by Talbot Mundy
Two words, and I knew she was lying about that.”
“Never mind her lies, or whose sister she is. How much truth did she tell you?”
“Not much, barring that I’m the most exciting man she’d ever seen. She was true enough excited, so I knew the bully was listening in; and he weren’t her proper bully neither; he was someone who’d been rung in on her, and she scared o’ him and not used to his ways. She said there’d be a thousand rupees for me if I’d act discreet.”
“Whose thousand rupees?” asked Norwood. “Trust your Moses O’Leary. I asked her that quick. She said it was Prince Rundhia’s thousand rupees. So I knew it wasn’t.”
“What does she want you to do?”
“She told me a mess o’ lies about Prince Rundhia having quarrelled with the temple Brahmins, and him wanting to get back at ’em, to spite ’em. She told me, and I acted surprised, that there’s a diamond mine in the temple area. There’s a thousand rupees for me if I persuade you to run your survey line slap through the temple area, so that the mine will belong to the Maharajah instead of the temple priests.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said you’re easy, but you’re honest. I said I’ll have to find some way of artfully deceiving you if you’re to do what’s needed. I said I’d have to look into it, and I made her tell me where the mine is and how to get a look at it. She came clean.”
“How did she know?”
“She’d been told. And she was out of her depth already. She wanted word with the bully, and she tried to get me to stay where I was. But I thought of the bay mare standing outside in the alley, and she fidgety, and you fond o’ the mare and liable to find fault with me if she should come to harm. And I guessed it ‘ud be wise to look into the woman’s story first before wasting a whole night on her. So I said I’d brought no money and would go back and get some. That was lame, but I couldn’t think of a better excuse. O’ course, she answered that she wouldn’t take my money. Free drinks — free everything. But I told her I’m proud and I’d go back to camp and return. So that was that. I set off at full gallop, and I guess that made the bully believe me, even if she didn’t. She’s too experienced to believe much except what’s bad o’ people.”
“You say you galloped the mare through the streets? Did she sprain that weak tendon?”
“No, sir. The mare’s all right. I woke the sais and had her well rubbed down, and a light blanket and all. Then I got into this disguise and hurried down to the river to check the woman’s story. That part of it’s true. The mine is where she said it is. So I’ll go back to her and—”
“You will do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you followed?”
“Not from the bazaar I wasn’t.”
“You’d better leave that woman and her bully guessing, and show me the mine. Where is it?”
“The mine dump,” said O’Leary, “is beneath the waterfall. I went right up to it. They dump by night. I saw ’em dumping out of baskets. There’s a guard set, and I came near getting scragged, but I took to the water. I advise you to stay away from it.”
“Thanks!” said Norwood. “How close could I get without having to swim?”
O’Leary pointed: “Two hours from now, when the moon’s about there, I can guide you to a place where you can see along under the apron of water.”
“Very well, O’Leary. Which way did you come?”
“Short cut. Don’t you try it. Horse might break a leg.”
“All right, I’ll follow the road. Meet me in camp.”
O’Leary vanished. Norwood had ridden another fifty yards when he heard angry shouting, several times repeated. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he also heard a girl’s voice. He rode forward slowly and then, a bit alarmed by the ensuing silence, stirred his horse to a canter. He drew rein, looking upward at Lynn, not much more than two or three minutes after Rundhia had left her. She was sitting in full moonlight on top of the wall, on a cushion, with one foot hanging over the wall and her back against the kiosk.
“Hello!” he remarked.
(EAST WEST NOVEL)
“You sound original,” she answered. “Don’t the English always say ‘Are you there’?”
“Do you know it’s after midnight?”
“I am at the age of indiscretion,” she answered. “How old are you?” —
“Where’s Rundhia?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d almost given up hope of seeing you again.”
“You should see Aunt Deborah first. You owe her an apology. I’m Aunty’s niece.”
“Did Rundhia leave you all alone here?”
“He said he’d come back.”
“Well, he’ll keep that promise. How well do you know him?”
“I met him for the first time this evening.”
