by Talbot Mundy
“Lock him up now!” Gokula Das advised. “Once inside the prison he will be jolly well eager to accept a reduced percentage.”
“I am inclined toward the opinion that you should be arrested for possessing stolen papers,” said Baxter. “If you are not here with those papers tomorrow morning I shall consider it my duty to inform the police.”
“And meanwhile we will have you watched,” said Gokula Das.
“You three are too highly moral for this slave of circumstance,” Chullunder Ghose said, getting to his feet. “Peversity cannot prevail against your lily-white soulishness. Ten percent.”
“Five percent!” said Baxter.
“Five percent then and the cancellation of my debt to Bonamy. Am adamant. Am no believer in your abstract consciences. Give me back my promissory note now!”
All three men laughed, but Chullunder Ghose appeared indifferent to ridicule. He wiped the perspiration from his face and grinned at them.
“Am going,” he remarked. “Am on my way to office of Commissioner sahib. You may follow me, if you wish. You shall have superior entertainment, causing thrills of exquisitely flattered consciences. You shall see this contrite babu taking documents from hiding place and subsequently giving same with deep salaam to highest official discoverable in Mount Abu. Shall request reward, suggesting conscience indicates same. Thereafter, will await arrest for debt and will enjoy vacation in new fashioned sanitary cell with courtyard adjoining for physical exercise; intellectual ditto will ensue from contemplation of fact that Andrew Bonamy must pay cash per diem for this babu’s board and lodging. My superb salaams!”
He began to walk away. They intercepted him, he flourished his umbrella at the sun and was deaf to argument.
“My conscience forces me,” he answered; and they were unable to hold him. There was muscle under those prodigious rolls of fat.
At last they tried to compromise. They offered to come with him, and to give him back his promissory note against the stolen report and map; but he would not hear of it.
“This babu’s conscience when aroused cannot be corrupted except for cash down!” he assured them.
It was Baxter who counseled yielding, arguing with Andrew Bonamy:
“The court would disallow most of the compound interest on that note. And besides, as Gokula Das said, we can watch him. If he tries to doublecross us, we can—”
He whispered the rest of it. Bonamy nodded.
“Here’s your note,” he said, drawing out a wallet and selecting it from half a dozen other papers.
Chullunder Ghose took it, glanced at it, tore it into infinitely tiny fragments, scattered them like chaff before the wind and walked away.
“Wait here for me tomorrow morning,” he advised over his shoulder, using no more than a trace of sarcasm. But he shuddered. Andrew Bonamy drew a finger across his own throat meaningly and Gokula Das, having studied the classics at Oxford, turned his thumb down. Baxter, hands in pockets, looked the other way, no doubt to keep his conscience from fatigue from overwork.
Chullunder Ghose went swiftly, rolling in his gait, his black umbrella swaying, conscious he was watched and in full view for the whole of the two-mile downhill tramp to the Kaisar-i-Hind Hotel. Being watched did not trouble him much.
“Must make squeeze hit!” he muttered thinking aloud in the language in which he would have to manage difficult negotiations.
“Hundred-per-cent U.S.A. American is worse than John Bull mixed with quinine, whisky and experience tied with red tape! Verb. sap., very! Can guess in advance what Englishmen will do. Wrong thing usually, calling same right thing by reason of conventional myopia. U.S.A. Americans do wrong things always, subsequently proving same was right by forming caucus and controlling the election. How shall diagnose? Perplexing, very!”
He burst in on John Duncannon, who was writing letters in one of the small bungalows attached to the hotel, and managed to convey an atmosphere of urgency without committing himself to speech. He sat down on a mat near the door, sighed, mopped the perspiration and, that failing, opened and shut his umbrella three or four times trying to make the broken catch work. At the fourth disturbance John Duncannon folded up the letter irritably and turned to face him.
“Well?” he demanded. “What now?”
He was not pleased with the babu. He utterly mistrusted him, in fact, since the episode at Mrs. Bisbee’s house. And, having learned that Deborah Pennyweather was a guest at Mrs. Bisbee’s, he was nervous with the thought that Deborah might have overheard the conversation, not doubting that Deborah was on the same quest as himself.
