Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The door behind the screen opened again. The Maharanee reappeared, veiled. She was followed by Lynn, and then Rundhia. Rundhia looked startled. He shot one penetrating glance at the Bengali, then at Norwood, then at the Maharajah. He made a very obvious effort to recover self-possession. He dragged up a chair for the Maharanee. She refused it; she went and knelt beside the Maharajah; she stared through her veil at the Bengali. Rundhia pulled the chair toward Lynn. Lynn removed the cushion from the chair, nudged Rundhia and gave it to him; he arranged it carefully for the Maharanee to kneel on. Lynn sat down.

  “Captain Norwood,” said the Maharanee, “why did you wish to see me?”

  “About this,” said Norwood. He hadn’t time to reply decently. He had noticed that Rundhia was trying to signal the Bengali through the opening under the desk, so he got in the way. As soon as Rundhia had stood up again, Norwood spoke:

  “Rundhia, here’s something for your bruised face. Come and drink it.”

  Lynn stared with parted lips from one man to the other. Rundhia glanced at her; he looked stung, scared, sullen. Norwood hadn’t looked at Lynn once since she entered the room.

  The Maharajah pointed the gong drumstick at the Bengali: “Stand still,” he commanded. “If you are unable to stand, you may sit — on the floor — where you are.”

  “Rundhia,” said Norwood, “how about a trial by ordeal? You have accused me, behind my back. I accuse you, to your face, of an attempt to poison His Highness. What do you say? Shall we share this drink together? You drink half. I’ll drink what’s left.”

  “You are the last man I would drink with,” Rundhia retorted.

  Norwood laughed. He thrust his right hand into his tunic. “Steady, Rundhia! Keep your hand away from your pocket. I have you covered. — Lynn! Reach into Rundhia’s hip-pocket and put his pistol on the desk!”

  Lynn stared — resentful, alarmed, puzzled. Parted lips. Wide blue eyes. Frowning.

  Norwood repeated the order: “Lynn, do as I tell you!”

  “Rundhia,” she asked, “have you a revolver?”

  Rundhia was watching Norwood’s right hand.

  He didn’t dare to take his eyes off Norwood. He didn’t dare to move his own right hand. Lynn felt in his pocket. She laid an automatic on the table:

  “Rundhia,” she said, “I didn’t think that of you.”

  “Rundhia!” said the Maharanee. She had unveiled her face.

  Lynn spoke again: “Rundhia, you came to offer Captain Norwood something else than that, didn’t you. Where is it?”

  Rundhia snarled: “Tell him to put his own pistol on the desk.”

  “I haven’t one,” said Norwood. He reached for Rundhia’s pistol, jerked it open, broke it with a blow on the edge of the desk and tossed it into the waste-basket.

  “You have damaged my desk,” said the Maharajah. “It is a beautiful desk.”

  Lynn behaved as if a cold draught had caught her between the shoulders. She appeared to thrill for a moment and to change that, almost by an act of will, into a shudder. After that, she stared straight at the Maharanee, who had veiled her face again and was stroking the Maharajah’s right hand.

  There came a knock at the door. The Maharanee rearranged her veil. Norwood stepped aside, keeping his eyes on Rundhia, who was biting his lip. The Maharajah tapped the gong with his fingers. The door opened. The anteroom attendant spoke rapidly in his native tongue. The Maharajah looked like a frightened sheep. He nodded, speechless. The attendant bowed in the Resident and closed the door behind him. Norwood, still holding the goblet in his left hand, reopened the door and jerked his head at the Bengali:

  “Get out!” he commanded.

  The Resident stared. He almost forgot to bow to the Maharajah. He watched the Bengali leave the room. Then he looked at Norwood again and raised his eyebrows.

  Norwood spoke sotto voce: “Did my man follow you?”

  “Yes,” said the Resident.

  “All right then. The doctor won’t get far.”

  “You surprise us,” said the Maharajah. “We are overburdened with joy by this visit. But what does it mean?”

  The Resident looked comfortless: “I am at a loss for an answer! Captain Norwood sent me a sort of SOS. He—”

  “May I speak?” asked Norwood.

