Full Moon (12 page)

Grayne rode away, looking gloomy. Blair studied the Rangar; he had the
painter’s trick of looking sideways at what he was observing carefully. A
servant brought the camp-stool close and the Rangar sat down.

“That was a good tale you were telling last night,” Blair began. “Ranjeet
of the Ford seems to have been a strange character.”

“Ah, but his ghost is quiet now, sahib.”

“You say he was a law to himself. In what way do you mean that?”

“Hah! He used to override the Brahmins.. He respected them not at all. It
is a pity there are none nowadays who have that courage. It was Ranjeet of
the Ford who gave the Bats the Brahmin privileges that they claim to this
day. He is said to have learned a Brahmin secret—some say by torture.
It is known that he slew a Brahmin and put a Bat in his place. And it is said
that because of that a Brahmin betrayed him to the,three kings, intending
Ranjeet should be slain by them,, so that his stolen secret might die with
him. But the Bats—or so men say—already knew it. The Bats are
worse than pukka Brahmins. They have no sense of responsibility. But they
know the Brahmin law. The people groan, but submit to extortion.”

“My father—” said Blair. He threw away his cigarette and looked
straight in front of him. He had reached a decision. He spoke quietly, in a
level voice. “I need your confidence.”. The old man looked startled. He
stared.

“By Allah,” he answered after a moment, “there is none to whom I give that
more willingly.”

“Because I believe that, I asked it. Where is Miss Frensham?”

“Nay, I know not. Before God, and by my beard, I know not.”

“But you knew she is missing?”

“One said something pi the sort. So I came hither to learn more of the
matter.”

“Who spoke of her?”

“One in the dark, whose name I know not, nor w h o he is, nor any thing,at
all about him. It happened I lay cursing the heat that frets these old bones.
I bethought me of that tiger-skin, that is pegged in my yard awaiting alum.
It might be sore temptation to someone desiring claws against the evil eye. I
went out in the dark to be sure the watchman was awake. And as I spoke with
the watchman a voice cried, ‘Ranjeet’s wife walks, seeking for her lover.
Spirits of the dead are leading her from Gaglajung.’

“Whoever had spoken stole away into the dark. But the watchman also had
heard him, so he and I considered the matter. We knew, because such news
travels fast, that the Frennisham sahiba had been taken to Grayne’s camp by
your honor’s servants. And so I bethought me, should she then come thence
toward Doongar she must use the footpath that leads over the shoulder of
Gaglajung. Is it not my business to know what happens? I sent a messenger.
He, going and returning swiftly, told me the sahiba is missing from her tent,
wherein she had not slept. So I came hither.”

“Do you know a man from the Salween country by the name of Taron Ling?”
Blair asked.

“No.” The Rangar looked uneasy. Morning mauve had vanished. The sharp,
hot, golden sunlight limned him mercilessly; it revealed fear. The young
grandson took the old man’s hand and watched him—feeling, not
comprehending. Blair lighted his pipe. “Let the child sit yonder under that
tree,” he said after a moment. Then he called to his servant, “Bring forth
Taron Ling!”

The Rangar shuddered. He had let down the bars of confidence in response
to Blair’s request. But he had not revealed all he knew— not by the
width of the gulf between East and West, between youth and old age.

Taron Ling came leering at the men who guarded him. Blair dismissed
them.

“Have you received food? Were you made comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“You address me as sahib.”

“Smite him in the teeth!” said the Rangar. “By Allah—” His voice
grumbled away into silence when Taron Ling looked straight at him.

“Yes, sahib,” said Taron Ling.

“Tell the
Zemindar
Abdurrahman Khan that which you told me before
daybreak.” The semi-Mongolian eyes conned the old man’s face curiously. “I
came seeking service,’ he said slowly, “as a guide.”

“To find what?” Blair demanded.

“Frennisham sahiba.”

“And—”

“Frennisham bahadur.”

“And—

“Nothing else.”

“Beware of him!” warned the Rangar
sotto voce
. “This one is an
ibilis
—a
dugpa
they call such, where he learned magic. He
is from hell. He should be sent back.”

“You spoke,” said Blair, “of Wu Tu and of Zaman Ali.”