“All is lost save chance to make squeeze hit. Beat it for home plate — slide!” said the babu. “Has message come from Memsahib Bisbee?”
“Yes, confound it. Here, read it for yourself.” Duncannon tossed a letter to him, frowning.
There was only a half-sheet of note paper inside the envelope, and on that was scrawled in Mrs. Bisbee’s spidery writing:
Party referred to has no objection but says you must use your own initiative. Burn this.
A.P.B.
Chullunder Ghose read it, examined the paper, sniffed it, held it to the light, returned it to its envelope and wiped his face with the bandanna handkerchief to hide a smile. He said nothing. Duncannon set his jaw impatiently.
“If I had known what a mess of mysteries this country is, I would never have come. Do you suppose that means the Gnani is agreeable?”
“Very agreeable old gent, jolly old codger, oh yes,” said the babu.
“What I mean is, does he give me carte blanche?”
“Gives you oil, if you can find same. Go on horseback. Carts no good — too many mountains, no road.”
“Do you gather that Mrs. Bisbee has seen him already?”
“Female women write evasively,” the babu answered. “Better gather figs from thistles than seek to upset alibi of such experienced intriguist. Nevertheless, this babu heard, saw, can make affidavit. Last night, very holy Gnani went to Mrs. Bisbee’s house, held hurried conversation and departed. Likewise last night Galloway sahib rode off with ten days’ supplies toward Erinpura and maybe Tonkaipur. Very holy Gnani followed him. Most unholy heir to throne of Tonkaipur, name of Rundhia Kaneshka Singh, followed before midnight, riding very fast. Parsee, name of Framji, went to Mrs. Bisbee’s house, myself observing but not hearing much because of Parsee’s whispering proclivities. ‘Attaboy — fish is in fat!’ is my judgment.”
Duncannon tried to spring a surprise —
“What the devil did you mean by not telling me that Miss Pennyweather is a guest at Mrs. Bisbee’s?”
“Am quintessence of discretion,” said the babu.
“How discreet is Mrs. Bisbee? Where was Miss Pennyweather while we were talking the other night? How much do you suppose she overheard? Where’s her father? From what I hear at the club he has gone to Simla. What is he doing there?”
“Am I encyclopædia?” enquired Chullunder Ghose.
“I believe you are either a bungling blockhead or a crook! What have you done with those papers?” Duncannon asked. “Have you sold them to Mrs. Bisbee or Miss Pennyweather?”
“Am keeping same for squeeze hit,” said the babu.
“What do you mean by that?”
“If blockhead, obviously shall surrender same for nothing. If crook, why not sell to highest bidder — same being, conceivably, Department of State? If honorable babu, toad under the harrow of calamity but full of sporting instinct, why not keep same for use if your Honor should miss tiger next time or maybe suffer blow on occiput? Can happen. This babu has suffered troupe of Burmese conjurers to disperse. They are paid off, gone, to misbehave themselves unchaperoned. If you should make exit into next world, whether by way of tiger’s throat or otherwise, this babu would thereby lose not only an incredible and therefore tempting fortune, but likewise fat insurance premium, same payable only on receipt of goods — your Honor’s self, undamaged.”
“What in thunder do you
mean?”
“Have guaranteed your Honor’s safety. Same is risky business.”
“To whom did you guarantee it? Galloway? What the hell does he care whether I’m killed or not?”
“No. This babu merely persuaded Galloway sahib that it is safe to let your Honor wander on the countryside. Was shrewd enough to undertake to keep Galloway sahib informed at frequent intervals. Nevertheless, am not in receipt of Governmental stipend, and said nothing about accuracy of said information.”
John Duncannon stared at him.
“Have you been talking to Miss Pennyweather?”
“No, sahib. Miss Pennyweather talked to this babu.”
“What did she say?”
“Rupees a thousand if your honor should be alive and right side up three months from date of conversation.”
“Damn!” said Duncannon. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Am not Cupid. Am cupidious. Much matrimonial experience has made this babu cautious when damsels, unmarried or otherwise, offer cash down for gentleman’s safety. Love laughs at babus. Bad for business. Besides, she paid me to say nothing.”
