Full Moon (11 page)

Suddenly he thought of Wu Tu—saw a mental picture of her coiled on
her lounge in Bombay. He dismissed that with an almost panic-effort of will,
he did not know why; but he felt urged to think of her and he rebelled
against it. The face was coming nearer. One of the long arms almost touched
him. The thing danced—as an octopus does—as big spiders
do—with the pitiless, absolute rage of malice—slowly—on the
tips of its outspread tentacles. He could see the thing’s teeth.

Suddenly he thought of Henrietta. He was instantly bathed in relief that
she was not there. The relief relaxed him. He remembered the revolver then.
He cocked it, rested it on his left elbow, aimed carefully and fired straight
at the thing’s face. It vanished. There was utter and instant darkness where
it had been. The noise of the shot awoke his servants: he could hear them
scurrying out of their tents. But Blair’s attention was riveted on something
else.

Ten feet away, directly in front of him in the glow from the tent lamp, a
man stood smiling. Blair, sweating, trying to control his muscles that wanted
to tremble, covered the man with the revolver and held it fairly steady. It
was several seconds before he could force himself to speak.

“Come here,” he commanded then. “
Idherao
.”

Then he recognized the man from the Salween country, Taron Ling, who took
service with the police commissioner in Bombay on the strength of a forged
testimonial.

“You?” he said, getting command of his voice. “What are you doing
here?”

Taron Ling strode forward with quiet insolence, making no salaam or any
gesture of respect. Two of Blair’s servants, looking scared, with their
turbans awry, approached the man from either side, and there were other
servants peering around the tent, but he ignored them all.

“Doing?” he answered. “Doing nothing. Am come seeking service.”

“What as?”

“Guide. Without me, you not finding Henrietta.”

“Damn your impudence! Is that the way you speak of her? Where are your
manners? Where’s your chit from the commissioner?”

“Not have any.”

“Ran, eh?”

“No, not running. Seeing you shoot tiger—good shot—shooting
me, no—bad shot. You like what you just now see?” The man’s smile was
that of a blackmailer; there was threat behind it.

Blair’s servants, observing the revolver, drew their own deductions and
surrounded the man from behind. Nothing increases a man’s panic like a weapon
ready to be used. Blair uncocked the revolver and laid it on the table to
calm his own nerves. He beckoned to the man to come closer and sat studying
him in the lamp glow. He was dressed in a khaki tunic suit and a nondescript
turban that offered no clue to his classification. His slightly Mongolian
eyes were as bright as a snake’s and alive with amused intelligence.

“So you followed me, eh?”

The man nodded.

“How did you know where I went?”

“Knowing also where Sahiba Henrietta went. Why not? Knowing Wu Tu. Knowing
Zaman Ali. Knowing where to look for Frennisham Bahadur. Knowing too
much.”

“Do you know Chetusingh?”

The man nodded again. Somehow or other his nod suggested tragedy, but
Blair was not quite trusting his imagination at the moment. He decided that
he would follow that suspicion later.

“What do you mean by saying you will guide me to the Sahiba Henrietta? Do
you mean to her tent?”

“You knowing soon enough,” he answered, insolent—confident.

Blair decided to reduce that confidence. He needed time, too, to replenish
his own. He gave orders to a Rajput retainer, whose mission in life was to
clothe obedience with the cloak of courage and to adorn both with
dignity:

“Keep this man under close observation until I send for him again. Give
him a tent to himself and don’t let him speak to anyone.”

“Shall I tie him, sahib?”

“Only if he makes trouble. Tell the cook I’ll take
chota hazri
now.”

“
Hookum hai
.” (It is an order.)

Taron Ling offered no resistance.

Tea came twenty minutes later. Blair drank it hot, grateful that it
scalded his throat and made life real again, while he watched the false dawn
glimmer on the broken fanged summit of Gaglajung.

It is useless to try to descend into knowledge or to seek it
except we ascend toward it. They who are reputed to know most and who demand
to be honored accordingly, are gatherers of shadows. They who truly know,
know this: the known is but the shadow of the Unknown. It is therefore
nothing.

