by Talbot Mundy
“Well, I will speak English. If he does understand it, it won’t much matter. I want you to call up the Resident and demand the immediate arrest of Captain Norwood!”
“Why?” asked the Maharajah.
“He has not only taken a bribe from the priests, as you already know—”
“I have heard it said.”
“You know it’s true. And now he has assaulted me. He knocked me out with a punch in the face.”
“Were you drunk?” asked the Maharajah. And, before Rundhia could answer: “It would be beneath my dignity to ask the Resident to take official cognizance of a brawl between two drunkards.”
Rundhia calmed himself. Then: “Does your dignity permit the heir to the throne to be punched in the face without anything being done about it?”
“I don’t put my face where it is punched by people,” said the Maharajah. “Why not follow my example?”
“Then you won’t do anything about it?”
“No. I think it likely this is only one more of your indiscretions. If trouble comes of it, I will attend to that tomorrow. This is the evening on which I do not permit interruption while I study my stamp collection. You will please leave the room.”
Rundhia turned his back on him and walked out. His gesture was so insolent that even the quiet old Maharajah noticed it. He called him back:
“Rundhia, where are your manners?”
Rundhia made the prescribed salaam, with both hands to his forehead, bowing. The Maharajah nodded:
“And now be good enough, Rundhia, to send in your doctor. He is late with my tonic.”
Chapter Thirty-one
LYNN changed from the Indian costume. She entered the Maharanee’s boudoir in a chiffon evening gown.
“Please don’t get up, Maharanee dear. You treat me as if I were royalty and you a subject or something.”
“Why did you change your dress, Lynn? You looked so charming in—”
“Oh, this dress feels more honest somehow. I mean more like my real colors. Maharanee dear, I’m afraid I’m all upset. I’m not fit to talk to.”
“Lynn dear, what has happened?”
“Rundhia made love to me, and I wasn’t even polite to him. Captain Norwood came, and punched Rundhia — he knocked him off the wall.
I thought he had Killed him. Oh, why do I keep on getting other people into trouble!”
The Maharanee’s worried face seemed to age under Lynn’s eyes:
“Lynn, did he hurt Rundhia badly?”
“No, I think not. Rundhia walked away.”
“Did you speak to Captain Norwood?”
“Yes, I insulted him. I did it thoroughly. I suppose I shouldn’t have, since it was I who injured him. But I couldn’t help it. He tore up my letter, so I tore up his. I am not meek by nature. I’m not good at pretending.”
“And Rundhia wasn’t hurt? You are sure?”
“Captain Norwood went down off the wall to look. It wasn’t long before Rundhia walked away. I don’t know why he didn’t come back and face Captain Norwood, but perhaps he was too stunned by being knocked off the wall. Rundhia didn’t behave very well.”
“He needs you, Lynn.”
Lynn laughed — bitter — contemptuous: “Needs me? I need a friend. Rundhia is—”
“Be strong,” said the Maharanee. “I am your friend.”
“Yes, bless you! Rundhia seemed strong,” Lynn said. “And he talked like a perfect lover. I had almost begun to believe he can love. And then something happened. There was shooting — perhaps nothing important — I don’t know. I asked Rundhia, and I thought he was lying when he said he didn’t know. After that — it was quite sudden — I didn’t believe in him any longer. I can’t explain it. Then Captain Norwood came.”
A servant entered. He announced that Prince Rundhia was waiting.
“Lynn, will you see him?”
“Not alone,” Lynn answered.
The Maharanee thought a minute: “It is against precedent, against custom. Lynn dear, will you be shocked if I ask Rundhia to come in here to talk to us?”
Lynn found a smile. “I suppose you’re afraid he might brag! Let’s risk that. I won’t tell.”
Rundhia strode in. He stood stock-still in the centre of the room. He was wearing a blood-red turban and dinner jacket. He looked like the real Rundhia again. Easy to imagine him horsed and riding hard at an enemy. He gazed at Lynn a moment, then at the Maharanee:
“Has Lynn told you?” he asked.
“Yes, Rundhia. What did you do to make Captain Norwood strike you?”
Rundhia tossed his head. He looked like a man when he did that.
