by Talbot Mundy
One could recognize Rundhia from a mile off by the way he swung his right arm at the trot, an unconscious habit that it had been nobody’s business to tell him about. But Rundhia could ride, too. They were a pair to stop and gaze at.
Norwood, who was also riding, waited for them. He was in a hurry to get down to the river, but he would have kept all India waiting for a chance to speak to Lynn. He recognized the fact. It surprised him. His horse noticed its rider’s mood and pranced, plunging, trying to snatch the bit.
Rundhia, with the end of his turban streaming in the wind, rode by at full gallop with the obvious purpose of inducing Lynn to do the same thing. But Lynn drew rein; so Rundhia returned, pretending that his horse had been out of hand. He strafed the horse savagely to save the trouble of lying about it.
Lynn seemed to have forgotten the previous night’s disagreement. She appeared glad to see Norwood:
“What are you doing up so early?”
“The sight of you on horseback is better than sleep,” he answered. “I had dreams about you.”
“Bad ones?”
“I can’t remember. You know how dreams escape you when you wake up.”
“Come along for a gallop.”
“Can’t,” said Norwood. “Sorry. I would like to.” He jerked his head in the direction of the river, where Moses O’Leary was waving his sun helmet. “How’s your aunt this morning?”
“In a very bad temper, I’m sorry to say. Every time she moves it hurts, and she hates to lie still.”
“I know that feeling — took a toss once that crocked me for three weeks. I was like the Army in Flanders — swore horribly. Since then I’ve always pitied women who mayn’t say what they think!” Lynn laughed. “I wish she’d say it to you instead of me. Give her the chance, why don’t you! Poor old thing, she’s sick every time she eats, but she insists on eating. Tea, fruit, toast — chota hazri, don’t they call it. She has been up since before daylight, on the verandah. She can’t look at me without losing her temper. But she likes you. She says she never before met a well-bred Engineer. From Aunty, that’s a compliment. Won’t you come to breakfast?”
“Can’t. Sorry.” Looking at Lynn’s eyes, thinking about Rundhia, Norwood spoke unguardedly: “My man is signalling — some people waiting for me near the waterfall. I must go. I will call as soon as I can.” He looked straight at Rundhia.
It was then that Lynn noticed that Rundhia and Norwood hadn’t spoken.
“Should I introduce you?” she suggested, laughing.
Norwood saluted her, wheeled his horse, and rode away, not looking backward. He heard Rundhia laughing.
O’Leary met him by the river, full of self-importance:
“You should send me to Geneva! I’m a diplomat. They’re waiting. If you’re nice, and no one’s looking, they may let you see the mine. I convinced ’em that all you’re here for is to blow the Government’s nose. It needs blowing, I told ’em, on account of some sneak squealing on ’em that their mine isn’t safe for laborers, and you’re here to muzzle the talk.”
“I would like to muzzle you,” said Norwood.
“Same as it says in the Bible about muzzling the ox that grinds your corn,” O’Leary answered.
Norwood studied him a moment. There was only one way to get the value out of O’Leary. No use making him sulky. Keep him busy.
“Go to the bazaar,” he ordered. “Here’s some money. Pick up all the palace gossip that’s going the rounds.”
“I get you! Smell a rat — just smell him and I’ll catch him. This isn’t much money.”
“It’s all you’re going to get.”
“One o’ these days,” said O’Leary, “I’m going to hire a secretary and take a chance with the Official Secrets Act and dictate my memoirs. Page one, I’ll tell ’em the Intelligence is run by cheap ‘uns. They’d make a Scotchman feel like multiplying loaves and fishes, free for nothing!”
Norwood rode alone along the river bank until the path grew narrow near the waterfall and he could no longer see the huge bulk of the temple, nor even the city wall that followed the curve of the river beyond the dam. He dismounted and hitched his horse to a shrub. The water tumbled innocently, lazily over the dam; there was hardly a hint that behind that beautifully curved translucent screen there might be the mouth of a tunnel. The river water and the river-bed were vaguely blue. There was no other indication.