—From the Eighth of the Nine Books of Noor
Ali.

THE Rangar came at dawn, his old eyes looking as if they
lacked sleep. Beneath his formal courtesy there lurked a hint of foreboding.
He nervously avoided Blair’s gaze. He turned his back on Gaglajung. He sat on
a camp-stool in the delicious cool light of early morning and watched Blair
but pretended not to, croakily criticizing the camp servants.

“By God, when I went soldiering we cleaned camp at cock-crow. By daybreak,
if there was dung left in the horse-lines, someone heard about it.”

Other than the customary politeness about Blair’s health, he asked no
questions. His eyes did not rest for more than a moment on the tent where
Taron Ling lay, but he sat where he could detect a movement of the tent-flap
without turning his head. The Indian night that has a hundred thousand eyes
had evidently kept him well informed. He awaited events. Thirty minutes after
daybreak his young grandson arrived, on a lean pony from the direction of the
ford, dismounted and squatted at the old man’s feet. A servant led the pony
away. The boy said nothing, but the old Rangar seemed to understand his
silence, although he, too, made no remark.

Grayne came a few minutes after that, cantering. His horse’s legs and
belly were wet from splashing through the ford, but he reined in as if in no
hurry at all, when he drew near the camp. He looked peculiarly unofficial in
polo helmet, shirt and riding-breeches. He wore smoked spectacles, but
removed them before shaking hands, which he did rather diffidently, as if not
quite sure it was expected of him. He merely nodded to the Rangar, who stood
up and bowed.

Blair received him with the smile of old acquaintance: “Having a good
time? Enjoying your leave?”

“So, so. Making the best of it. Couldn’t afford England. Bought too many
expensive books the last year or two.”

That looked probable. He had the eyes of a bookish man—searchers of
others’ opinions—friendly, sympathetic, intelligent, not dynamic
—perhaps lazy in some ways.

“Shooting?” Blair asked as they sat down together.

“Not much. Reading and writing mostly. Hear you shot a tiger last
night.”

“Yes. How’s Henrietta Frensham?”

“Apropos of tigers? I don’t know how or where she is. I came to speak
about her.”

“Isn’t she in your camp?”

“No. She should be, but she didn’t sleep there. My servant told me your
men brought her home, long after midnight. As a matter of fact, I heard her.
It was so damned hot I was lying without a stitch on, so I couldn’t come out
to speak to her. My wife was’ asleep in her own tent. I imagine I. fell
asleep pretty soon afterwards.

“I like to watch the sunrise, so the boy has orders to call me in plenty
of time for it, and I take tea in pyjamas outside the tent. My wife usually
joins me, and Henrietta sometimes does. This morning I wanted to talk to her,
so I sent to see if she was awake. She wasn’t there. Nobody has seen her
leave camp. So I rode over to ask what you know.”

“Funny time to want to talk to her,” Blair suggested.

“Better time than any other. She sometimes actually talks at daybreak,
instead of listening and saying nothing. Doris and I have respected her
silence, of course. It’s comprehensible. She probably feels much worse about
her father’s disappearance than she cares to reveal to anyone—even her
friends. I’ve let her do pretty much as she pleases.”

“So I hear,” Blair answered. “What did you have in mind to say to her at
daybreak?” Grayne looked vaguely uncomfortable. He did his best to look
judicious—leaned back. lighted a cigar, pursing his lips on the
butt.

“There’s a limit,” he said. “She’s a damned nice girl, although unusual.
To put it mildly, she’s unconventional. But I’d trust her anywhere, in nearly
any circumstances.” He blew smoke through his nose. “I don’t believe there’s
a soul on this countryside who’d harm her. But she overdoes it. I mean, for
instance, where the hell is she now? Home in the early hours—off again
before daybreak without a word to anyone—tigers, you know?
snakes—besides, who’d bet there aren’t dacoits in the hills? There
probably aren’t, but there might be. Doris and I don’t mind her missing meals
or anything like that, but—well, I ask you.”