The man nodded.

“Do you know where they are?”

He nodded again. Although he stood more or less at respectful attention he
exuded the scorn of Olympian knowledge.

“Do you know where Chetusingh is?”

“You finding all that out,” he answered. The Rangar spoke up, almost
slobbering with nervous anger: “There is but one course —flog him!
Allah! I have seen such as him flayed and pegged amid the flies before the
devil left them! He and a Bat-Brahmin hereabouts are two of one liver. Flog
him, sahib!”

Blair stared at the Rangar. Such hysteria as that suggested either genuine
information or else total ignorance. In either event interrogation was the
wrong course; the old man needed strength to lean on.

“True,” he said, “he knows a trick or two. He does them rather well. He
fooled me badly, shortly before daylight. He may even be able to do the rope
trick that; we’ve heard about so often—you know—throw a rope in
the air, climb it, vanish and pull the rope up after him. He’s probably a
particularly skilful hypnotist. At any rate, he knows how to trick
imagination—once. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” said the Rangar. “God forbid that I should know about him.”

Plainly he did know something, but would not tell. He had known about
Brigadier-General Frensham’s disappearance. How? Why? Perhaps Henrietta
Frensham had told him. But he had also known, before Blair knew it, that
Henrietta, too, had vanished; and his tale of a voice in the dark was
unconvincing.

“Send for the Bat-Brahmin,” Blair commanded.

“Sahib, he would not obey me.”

“Very well, I will go myself and find him.”

“Sahib?”

“Yes?”

“That is unwise.”

“Wisdom isn’t always commendable,”, said Blair. “Patience isn’t always a
virtue, either. Care to come with me?”

“Come alone!” advised Taron Ling in a voice like a bell. He had a quick
understanding of English. He used it well enough when not deliberately
misusing it.

“He will deceive you,” the Rangar warned. “He is a devil, that one.”

Blair stood up, eye to eye against Taron Ling. He had an impulse to punch
him, but that was easy enough to restrain. A subtler impulse’ almost made him
hesitate to trespass where the Rangar feared to intrude. He saw Wu Tu’s eyes
again, behind Taron Ling’s, fading and reappearing, fading again, as if two
influences struggled for control.

“Can you work your tricks by daylight?” he demanded.

The Rangar objected. “No, no! In the name of God, no!”

Taron Ling, looked haughty. “Tricks?” he answered “You will say I trick
you if I show you Frennisham sahiba?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Show me.”

Suddenly Blair saw Henrietta, although the vision was more distinct than
natural eyesight. She looked unhappy and yet curiously excited. The strange
thing was. that he could see everything else, including Taron Ling, quite
normally; but whichever way he turned his head he could still see Henrietta.
Her surroundings were shadowy, and in the shadow, to one side of her, was the
Chinese girl who attended the upstairs door at Wu Tu’s house in Bombay.

There were other people in the shadows, but he could not distinguish them.
The vision had the quality of a vivid dream. The color of Henrietta’s frock
changed as he watched— changed repeatedly. First she was wearing the
loose sort of tennis-frock of the night before, then the rose-colored evening
dress of that night in Bombay when he had dragged her to see the fakir, then
the tennis frock again. The vision vanished. Taron Ling spoke:

“Trick?” he demanded.

Anger stirred Blair strangely. There is no worse insolence on earth than
interference with another’s mental processes. He had asked for it, but he did
not like it any better for that. Even though his reason told him this was
only an extension of the art by which a story-teller conjures visions in an
audience’s mind, he hated the imposition—loathed it. He was about to
speak savagely and act drastically.

It crossed his mind to arrest Taron Ling—there was plenty of law to
permit it— and to send him under close arrest to Bombay for the
commissioner to deal with. But a messenger came.

He saw the man running from the direction of Doongar village with a
telegram in a cleft stick, so he waited and went into the tent for his pipe,
cursing himself because his hand trembled while he filled it. He felt sick,
and horribly scared on Henrietta’s account. Through the tent opening he saw
the Rangar walk away and sit down under the tree beside his grandson, leaving
Taron Ling standing alone. He wondered, supposing he should arrest the man;
who could be found to convey him to railhead. Perhaps Grayne would do it.

