Chapter 17
How about the door! Did somebody lock it?
"I," said the Chairman, "had the key in my pocket."
Who shut the windows? "I," said the vice.
"I shut the window, it seemed to me wise."
"I," said the clerk, "looked under the table
And out on the balcony under the gable."
Then who let the secret out? Who overheard?
Maybe a mouse, or the flies, or a bird!
"Suppose I lock the door?"
Tom Tripe felt like a new man, and his whiskers crackled with self-
satisfaction. For one thing, his dog Trotters was back again—sore-footed,
it was true, and unable at present to follow him on his rounds; and rather
badly scratched where a leopard must have missed his spring on the
moonlit desert; but asleep in the stable litter, on the highroad to recovery.
Tom had ridden that morning, first to Dick Blaine up at the gold mine,
because he was a friend and needed good news of his wife; then across
the bridge to Samson, straightening out the crumpled letter from Yasmini
as he rode, and chuckling to himself at the thought of mystifying the
commissioner. And it all worked out the way he hoped, even to the offer
of a drink—good brandy—Hennesey’s Three Star.
"How did you manage it?" asked Samson. "The princess has disappeared.
There’s a rumor she’s over the border in the next state. Gungadhura
has seized her palace and rifled it. How did you get my letter to her,
and her answer so swiftly?"
"Ah, sir," said Tom Tripe mischievously, "we in the native service have
our little compensations—our little ways and means!"
That was better than frankincense and myrrh, to mystify a genuine
commissioner! Tom rode back to his quarters turning over the taste
of brandy in his mouth—he had made a martial raid on Samson’s tantalus—
and all aglow with good humor.
Not so Samson. The commissioner was irritable, and more so now
that he opened the scented letter Tom had brought. It was deuced curt,
it seemed to him, and veiled a sort of suggested laughter, if there was
anything insinuative in polite phrases.
"The Princess Yasmini Omanoff Singh," it ran, "hastens to return thanks
for Sir Roland Samson’s kind letter. She is not, however, afraid of
imprisonment or of undue pressure; and as for her secret, that is safe
as long as the river runs through the state of Sialpore."
Not a word more. He frowned at the letter, and read and reread it, sniffing
at the scent and holding up the paper to the light, so that Sita Ram very
nearly had a chance to read it through the knot-hole in the door. The
last phrase was the puzzler. It read at first like a boast—like one of those
picturesque expressions with which the Eastern mind enjoys to overstate
its case. But he reflected on it. As an Orientalist of admitted distinction
he had long ago concluded that hyperbole in the East is always based
on some fact hidden in the user’s mind, often without the user’s knowledge.
He had written a paper on that very subject, which the Spectator printed
with favorable editorial comment; and Mendelsohn K. C. had written
him a very agreeable letter stating that his own experience in criminal
cases amply bore out the theory. He rang the desk bell for Sita Ram.
"Get me the map of the province."
Sita Ram held it by two corners under the draughty punkah while Samson
traced the boundaries with his finger. It was exactly as he thought:
without that little palace and its grounds, the state of Sialpore would be
bounded exactly by the river. Take away the so-called River Palace
with the broad acres surrounding it, and the river would no longer run
through the state of Sialpore. That would be the end, then, of the safety
of the secret. There was food for reflection there.
What if the famous treasure of Sialpore were buried somewhere in the
grounds of the River Palace! Somewhere, for instance, among those
gigantic pipal trees.
He folded the map and returned it to Sita Ram.
"I’m expecting half a dozen officers presently. Show them in the minute
they come. And—ah—you’d better lock that middle door."
Sita Ram dutifully locked the door on Samson’s side, and drew the
curtain over it. There was a small hole in the curtain, of peculiar shape—
moths had been the verdict when Samson first noticed it, and Sita Ram
had advised him to indent for some preventive of the pests; which
Samson did, and the hole did not grow any greater afterward.
Samson had had to call a conference, much though he disliked doing it.
The rules for procedure in the case of native states included the provision
of an official known as resident, whose duty was to live near the native ruler—
and keep a sharp eye on him. But Samson, prince of indiscretion, had
seen fit three months before to let that official go home to England on
long leave, and to volunteer the double duty in his absence. The proposal
having economic value, and there being no known trouble in Sialpore
just then, the State Department had consented.
