Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The Residency stood in a vast compound amid neem trees. Guard-house — flagpole — Union Jack. The Residency guard of native Indian infantry was turning out to pay the customary honors to the flag at sunset. The Resident was on the front steps, middle-aged and military looking. Norwood had to wait until the brief ceremony was over. His reception was not cordial. The invitation to dinner was perfunctory, so phrased that it was easy to refuse.

  “I’m tired, sir. Long march. I would like to turn in early.”

  “Very well, Captain Norwood. Don’t let me inconvenience you. I was informed, of course, that you were coming. Can’t say that I approve of this survey of the Kadur River. The priests will resent it bitterly. There may be trouble enough as it is over the temple boundary dispute. The Maharajah claims ownership of certain buildings, beneath which it has been an open secret for centuries that the priests have a diamond mine.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir. I was told that Prince Rundhia started the argument.”

  “Yes, he’s heir to the throne. He had to start it in the Maharajah’s name, but it was Rundhia’s idea. The Maharajah is a quiet old gentleman, thank heaven. No initiative. Satisfied to let things take their course. I believe the quarrel would settle itself, if we would let it alone. The diamond mine is one of those open secrets that do no harm until they’re aired by busybodies. The arrangement has worked perfectly well all these years. The priests don’t win many diamonds from the mine. Sometimes years go by without their finding any stones worth putting on the market. But they make an occasional find. They turn over a certain percentage to the Maharajah, and sell the remainder for temple revenue. There’s no reason to suppose they’re not honest about the division. I wish our Government hadn’t interfered. In a way, I resent your being here. You are to write a report, I suppose?”

  “Yes. There’s a rumor the mine is dangerous.”

  “Good God, man! They don’t let anyone near the mine — not even the Maharajah!”

  “Provision has been made for that, sir.”

  The Resident squirmed. “Well, take care that your—” he selected a word; he used it tartly: “ — spies don’t make trouble.”

  Norwood returned to the city. The new street lights had been turned on. There was a swarm of homing traffic — bullock carts, camels, droves of pedestrians, scandalously noisy and decrepit autos. Norwood stood on a sort of traffic island in mid-street — an oasis of palms with an ancient fountain and one big glaring arc-light. He could see the orderly bringing the horses; he might just as well wait for them.

  Threading its way through the traffic in the direction of the palace, there came one of those old-fashioned carriages in which zenana ladies take the air. It was magnificently horsed. Two mounted men rode ahead to clear the way, and they were followed by two runners armed with sticks. Two men in splendid livery on the box. Two footmen on a platform behind the carriage. Two more horsemen bringing up the rear. The carriage had no windows. There were slats instead, through which the occupants could see out without being seen. It was obviously a palace turnout.

  As the carriage drew near Norwood, a terrifically noisy Ford truck frightened the horses. Almost at the same moment, two elephants loomed into view from a side street. The horses plunged. The driver had hard work to control them. The carriage swayed violently. The right front wheel struck the curb, close to Norwood. The shock jerked open the door. The electric arc-light shone in, revealing the occupants. The coachman reined the horses to a standstill, shouting to the footmen to seize their heads.

  Diamonds, pearls, zephyry silken saris of the hue of Himalayan dawn. Two women. The older, stout one raised a fan to hide her face. It was the other who held Norwood spellbound.

  She was young. She was full of laughter. She had mocking, excitable, generous eyes that looked wild to lose their innocence and revel in what shouldn’t be, but is, and is amusing. She saw no evil, only humor in being stared at by a man who shouldn’t see her, and hadn’t expected to. Indian zenana ladies are supposed to shrink from men’s eyes. Hers met Norwood’s full, and full of laughter.

  Hair like spun gold. So she might be a Rajput princess. If so, she had probably never been seen by any man except her father, perhaps her brother, and her husband if she had one, since she was nine or ten years old. She might be seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, there was no guessing. Perhaps older.

  Norwood, of course, recovered self-possession. He was in uniform, so he saluted. He was about to speak; he had thought of a properly gallant re mark that would sound almost like a quotation from the Arabian Nights, when the palace servants took the situation in hand.