He wished he had kept Grayne with him a little longer instead of packing
him off to search Henrietta’s tent.

The sweating messenger panted to the tent. Blair signed for the telegram,
told the man to wait and returned into the tent to read the message. It was
in code from the commissioner, and it took him nearly ten minutes to work it
out because the signaller had made., a mistake in one word, which obliged him
to guess. It was a long message, but he worked it out finally:

Wu Tu left Bombay two days ago with ticket for Lahore
accompanied by twenty women and five men after closing her residence. Should
she leave train en route she will be followed. Taron Ling on your track.
Strongly advise you keep him under observation long as possible before arrest
as he is probably a key man. He is well shadowed. Eleven
[that meant
Rowland of the C.I.D.]
has sent three specials to watch and help if
necessary. No news of Frensham or Chetusingh. Your stolen pass reported found
in Calcutta probably intended to mislead investigation. Remember get facts
not fireworks. Your reply will be forwarded. o. 9.

So the commissioner also had left Bombay. That indicated probably swift
developments. Blair wrote out an answer in code. That took ten
minutes:

Henrietta vanished before daylight this morning after
inconclusive interview with me. Taron Ling here apparently in league with
Bat-Brahmin and producing mysterious phenomena of File FF type. No sign yet
of Wu Tu or of specials. Taron Ling claims knowledge and offers to reveal
whereabouts of Frensham and Henrietta. Shall accept offer. Recommend swift
follow-up unless you hear from me within next twelve hours. Copy of this to
Eleven. 088.

It was reassuring news that Howland had sent three men to lend a hand, in
addition to the two who had been detailed by the commissioner to shadow Taron
Ling. That there was no sign of them was nothing to worry about; such men
were entirely capable of keeping their identity a secret until the last
minute. Even the telegraph runner might be one of them.

As he gave him the two messages and watched him tie them in the cleft
stick, he observed him carefully, but there was no signal: he salaamed and
trotted away toward Doongar with a corner of a cloth between his teeth. Blair
stood staring after him, wondering whether lie had said enough in the
telegram, and then looked for Taron Ling. The man had vanished.

He called to the Rangar, “Where did Taron Ling go?”

The Rangar got up and walked toward him, looking older than he did at
daybreak. The rims of his eyes were red and watery. He was trembling.

“Is it not enough that he has gone?” he answered. “Nay. I saw not which
way he went.”

He could not have gone far. Blair walked around the tent and questioned
the servants. None had seen him, or at any rate none admitted it; if they had
seen, they refused to say. He sent them scattering in all directions to look
for the man, noticing that they went unwillingly. Then he returned to the
Rangar, who had sat down on the stool under the tent awning and was staring
into vacancy.

“Look here,” he said, “you promised confidence.”

“You have it, sahib. I have said, beware of that one! Unless he be flogged
or slain no good can come of dealing with him. If he returns, I say, thrash
him with a horsewhip. That is what I say, and I say it again. Now, if the
presence permits, I will take my grandson to the village.”

Blair let him go. There was nothing to be gained by asking questions that
would not be answered. Presently, one by one the servants drifted back and
reported no sign of Taron Ling. They were not mutinous, but they had lost
elan and had probably not searched far. An atmosphere of dread had invaded
the camp. The monotonous bong-bong-bong of a coppersmith-bird sounded
ominous. The cry of a peacock was like a scream of anguish. As the brassy sun
grew higher in the heavens, and the hot wind rose, charm deserted the now
dried-out countryside and its scorched, dust-covered skeleton glared naked
amid tired trees. There was a greenish haze of dust and heat that veiled the
view. And through that veil rode Grayne again, like an apparition. He
dismounted, blinking behind smoked spectacles, and spoke in a hard, forced
voice without preliminary:

“Damned strange business in my opinion. Doris searched her tent, and so
did I. Two suitcases gone—soap, towels, toothbrush—all that kind
of thing. What’s the earthly use of writing that in a report? She can’t have
carried ‘em—must have had porters. No note—no message—but
her money is all in the steel trunk, and the trunk was unlocked. What do you
make of that?”