There were four men seated near the ledge on which Norwood had nearly lost his life the night before. They stood up, greeting him respectfully. They were Brahmins but not priests; they looked like responsible men of affairs who might, perhaps, be trusted with the financial details of some of the temple business.
After the usual salutations, they gathered closely around him, so that Norwood needn’t raise his voice against the roar of the water. He plunged straight into his subject:
“One of our Air Force pilots has reported having glimpsed an open pit surrounded by those outlying buildings near the temple area. It’s an open secret that the priests have been working a diamond mine for centuries. We have heard the mine is dangerous. I want a secret look at it. Perhaps I can advise you how to make it safe. One other thing: stop dumping clay in the river. Perhaps I can advise what to do about that. As for the dispute about ownership, my party is running a survey line to establish facts. I have seen nothing yet to suggest that the priests are not the rightful owners. If you’ve any documents, I’d be glad to see them. My report isn’t the last word, but it’s likely to carry weight.”
If Norwood hadn’t been thinking about Lynn and Rundhia, he might have noticed that the Brahmins looked a lot too pleased. One of them, pushing past him, slipped a tiny black paper envelope into Norwood’s left-hand tunic pocket. He apologized for having brushed against him. Norwood had hardly noticed that he did.
The four held a whispered consultation. Then their spokesman said, in excellent English, but with a trace too much silk in his voice:
“We appreciate your honor’s courtesy. But we are intermediaries, on whom it is incumbent to convey the message to the proper quarter. It shall doubtless have immediate consideration.” He paused, then added, as if choosing an innocuous polite phrase: “We know well that your honor’s report will have great weight. We hope that your honor’s judgment may not be influenced by worthless arguments.”
“Snakes, for instance?” Norwood smiled genially. “You know where to find me. Let me know when to expect you, and I’ll take care that no one throws live cobras at you! One of your people threw one at me last night. That wasn’t kind to the cobra.”
They stared blankly. Norwood saluted with a gesture that they might interpret how they pleased, and returned to his horse. They remained standing, watching him, until he had ridden out of sight.
Back in camp, Norwood sat under the tent awning to have his boots polished by his servant, while he gave orders for the day.
“Sergeant Stoddart,” he said suddenly. “There’s a middle-aged lady in the Maharajah’s guesthouse who had a rather bad spill yesterday. Bruises. Perhaps abrasions. Might be complications if she isn’t careful. A Bengali doctor is attending her, and you can’t always depend on those fellows to use fresh antiseptic.”
“I’d be awful sick, before I’d let one of ’em dose me, sir.”
“Well, before you go down to the river, take a look in my medicine chest. You’ll find a new two-ounce bottle of iodine. I think I’ll take it to her. Wrap it up so that it won’t break.”
Stoddart found the bottle and wrapped it loosely in paper. Norwood stuffed it into his left-hand tunic pocket, and rode away. It seemed a good idea to tell the Resident about the supper-party at the palace. If he should learn of it first from someone else he might resent Norwood’s having refused his own invitation to dinner; his resentment was notorious for superficial dignity and undercover spite.
The Resident was in his office, reasonably civil, but he frowned when Norwood told him about the palace supper.
“You
met the Hardings, I suppose? What did you make of them?”
“Tourists. Beautiful niece. Terrible aunt. I gathered, without being told, that the aunt has money.”
“Rundhia show up? Did you notice anything suggestive of the possibility of scandal?”
“I thought the niece a damned nice girl, sir. A bit romantic. A bit carried away by the novelty of her surroundings. Full of fun. But — I should say there’s nothing wrong with her whatever.”
“Let me know if you change your mind about her. Any conversation with the Maharajah?”
“Yes. I was alone with him until midnight. He showed me all the documents that he seems to think bear on his claim to own that temple property. He seems very anxious to avoid a lawsuit, and it isn’t difficult to guess why, though I’m not a lawyer, He showed me nothing that even half persuaded me he has a case against the priests. Of course, we’ll know more when we’ve run the survey. But as far as I’ve gone, I should say the priests have a walk-over.”
“You sound prejudiced.”