Blair waited. He was not there to be asked, but to find out. Grayne
continued:

“Between you and me, I object to her going where I myself couldn’t go
without a special warrant and probably couldn’t get that. To give you an idea
of what I mean—when I put in for long leave and told ‘em I meant to
spend it here, I was cautioned—just as it I’d been a probationer fresh
from home—on no account to poke my nose into places regarded as
sacred.

“They knew I’m interested in that kind of thing and they ticked me off
like a recruit. I haven’t even been up on Gaglajung. You know the legend? I’d
intended to look for the secret passage that the three kings forced Ranjeet
Singh to betray. Of course I couldn’t in the circumstances. However, I’ve
reason to believe that Henrietta goes into all sorts of places, Gaglajung
included. Crypts. Caverns. God knows,where she goes.”

“You say you’ve reason to believe it?”

“Good reason. One of my specials saw her, week before last, being led by a
local priest into a place at the back of a shrine near here that only
Brahmins are supposed to enter. What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“Well, I’d say she’s quite likely looking for her father. You know,
there’s a vague report of his having been seen hereabouts. I don’t believe
it. But perhaps she does. She seems to be on good terms with the local
priests and peasantry. That’s all very well, of course; but you know, I’d be
in the devil of a mess if anything should happen to her. I’d be put on the
mat, and no two ways about it. As her host, it would be a bit awkward for me
to have to—dammit, you know what I mean—she’s— Have you any
influence with her?”

Blair avoided the question:

“Did you examine her tent?” he answered.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It didn’t occur to me. Why should I?”

“So you don’t know if anything’s missing?”

“No.”

“Would your wife know if there were anything missing?”

“She might. She might know what to look for. I wouldn’t.”

The Rangar was watching. Blair, to appear casual, struck a match on the
heel of his boot and lighted a cigarette. He was almost sick with a sense of
dread, so he contrived to look rather cheerful.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “Look at that kite over there on the dead
tree, as if we were talking about that. Go back and get your wife to search
Henrietta’s tent. Take care that’ your servants don’t see what you’re doing.
Write me a full report at once; I’ll endorse and forward it to the proper
quarter.”

“Good God, man, do. you think?”

“I’m thinking.”

“I mean—”

“Yes, I know what you mean. She had a servant, I suppose. Where is
he?”

“In camp. It was he who first suggested that she might have returned here
to talk to you, since she was here last night. Do you mean you
think—”

“Did he see her leave camp?”

“No. He was asleep under the fly of her tent when your men brought her
home. I suppose they told him where she’d been. She told him he was not
needed, so he went off to sleep in the servants’ quarters. Their tents are
about fifty yards from ours. He had no notion she was gone again until I sent
for him.”

“Has Henrietta said anything to you about her father?”

“We’ve discussed him, of course. The impression I got was that it hurt her
to talk about him. Doris put a damper on that topic of conversation; she
called me a tactless brute. Henrietta isn’t what I’d call garrulous at any
time; the only pointer I remember her giving was when she said, a few days
ago, that her father might, have been a lieutenant-general by now if he
wasn’t such a student of Indian magic. But when I questioned her about that
she shut up.”

“What was your line of interrogation?”

“Stupid,” I daresay. I asked if she thought it possible that Frensham
might have fallen foul of some of those sorcerers who like to keep their
tricks a deadly secret. They might have killed him for discovering a trick.
She said Frensham had never been interested in faked miracles. Then she shut
right up. You know her better than I do, You know how she shuts up.”

“Why do you call that a pointer?”

“Perhaps it isn’t. But it’s full moon tomorrow night. It makes some women
restless, you know. It makes her restless. I don’t know whether she’s
superstitious about it or not. But she has it marked.on the calendar, and she
told us not to worry if she should go out to study the full moon, and should
be gone quite some time. If it’s your business, I wish like the devil you’d
put a kibosh on her wandering around the country. It ‘ud be damned unpleasant
for me to have to do it.. Can you?”

“If it isn’t too late.” Blair answered. “Have you had breakfast?”

“All i ever take, thanks.”

“Go and search her tent, then. Search it thoroughly, and send me a written
report. Keep It secret. Say nothing whatever to her if she turns up. Can you
trust your wife to hold her tongue?”

“Certainly.”

“All right. See you later.”