Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “On the other hand,” said Syed-Suraj, “it has called attention to the — let us say, vulnerability, of our ruling Princes. There is a feeling that a Prince no longer has the unconditional — and, shall I call it, ingenuous backing? — of the British Raj. A Prince has become, to some extent, a skittle, one might say, who can be knocked down by a wave of indignation.”

  “That is an extreme view — too suggestive of hysteria,” Smith answered.

  “Ah! But we must consider local prejudices, politics and misconceptions. It is not on facts, but on their interpretation that rebellions are based.”

  “Rebellions?” said Smith. He looked scandalized.

  “Revolutions, if you prefer the word. The priests have always exercised enormous influence in this State. They resent the present ruler’s rather careless — and frequently, I may say, stupid — efforts to destroy that influence. They foresee — or they think they do — that the democratization of India, aimed at by Gandhi and rapidly gathering headway, must produce a conflict between new and old ideas. In plain words, they believe they must fight to the death for their privileges, sooner or later. They appreciate that phrase you wisely quoted just now— ‘no bishop, no king.’ They would, however, say, ‘no king, no bishop.’ Therefore, they feel that the reigning Rajah, in order to preserve the established order, must make common cause with them and uphold their dignity and influence, that they, in turn, may uphold his. Our mutual friend, my patron, will not see that.”

  “Damn him!” Smith said fervently.

  “The priests, in consequence, would vastly rather see his cousin on the throne. The cousin, as undoubtedly you know, is a religious man, untainted by vice or cynicism, and remarkably attentive to the drift of world affairs. He is also wealthy in his own right. I know him well. A very honorable man. Perhaps a trifle over-altruistic, but sufficiently shrewd to live over the border, in British-India, where he can keep in touch with his — ah — his admirers in the State, but be more or less safe from — ah — well, you know what so often happens to the heirs-apparent to a throne.”

  Smith scowled. That was another unpleasant subject. It was notorious that for hundreds of years those few direct heirs to the throne of Kutchdullub who had not been murdered had survived by luck or accident, or through the watchfulness of faithful servants.

  “Let us hope that British example has relegated that sort of thing to the dishonored past, Syed-Suraj.”

  “Yes, let us hope so. Hope is wholesome. The point is, the cousin is sick — very sick. He is said to have ulcers. Rather rashly — in my opinion — he is just now visiting a little place he owns up in the mountains in this State.”

  “Yes, I know that. He paid me a call on the way,” Smith answered.

  “He was taken worse there.”

  “You suspect — ?” Smith almost used undiplomatic language. Syed- Suraj diplomatically did not notice it.

  “The priests — the High Church party, that is — are afraid he may die and be lost to their cause. They believe, whether rightly or wrongly, that medical — possibly surgical — skill might save him. And they don’t trust the man from Madras who has charge of the case.”

  “Too bad the Residency doctor went on leave,” said Smith.

  “Yes, altogether too bad. In the circumstances it is only natural the High Church party should be restless. They are in a position to put the screws on. They intend to do it, in order, if possible, to save the life of the heir to the throne. They want him on it, and they mean to get him there by hook or by crook.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Smith. “Impossible!”

  “The trouble with impossibilities,” Syed-Suraj answered, “is that they so often happen. The High Church party has been most ingenious. They have a tiger that is killing people. And they have a story that exactly fits the superstitious prejudices of the peasants, while it tickles the sense of humor of more intelligent people.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that tiger story. Something must be done about it.”

  “What, though? From time immemorial it has been the Rajah’s privilege, in person or by deputy, to shoot all tigers that molest the people. If he shoots that tiger he will find himself denounced for having violated the ancient sanctuary where a so-called priestess keeps the brute. How she keeps him there, I don’t know, but she does it. And remember that the Rajah, from the High Church viewpoint, is in a state of gross impurity that he refuses to correct by proper ritual and sacrifice. It would be a scandalous act for him to cross the threshold, even of a sacred ruin, no matter for what reason. They could make an awful stink about it.”

  “There would be riots. He might get killed — that’s almost probable, there are so many fanatics who have been stirred up by the propaganda.”