John Duncannon bit his fingernails.
“So you’ve played fast and loose between us?” he asked bitterly. “On top of that I suppose you’ve sold those documents to some one else?”
“Not yet,” Chullunder Ghose conceded.
“Why in Sam Hill don’t you sell the things to me? Come on, I’ll be the goat. How much?”
Chullunder Ghose scratched at his great stomach. He smacked his lips. Some sort of epicurean flavor, or suggestion of it, seemed to tantalize him.
“Am sentimentalist,” he answered. “Same is very bad for business. Bird in bush might turn out to be golden goose. Bird in hand is always sparrow. Sahib,” he said, leaning forward, pointing with a fat forefinger, “slide for home plate! Find oil! Get there first! Having no concession, you will then be like devil at revival meeting — awkward customer, but cannot be dispensed with. Problem, how to get you out? Moreover, you will have to pay me rupees thirty thousand, as per promise. This babu will buy himself a Ford car and be height of elegance. His wife will wear Paris-heeled shoes when addressing meeting of emancipated victims of Western materialism. Consequently, why buy documents from me? Discover oil, and they are worthless. Verb. sap.”
John Duncannon scowled at him, then set his teeth. He knew now what Pennyweather’s sudden rush to Simla meant. The old expert at manipulating state departments would return, almost to a certainty, with a concession for whatever oil might be discovered; and Turner Sons and Company’s more orthodox but infinitely slower method of approach through Washington and London would be labor lost. He might find oil, if the whole thing were not a mare’s nest, and if there were anything in the alleged complaisance of the Gnani, though that in itself seemed utterly incredible.
Pennyweather would smile and say:
“Too bad, my boy. You should have secured your title first.”
However, there would be at least two satisfying aspects of the situation. Turner Sons and Company, not he, would have to take the blame if Pennyweather should forestall them in obtaining the concession. And Deborah Pennyweather —
“I’ll try it!” he said abruptly. “Start tonight. Go out and buy provisions for the journey and engage two extra saises for the mules.”
Chullunder Ghose removed himself importantly, but he did not go at once about the purchase of provisions. He saw Baxter sitting on the hotel porch, avoided very pointedly by other Europeans and giving himself airs to offset his ostracism.
Chullunder Ghose opened his umbrella two or three times to attract attention, coughed and swaggered pompously toward the rock behind which he had his talk with Deborah one evening. When he reached the rock he again used the umbrella to attract attention to himself, then disappeared behind the rock and sat down. It was not many minutes before Baxter left the porch and strolled in his direction.
“We will not pay you cash,” remarked Baxter, coming to stand in front of him.
“Rupees five thousand. Not an anna less!” Chullunder Ghose assured him firmly.
“Why, you rascal, you’ve already had your promissory note back! How much was that — ten — eleven thousand rupees, wasn’t it!”
“Eight hundred only.”
“What do I care how much you borrowed? How long have you owed it? Besides, you signed with your eyes wide open, didn’t you? Did anybody force the money on you? It amounts to this: you have been paid eleven thousand by the return of that promissory note. My conscience won’t permit me to use threats to you, but I wouldn’t care to say the same for Bonamy and Gokula Das. You’d better make your peace with them before they—”
“That’s it, they have no consciences,” the babu interrupted gloomily. “There is no safety in any dealings with them.”
“Well, all right, deal with me,” said Baxter.
“Rupees five thousand.”
“I haven’t that much money with me,” Baxter answered.
“Same here. Plans also at a distance,” said the babu. “Moreover, Bonamy and Gokula Das are not essentially credulous. You go and exercise your conscience by telling them off and keep them from paying Thugs to murder this babu. I go to unbury documents. You cash check — rupees five thousand. Bringing same, you meet me at Dak-bungalow, Hanadra. We swap. Thereafter you need not share tr-r-rillions with Bonamy and Gokula Das, who are not honest men.”
“When shall I meet you at Hanadra?” Baxter asked.
“Go there day after tomorrow and wait for me,” said the babu.
