Читать книгу C.I.D. - Talbot Mundy - Страница 5

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DIVINELY authorized and autocratic sounds good, but it seems that liabilities invariably balance assets, somehow, even in the Rajah business. To begin with, it was monsoon weather. The marble and limestone palace, with its terraces, courtyards, gardens, summer-houses and lotus-ponds was one desolate splash made drearier by hurrying dark-gray clouds. There were creditors out on the palace steps, bemartyring themselves beneath umbrellas. The walls dripped clammy moisture. There was mildew on the hangings. The canaries in gilded cages were molting miserably and refused to sing. The Rajah had the bellyache, a headache, and a letter from a banker—a swine of a banker—a dirty, contemptible son of a low-caste shroff,* who demanded his interest and "found it inconvenient" to lend another rupee. Nor was that all.

[* shroff (Hindi from Arabic)—a banker or money changer in the Far East; especially: one who tests and evaluates coin. Merriam-Webster Online. See also Platt's Dictionary of Urdu, Classical Hindi, and English. ]

The zenana* hummed with malice, like a wasps' nest being smoked out. The most recent recruit to the Rajah's private ménage was a lady with a genius for spending money and a magnetism that exploded all the stores of jealousy and discontent that she could anywhere discover.

[* zenana (Hindi)—the part of a house in Asian countries reserved for the women of the household. Wikipedia. ]

There is plenty of both in a Rajah's zenana, always. And today it is not nearly as safe as in the good old days of twenty years ago to use the whip; because even in Indian Native States there are women who know about modern notions. They inform the others. And any woman understands that one does not have to believe things in order to try to get away with them.

So the Rajah was in his library, where the books were all soggy with moisture; and even the brandy and soda did not taste good, because he had drunk too much of it the night before. His servant had left the lid of the cigar-box open, so the cigars were ruined; they tasted like hay and blotting-paper—two rupees each. The cat looked happy, sleeping on a cushion near the smelly oil-stove. So he kicked it, and that settled the cat for a while. Then he got up and looked in the mirror—a full-length one, behind which was a closet of books such as even a Rajah does not let the servants see.

There was a damp film on the mirror, but he could see himself. He had never had any faith in religion except as an important form of politics; but the sight of himself in the glass nearly, if not quite, convinced him that a diabolical intelligence does actually govern things. How otherwise could such a handsome fellow, so endowed by nature with a figure, a brain, and a taste for smart clothes and expensive entertainment, find himself in such a damned predicament? No answer. He made a grimace at himself in the glass.

Then he pressed an electric bell; but rain had discovered the places where a rascally contractor had saved money on the insulation, so the bell was silent. After waiting a few minutes he seized a revolver and fired it five times at the bell-push. He was a good shot, even with all that brandy in him, so he hit the mark three times, but it annoyed him that he missed twice; and the noise made the cat act like a lunatic, so he put the sixth shot through the cat's head. Then the servant came. He might possibly have shot the servant—it would have cost less than to whip a woman—only that the cartridges were all used up.

"Take away that cat and tell Syed-Suraj I want him."

The servant left the cat's blood on the carpet and ran like a marauding jackal with the carcass. Syed-Suraj was the only one to run for when the Rajah was in that mood. Discreetly vicious sycophant and rapacious grafter though he was, Syed-Suraj could be depended on to calm the Rajah's humor even when the last new female favorite was afraid to go near him. A relation, distant, on the distaff side; an educated sybarite, whose estates had all been squandered in Madrid, Heidelberg, Paris, London, and Monte Carlo, Syed-Suraj had equipped himself with cynicism and a charming manner that the Rajah and Syed-Suraj, too, mistook for statesmanship. But Syed-Suraj was a lot too shrewdly cautious to accept an official position. It suited him better, and so did the pickings, to be the Rajah's confidant, pander, parasite, and go-between.

He entered briskly. There was a flower on the lapel of his well-cut British suit. He looked well, lithe, humorous. His olive skin, fresh from the barber, shone with apparent youth, although he was almost fifty years of age. He was a small-boned man, with rather hairy hands and small feet. Nothing about him except his eyes suggested danger, importance, or even much experience. But the crows' feet at the corners told their tale, and his eyes were slightly simian, brown, brilliant, a bit too close together, with a habit of narrowing slightly after one swift, penetrating glance.

He sat down, He and the Rajah usually conversed in French or English to avoid being understood by servants, who were always lurking where they should not and who always carried tales to the zenana. The Rajah scowled. Syed-Suraj smiled.

"You'll be dead soon," he remarked, "so be gay. Let the money-lenders worry."

"Damn the money-lenders," said the Rajah. "I would sell my entire State for the price of a trip to Europe."

"But you can't, dear boy. It's mortgaged for more than it's worth. Why be impractical? Besides, imagine what might happen if you went away. You know as well as I do that the priests are playing poker with a whole pack up their sleeves. They'd frame you in your absence. They already accuse you of neglect—of withholding temple revenues—of personal defilement—"

That last was a sore point and the Rajah sputtered, cursing the priests of Kali in a language enriched by ages for just that purpose. The expense of being undefiled was bad enough—they have a special rate for Rajahs—but the worst part was the tedious ceremonies. He shuddered to think of them.