  The Resident answered: “I think you’d better, if His Highness—”

  “Yes, please,” said the Maharajah. He was looking more puzzled than anyone else, except Rundhia, who seemed confused by Lynn’s gaze; he avoided it.

  “Rundhia,” said Norwood. He held up the blue goblet in his left hand, almost as if he were going to drink a toast: “Let’s hear your accusation. What have you against me?”

  Rundhia eyed him sullenly: “Nothing,” he answered. “I don’t know you.”

  Norwood smiled: “Very cautious of you, Rundhia. I am really alive.”

  The Resident also smiled. He startled everyone by saying:

  “Rundhia, there is a conversation on record. Of course, only my version of it. But I refused, you remember, to treat it as confidential. I made a memorandum of it.”

  Rundhia swallowed what was left of his dignity. He was looking beaten. He spoke as if the insolence had all oozed out of him:

  “I forget what I said. I withdraw it anyhow. I have already written this.”

  He groped in his inside pocket, avoiding Lynn’s eyes, although Lynn looked sympathetic. He produced an envelope, strode past Lynn and offered it to Norwood. Norwood waved it aside and jerked his head toward the Resident.

  The Resident accepted the envelope, and bowed to the Maharajah: “You permit me?”

  “By all means. I am fascinated.”

  Rundhia, glaring at Norwood, retreated backwards until he almost tripped over Lynn’s feet.

  He murmured some sort of apology, and went and stood with his back to the wall. His hands went reaching for an album, on the shelf behind him. Norwood set the goblet on the desk behind the gong.

  “Can you hit it?” he asked. “Have a try. Luck changes, you know, Rundhia.”

  Rundhia muttered. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets.

  Lynn was watching the Resident. He had opened the envelope. He read the letter. He passed it to Norwood:

  “Is this satisfactory to you, Norwood?”

  “It’s entirely up to you, sir. I accept it if you do.”

  The Resident stepped forward and laid the letter in front of the Maharajah: “Will your Highness please read that and, if you see fit, witness it? I have a gallant officer here in need of a rebuttal of some secret accusations that might ruin his career.”

  The Maharajah read, stared at the Resident, stared at Rundhia, stared at Norwood, reached for his fountain pen and signed.

  Rundhia recovered a bit of his insolence. “Are you satisfied?” he demanded.

  “No,” said Norwood. “Not yet.” He reached for the goblet — raised it, sniffed it, smiled at Rundhia. Then he looked straight at Lynn.

  Lynn was watching the Maharanee, but she seemed conscious of Norwood’s stare. Rundhia whispered to her, but she took no notice. The Maharanee was whispering. The Maharajah stared at Norwood. The Resident produced a handkerchief and blew his nose:

  “Steady!” he said behind the handkerchief.

  “Rundhia,” said Norwood, “I will ask you two questions. Answer whichever you please. What is in this goblet?”

  The Maharanee pulled herself to her feet, picked up her cushion and went and knelt at the Maharajah’s left hand, so that she could watch Rundhia:

  “Rundhia,” she said, “answer!”

  Rundhia said nothing; he glared at Norwood. Lynn turned in her chair to watch Rundhia’s face. Norwood spoke again:

  “You don’t answer the first one? Very well, here’s the other: why did you sign that retraction? I didn’t ask you for it. Who did?”

  Rundhia was silent.

  “Speak!” said the Maharanee. She had unveiled her face. She was looking at Lynn.

 
Rundhia glanced at Lynn. Lynn looked suddenly straight at Norwood and spoke with such constrained emotion that her voice sounded fiercely angry:

  “Captain Norwood, I asked Rundhia to write that. If it isn’t what you wanted, you may blame me.”

  Norwood’s lips moved toward a smile, but he saw her embarrassment, so he checked it. He looked straight in her eyes for several seconds before he looked at Rundhia again:

  “Substitute question, Rundhia! You didn’t answer that one. How much did you charge for this retraction of your accusation against me?”

  The Maharanee caught her breath sharply. The Maharajah suddenly noticed that the Resident hadn’t a chair. He commanded the white-robed kneeling servant to draw up the only unoccupied chair. The Resident sat down and blew his nose again:

  “Careful, Norwood! Careful!”

  Rundhia had had time to consider. He sneered: “I wrote that as an act of magnanimity. Was it wasted on you?”

