Guns of the Gods

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"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.

Chapter Eighteen

Safe rules for defeating a rascal are three,
And the first of them all is appear to agree.
The second is boggle at points that don't matter,
Hold out for expense and emolument fatter.
The third is put wish-to-seem-wise on the shelf
And keep your eventual plan to yourself.
Giving heed to the three with your voice and eyes level
You can turn the last trick by out-trumping the devil.

"Be discreet, Blaine--please be discreet!"

Meanwhile, Gungadhura was not inactive, nor without spies of his own,
who told him more or less vaguely that trouble was cooking for him in
the English camp. A letter he expected from the Mahsudi tribe had
not reached him. It was the very letter he had hoped to show to Samson
in proof of Mahsudi villainy and his own friendship; but he rather feared
it had fallen into secret service hands, in which case he might have a
hard time to clear himself.

Then there was the murder of Mukhum Dass. He had not been able
to resist that opportunity, when Patali reported to him what Mukhum
Dass had been seen to make away with. And now he had the secret
of the treasure in his possession--implicit directions, and a map! He
suspected they had been written by some old priest, or former rajah's
servant, in the hope of a chance for treachery, and hidden away by
Jengal Singh with the same object. There were notes on the margins
by Jengal Singh. The thing was obviously genuine. But the worst of
it was Patali knew all about it now, and that cursed idiot Blaine had
complained to Samson of burglary, after he learned that the cellar door
was broken open by the money-lender. Why hadn't he come to himself,
he wondered, and been satisfied with a string of promises? That would
have been the courteous thing to do. Instead of that, now Samson's
spies were nosing about, and only the gods knew what they might
discover. The man who had done the murder was safely out of the way--
probably in Delhi by that time, or on his way there; but that interfering
ass Norwood might be awake for once, and if the murderer should
happen to get caught, and should confess--as hired murderers do
sometimes--it would need an awful lot of expert lying and money, too,
to clear himself.

With funds--ample extravagant supplies of ready cash, he felt he could
even negotiate the awkward circumstance that he himself was deeply
in debt to Mukhum Dass at the time of the murder. Money and brains
combined can accomplish practically anything. Delhi and Bombay and
Calcutta were full of clever lawyers. The point was, he must hurry.
And he did not dare trust any one with knowledge of his secret, except
Patali, who had wormed out some and guessed the rest, because of
the obvious risk of Samson getting wind of it through spies and so
forestalling him. He felt he had Samson's character estimated nicely.

Arguing with himself--distracted between fear on one hand, and Patali's
importunity on the other, he reached the conclusion that Dick Blaine
was his only safe reliance. The American seemed to have an obsession
for written contracts, and for enforcing the last letter of them. Well and
good, he would make another contract with Dick Blaine, and told Patali
so, she agreeing that the American was the safest tool to use. She
saw herself already with her arms up to the shoulders in the treasure
of Sialpore.

"The American has few friends," she said. "He smokes a pipe, and
thinks, and now that they say his wife has gone away there is less chance
than ever of his talking."

"He will need to be paid," said Gungadhura.

"There will be plenty to pay him with!" she answered, her eyes gleaming.

So Gungadhura, with his face still heavily bandaged, drove in a lumbering
closed carriage up the rough track to the tunnel Dick had blasted in the
hill-side. The carriage could not go close to the tunnel-mouth, because
the track was only wide enough just there for the dump-carts to come
and go. So he got out and walked into the tunnel unattended. Dick
was used to seeing him about the works in any case and never objected
to explaining things, several times over on occasion.

He found Dick superintending the careful erection of a wall of rock and
cement, and he thought for an instant that the American looked annoyed
to see him there. But Dick assumed his poker expression the moment
afterward, and you couldn't have guessed whether he was glad or sorry.

"You block the tunnel?" the maharajah asked.

"The vein's disappeared," said Dick. "The rock's all faulty here this
and that way. I'm shoring up the end to keep the roof from falling down
on us, and next I'm going to turn sharp at right angles and try to find
the end of the vein where it broke off."

"You are too near the fort in any case," said the maharajah. "No use
driving under the fort."

"What do you propose I should do?" Dick answered a trifle testily.

"Dig elsewhere."

"What, and scrap this outlay?"

"Yes. I have a reason. A particular--eh--reason."

Dick nodded, poker face set solid.

The maharajah paused. His advantage was that his face was all
smothered in the bandages, and the dim light in the tunnel was another
good ally. His back, too, was toward the entrance, so that the American's
chance of reading between the words was remarkably slight. Dick's
back was against the uncompleted masonry.

"Could I--eh--count on you for--eh--very absolute silence?"

"I talk like that parrot in the story," Dick answered.

"You--eh--know a little now of Sialpore, Mr. Blaine. You--eh--understand
how easily--eh--rumors get about. A little--eh--foundation and--eh--
up-side-down pyramids of fancy--eh? You comprehend me?"

"Sure, I get you."

"Eh--you have a good working party."

"Fine!" said Dick. "Just about broke in. Got the gang working pretty
well to rights at last."

"Would you--eh--it would take a long time to get such another party
of laborers--eh--trained to work well and swiftly?"

"Months!" said Dick. "Unless you've got tame wizards up your sleeve."

"Eh--I was wondering--eh--whether you would be content to--eh--take
your working party and--eh--do a little work for me elsewhere?"

"I'm right set on puzzling out this fault in the reef," Dick answered promptly.
"My contract reads--"

"For compensation, of course," said Gungadhura. "You would be
adequately--eh--there could be a contract drawn."

"I wouldn't cancel this one--not for hard cash," Dick retorted.

"No, no. I do not ask that. It would--eh--not be necessary."

"Well, then, what's the proposal?"