“I haven’t a trace of prejudice, sir, one way or the other.”
“Why not reserve your opinion? Are you off now to call on the Maharajah?”
“Yes. I’m a bit early, but I have something to do on the way.”
“Very well. Keep me posted.”
Chapter Eleven
NORWOOD left his horse in charge of the sais at the palace front gate. He intended to return and ride up the long drive to the front door for his formal call on the Maharajah. But the footpath to the guesthouse was shorter than the winding carriage-road, so he walked, to leave the iodine for Mrs. Harding.
Two hundred yards of the path were beneath a pergola between dense shrubs. Then it opened on to an acre of lawn and a fountain. The guesthouse verandah faced the lawn and, beyond that, a bower of creepers that were still luxuriant but weather-weary. They were browning. There were wide gaps in their foliage. An open-sided stone summerhouse and the croquet lawn beyond it were quite easy to see. But that was not all.
A breakfast table had been set between the summerhouse and the edge of the croquet lawn. It was protected from the sun by the branches of an overleaning tree. Breakfast was finished, and the table deserted. Norwood wondered why the ubiquitous Indian servants hadn’t carried away the table, until he noticed Rundhia and Lynn. It was perfectly obvious then that Rundhia had commanded the servants to keep away.
Lynn was no longer in riding breeches. She looked delicious in a frock of nile-green print and a wide leghorn hat. Norwood wasn’t sure, but he suspected she knew she could be seen from the guesthouse verandah, and that Rundhia did not know. She and Rundhia were laughing. Suddenly Rundhia snatched her hat off, used it as a shield to hide behind, caught her in his arms and kissed her. It was no fool of a kiss. It was an experience. Lynn did make a show of resistance. She struggled free and recovered her hat.
Norwood’s view of it, against the background of the leghorn hat, made him set his jaw. But he relaxed it again and smiled, a bit grimly, a bit maliciously. From the opposite direction he had heard what sounded like an oath, although it was nothing worse than the well-bred, almost inarticulately gurgled word:
“Hussy!”
Aunty Deborah Harding had also seen that lingering and only laughingly resisted kiss.
Aunty was on the screened verandah, propped on pillows, on a reed chaise longue, with a table beside her. A native servant was just in the act of removing a tray of breakfast things.
“May I approach,” asked Norwood, “or are you purdah?”
“Who is it? I can’t see you. Oh, yes, Captain Norwood, come in if you can bear the sight of me. I should look presentable. I never had so many women in all my life to push and pull me about. This is my second attempt at a meal this morning. You’ll have to run away if I can’t keep it down. What has brought you, pray, at this hour?” He had forgotten the iodine. “Thought I’d ask how you’re coming along.”
“As if you cared! Now tell your real motive.” Norwood chuckled: “Not guilty. Wish I could amuse you with a plea of mischief. I haven’t a reprehensible thought in my head.”
“Then you’re no gentleman!” she answered. “I never knew a gentleman who couldn’t entertain an invalid with gossip. Do you mind being useful?”
“Now you frighten me,” he answered, laughing. “There are people who say useful when they mean obedient.”
“Will you bring my niece here? She’s beyond those trees, talking to someone. I want her to come here and talk to me. Will you tell her I said so, and please don’t take no for an answer.”
Norwood strolled across the lawn, tapping his boots with a riding whip. He coughed a couple of times. By the time he had peered around the trees, Lynn and Rundhia were seated opposite each other on wickerwork chairs. Lynn seemed unselfconscious. Rundhia looked venomously sly; he offered Norwood no greeting whatever.
“I happened to be calling on your aunt,” said Norwood, “and she asked me to say that she wants to see you—”
Lynn looked dubious: “What sort of mood is she in?”
“Very polite to me,” said Norwood.
“That’s a danger signal. She can’t be polite to more than one person at a time. I think I won’t go.”
“You will have to pardon me,” said Norwood, “but I agreed to bring you.”
“You always do what you say you will?”
“Yes.” He looked straight at Rundhia, who ignored him.
“Prince Rundhia,” said Lynn, “is going to show me the jewel room.”