  “Whose propaganda? The priests?”

  “You bet. They are masters of it. And what will happen if he does not shoot the tiger? They will say not only that he neglects his duty, but that the tiger is sent as a curse from the angry gods because he broke his promise to rebuild that ruin in the jungle. And he can’t rebuild it, even if he cared to, since he has no money. Consequence — even worse rioting!”

  “Dammit, perhaps I’d better go and shoot that brute myself,” said Smith.

  “But if you do, my friend, you will end your career in a hornets’ nest instead of being decorated for discretion!”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know. It occurred to me that possibly you might — ah — let us say, intuitively, guess — the — ah — the British attitude toward the Rajah’s cousin. If he should come to the throne, why then, of course, the priests would get rid of the tiger. They’d poison the brute.”

  Smith was horrified. He was as capable of treachery as any other nerveless, self-important bureaucrat; but minor treachery — nothing heroic — nothing that might involve him in a nine-day tempest in a teapot at the close of his career. He had a genius for minor treachery. Already he was shaping in his mind a full report of this strictly private conversation, to be sent to Delhi, where it would do Syed-Suraj no good. But now he thought of something better. He could kill two birds with one stone, and retain his own reputation for tact.

  “It’s as simple as most problems are when you face them,” he answered. “I can see no reason to take official cognizance of this. But take my compliments to His Highness, and suggest to him that he should send that fellow Hawkes to shoot the tiger. I am told he is an excellent shot.”

  “But sacrilege—”

  “Yes, certainly. He can blame Hawkes, and dismiss him — pack him off home to England. Hawkes was in here not two hours ago. I had to reprimand him for trying to interfere in what was none of his business. I can testify that Hawkes is an incorrigible meddler.”

  “Hawkes has a contract—”

  “He can be dismissed for cause,” Smith answered. “Use tact. Warn His Highness to be careful how he instructs Hawkes. That’s all.”

  CHAPTER 7. “You should have been the Unknown Soldier”

  From the British Residency, where a Union Jack drooped dismally on a pole from which sun and rain had flaked most of the paint, to the Rajah’s palace, where damp-chilled and disgusted sepoys stood on guard before the pretentious iron gate, was a mile and a half. There was an avenue of trees, then winding, cobbled streets — a maze of narrow-fronted, mostly two-storied houses with flat roofs, built around tiny courtyards in which the hot-weather life of the city was lived. But during the monsoon most of the life was indoors, where it grew shrill and irritable — over-crowded.

  At about the time when Louis XIV was inviting bankruptcy by building palaces to house his ignorance of economics, a Frenchman of curious character, possessing an amazing gift of salesmanship, had inspired the despot who then occupied the throne of Kutchdullub with ambition to rebuild the city. Nothing sanitary — such indecencies had not been thought of — but as grandiose and gimcrack as a stack of exposition buildings. Naturally, the job was never finished; tax-exasperated merchants had the Rajah pois
oned, and the Frenchman was chased off the roof of the house he had built for himself; the city dogs ate what was left of him. The houses had come to their natural end and had been replaced by indigenous Indian architecture. But the squares remained, and the trees still graced them. So the center of the city was a spaciously conceived oasis of four paved quadrangles. One faced the palace; another the temple of Kali; the third was mainly occupied by shops belonging to the more successful merchants; and the fourth square was a marketplace. Normally the latter hummed with chaffering and stank of cabbage, onions, and spice; but in the monsoon it was a waste of bluish-gray cement on which sheets of rain rippled. Around three sides of that was a stucco colonnade, beneath which were the shops — half-shuttered now to keep the draught out — of the dealers in corn, enamel-ware; and all the cheap stuff that peasants delight in. There, also, was the store of Ram Dass, dealer in mortgages, money, and grain. It had yellow-painted shutters. It occupied eight whole arches of the colonnade.

