heard him unfasten the bolt of the gate, so I turned and helped Baltis get out of the taxi and we walked through, into a courtyard full of statuary, flanked on one side by the house and on two others by a garden wall. The entrance to the house was in the left far corner; but between us and that there were obstacles in the form of not less than a dozen truculent-appearing loafers in clean white clothing, who observed us with the air of watchdogs. The man who had admitted us looked worse than any of them — bigger, uglier, less willing to be done out of an excuse for fighting. He demanded the “dasturi,” meaning the customary tip, so, seeing there were two of us, I gave him the equivalent of twenty dollars, which he tucked into his cummerbund so abruptly that I knew I had grossly overpaid him. However, he salaamed to us, which was something, since it impressed the others, who lined themselves against the wall as we advanced. But when we had passed them they formed themselves into a group between us and the gate, so that it seemed a simpler matter to enter that courtyard than to escape from it.
There was not a glimmer of light from the house; such narrow windows as there were presented blank teak shutters to the night. And there was no electric light, presumably because — Vasantasena did not choose to have her premises invaded by the electricians and inspectors. But there was a bright oil lantern above the house door, and beneath that stood a man who wore a Persian dagger tucked into his waist-band. He had a scar on his face, and two fingers missing; he was handsome in a picaresque way, but looked as tough as a rat-pit terrier. He, too, demanded the dasturi. He demanded the first. It began to be apparent how the expenses of such a household are provided. Luckily I had lots of money with me.
Then he asked me whether I would mind waiting forty-five minutes. I told him we would not wait one minute. He replied:
“If I can arrange to cancel the forty-five minute delay, how many minutes would your honor be willing to wait?”
I answered’ “Forty-five.”
He said: “Well, that will cost you forty-five rupees!”
I answered: “Get it if you can, you robber!”
He grinned. He understood English perfectly. However, then he asked, in Hindustani: “Does your honor count nine in the usual way?”
I hesitated, recalling the order of the numbers, not wishing to make a mistake; but Baltis thought I had forgotten. She piped up promptly — arrogantly:
“Eight, six, four, one, nine, seven, five, three, two! Now let us in, you whelp of forty-five dogs — you forty-five times spat-upon and cursed imbecile!”
She had a gift for doing unexpected things. She suddenly removed the voluminous, cheap, black cotton sari and stood resplendent in the lamplight, looking as native Indian as himself and lovelier than one imagines Bluebeard’s women were. She handed him the sari. Under cover of it possibly she exchanged some kind of secret signal with him. He immediately bowed and thumped the door with both hands, drumming at the same time with his fingers.
The door opened. Until it closed again behind us we could not see the woman, who had backed away behind it into a sort of sentry-box niche in the wall. She was an old woman, dressed from head to foot in crimson, rather wheezy, and extremely fussy with the lock, and bolt, and strong brass chain. She finally swung a big iron bar in place that fitted into the sockets in the masonry. There was no doubt we were locked in.
There was a short hall, then a stairway — steep — of teak — well lighted by about a dozen silver lamps with crimson shades, and carpeted an inch deep, so that footfalls made no sound whatever. On a landing at the stair-head, grouped against a gold-striped crimson curtain, there were three young women dressed as modestly as virgins. Their gestures were modest. It was their smiles, and the worldly-wise, impudent laugh in their eyes that suggested they were possibly not there to guide the righteous into church.
Baltis went upstairs ahead of me. She made signals to me to linger on the stairs and give her time to show credentials, but I ignored them. Even so, I was unable to detect the secret sign she undoubtedly made; it was possibly something she did with her lips or her eyes; and I could see no answering signal, although the pretty little minxes at the stair-head glanced at one another and became immediately respectful. Their bracelets and golden anklets clashed; their beautiful white teeth appeared between carmined lips; they fluttered with a genuine excitement, and then two of them came running down the stair to take her hands and help her to the top — an utterly unnecessary courtesy — she was at the top in a moment, whispering to the third girl, and I was too late to have a chance to overhear.
To right and left of the gold and crimson curtains there were full-length mirrors, framed in painted wood that had been carved with suitably obscene but legendary, more or less symbolic figurines in very high relief; and I detected human eyes that peered through the dark interstices. I could hear giggling, too, suppressed as if it was intended to be heard but only discreetly noticed; it produced an atmosphere of unchaste mystery, increased by the muffled sounds of string and wood-wind music rhythmically punctuated by a muted drum. And there was a lascivious perfume.