  The mounted men spurred up with a clatter of hooves and harness. The two footmen leaped down from the rear platform, thrust themselves between Norwood and the carriage door, slammed the door and faced him, not even courteous. Teeth — whites of their eyes in evidence. Hilts of their ornamental scimitars thrust forward. Bristling black beards. Ugly.

  The driver recovered command of his horses. The carriage moved on. The footmen jumped up behind. Norwood was left wondering. He had had a vision. He had never seen such a beautiful girl.

  The older, stouter woman, who had used the fan to hide her face, should be the Maharanee of Kadur. But Norwood knew she was childless; otherwise Prince Rundhia, the Maharajah’s nephew, would not be heir to the throne. The ladies of Kadur have black, not golden hair, so the younger girl could hardly be a relative. She might be a princess on a visit from some northern Indian State.

  That they were wearing so much jewelry suggested that they were returning from some elaborate ceremony, very likely in the temple, whose enormous bulk dominated the city.

  The orderly, selected because he was a native of Kadur, rode up with the led horse.

  “Has Prince Rundhia taken a wife?” Norwood asked him.

  “No, sahib.” One does not discuss zenana ladies — not with men of an alien race. The orderly grinned himself into the kind of silence that suggests the subject is forbidden.

  Norwood rode back to his camp, where Moses Lafayette O’Leary lied, like three men of three different races, about who had drunk the whiskey. Norwood’s servant knew nothing about it. He had learned by experience that it didn’t pay to take O’Leary’s lies in vain, there being always enough truth in them to make them worse than barbed wire.

  “It was an emergency,” said O’Leary. “Yes, sir, I took the liberty. But how can I get information if I mayn’t count on your knowledge o’ my honesty, and take a chance now and then on your overlooking what would be impudence if someone else should do it? I have to treat my informants decent. Have you heard who’s staying at the palace? There’s a guesthouse in the garden full o’ women. Americans. Two. A young one. And an aunt who’d fill a hotel. Truck-loads o’ luggage. I’ve heard say the aunt could make a brace of tigers wish they’d looked the other way. They say she’s a holy terror. But they tell me the young one ‘ud melt your heart to look at her. They call the young one Miss Lynn Harding.”. “What else have you found out?”

  “Not much.”

  “You’re about due for an Irish promotion. You’re getting too fat. I’ve my eye on a man who knows what work is.”

  “All right, sir. If you want me to talk before I know what I’m talking about, I’ll do it. Here goes. The whole bazaar’s as full o’ dirty rumors as Stoddart’s dog is o’ fleas. There’s a game on, and it’s all set. They’re laying for us, and the way they figure it we’re in the bag already. I’ve been offered a bribe to tell why you’re in Kadur.”

  “Cash?”

  “No. Promises. Man name o’ Noor Mahlam.”

  “That name isn’t on the list. Who is he?”

  “Calls himself a free lance. He’s a sort o’ speculator, wanting to buy options — took an option on me. He’s back in the bazaar now, offering to deliver me to the highest bidder. It’s the Prince against the Brahmins, and the whole of Kadur betting on the outcome. The temple Brahmins don’t intend to lose their diamond mine if hook or c
rook can keep it for ’em.”

  “Beyond that you were offered a bribe, did you get any other line on their intentions?”

  “No. I know we’re being spied on. There’s a saying in Kadur that diamonds see in the dark.

  We’re being watched now. We can’t afford a mistake. But they’ll try some more bribery first before they act ugly.”

  “Don’t take their money. Don’t take a gift of any kind from anyone.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “I’m incorruptible. I always was. And I always aim to be. But if you’d slip me a few more rupees of expense money, that wouldn’t be corruption, would it? Here I go taking my soul in my two fists and plunging it into dens o’ vice and infamy, perjuring myself and telling lies and listening to stuff that ‘ud turn the stomachs o’ the holy saints, and I don’t even get fair spending money. It’s a Scotch Government that you and I work for; they’d make Jews and Armenians and Hindu moneylenders look like profligates — How about twenty rupees and no questions asked?”

  “I don’t expect to ask questions. Your job is to tell me what you know.”

  “As soon as I know I’ll tell you. Trust me, sir.”