  Wheeled traffic was not allowed in that square, and the prohibition was enforced by steps and a row of ancient iron cannons set three feet apart with their muzzles downward, along the side of the square that opened to the main street. So even Rajahs had to walk if they should wish to visit Ram Dass, and a Rajah’s confidential dick-o’dirty-work was under the same necessity. Syed-Suraj had to leave the Rajah’s silver-plated Rolls-Royce standing in the street and mince amid the puddles under a big umbrella held for him by the liveried footman. He hated, as much as a cat, to get his little feet wet. And he hated to wait in the draughty shop. But Ram Dass kept him waiting — sent out word that he was being treated for lumbago by a doctor and could not come until the torture was over.

  Ram Dass was a comfortably fat, gray-bearded veteran with twinkling eyes, who no more had lumbago than he had melancholia. There was nothing whatever wrong with him, or with his bank account. Voluminously clothed in clean, white cotton and the little round cap of a bunnia, he sat cross-legged on a pile of corn-sacks, with a kerosene stove beside him, on which a kettle sang cheerfully. In front of him, on an up-turned, empty box, there was a teapot, sugar, cream, two teacups, and a silver case of cigarettes. Beyond that wholly satisfactory and swankless table, on another pile of corn-sacks, equally contented, sat Chullunder Ghose. He was enormously bulky, but there was something about him — it might be his sense of humor — that suggested they were two of a kind.

  “If they think you are dead,” said Ram Dass, “they will presently unthink it. You are about as easy to disguise as an elephant. Someone must have seen you enter my shop. You are well known. And as soon as the Rajah learns about his bully lying dead in the rain he will—”

  “Oh no, he won’t,” said Chullunder Ghose. “He knows I could appeal to the Resident if he should have me arrested. Even if he locked me in a secret place, he would know that you or someone else could—”

  “Could avenge your death. What good would that do? He would swear that you had died by an accident and bring a hundred witnesses to prove it. Then what?”

  Chullunder Ghose smiled and sipped tea. Then he helped himself to an expensive cigarette. “The god of accidents,” he remarked, and blew the sweet smoke through his nose, “is a respecter of persons. Self am favorite. You ascertain the odds as soon as possible, and bet on this babu.”

  “I never bet.”

  “No? Why, then, did you lend His Highness, yesterday, ten thousand rupees, as you say you did?”

  “Only five thousand. I took his note for ten.”

  “What is that but betting — on a, weak quail?”

  “I agreed to lend another five — same terms, same interest — provided I receive the contract to supply grain for the elephants for five years. That is why Syed-Suraj waits outside there. He has brought the contract. He has come for the money.”

  “You believe, then, that the Rajah will continue on the throne as much as five weeks?” asked Chullunder Ghose. “For a man of affairs you are credulous — credulous. Pour me more tea.”

  “We could do without him,” Ram Dass answered, pouring. “But they tell me his cousin is dying — poison, no doubt. So who shall succeed him? The British always shut their eyes and ears unless they see a way clear; and the whole world knows they have trouble enough with Gandhi and the Nationalists, and the Round Table Conference, and unemployment, and God knows what else. They certainly don’t want to have to add this State to British India. The nervous old wreck at the Residency, who would have hysterics if he were called on to act with determination, is sufficient proof to me that the British don’t mean to be drastic.”

  “Any rioting yet?” asked Chullunder Ghose.

  “No, none yet. This is bad weather for rioting. There will be some, though, unless someone kills that tiger. Priests are just as stupid as Princes; they have overdone it this time, and they don’t know how to back down. As if the Rajah would care that their tiger eats a hundred people! That will only react on the priests when people wake up. Then what?”

  “Let us interview the jackal.”

  “Bring him in here?”

  “Why not? But why lend money?”

  “I want that contract.”

  “Have it. But save five thousand rupees. Hawkesey never takes commissions. Offer Hawkesey good grain at a fair price, promise him you’ll not cheat, and ask him to get you such a contract next month. Hawkesey is on the establishment. A change on the throne would make no difference to Hawkesey’s job. He loves those elephants. Moldy corn delivered to the elephants would make Hawkesey your enemy. I think I would prefer the tiger — or myself. I also am a sentimental adversary. Verb. sap.”