“Like him?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“At your age, there is danger in exotic likes and dislikes.”
“How old do you think I am, Captain Methuselah?”
“Young and beautiful enough to need experienced advice.”
“You talk like Aunt Deborah. Anybody ever call you Uncle?”
“Yes, I have two nieces, aged six and seven.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“You don’t look it. I had guessed you as eighteen. However, no doubt you know how to take care of yourself among men of your own race. I’m taking it for granted that you’re a damned nice girl with a sense of humor but a bit rebellious against certain sorts of restraint. All this is new, and you’re enjoying it. You like the Indian setting, and the novelty and the moonlight and all that stuff.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes. And I like you. I would not like to hear of you making a mess of your life for the sake of a spot of excitement. You don’t understand India. You don’t understand Rundhia.”
A shadow moved. Someone chuckled:
“Doesn’t she?”
Rundhia loomed on the wall with a guitar in his hand. He smiled down at Norwood. The moonlight shone on his teeth.
“We were reaching a beautiful understanding,” said Rundhia. “Are you on your way to camp? Well, it’s a grand night for a ride. Sorry you’re tired and sleepy. Sweet dreams! I hope camp is comfortable.”
Norwood eased his horse a little nearer to the wall. He gave the reins to the sais. In another moment he was standing upright on the saddle, with his head within six inches of the top of the wall:
“I am not so sleepy as perhaps I look,” he answered. “Give me a hand up, Rundhia.”
Lynn watched. This was something altogether new in her experience. Rundhia hesitated. Moonlight betrayed him. Rundhia felt tempted to refuse. But he hadn’t the iron. He could have scared the horse and made Norwood look ridiculous. But he hadn’t the nerve. Lynn felt sorry for him. With a shrug he handed the guitar to her, in order to use both hands to help Norwood scramble up the wall.
Norwood straightened his jacket and smiled at Lynn.
“Thank you, Rundhia,” he said without looking at him.
Rundhia sneered: “Don’t mention it!”
Norwood called down to the sais in Hindustani.
“Meaning?” Lynn asked. “It sounds like swear words.”
“He has told the sais,” said Rundhia, “to take the horse to the palace gate. That means we are to have the honor—”
Norwood interrupted: “No. The indescribable felicity.”
“Of more advice?” Lynn suggested.
Norwood smiled again: “Yes. About going to bed. There’s madness in this moonlight.”
“Something else, too,” said Rundhia. “You weren’t invited.”
Norwood stared. “No. I noticed it. Can you strum on that thing?”
Lynn spoke with all the malice she could put into her voice:
“You like music, Captain Norwood? I supposed your line was engineering and ordering people about.”
Norwood laughed. “Not about, b
ut abed. It’s late. However, let’s hear Rundhia.”
“Yes, please sing.” Lynn knew she hadn’t even scratched the surface of Norwood’s humor. So she felt exasperated.
Rundhia smiled and plucked a chord or two: “Ever hear this one?”
He sang beautifully. His voice was a good tenor, and he handled the guitar with care. He avoided Norwood’s eyes. He sang to Lynn. The words meant nothing to her, but she couldn’t fail to perceive the passion suggested by the B-flat minor melody. At the end of a stanza, Norwood interrupted:
“Damn that stuff, Rundhia! Sing something decent.”
Rundhia passed him the guitar. He thought he had him at a disadvantage:
“You sing,” he answered. “Perhaps you know something for good little boys and girls. Do you know any hymns?”
Norwood surprised both of them. He took the guitar and changed the tuning, struck some chords at random and then played the thing better than Rundhia could. He felt his way through one air to another, until he found one that suited his mood. Then he trolled out Kipling’s On the Road to Mandalay.
He had a fine voice, baritone, and he could whistle the chorus instead of repeating familiar words. It wasn’t great art, but it was manly. It was decent. Where there “weren’t no Ten Commandments,” Norwood plainly had inviolable standards of his own.
“As usual, the Army roars its slogans to the sky,” said Rundhia. “I can imagine you in love with a Burmese woman, Norwood. Why not apply for a Rangoon billet?”