"And," said Syed-Suraj, "they again demand fulfillment of your promise to rebuild that damned old temple in the jungle. You would have made that promise over my dead body, had I been here when you came to the throne."

"But, damn your eyes, I had to make it," said the Rajah. "They pretended they knew all about my elder brother's death. If a lying rumor had come to the ears of the British that he died of poison—"

"Yes, that might have been inconvenient. But rumor and proof, dear boy, are not the same thing, even if your brother's death was slightly opportune, and even if he was cremated rather in a hurry. The point is now, that you can't keep your promise about that because you lack the necessary funds. They know that. Nevertheless, they are using pressure—propaganda — and that tiger. If you shoot the tiger they will charge you with sacrilege, which won't cut any ice except with half the population, who will probably refuse to pay their taxes. Swallow that one! If you don't go and shoot the tiger you will hear from Smith about it—"

"Damn Smith! Damn his middle-class morality! Oh, damn his father and his mother and his—"

"Smith is all right," said Syed-Suraj. "As a representative of the British Raj at the court of a reigning Prince he is rather a joke, I admit—or a bore, whichever way you look at it. But what if he weren't lazy and had some brains and self-respect? You're lucky to have such a fossil to deal with. When he retires on pension, two or three months from now, you'll be out of luck; there can't be two politicals like Smith in India, and if there were, the law of averages would keep them from sending the other to succeed this man. I advise you to get things straightened out before a new man comes in Smith's place."

"To hell with the British!"

"Not so loud!" said Syed-Suraj. "They, too, have their difficulties, but their ears are as long as a mule's and—"

"Blather! Their day's done. They've lost their grip on India—lost it, I tell you. They'll be gone in a couple of years. And then the deluge. Then we'll have the old times back again."

"Not yet! And meanwhile, Smith will be compelled to make himself a nuisance. How can he help it? The British have sent that fat scoundrel, Chullunder Ghose, to spy and report—"

The Rajah sat suddenly upright. "Isn't that brute dead yet? I arranged—"

Syed-Suraj interrupted: "Yes, I know you did, and it was very thoughtless. He's the C.I.D.'s pet undercover man. Do you remember when he came two years ago and asked you to employ Hawkes? Do you remember I cautioned you not to refuse? He wanted Hawkes placed here to keep an eye on you. If you had turned Hawkes down, Chullunder Ghose would have flooded the State with Hindu spies, and those dogs would have framed you for the sake of their own advancement; whereas Hawkes plays cricket. Nobody could make Hawkes tell a lie or shirk work. He's a good servant and he saves you money."

"All right," said the Rajah, "but Chullunder Ghose is—"

"Sui generis. He might be much worse. Bump him off—and see then what descends on you! It might be utterly impossible to prove you ordered it, but nobody would doubt it. The C.I.D. would be out for revenge; they value that man. They would send a mob of expert second-raters, who would do exactly what the priests want—frame you and force you to abdicate. The priests, you know as well as I do, want your cousin on the throne."

"He'll never get there," said the Rajah. "He already has what he thinks are ulcers of the stomach. If your doctor from Madras is half as good as you pretend, the priests will soon have the mortification of conducting funeral ceremonies for their darling nominee for my throne. I see humor in that."

Syed-Suraj blew his nose and glanced at the Rajah's face over his handkerchief.

"Well," he remarked, "his death won't help you at the moment. Neither would it help in the least to kill that fat babu."

"I have ordered him killed."

"Then countermand it."

"It is too late."

"He is probably your best friend in the circumstances. He is not a trouble-maker. He has a genius for pulling the plugs of trouble and letting it pour down the drain. That is undoubtedly why the C.I.D. have sent him."

"He is dead," said the Rajah. "That is, he's as good as dead."

"I'm sorry to hear it. I can't do any more than give you good advice."

"Oh yes, you can." The Rajah stood up. He chested himself. He struck the attitude that always had effect with certain sorts of women, but that did not deceive Syed-Suraj for a moment. "Take my Rolls-Royce, and go and borrow money for me. Go to Ram Dass; he has plenty."

"Twenty-five percent," said Syed-Suraj.

"What do I care?"

"He will also take a note for twenty-five percent more than he really lends you."

"I will sign it."

"And Ram Dass will show your note to the priests."

"To hell with them!"

"They will say you now have money and must rebuild that temple immediately."

"What? During the monsoon? Impossible! Go and get me some money."

"You might offer me a little douceur!"

"Damn it, what becomes of all the money that you wheedle from me?"

Syed-Suraj closed his eyes a trifle. Then he contrived to look hurt.

"Any one of the servant-girls in your zenana costs you more than I do," he retorted. "Most of what you give me is spent on your business—on informers, for instance. Do you think spies work for nothing?"

"I am certain you don't," said the Rajah. "Dammit—all right—five percent. And don't ask for another rupee for a twelve-month. Do you hear me?"