  Syed-Suraj was admitted: A discreet clerk bore a chair in front of him and set it where the light would fall straight on its occupant’s face. That act of courtesy made it perfectly clear to Syed-Suraj that he was not being received as an equal. The democracy of corn-sacks was denied to him; he was a mere ambassador from a throne, looked upon from the corn-sacks with contempt. It amused him, or at any rate he tried to think it did.

  “I forgive you the lumbago on condition that I need not drink tea,” he remarked. Then he faced Chullunder Ghose. “You certainly surprise me. Where are you from?”

  The babu winked at him. “I surprised myself. Question is, what will His Highness do with corpus delicti? Is it found yet?”

  “Oho! So you killed a man?”

  “I?” said the babu. “Telling you things is a lot too dangerous; you have brains. For instance, I would not dream of hinting to you that a wise rat leaves a rotten ship.”

  Syed-Suraj produced one of his own cigarettes and lighted it, cupping his hands around the match to hide his face a moment while he controlled its expression. Then he turned to Ram Dass:

  “Do I get that money?”

  “No,” said Ram Dass.

  “I have brought the contract.”

  “Tear it up,” said Ram Dass.

  Syed-Suraj stared from face to face. Chullunder Ghose spoke swiftly before Ram Dass could put in another word:

  “You know something, don’t you? Why not tell us?”

  “I have no news. I was at the Residency. Smith was as usual — futile.”

  “Did you fall or were you pushed?” the babu asked him. “I mean, were you sent or sent for?”

  Syed-Suraj dropped the cigarette and set his heel on it. He laid his hands on his knees and faced the babu. He grinned like a cat.

  “If you want information,” he retorted, “you will have to play fair. Is the net out for me too?”

  “No,” the babu answered.

  “But the C.I.D.?”

  “I never heard of that. What is it?” asked the babu.

  “Cursed Inquisitive Dog Department,” Syed-Suraj answered. “If you won’t play fair, damn you!”

  “All right, I shall have to ask Smith what you talked about and, if he does not tell me, I can tell him! You were either sent or summoned. What is there for him and you to talk about but His Highness, the priests and a tiger? Di
d he send for you to talk about the weather?”

  “I believe you have already talked with Smith.”

  “Your beliefs are as unimportant to me as the day-before-yesterday’s dinner that I didn’t eat,” Chullunder Ghose answered. “I wasn’t joking when I said I think you have brains. I am giving you a chance to use them.”

  Syed-Suraj stared a minute at the oil-stove. He looked at Ram Dass, but the merchant was stroking a black cat that had laid a dead mouse on the sacks beside him.

  “Clever pussy! Fool mouse ran the wrong way, did he?” Ram Dass tossed the mouse into a corner and the cat leapt after it.

  Syed-Suraj drew a folded contract from his inner pocket, crackled it to attract attention, and then tore it to pieces. “A nod,” he remarked, “is as good as a wink. Let us exchange confidences.”

  He was interrupted. A turbaned clerk came in to announce that Hawkes sahib wished to speak to Ram Dass.

  “Ask him to be good enough to wait. Be sure to give him a cigar.”

  The clerk went out again and Syed-Suraj assumed a rather bored expression. He had evidently thought of a bright idea; he wished to hide its newness; he was conscious that the bright, mild eyes of Chullunder Ghose were studying him — smiling.

  “Well, it was, as you say, about the tiger,” he began. “I went for a quite informal conversation, but Smith seemed worried about the Rajah’s difficulties. One thing led to another until we got pretty deep into local politics, and at last he asked me my opinion. So I gave it. I suggested he should shoot the tiger. He objected, so I offered an alternative. I told him to ask Hawkes to do it. That ought to solve the problem. Hawkes can be the scapegoat afterwards.”

  “Does Smith pay Hawkes?” asked Ram Dass.

  “No. The State of Kutchdullub pays Hawkes. Smith saw that point. You got Hawkes his job, Chullunder Ghose; so I suggest that you should tell Hawkes to go after the tiger. Hawkes would listen to you. You would get the credit with the C.I.D. for having pulled a trigger that saved a nasty situation.”