  “Moses, if the time should come when I don’t trust you, you won’t like the consequences. That will be all for the moment.”

  “Don’t I get twenty rupees?”

  “No.”

  “All right, it’s a cheap Government. Make it ten rupees.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, all right, sir, all right. ‘The greatest o’ these is charity.’ It’s a miserable poor Government. We’ll call it charity. I’ll work for nothing.”

  “Get out of here. And when I send for you, remember your manners.”

  “All right, sir. Handsome is as handsome does. I’ll wear a top hat if you say so. All right. All right.”

  Chapter Three

  MRS. DEBORAH HARDING, in leggings, a short skirt, and a wide pith helmet, wearing goggles, and with a camera suspended somehow from her portly figure, prodded ruins with the ferrule of a green silk sunshade. Two palace servants danced attendance on her, doing their obsequious utmost to prevent calamity.

  “Sahiba! Not good! Much too many cobra — kerait — scorpions — too bad. Come, look this way. Plenty ruins this way.”

  But Mrs. Deborah Harding wasn’t in the habit of taking the advice of anyone less than a Supreme Court Justice; nor would she hesitate to question that if it didn’t agree with her own convictions. She was dynamic, opulent, willful dignity personified. As honorary special correspondent to The Woman Citizen, of Aaronville, Clarendon County, Ohio, she was being an authority on ruins. She looked like authority. She had authoritative gestures, and a note-book. Nobody, not even an ignorant Indian native, could mistake her for anything less than an autocrat. She prodded ruins as she would have prodded inferior persons from whom she desired information.

  It was close on sunset. Mrs. Deborah Harding’s goggles were dusty. The blood-red sunrays confused her vision. She was one of those people who always believe what they see but nothing that they don’t see. She saw a cobra. She did not see that the stone, on which she set her foot, was loose, curved on its under side and resting insecurely on a flat rock. So she twisted her ankle and sat down — hard. It jolted every bone in her corpulent body.

  Two hundred and eight pounds of widow with bankers’ references and one hundred per cent opinions, can sit down harder than a crate of groceries. She had barely enough breath left to command the servants to kill the cobra.

  They didn’t kill it. Those were more or less sacred ruins, so it was a more or less sacred cobra. A bullied Hindu’s right of disobedience is sacred, as long as he makes a gesture in the right direction.

  “I never saw such people — such a country. I have travelled all around the world from America. I have visited numbers of countries. I have not seen your equals anywhere for inefficiency and lack of human intelligence. What shall I do now? I am in pain. Have you no ideas? Can’t you suggest something?”

  The servants tried to help her to her feet. She couldn’t stand. The brave old tyrant’s eyes were watering with pain beneath the goggles, which was why she didn’t remove them; she’d be damned before she’d let Indian servants see her wet-eyed. She obviously couldn’t re-mount the quiet pony that had brought her to the scene. Even the exasperated servants hadn’t enough malice to persuade her to attempt that. One of them mounted the pony and cantered away for assistance. Mrs. Deborah Harding sat fanning herself and making impotently harsh remarks about the swarms of flies that were looking for a last, lazy meal before going to sleep.

  The cantering servant drew rein at an outlying police kana and, after a heatedly uncomplimentary debate with the policeman in charge, phoned the palace. The Maharanee was out. It entered no one’s head to consult the Maharajah; it was his hour of the day to study postage stamps, so he was incommunicado, except to the physician who should bring him his evening tonic. However, Prince Rundhia had returned that afternoon, from a visit to Delhi. Someone phoned him. Things happened.

  There are two palaces. Rundhia’s is separated from the Maharajah’s only by a high wall and two widths of glorious garden. Rundhia’s imported patent automatic garage-door swung open. His imported ex-Czarist chauffeur whirled a Rolls-Royce to the front door. Rundhia took the wheel. They opened the front gate just in time. Another split second and he would have crashed it, sacked the lot of them, and bummed a new car from his aunt.

  There was a whirl of dust, a din of tooting. Headlights flooded the narrow roads with blinding glare. Three dogs and some belated chickens died the death. Three villages gasped and called on thirty gods to witness their piety. Rundhia rammed on the brakes and got out of the car to bow to Mrs. Harding just as calmly, as blandly, as amusedly courteous as if he were entering her drawing room. The Russian chauffeur dusted him from head to foot and knelt to wipe his beautiful brown-and-white shoes.