  Norwood glanced quickly at Lynn. “No, no, Rundhia, it wasn’t wasted. But tell us all what is in this goblet. I could have it analyzed. Perhaps you would prefer to consult that Bengali doctor before you answer? Question a bit awkward? Your trouble is that you can’t guess how much I know, can you? Can you guess why I let the Bengali leave the room? Any chance that he betrayed you? Rather drop the question? Very well, answer the other: how much or what did you charge, and to whom, for the magnanimous retraction of your accusation against me? I insist on an answer.” Rundhia spoke sullenly: “Nothing. No one. I don’t even know what you mean.”

  Norwood looked at Lynn. Her lips moved. He was in time to check her:

  “Please say nothing! I want Rundhia to tell it — Rundhia, choose. I won’t wait all night. Account for the contents of this goblet — or else answer: what promise have you exacted — from whom?”

  The Maharanee spoke in a strained voice: “Answer him, Rundhia.”

  Rundhia was silent. Lynn stared. He avoided her eyes.

  “If I should have to mention this goblet again,” said Norwood, “I will ask His Highness the Maharajah to summon the guard. What promise have you exacted from whom as the price of your signing that retraction?”

  “There was no price.”

  The Maharanee was looking at Lynn. She spoke suddenly: “Rundhia, speak like a man! There was a promise!”

  Rundhia stared at his feet. He had the grace to speak as if he were ashamed. He almost mumbled: “I release her from the promise.”

  Norwood looked at Lynn steadily: “Do you accept that?”

  “No! I refuse. Is this your vengeance? It’s cruel. Doesn’t the retraction satisfy you?”

  Norwood smiled at Lynn and made a reassuring gesture. Rundhia stared; he looked astonished. The Maharanee stood up. Norwood spoke: “Lynn, did Rundhia tell you that I tore up your letter? He lied. Your aunt gave it to me less than an hour ago. It reached her by mistake in the wrong envelope.”

  “I confirm that,” said the Resident.

  Lynn stood up and waited for Rundhia to speak. He didn’t.

  “Rundhia,” she said, “did you hear that?” Then, turning: “Thank you, Captain Norwood.”

  “Just a misunderstanding,” Norwood answered. “I will explain it later.”

  Lynn shook her head. Her eyes met his but she made no reply. She left the room by the door behind the screen. The Maharanee followed her. Silence.

  The Resident wiped his face with the handkerchief: “Steady, Norwood,” he said. “Steady.” He spoke aloud to the Maharajah:

  “Does Your Highness wish—”

  “I wish for tranquillity! I do not care to know any more!”

  “Carry on!” said the Resident. “Careful!”

  Norwood raised the goblet, this time in his right hand: “You don’t deserve this, Rundhia. You’re a blackguard.” He glanced at the Resident: “You agree, sir?”

  The Resident nodded. The Maharajah stared, fascinated. Norwood spilled the contents of the goblet on the floor.

  “Have you spoiled the rug?” asked the Maharajah. “That is a very good rug.”

  The kneeling servant crawled and used his snow-white turban as a mop. The Maharajah turned to Rundhia:

  “Leave the room. Never return.”

  Rundhia moved toward the door behind the screen, but the Resident jumped out of his chair. Rundhia began to hurry. Norwood was too quick. He shoved the screen in Rundhia’s way. It banged against the door and the noise almost made the Maharajah scream.

  “Your Highness,” said the Resident, “in Prince Rundhia’s presence, I take this opportunity to inform you that I have written to His Majesty’s advisers, strongly recommending them to exercise their veto in the matter of Prince Rundhia’s succession to the throne of Kadur.”

  “You have already written?”

  “I have mailed the letter.”

  “I resign,” said Rundhia sullenly. “You and your veto may go to the devil.”

  “May I speak to Your Highness alone?” asked the Resident.

  The Maharajah scowled at Rundhia: “Go out that way!” He pointed to the door into the anteroom.

  Rundhia walked out. Norwood followed. He overtook Rundhia at the head of the stairs, and Rundhia turned about and faced him:

  “I sincerely regret,” he remarked, looking straight into Norwood’s eyes, “that the men who fired at you, missed.”