“Lynn saw. Lynn heard,” he answered. “I went at once and demanded Norwood’s arrest. His Highness your husband, my revered and beloved uncle, refused. Lynn must decide.”
“Decide what?” Lynn asked.
Rundhia looked strangely at her. “Does he live or die? It was because you were there that Norwood struck me. I hadn’t offered to strike him. There is only one possible retort to that insult — unless you forbid. That is what you must decide now. Lynn, I have offered you my heart and the throne of Kadur. What is your answer?”
“Lynn,” said the Maharanee — and stopped speaking.
There was a knock at the door. A servant entered:
“Captain Norwood sahib! He waits. He begs leave to speak to Her Highness the Maharanee. Captain Norwood says his business is very urgent.”
A canary peeped. There was no other sound for several seconds. Rundhia ground his teeth and watched Lynn. Lynn met Rundhia’s eyes. They were dark — hard — resolute. But so were hers hard. She was deciding. Not hesitating. Slowly mastering herself.
“I will not see Captain Norwood,” said the Maharanee. “This is no hour for me to receive him.” She stared at Rundhia. Then, slowly, to the servant: “Tell Captain Norwood he should ask for His Highness my husband. I will send word to His Highness, asking him to receive Captain Norwood.”
The servant vanished.
Lynn got up out of her chair. She looked desperate but perfectly calm.
“Lynn darling,” said the Maharanee.
Rundhia interrupted: “Norwood’s fate is in your hands. I will do anything for you — if—”
“If what, Rundhia?”
“If you accept my love.”
“I don’t love you,” she answered.
“Accept my love. My love will make you love me!”
“If not?” Lynn asked.
“I will kill Norwood. After that, I will let happen what may. If my love means nothing, I will trample it into oblivion. Yes or no, Lynn?”
“Rundhia.” Lynn’s voice was as quiet and controlled as if she were facing death. “The barrier between you and me is your laugh when you boasted of Captain Norwood’s ruin. You promised me that you would do your best to clear him. Did you?”
“No,” said Rundhia. “But if you will marry me, I will. I will accept your promise. I don’t believe you know how to break one. I will keep mine.”
“Rundhia, you are sometimes right,” said the Maharanee. “Lynn would never break her word. She would rather die. Perhaps she can teach you never to break yours.”
“Rundhia,” said Lynn, “I will promise to marry you, if you will write, and sign, a retraction of any and all accusations against Captain Norwood. You must put it in the form of a letter to the British Resident, and it must be witnessed by the Maharanee and the Maharajah. You must meet Captain Norwood in my presence, and the Maharanee’s, and you must say to him personally that you withdraw. I won’t ask you to beg his pardon, because I won’t do that. I won’t speak to him. But I insist on your behaving like a man.”
The Maharanee spoke suddenly with a ring of command in her voice:
“Rundhia, go to the table and write!”
Rundhia went to the table. Lynn sat down beside the Maharanee:
“Maharanee dear, you must be my wise friend, for I am all in the dark. I feel so western and so lonely, and I
don’t know whether I am doing right or wrong. But I will do my best.”
“Lynn—”
Lynn interrupted her: “Will you make me a promise? Will you never, never tell Captain Norwood why I married Rundhia? Will you keep it a secret?”
The Maharanee was silent for nearly a minute. She was not quite dry-eyed. She spoke suddenly, low-voiced:
“Lynn, do you love Captain Norwood?”
“Maharanee dear, I have promised to marry Rundhia.”
The Maharanee shook her head, staring at Lynn.
“Won’t you promise?”
The Maharanee nodded.
“There you are,” said Rundhia. “Is this good enough? This ought to give him a clean sheet. Read it.”
Chapter Thirty-two
NORWOOD stood stock-still, beneath a Tibetan devil-mask, between two suits of ancient Indian armor. He had sent up his card to the Maharanee with a request for an immediate interview. It was an outrageous request, and he knew it. The palace chamberlain approached him, stared — stared harder — hesitated, and then:
“Captain Norwood? We had heard you are dead!”
“Yes. I have been wondering who is sorry I’m not dead. Has the Maharajah heard it?”