“Is he?” said Norwood.
Rundhia winced noticeably: “Perhaps you’d better go,” he said to Lynn. “There’s lots of time. She’ll have her tantrum out, and you can meet me later.”
Lynn compared them, as clearly as if she had said it aloud. Her smile was a bit forced when her eyes met Norwood’s:
“Do you always order people?” she demanded. “Don’t you ever say please?”
He laughed. “I can’t kneel. Breeches too tight.”
“What will you do if I won’t come?”
“Scream,” he answered.
“I dare you.”
“Tuesday is my day for screaming. Are you game to wait here until Tuesday?”
“No. I’m coming with you.” She glanced at Rundhia: “You’ll excuse us?”
“I excuse you,” he answered.
There was not much conversation between Lynn and Norwood on the way to the guesthouse. Lynn was evidently nervous. She looked vaguely guilty, but defiant. Norwood couldn’t think what to say to her. It felt like leading someone to the headsman to be executed. Anything one says on such occasions is pretty sure to be wrong. He felt a premonition of disaster. He looked so comfortless that Lynn noticed it:
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, nothing. I was wondering what your aunt eats.”
She laughed at him. “Liar! That’s the very first time you haven’t spoken like a polished ramrod.”
“I told part of the truth. I am worried about you.”
“You needn’t be. I’m all right.”
She ran forward to speak to her aunt. The tray of breakfast things was being carried out by a palace servant. Norwood stopped the man, inspected the tray, and selected a piece of toast. He looked for something to wrap it in. That reminded him. He groped in his left hand pocket for the iodine, tore off half the paper in which Stoddart had wrapped the bottle, stuffed the untidy package back, wrapped the toast in the torn-off paper and put that into his right-hand pocket.
There was no sense in hanging around. He didn’t choose to overhear a quarrel between Lynn and Aunty. It hadn’t started yet. He didn’t enter the verandah; he spoke through the wire screen: “I’m expected at the palace, so I can’t stay, Mrs. Harding. I brought you some fresh iodine, in case the doctor’s stuff is pretty ancient, as sometimes happens.”
He plunged his hand into his tunic pocket and Lynn came to the screen door to receive the bottle. He looked at her, groping with
his left hand, trying to pull out the bottle without the untidy paper; but a piece of string, tied with one of Stoddart’s knots, prevented. So he pulled out the disgraceful package with a quick smile of apology.
“Hello,” said Lynn, “you’ve dropped something.”
He stooped, picked up what lay at his feet but didn’t recognize it. It was a quite small black paper envelope.
“I saw it fall from your pocket,” said Lynn.
He opened it. It contained a neatly folded paper of diamonds. Nine large, clear white brilliants shone in the sun. He scowled at them and stuffed the package back into his pocket, evidently upset. He appeared to hope that Lynn hadn’t seen the diamonds. He seemed about to mention them, but changed his mind. Lynn thought he seemed suspicious of her. Then suddenly:
“Excuse me, won’t you?”
He walked away. Lynn’s eyes followed, wondering. He looked like a man who has been hit hard and is trying not to show it.
“Lynn,” said her aunt’s voice.
“Yes, Aunty.”
“Come here!”
(EAST WEST NOVEL)
Lynn faced about: “Aunt Deborah! I have seen someone staring at what he dreaded. Or it seemed to me so.”
“Nonsense!”
“I never in all my life felt less like talking nonsense. I don’t think you guess, Aunt Deborah, how nearly you and I have reached the edge of—”
“Edge of what?”
“Of something neither of us understands.”
Mrs. Harding coughed drily and tightened the line of her lips. Lynn watched Norwood. When he was out of sight she followed him a little way along the path until she could see him again through a gap in the shrubbery. His back, shoulders and the carriage of his head were not so eloquent as Rundhia’s — not by a long way. In fact, they were hardly eloquent at all. They were a sort of statement of fact without circumlocution or trimmings. What Rundhia could suggest beautifully, and might attempt ingeniously, and what Norwood would be silent about, but would do, were as opposite as plus and minus.