Dick settled himself back against the masonry crossed his feet, and
knocked out ashes from his pipe. The maharajah walked twice, ten
yards toward the entrance and back again.

"How long would it take you--eh--to--eh--what was it you said?--to puzzle
out this fault?"

"No knowing."

"A short--eh--additional delay will hardly matter?"

"Not if I kept the gang in harness. 'Twouldn't pay to let the team-work
slide. Costs too much in time and trouble to break 'em in again."

"Then--eh--will you go and dig for me elsewhere?"

"On what terms?"

"The same terms."

"You pay all expenses and--what am I to dig for?"

"Gold!"

"Do I get my percentage of the gross of all gold won?"

"Yes. But because this is a certainty and--eh--I pay all expenses--eh--
of course, in--eh--return for secrecy you--eh--should be well paid, but--
eh--a certain stated sum should be sufficient, or a much smaller percentage."

"Suppose we get down to figures?" Dick suggested.

"Fifty thousand rupees, or one per cent."

"At my option?"

Gungadhura nodded. Dick whistled.

"There'd have to be a time limit. I can't stay and dig forever for a matter
of fifty thousand dibs."

Gungadhura grew emphatic at that point, using both clenched fists to
beat the air.

"Time limit? There must be no time lost at all! Have you promised to
be silent? Have you promised not to breathe one little word to anybody?--
Not to your own wife? Not to Samson?--Above all not to Samson?
Then I will tell you."

Gungadhura glanced about him like a stage conspirator.

"Go on," said Dick. "There's nobody here knows English except you
and me."

"You are to dig for the treasure of Sialpore! The treasure of my ancestors!"

"Fifty thousand dibs--or one per cent. at my option, eh? Make it two
per cent., and draw your contract!"

"Two per cent. is too much!"

"Get another man to dig, then!"

"Very well, I make it two per cent. But you must hurry!"

"Draw your contract. Time limit how long?"

"Two weeks--three weeks--not more than a month at the very utmost!
You draw the contract in English, and I will sign it this afternoon. You
must begin to dig tomorrow at dawn!"

"Where?"

"In the grounds of the River Palace--across the river--beginning close
to the great pipal trees."

"They're all outside the palace wall. How in thunder can I keep secret
about that?"

"You must begin inside the palace wall, and tunnel underground."

"Dirt's all soft down there," said Dick. "We'll need to prop up as we go.
Lots of lumber. Cost like blazes. Where's the lumber coming from?"

"Cut down the pipal trees!"

"Man--we'd need a mill!"

"There is no lumber--not in such a hurry."

"What'll we do then? Can't have accidents."

"Pah! The lives of a few coolies, Mr. Blaine--"

"Nothing doing, Maharajah sahib! Murder's not my long suit."

"Then pull the palace down and use the beams!"

"You'd have to put that in writing."

"Include it in the contract then! Now, have we agreed?"

"I guess so. If I think of anything else I'll talk it over with you when I
bring the contract round this afternoon."

"Good. Then I will give you the map."

"Better give it me now, so I can study it."

"The--eh--risk of that is too great, Mr. Blaine!"

"Seems to me your risk is pretty heavy as it is," Dick retorted. "If I was
going to spill your secret, I could do it now, map or no map!"

Three times again Gungadhura paced the tunnel, torn between mistrust,
impatience and anxiety. At last he thrust his bandaged face very close
to Dick's and spoke in a level hard voice, smiling thinly.

"Very well, Mr. Blaine. I will entrust the map to you. But let me first tell
you certain things--certain quite true things. Every attempt to steal that
treasure has ended in ill-luck! There have been many. All the conspirators
have died--by poison--by dagger--by the sword--by snake-bite--by bullets--
they have all died--always! Do you understand?"

Dick shuddered in spite of himself.

"Then take the map!"

Gungadhura turned his back and fumbled in the folds of his semi-European
clothing. He produced the silver tube after a minute, removed the cap
from one end, and shook out a piece of parchment. There was a dull
crimson stain on it.

"The blood of a man who tried to betray the secret!" said Gungadhura.
"See-the knife of an assassin pierced the tube, and blood entered through
the hole. It happened long ago."

But he did not pass the tube to Dick that he might examine the knife mark.

"These notes on the edge of the map are probably in the hand of Jengal
Singh, who stole it. He died of snake-bite more than a year ago. They
are in Persian; he notes that four of the trees are dead and only their
roots remain; therefore that measurements must allow for that. You
must find the roots of the last tree, Mr. Blaine, and measure carefully
from both ends, digging afterward in a straight line from inside the palace
wall by compass. Is it clear?"

"I guess so. Leave it with me and I'll study it."

The maharajah kept the tube and left the parchment in Dick's hands.

"This afternoon, then?"

"This afternoon," said Dick.

When he had gone, Dick resumed the very careful building of the masonry,
placing the last stones with his own hands. Then he went out into the
sunlight, to sit on a rock and examine the parchment with a little pocket
magnifying-glass that he always carried for business purposes. He
studied it for ten minutes.

"It's clever," he said at last. "Dashed clever. It 'ud fool the Prince of
Wales!" (Dick had astonishing delusions as to the supposed omniscience
of the heir to the throne of England.) "The ink looks old, and it's not
metallic ink. The parchment's as old as Methuselah--I'll take my oath
on that. There's even different ink been used for the map and the
margin notes. But that's new blood or my name's Mike! That blood's
not a week old! Phew! I bet it's that poor devil Mukhum Dass! Now--
let's figure on this: Mukhum Dass burgled my house, and was murdered
about an hour afterward. I think--I can't swear, because he didn't let
me hold it, but I think that tube in Gungadhura's hand was the very identical
one that I hid under the cellar floor--that Mukhum Dass stole--and that
the maharajah now carries in his pocket. This map has blood on it.
What's the inference?"

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