“No, I believe not. He is rather inaccessible this evening. And it was only a rumor, unconfirmed yet. It was thought best not to mention it to him prematurely. May I congratulate you on your escape. It was said that criminals attacked your camp. I am sincerely—”
“Thanks.”
“Your business at the palace? I think the Maharajah might be pleased to see you. He has a document—”
“I have asked to see the Maharanee.”
“Oh, impossible! Captain Norwood, please. We have been very unconventional of late, but—”
“Here comes the servant,” said Norwood.
The servant delivered his message: the chamberlain accompanied Norwood upstairs as far as the anteroom that led into the Maharajah’s study: “I am sure His Highness will be glad to see you, because of that new document he has discovered. The attendant in the anteroom will announce you. Hee-hee! You may believe it or not, but I wouldn’t dare to do it. When he is studying his stamps, he is like an ogre. As a rule, he excludes everyone, except the doctor with his tonic. Even the doctor is rather afraid to enter. He wants someone else to go in first and break the — what is it they call it — sales resistance? He asked me to let him know if anybody goes in.”
“Don’t mention my name,” said Norwood.
“I wouldn’t think of it. The doctor and I are not cronies. I will simply say someone went in. I believe you will be admitted. His Highness spoke of you. I think he really wants to see you.”
The chamberlain left him. Norwood was announced. The Punjabi stamp salesman was dismissed, smiling as if he had done good business. The door closed, and Norwood was alone with the Maharajah.
He stood facing him across a huge, old-fashioned, gilded and painted desk, on which were six huge stamp albums and a hammered golden gong on a heavy stand. Norwood made the conventional bow. The Maharajah stared. He looked more sheepish than ever, and yet vaguely hostile. Since he exercised his privilege of keeping his visitor standing in silence until he was spoken to, Norwood looked away from him and studied the room.
It was fairly large, but contained only two chairs, other than the one on which the Maharajah sat at the desk. In the corner, at the Maharajah’s right, a high, carved, ancient screen apparently concealed a door. Three walls were almost entirely lined with shelves of stamp albums.
At last the Maharajah spoke: “I am pleased to receive you, Captain Norwood, even though the hour is unusual. You came to speak to me about the — ah — boundary dispute? I have news. Since I saw you, my secretary has found a document which seems to me to make the priests’ case so ridiculous that—”
“Oh, I expect to find in the favor of the priests, Your Highness. Those documents may interest lawyers. I am only concerned with the boundary line. I have been accused of accepting a bribe from the priests—”
“Oh! Captain Norwood, you astonish me. Who is your accuser?”
“I supposed you already knew. He will tell you. As a matter of fact, I called on Her Highness the Maharanee. I want to speak to Miss Lynn Harding. I have reason to believe that without the Maharanee’s advice she might refuse to see me until perhaps tomorrow. I need to see her tonight. I hoped to persuade the Maharanee to arrange the interview, but she refused, so I came to you instead.”
“Is it urgent? Won’t you please be seated? Won’t you read this document?”
“Your Highness, do you think I would disturb you at this time of night if it wasn’t urgent!”
“Oh, well, possibly an interview can be arranged. I will enquire presently. Won’t you read that document?”
Norwood smiled agreeably: “I will. As you have reason to know, sir, I’m a bit slow at reading this ancient script.”
“I wouldn’t care to let that out of my possession,” said the Maharajah.
“Suits me,” Norwood answered. “I ask nothing better than to sit here for the time being. You will learn why, later.”
The Maharajah looked up sharply, but Norwood raised the document between them. He couldn’t see Norwood’s face:
“You flatter me,” he said after a moment.
Norwood grinned. But the Maharajah didn’t see that either. Norwood sat pretending to study the document for several minutes, while the Maharajah fidgeted and examined postage stamps through a magnifying glass. He kept glancing at the door. He seemed to be listening.
At last came a knock at the door. The Maharajah tapped the gong with his fingers and the Bengali doctor entered, making his suavest professional bow. He was followed by the Maharajah’s personal attendant, carrying a big blue goblet on a silver tray. The Bengali eyed Norwood with horror.