The worst of that was that there was no one now in actual close touch
with Gungadhura. The best of it was that there was none to share the
knowledge of Samson’s underlying scheme—which was after all nothing
but to win high laurels for himself, by somewhat devious ways, perhaps,
but justified in his opinion in the circumstances. And the very worst
of it was that good form and official precedent obliged him to call a
conference before recommending certain drastic action to his government.
Having no official resident to consult, he had to go through the form of
consulting somebody; and the more he called in, the less likelihood
there was of any one man arrogating undue credit to himself.
They were ushered in presently by Sita Ram. Ross, the principal medical
officer came first; it was a pity he ranked so high that he could not be
overlooked, but there you were. Then came Sir Hookum Bannerjee,
judge of the circuit court—likely to have a lot to say without much meaning
in it, and certainly anxious to please. Next after him Sita Ram showed
in Norwood, superintendent of police; one disliked calling in policemen,
they were so interfering and tactless, but Norwood had his rights. Then
came Topham, acting assistant to Samson, loaned from another state
to replace young Wilkinson, home on sick leave, and full-back on the
polo team—a quiet man as a rule, anxious to get back to his own district,
and probably reasonably safe. Last came Lieutenant-Colonel Willoughby
de Wing—small, brusk and florid—acting in command of the 88th Sikh
Lancers, and preferring that to any other task this side of heaven or hell;—
"Nothing to do with politics, my boy,—not built that way—don’t like ’em—
never understood ’em anyhow. Soldiering’s my business."
It was well understood it was to be a secret conference. The invitations
had been marked "Secret."
"Suppose I lock the door," suggested Samson by way of additional
reminder; and he did that, resuming his chair with an expression that
permitted just the least suggestion of a serious situation to escape him.
But he was smiling amiably, and his curled mustache did not disguise
the corners of a wilful mouth.
"There is proof conclusive," he began, "—I’ve telegrams here that you
may see in confidence, that Gungadhura has been trafficking with
Northwest tribes. He has sent them money, and made them promises.
There isn’t a shade of doubt of it. The evidence is black. The question is,
what’s to be done?"
They passed the telegrams from hand to hand, Norwood looking rather
supercilious. (The police could handle espionage of that sort so much
better.) But it was the youngest man’s place to speak first.
"Depose him, I suppose, and put his young son in his place," suggested
Topham. "There’s plenty of precedent."
The doctor shook his head.
"I know Gungadhura. He’s a bad strain. It’s physiological. I’ve made
a study of these things, and I’m as certain as that I sit here that any son
of Gungadhura’s would eventually show the same traits as his sire.
If you can get rid of Gungadhura, get rid of his whole connection by
all means."
"What should be done with the sons, then?" asked Sir Hookum Bannerjee,
father of half a dozen budding lawyers.
"Oh, send ’em to school in England, I suppose," said Samson. "There’s
precedent for that too. But there’s another point. Mukhum Dass the
money-lender has been foully murdered, struck down by a knife from
behind by some one who relieved him of his money. Either a case of
simply robbery, or else—"
"Or else what?" Colonel Willoughby de Wing screwed home his monocle.
"That’s as obvious as twice two. That rascal Mukhum Dass was bound
to die violently sooner or later. He was notoriously the worst usurer
and title-jumper on this side of India. He charged me once a total of
eighty-five per cent. for a small loan—and legally, too; kept within the law!
I know him!"
"On the other hand," said Samson, "I’ve been informed that the cellar
of the house at present occupied by those Americans on the hill—the
gold-miner, you know—Blaine—was burgled last Sunday morning. Blaine
himself complained to me. It seems that he had given Gungadhura
leave to search the cellar, at Gungadhura’s request, for what purpose
Blaine professes not to know. Blaine himself, you may remember, lunched
and dined at the club last Sunday and gave three of us a rather costly
lesson in his national game of poker. It took place while he was with
us at the club. He has been able to discover, by cross-examining some
witnesses—beggars, I believe, who haunt the house,—that Mukhum Dass
got to the place ahead of Gungadhura, burgled the cellar, removed
something of great value to Gungadhura, and went off with it. On the
way home he was murdered."
"The murder of Mukhum Dass was known very soon afterward, of course,
to the police," said Norwood. "But we can’t do anything across the river
without orders. Why didn’t Mr. Blaine bring his complaint and evidence
to me?"
"Because I asked him not to!" answered Samson. "We’re mixed up
here in a political case."
"Damn all politics!" growled Willoughby de Wing.
"If it can be proved that Gungadhura murdered Mukhum Dass, or caused
him to be murdered, I should say arrest him, try the brute and hang him!"
said Topham. "Confound these native princes that take law into their
own hands!"