  “Yes, you had rotten luck, Rundhia, What will you do — go to Europe? The Riviera? That’s crowded with might-have-beens who insisted on hitting below the belt. D’you know, Rundhia, if I had oven suspected you of having put one over on Lynn Harding, I would have let you hang. You know, they hang even princes who play at your game.” He laughed. “No, Rundhia, no. You will walk ahead of me down the stairs. I know that trick.”

  At the foot of the stairs, Norwood pulled out his cardcase, produced a card and gave it to one of the palace servants:

  “Send that up to Miss Lynn Harding. Say I will be waiting outside. I will meet her near the front steps.”

  He walked out. Under the glare of the portico light he pulled out his handkerchief, raised his right arm and waved it.

  O’Leary’s shrill whistle answered: long-short, long-short— “Order received and executed — okay!”

  O’Leary had released the Bengali doctor.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  LYNN looked like a ghost in white chiffon. She turned instinctively to the right and stepped into the darkness. She stood within a few paces of the spot where, one night ago, she had bridled at Norwood’s blunt comments. It seemed as if a whole lifetime had passed in the interval. The guitar and the songs on the wall were a far-off memory.

  Norwood strode out of the darkness. “Silence!” he said. “Not a word. Nothing so easy on the nerves as saying nothing.”

  He took her arm into his, and strode forward, avoiding moonlight, choosing paths that were overhung by branches. After a while, he whistled softly a few snatches of a funny little tune that Lynn had heard. It was an Indian tune familiar to Indian thieves and other people of peculiar repute and notorious humor but not much virtue. It was a tune identifiable by its rhythm as unlikely to appeal to those who hold past error to be proof that nothing good can happen. It was an irresponsible, impious, gay little tune that disobeyed several canons of musical taste, suggesting that some sorts of disobedience might possibly, or even probably find favor with the hundred thousand little local gods who live so close to men and women. It was a medicine tune. There was magic in it. It suggested laughter tartened by a hint of slightly Rabelaisian malice. Lynn found it absolutely impossible to listen to that gay little tune and at the same time to take herself seriously. It couldn’t be done. It ought to be done. She should be feeling like Clytemnestra, or Electra or Lady Macbeth. The moon and the luminous gloom of the Indian night; the soft silence and the heavy perfume; black shadows in which mystery lay hidden; the vivid memory of poison in a big blue glass and of Rundhia stripped of his mask and revealed — all these should have built and cryst
allized themselves into a tragedy. They didn’t. Lynn felt strangely excited.

  Norwood, too, was revealed. Perhaps he never did wear a mask. Perhaps he was exactly the man he pretended to be — just a Captain of Royal Engineers, on special survey duty. Perhaps. All the same, he was more mysterious than ever Rundhia had been. She could always guess pretty accurately what Rundhia would say next, and from the very first minute she met him she had known perfectly what Rundhia wanted. She did not know what Norwood intended. Very likely he was going to lecture her on how an American girl should behave in an Indian setting. She hoped not; but it would be quite English to make the attempt; they even tell their King and Queen how to behave. If he tried it, she intended to fight back. But she hoped he wouldn’t. There was a dim foreknowledge, perhaps only a hunch, underlying her belligerent mood, that fighting back wouldn’t get very far.

  They continued walking until they came to a moonlit lotus pond and stood together staring at the reflections of trees. A little animal jumped into the water and swam. They watched the ripples spread until they reached the marble banks. At last Norwood spoke:

  “Feeling better?”

  “I can’t analyze it. I suppose I’m feeling guilty.”

  “Want some more silence?”

  “No. I would rather you’d say what you think.” Norwood chuckled: “You remember the parrot. I draw extra pay for thinking and not talking.

  “I understand. You would rather not say what you think of me. Is that it?”

  Norwood chuckled again. It made Lynn angry. If he was merely amused, that was even worse than an elderly brother attitude — even worse than aloof austerity talking down to her.

  “Are your thoughts so priceless,” she asked, “that they have to be wrapped in cellophane and locked away?”

  “They wouldn’t do in a book,” he retorted. “They would never get by the censor. But I’ll tell you one thing to begin with.”

  Lynn faced him suddenly. “What is it?”

  “Your Aunt Harding is not a credit to you. You have neglected her education.”