“And miss this?” Norwood answered. He was looking at Lynn. “Here’s your guitar. Are we going?”
He offered Lynn his arm and she was too astonished to refuse. He wasn’t her rightful escort. She hardly knew him, and what she did know had annoyed her. However, she found herself walking beside him with her arm in his, and there was nothing for Rundhia to do but to follow them down the ancient steps until the garden path was wide enough for three abreast. Norwood pressed Lynn’s arm to make her listen. He spoke so low that she could hardly hear him:
“The Maharanee is a dotard on Rundhia. You can’t depend on her for that reason. Leave Kadur the moment your aunt is fit to travel.”
“Oh, you can’t guess—”
“Yes, I know. I was an orphan. I was raised on stupid discipline and fossilized injustice — Oh, hello, Rundhia, you there? Thought you’d stayed behind to pray or something.”
Rundhia was grinding his teeth. He didn’t answer.
Lynn took pity on him: “When will you show me the treasure room?”
“When we’re alone,” Rundhia answered. Then, spitefully: “Ours is one of the few treasures that haven’t found their way to London.”
“You mean the others were plundered?” Lynn asked.
“Pawned,” said Norwood.
After that they walked in silence to the palace front door.
“Good night,” said Rundhia pointedly.
Norwood smiled. “I’ll ask you to be kind enough to see me to the gate, Rundhia. The guard let me out once tonight. They might think I’m my own ghost if I turn up alone. Miss Harding, you know why the beautiful Indian girls are locked up in zenanas, don’t you?”
“Is that a conundrum? No, why?”
“Because good-looking Indian men would be ashamed of ‘emselves if they couldn’t make Casanova look like a mere amateur.”
“Are you being rude?”
Rundhia came to her aid: “Excuse him, Lynn! Soldiers fold their tents and leave their girls behind them. They suppose all women are alike. He meant it as a friendly warning not to trust me.” Lynn stood at bay on the palace steps. It was on the tip of her tongue to insult Norwood so thoroughly that he would never presume to speak to her again. She wasn’t quite sure he didn’t expect that. Perhaps he really thought she was the kind of girl who would admit a Casanova through her bedroom window. But she glanced from one man to the other and changed her mind.
“I seem born to be—” She hesitated. She had almost said “misunderstood.” She rejected the word. It was weak, self-pitying. Standing there under the portico light, Norwood looked strong, good-humored, self-reliant. She turned up the steps.
“How about a stroll as far as the guesthouse to find out how your aunt is?” Rundhia suggested.
“Thanks, no. There’s a phone in my bedroom. I will use that. Good night. Good night, Captain Norwood.”
Lynn was admitted into the palace by four footmen who bowed to the ground. Norwood took Rundhia’s arm and began to walk with him toward the front gate. It was the second time that night that Rundhia resented, but didn’t resist.
“Let’s understand each other,” said Norwood.
“Oh, I understand you. Damn your eyes, she isn’t English. She’s American. She is none of your business.”
“Let’s not talk business,” Norwood answered. “Let’s talk man to man. If anything should happen to her—”
“What, for instance?”
“I would hold you answerable. You and I can get along all right if nothing happens to her. Am I quite clear?”
“Yes. You may go to hell. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Norwood. “Good night.”
Chapter Nine
NORWOOD changed into khaki and followed O’Leary’s lantern. O’Leary was nervous, talkative, deliberately disrespectful. Being only one-third Irish, two-thirds of his truculence was assumed, not genuine. However, Norwood understood that.
“Someone,” said O’Leary, “must have overheard us talking near the palace gate. I was followed to camp. Heard him. Couldn’t see him. We’re followed now. They’ll take your number down unless you watch out. All you officers believe, because your uniform was made in London, that you’ve only got to call the police and—”
“Shut up.”