“Very well. Now mind, if you fail me—”
“If you fail to bring rupees five thousand, I will sell the documents to Bonamy,” Chullunder Ghose assured him, and got up and trudged away, his fat legs striding truculently as if he were off to conquer India instead of merely to buy eggs and canned provisions in the open-fronted stores of the bazaar.
CHAPTER XI. Tonkaipur
Galloway rode into Tonkaipur at noon. The ancient city dozed and sweltered in the sun. Flies droned. Men slept in shop-fronts and on doorsteps. Dogs lay licking sores, and there was neither trade nor traffic to disturb their occupancy of the dust-holes in the middle of the street. Bullocks, asleep at the cart-pole, blocked the way, and here and there a camel knelt beside a house-door grumbling over dreams of heavy burdens.
The city had the pride of ancientry, the shabbiness of obsolete tradition persisting in spite of railways, that had passed it by, the smell of stable-yards and spices, and the color of a fiery opal. The rare trees were dusty and age-weary, and beneath their shimmering shade the beggars sat considering such problems as have made philosophers or fanatics of men since time began. The temple doors yawned, gloomy, between carvings of indecent amorous divinities; straight-standing women, loaded with brass water-jars, stood gossiping by ancient wells, some with infants straddled on their hips and some so old they had no teeth left. In all Tonkaipur none but the women labored in the heat of noon.
Not even servants seemed on duty at the Residency, where Major Rindervale in theory held the half-political, half-social link between the Rajput court and British suzerainty. No uniformed chuprassi idled at the gate. The flower-pots lining the carriage-drive were in disorder and unwatered; the flowers had shriveled. Most of the shutters were up. The door of the office was locked, without a notice on it to say when the clerk might be expected to return. Galloway left the horses and his servants grouped under a clump of trees between house and stables and strode to the front door, fuming.
He had to hammer on the door for several minutes before a disheveled looking Goanese butler, obviously not recovered from a debauch, came and opened it cautiously, hardly six inches and blinking at the sunlight, peered to discover what the noise was all about.
“Where is Major Rindervale?”
“He is veree sick. He sees nobodee.”
Galloway pushed against the door and sent the butler staggering, strode along a hallway thick with du
st, glanced right and left into rooms where unwashed plates stood on the tables, and the flies had been allowed to foul the picture-glass and mirrors, into a bedroom at the farther end where dim light filtered through the slats of paintless shutters. There was no punkah going; the air within the room was foul with sickness and the smell of drugs. A thermometer suspended from a nail on the wall registered one hundred and thirteen degrees. On a big bed with a torn mosquito-net a man lay breathing heavily.
He was not unconscious. He remembered Galloway. His face, unshaven for a week, suggested, for an instant, shame at his surroundings. Then annoyance gave way to indifference; he turned his back.
“Wake up!” said Galloway and shook him.
“Let me be! I’m full of opium. I don’t want to wake up. Let me die! I—”
Galloway shook him fiercely, jerked him to his feet and walked him up and down the room, shouting for the servants. None came. He threw Major Rindervale back on the bed and ran for his own servants, shouting to them, beckoning. He ordered one to pull the punkah-cord. The man refused, alleging that the task was beneath his dignity; he was no punkah-wallah. Galloway whipped him soundly and set him to work blubbering, with blisters on his legs he would remember for a week to come. Then he ordered the kaskas tatties damped to lower the temperature and resumed his bullying of Rindervale. There was no other way to save his life.
“Not that I care if you die!” he assured him, as the deadened brain began to function. “Only you’ve got to give me some information first! Wake up, confound you! Here now, drink this! Come on now — I’ll thrash you if you don’t!’
He gave him a stiff dose of potassium permanganate, and followed that with another of salt and water, making him drink until he gasped, then shaking him until he vomited. After that, he walked him up and down the room again and finally let him fall into a chair beneath the punkah.
“Brain clear? Talk then. Why did you take opium?”
“This place! This Godless hell!” Rindervale mumbled. “Monotony! Gut-ache. No doctor. Berkley went on leave, not that he was any good — he didn’t know much. Belly-burning, misery, no money. Better die and make and end of it. Now go to hell!”