  “Well, I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Deborah Harding. “I don’t know who you are, but—”

  “Prince Rundhia, your host’s nephew.”

  “How d’you do. You took your own time, didn’t you? I had begun to think no one was coming.”

  Chapter Four

  THE garden guesthouse was a copy of a cottage at Juan les Pins. It had been Rundhia’s idea. The Prince had persuaded his aunt the Maharanee to go thoroughly modern for once.

  The Maharanee almost worshipped Rundhia, but she had compelled him to return from Europe by cutting off the supplies of cash. She wanted him to learn to be fit for the throne. But Rundhia was always threatening to go to Europe again unless she made things tolerable; so she had to make good his gambling losses and to humor his whims. There was a continual struggle between them, she paying his debts at strategic intervals, and striving to preserve some vestige of the ancient culture that her nephew despised.

  No one had stayed at the guesthouse until Mrs. Deborah Harding heard about it during her tour of India. She knew exactly how to contrive invitations. She considered she conferred a favor on the rulers of Kadur by accepting their hospitality for herself and her niece. As a matter of fact it was true. Lynn Harding was a prodigious comfort to the Maharanee, and it suited Aunty very well indeed that the Maharanee should monopolize Lynn for a while.

  Lynn Harding had been becoming troublesome. The skillful tyranny of Aunty’s moneyed fostering had forced Lynn to postpone the natural rebellion of youth to an age at which some girls are steadying down. Lynn’s rebellion had hardly more than begun. Aged twenty-two, she had been denied the democratic grace of college education.

  Aunty, who held the purse-strings, knew that colleges corrupt; and what Aunty knew, was so. No one could change Aunty’s opinions. Lynn hadn’t tried to change Aunty. But she had learned to be strategic and even diplomatic. She had assented, without enthusiasm, to become engaged to a decadent F.F.V. But there, Aunty’s first reverse had caught her completely off-guard. An immovable will and an irresistible explo
sive met. Lynn blew up. She didn’t merely break the engagement. She smashed it. She scattered its splintered fragments recklessly, until the social cream of several counties curdled with malicious laughter that even reached Washington. Aunty received condolences that made her blood boil. Moreover, Lynn had to be handled with gloves and wasn’t even contrite.

  So Aunty beat a strategic retreat. She decided on a world tour. It had been fairly successful, barring occasional incidents on shipboard and in hotels. The almost incredibly beautiful Lynn had received enough attention from unpedigreed, or at any rate uncertified, strangers to keep Aunty on the war-path. —

  The British officers in India had given Aunty plenty to worry about. So the invitation from the Maharanee of Kadur had come like a godsend. It gave Lynn a romantic outlet for enthusiasm in impeccably respectable surroundings, where there were no undesirable men to ruin Aunty’s dream of a correct and socially influential marriage.

  So this Prince was a staggerer. He had been absent when the Hardings arrived, frequently mentioned but not expected to return for several weeks from what was spoken of as a vacation. Aunty had had a good look at him in the full glare of the headlights of the Rolls-Royce. He was a worse shock than the undignified bruise and the twisted ankle. He resembled one of those young Argentine plutocrats who used to corrupt Paris until the price of beef and wheat reduced them to the level of common mortals. A splendid figure of a man, perfectly tailored. Manners that only money can buy and cynicism support. Beautiful eyes, without a trace of effeminacy and not yet betraying signs of having lived too furiously. An all-conquering male. Heir to a throne as old as England’s.

  With astonishing strength he lifted Aunty from the earth and placed her on the soft-springed cushions that made her sigh with physical relief and mental horror. Aunty knew she was up against it. The Prince drove her with skill. He avoided bumps. He damned the guard at the palace front gate with the voice of a cultured gentleman and a vocabulary that Aunty instinctively knew was scurrilous. At the arched entrance to the guesthouse patio, he lifted her out. He caused servants to come like firemen to a burning house. He sent immediately for his private Bengali doctor, a member of his own household.