"I should say, let’s prove the case if we can," said Samson, "and use
that for an extra argument to force Gungadhura’s abdication. No need
to hang him. If he’d killed a princess, or an Englishman, we’d be obliged
to take extreme measures; but, as De Wing says, Mukhum Dass was
an awful undesirable. If we hanged Gungadhura, we’d almost have to
put one of his five sons on the throne to succeed him. If be abdicates,
we can please ourselves. I think I can persuade him to abdicate—if
Norwood, for instance, knows of any way to gather secret evidence
about that murder—secret, you understand me, Norwood. We need
that for a sword of Damocles."
"Who’s to succeed him in that case?" asked Ross, the P. M. O.
"I shall recommend Utirupa Singh," said Samson, with his eyes alert.
Ross nodded.
"Utirupa is one of those men who make me think the Rajput race is not
moribund."
"A good clean sportsman!" said Topham. "Plays a red-hot game of
polo, too!"
"Pays up his bets, moreover, like a gentleman!" said Colonel Willoughby
de Wing.
"I feel sure," said Sir Hookum Bannerjee, seeing be was expected to
say something, "that Prince Utirupa Singh would be acceptable to the
Rajputs themselves, who are long weary of Gungadhura’s way. But
he is not married. It is a pity always that a reigning prince should be
unmarried; there are so many opportunities in that case for intrigue,
and for mistakes."
"Gad!" exclaimed Willoughby de Wing, dropping his monocle. "What
a chance to marry him to that young Princess Whatshername—you know
the one I mean—the one that’s said to masquerade in men’s clothes
and dance like the devil, and all that kind of thing. I know nothing of
politics, but—what a chance!"
"God forbid!" laughed Samson. "That young woman is altogether too
capable of trouble without a throne to play with! I suspect her, as it
happens, of very definite and dangerous intentions along another line
connected with the throne of Sialpore. But I know how to disappoint
her and stop her game. I intend to recommend—for the second time,
by the way—that she, also, should be sent to Europe for a proper education!
But the point I’m driving at is this: are we agreed as to the proper course
to take with Gungadhura?"
They nodded.
"Then, as I see it, there’s no desperate hurry. Norwood will need time
to gather evidence; I’ll need specific facts, not hearsay, to ram down
Gungadhura’s throat. I’ll send a wire to the high commissioner and
another to Simla, embodying what we recommend, and—what do you
say to sending for a battery or two?"
"Good!" said Willoughby de Wing. "A very good thought indeed! I
know nothing of politics, except this; that there’s nothing like guns to
overawe the native mind and convince him that the game’s up! Let’s see—
who’d come with the guns? Coburn, wouldn’t he? Yes, Coburn. He’s
my junior in the service. Yes, a very good notion indeed. Ask for two
batteries by all means."
"I’ll tell them not to hurry," said Samson. "It’s hot weather. They can
make it in easy stages."
"By jove!" said Topham. "They’ll be here in time for the polo. Won’t
they beef!"
"Talking of polo, who’s to captain the other side? Is it known yet?" asked
De Wing.
"Utirupa," answered Topham. "There was never any doubt of that.
We’ve got Collins to captain us, and Latham and Cartwright, besides me.
We’ll give him the game of his life!"
"That settles quite an important point," said Samson. "The polo tournament—
after it, rather—is the time to talk to Utirupa. If we keep quiet until then—
all of us, I mean—there’ll be no chance of the cat jumping before the State
Department pulls the string. I feel sure, from inside information, that
Headquarters would like nothing known about this coup d’etat until it’s
consummated. Explanations afterward, and the fewer the better! Have
a drink anybody?"
In the outer office beyond the curtain Sita Ram cautiously refitted the
knot into its hole, and sat down to write hurriedly while details were fresh
in mind. Ten minutes afterward, when the conference had broken up
in small-talk, he asked permission to absent himself for an hour or two.
He said he had a debt to pay across the river, to a man whose wife was ill.
One hour and a half later by Sita Ram’s wrist watch, Ismail, an Afridi
gate-keeper at present apparently without a job, started off on a racing
camel full-pelt for the border, with a letter in his pocket addressed to
a merchant by way of ostensible business, and ten rupees for solace
to the Desert Police. Tucked away in the ample folds of his turban
was a letter to Yasmini, giving Sita Ram’s accurate account of what
had happened at the secret conference.