Baltis vanished through the gold and crimson curtain, spirited away by one of the three girls. I followed, but I was held back for a moment by the other two, who stood straight in my way and laughed, not yielding until the curtain had done swaying. Then I stepped through into a perfect maze of curtains, with mirrors between them that multiplied confusion, and there was no knowing which way to turn until another woman stepped out from behind a mirror, beckoning and smiling as if I were her long-lost lover home at last with half a lakh of rupees itching to be squandered on her. She beckoned and I followed, feeling about as comfortable as an infidel on the way to be examined by the Holy Inquisition.
Not a sign of Baltis. An amazing curtain, figured with all the colors of the prism, moved on a rod and revealed a passage lined with carved wood panels, lighted by colored lamps that gave the walls a soft, warm glow. A door on the left. My guide opened it and, when I hesitated, tried to push me through, smiling persuasively as if she thought we understood no words in common. It was a small room. There was a hag in there who had no teeth and looked as if she might have rheumatism — lockers, shelves, drawers and a couple of chests on the floor against the wall. One chair. Nothing
noticeably dangerous. I went in.
My guide said something in an undertone. The hag immediately drew forth from a locker a voluminous long cloak of maroon silk lined with peach-colored satin. She threw it over my shoulders. I was urged to sit down. In a moment the hag had my shoes off, provided me with soft peach-colored slippers that had pointed toes and figures stamped all over them. I was offered a turban and refused it. I was offered a fez and refused that. But they took away my straw hat, and that was the last I ever saw of it. A girl came, probably not more than ten years old, apparently as timid as a mouse but quite as acquisitive-looking, who hung two long garlands of flower-buds around my neck. I was told then in good plain English that it was time to pay the usual dasturi; and when I produced some money I could almost feel their eyes weighing my wallet, so I used a little sleight-of-hand trick that is well worth practising and stowed it away in one pocket while they thought I put it in another.
“Where is the sahiba Baltis?” I demanded.
That appeared to be the signal to induct me into deeper mysteries. My guide apparently forgot that she understood English. She resumed her gesturing, inviting me to follow her. She led me along the passage to a shut door at the far end. There was a grille. She knocked and someone opened the grille half an inch or so. We waited, and again the grille opened. Whispers. Then a sudden burst of louder music as the door swung wide into a passage that turned sharp to the left and opened without any other door into a long, high-ceilinged room.
The first person I saw was Chullunder Ghose. He looked drunk, lolling on a deep divan that faced the entrance, and he was being entertained by — rather, he was entertaining — half a dozen dancing-girls. There were two beside him on the divan; two were on the cushions near his feet; and one was bringing him a tray with glasses on it; they were laughing at his jokes, and one of them had pulled the turban down toward his eyes, which made him look peculiarly rakish and amused them almost to hysterics.
There were at least two dozen other dancing-women in the room, most of them older than those who were making merry with Chullunder Ghose, and none of them dressed more puritanically than a Broadway chorus-girl. However, they were behaving quietly; there was nothing obscene about their gestures. As I entered, half a dozen of them started a sort of group-dance in the middle of the floor; and though they were well trained, and seemed to enjoy it, there was nothing about it to make even a tourist think he was immersed in India’s sin.
The music was behind a screen of lacily carved sandalwood. Around three sides of the room there were divans spaced at regular intervals, and nearly all of them were occupied by men of various races, who gave me one glance and then watched the dancing in the sort of sullen mood in which impatient people await events of more importance. There was very little conversation, although the girls were trying to start some and a group of three were closing in on one grim Afghan-looking person with the evident intention of stirring him out of his gloom.
No sign of Baltis. I recalled her boast that all Grim needed now and I too, was an obituary notice. No sign of Grim. No Jeff.
On my right, at the end of the room, was a dais, not remotely unlike one of those high beds of state on which royalty used to sleep; only the curtains were draped from a balcony that overhung the dais and extended from wall to wall. On the right hand of the dais, in the teak wall, was a door. The balcony was something like a choir-loft in a small church, except that its timbers were more richly carved, and I could see that there were two doors at the back, and one at the end, half-hidden by heavy curtains.
The strange thing was that no one appeared to object to my presence. My guide motioned me to an unoccupied divan not far from the door and then went away, smirking a bit mysteriously but not, so far as I could detect, speaking or signalling to anyone. A young girl with an almost white skin and a perfume that suggested rose leaves in an ancient Persian jar set a small, low table before me and brought a cool, colored drink in a tall glass. Another girl brought coffee. Then they both sat down on cushions near me and appeared to wonder what to do to entertain this barbarian. They smirked at each other and stared at me when they thought I was not observing them.
Chullunder Ghose seemed not to notice me at all, so I took my cue from him. He appeared to me to be the only person in the room, except the half-dozen girls whom he was keeping in gales of giggles, who was not waiting in impatient boredom for something to happen. A Pathan two seats away on my left seemed savagely indignant about something and when a good-looking girl approached him he sent her away with a stinging reprimand; it brought a retort from her that almost fetched him to his feet and for a second I thought there was going to be murder. However, he simmered down, and the girl joined the two who were studying me.