“All right, strafe me! That’s the Army for you. I’m not Army. I’m an underpaid civilian supernumerary. Sack me if you want to. If I had the price, I’d be drunk this minute, snug in bed and snoring, and the hell with the Royal Engineers. It isn’t my notion of meat and gravy to be traipsing in front of an officer, this time o’ night, on an errand o’ death. I’ll bet you. I’m game to bet my pay we’re walking slap into trouble, headlong, slam the lid and no way out. Them priests are laying for us.”
“Stop your noise, or I’ll kick you.”
A footpath led along the river bank toward a waterfall. It shone in moonlight like a glass arch, vaguely orange color. The river was low. The fall was uniform but thin. It spread from end to end of the ancient dam, perhaps a hundred feet in width, and the plunging water was almost transparent. It could be nothing but light from behind it that caused that orange luminescence.
O’Leary resumed his discourse: “Call me a liar. I don’t mind, I’m used to it. But am I right that you was warbling on the palace wall? And am I right that you came twice out through the palace front gate, but only went in once? And am I right that you and Rundhia was walking in the palace garden with a girl whose aunt has bellyache and two-three palace women ‘tending to her in the guesthouse? Okay. I don’t know nothing, do I? Then believe this: while you was performing an officer’s job wi’ a banjo and a beauty, I sat thirsty by the camp-fire, so the smoke ‘ud keep the skeeters off me, hoping for one o’ my spies to show up. But came along a man I don’t know. Crep’ up surreptitious. Spoke Punjabi, mispronouncing it. It weren’t his right language. Says he: ‘How much?’”
“Gave you money?”
“Not one anna! He wanted to know your price to side with the priests against the Maharajah.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do?”
“He was gone too quick. I missed him with the new iron skillet what the cook had stuck to clean itself among the embers. Damned nigh red-hot. If I’d hit him, he’d ha’ sizzled. Point is that whoever sent him will be figuring they tried the wrong diplomacy. Next thing, knife or bullet. Dodge ’em and look out for poison. Make the cook taste everything and then bury t
he cook. From now on, I eat nothing. Even whiskey ain’t safe. They can drill and plug the bottle; but it kills more comforting than ground glass or bamboo fibre. The priests know you dined at the palace tonight. They’re dead sure the Maharajah greased your palm. Well — there’s where the dump is. ‘Tain’t safe to go closer.”
“Wait here,” said Norwood.
The roar of the waterfall almost drowned O’Leary’s voice:
“Yeh. I’m the Army, I am. Lead on, dammit. Nothing from me but God’s truth in the King of England’s English. But I’m a liar. Go ahead. See for yourself. A dead officer can’t sack me, so I’ll say what I like. Go ahead and get it. I can take it as good as you can.”
O’Leary picked up a stick. He shadowed Norwood along the footpath, until Norwood peered beneath the waterfall. He had to stand on a slippery ledge of rock. As O’Leary had foretold, the moon’s rays did wanly penetrate, but it was torchlight that revealed the tunnel-mouth. Norwood stood there for several minutes watching spectral figures dump blue clay from baskets, to be carried away by the river.
“Look out!” yelled O’Leary.
Norwood jumped. A living cobra, flung by an unseen hand, struck his face — fell writhing — struck — missed. Norwood almost fell into the pool beneath the waterfall, but O’Leary crashed him, shoved, almost fell in, too, but scrambled — regained his footing — attacked the cobra — beat it with the long stick, slew it.
“Now are you satisfied! Lied to you, did I? Going on in through the hole, or acting sensible? Want to know how it feels to be pitched in the dark down a diamond mine?”
“Back to camp,” said Norwood.
“Thank you, I’ll take whiskey! Watch your step, and watch your Uncle Moses. If I signal, don’t call me a liar, duck quick!”
Chapter Ten
As foster-mother, Aunty Deborah Harding had neglected no detail of Lynn’s social education. Whatever Lynn did, she did well. She had been taught to ride perfectly. On one of the Maharajah’s thoroughbreds, in the early morning cool, she looked worthy of the splendid animal that she controlled with no visible effort. Lynn, the mystic Indian daybreak and the vigor of her motion through the long mauve shadows, were all one merriment to make a man’s eyes widen and his heart leap.