“You are late,” said the Maharajah. “Why are you late?”
“I was delayed, your Highness. I—”
Norwood had laid down the document. He rose from his chair. He stepped behind the Bengali. He held his right fist ready for emergency and seized the goblet in his left hand. The Bengali stepped back, out of reach of the fist. The Maharajah made a sudden exclamation, not unlike a sheep’s bleat. The white-clad servant backed away, showing the whites of his eyes. Norwood held the goblet toward the Bengali:
“Drink it!” he commanded.
The Bengali was speechless. It was several seconds before he could stammer: “Sir, are you mad?”
The Maharajah, with his elbows on the desk, and one hand within reach of the drumstick of the golden gong, leaned forward, staring.
Norwood spoke again quite calmly. But it was a deadly calm. It frightened the Bengali:
“You are, aren’t you, the doctor who poisoned Mrs. Harding’s toast?”
“Sir, beware whom you slander!” The Bengali appealed to the Maharajah: “Is Your Highness pleased to hear me slandered by a madman who is known to have been bribed by—”
Norwood interrupted: “Cut that! You heard me. Drink it!”
“That is His Highness’ tonic.”
“Drink it!” said the Maharajah. He looked almost happy. He sounded quite calm. But his fingernails drummed on the desk. Not a sign of humor.
The Bengali backed away from Norwood. He looked three shades paler. He was trembling. The Maharajah’s right hand seized the drumstick of the golden gong. He raised it.
“No,” said Norwood. “Not yet, please, Your Highness.”
The Maharajah stared. He seemed uncertain whether to feel flattered or offended. He laid down the drumstick and resumed the tapping on the desk with his fingernails:
“I become nervous,” he said, “without my tonic. This is very bad for my nerves. Captain Norwood, how did you know about this?”
Norwood answered without looking at him. He was watching the Bengali and the white-clad servant:
“I didn’t know. I guessed it. Both of you, go and stand over in that corner, with your backs t
o the wall!”
The servant obeyed promptly. He went down on his knees in the corner. He put his hands together and held them in front of his face. The Bengali backed away slowly, watching Norwood’s eyes. He backed until he reached a bookcase. Suddenly he snatched a stamp album and hurled it at the goblet. Norwood caught the album in his right hand, by one leaf of the cover. He set the goblet on the desk, without spilling more than two or three drops. Then he closed the album carefully and gave it to the Maharajah. The Maharajah petted it, stroked it:
“My collection of Cape of Good Hopes! My triangular black!” He glared at the Bengali. “You vandal! Now I know you are guilty! Why did you throw it?”
The Bengali had recovered some of his presence of mind: “It was at him I threw it. By his touch he has defiled your drinking goblet! He is a bribetaker! I suspect him of having tampered with your tonic. What has he put into it? I advise Your Highness not to taste it!”
Norwood smiled. “Good advice!” He resumed the goblet, in his left hand. He had heard a noise at the door behind the screen: three distinct knocks, and then two.
The Maharajah glanced at the screen, irritably. He shook his head. He looked at Norwood. Norwood nodded. The Maharajah tapped the golden gong with his fingers. He looked more sheep-faced than ever, as if Norwood’s audacity had almost hypnotized him. He was obeying, in the same way that he obeyed the palace chamberlain at a ceremony.
The door behind the screen opened, closed again, and the Maharanee appeared. Norwood bowed to her, but she took no notice of him. She went straight to the Maharajah, knelt beside his chair, and whispered. He grumbled at her, sotto voce. She continued whispering. At last he nodded. She stroked his right hand, murmured traditional phrases of respect and left the room. She didn’t even glance at the Bengali.
“I need my tonic,” said the Maharajah. “I am becoming more nervous each minute.”
“Whiskey and soda should be a good prescription for that,” said Norwood. “I’d have brought a flash if I had any sense. I didn’t think of it.”
“I have never defiled myself with whiskey,” said the Maharajah.
Norwood kept his eye on the Bengali: “If you had never drunk anything worse than a scotch and soda, they wouldn’t be betting in Kadur bazaar that you’ll be dead by midnight. Any money on it, doctor? What odds did you get?”