I counted the men in the room. Including myself and Chullunder Ghose there were nineteen of us, of whom four were gambling in a sort of alcove by themselves and two were smiling cynically as they turned the pages of an illustrated book. The only weapon in sight was a dagger; I could see its hilt protruding from the waistband of a Mongolian-looking person who was dressed like a Cossack, high kaftan and all. He sat cross-cornerwise from the Pathan and watched him; I believe it was his presence that prevented the Pathan from springing at the girl who had traded an atrocious insult for a fierce rebuke. He looked relieved when a woman came through the door beside the dais and beckoned the Pathan, who arose and followed her, swaggering in a way that suggested he was not so sure of himself as he seemed. As the door closed behind him I thought I heard scuffling and a thud, but a burst of music almost at the same moment made it impossible to be sure. However, I noticed that the four men who were gambling glanced at one another nervously and the Mongolian-looking person in the kaftan smiled.
Not many minutes after that, Jeff entered by the same door near the dais. He looked enormous in his Kashgar clothing. He might have stepped out of an oriental story book. He thrilled the dancing-girls, who clustered around him chattering like birds in an aviary, and it was astonishing to see how perfectly he played his part — no ladies’ man but an excellent actor — tipping them appropriate small sums “to say a prayer for him,” “to remember him in their dreams,” “to bestow on the poor in the name of gratitude for pleasant hours” — a suitable remark to each, that served its purpose. Evidently Jeff knew all the ropes. They let him alone, he having disgorged a just proportion of the overhead.
I saw him exchange glances with Chullunder Ghose. He then approached me and bowed profoundly, talking loudly in the Kashgar dialect as if he knew I understood it, but which, of course, I did not. But between the stately, sonorous sentences he interspersed plain English: “ — Baltis raising hell — in there with Vasantasena — invite me to sit down with you, you damned fool!—”
So I acted as well as I could the part of a rather patronizing British official who had chanced to meet him in the Kashgar country, and after he had gone through all the rigmarole of modestly declining such an honor he sat beside me on the divan. Then, until he was quite sure no one overheard us, he continued to lavish polite speeches on me, which I answered in a low voice in English, telling him all that had happened since I left him at Benjamin’s. Jeff’s voice grew more and more subdued until he, too, spoke English; but even then, at intervals he interspersed it with louder remarks in the Kashgar dialect for the benefit of dancing-girls who kept on passing to and fro.
“My own opinion is that Grim has — buyerda tukhesutdin bilak hama nersa talaledur — you can get everything here but chickens’ milk — my opinion is that Grim has balled it badly this time. He had announced himself as Dorje and demanded a room to himself where he will send for all and sundry when it suits him. Vasantasena is in a fine stew. Baltis got to her — I suppose she knew all about her before she left France — sai buida tort tufak tortilarsi kok tufak — I found four heifers in the desert, and all of them beautiful blue heifers — and as plain as a pike-staff she’s taking a seat on the fence, so that she can jump off either way — denounce Grim or support him, de
pending on whether Grim endorses her or not. She gave Vasantasena nearly all that jewelry that Benjamin supplied. They’re as thick as thieves already, sitting on one dais and exchanging compliments — yollgha tushgan patikdin panah berghil, Khudayim — from quicksand on the road, good Lord deliver us—”
I glanced up. I think it was Chullunder Ghose’s face, across the room, that made me do it.
“Grim is probably exploring,” Jeff went on. But suddenly he, too, noticed the babu’s attitude and glanced as I had done toward the balcony above the dais. There had appeared a face — a face and shoulders — elbows resting on the railing of the balcony — long fingers so exactly underneath the chin that they suggested something horrible that grew where normally a beard might be. A monstrously impressive face, as handsome as the devil; no more oriental than it might be Irish, English, French, German or Scandinavian; no more European than it might be Hindu, Mongolian, Turkoman or even Chinese. It was a racial blend, made humorous, mysterious and terrible by crimson lamplight shining upward, and by shadow, and by the suggestive, graceless grins of two Tibetan devil-masks that hung beneath it, one on either hand, on the balcony panels.
The face spoke, and it brought the whole room to startled silence. Even music ceased. The voice had a strange, dull quality, as if emotion were something long ago forgotten and only the man’s will remained. But the voice filled the room and the syllables were as distinct as one, two, three. I heard my own name, mispronounced.
“What is he saying?” I asked Jeff.
“The Lord Dorje the Daring commands the immediate presence of Ahnon Mirza, Said Akhun (that’s myself) and Major Crosby. Let’s go. Grim seems to have dug up someone to ballyhoo him.”