A heavy tropical surf boomed on the shingle, with the precision and
monotony of minute guns, and a fierce clammy breeze raged from the sea,
where Massulah boats and small shipping rocked uneasily. The same wind,
circulating inland, drove whirling clouds of brick-red dust through
Madras City, and vigorously swept the long Mount Road,--ere it died
with a whisper, among distant paddy fields.
By ten o'clock on this detestable morning, all troops had returned to
barracks, signallers and golfers deserted the Island, riding-parties
were no longer abroad, but under languid punkahs, or tireless electric
fans, the military, civil, and mercantile element were still actively
engaged.
Among the latter, the wealthy house of Brown, Brown and Co. stood
prominent as one of the oldest firms in India.
Established in the humble early days of John Company, it had acquired
name and fame, expanded and flourished. Undisturbed by wars, unshaken
by mutinies, or famine, its grim, hard-featured offices continued to
frown upon the first line of beach. Possibly those storm-beaten walls,
and gloomy flagged passages, had echoed to the voice and footsteps of a
visitor from "Writer's Buildings"--the future hero of Arcot and Plassy,
a junior clerk, named Robert Clive. Who knows?
At present, within the inhospitable waiting-room (a lofty
slate-coloured apartment, with heavily barred windows), a well set-up
young Englishman was unnecessarily pacing the worn cocoanut matting.
His thin cashmere suit, and Panama hat, indicated the recent efforts of
a London tailor to cope with a warm climate. The white-covered umbrella
which he carried in his hand was also new--indeed, its owner himself
was new to the country, having arrived the previous evening.
At the moment, the stranger was impatiently awaiting an interview with
the acting representatives of Brown and Brown--but apparently these
were in no hurry to receive him.
Meanwhile, in a spacious inner office, Mr. Fleming, a stout, sleek
personage with a bald head and heavy face, had been handed a
visiting-card by his partner Mr. Parr--a shrivelled little gentleman,
known indifferently as "Monkey Parr," or "Old Nick," for Anglo-India
delights in nicknames.
"Captain Mallender, Army and Navy Club," he read aloud, then staring
hard at his companion, gave a low and distinctly unofficial whistle.
"Oh, yes," responded Mr. Parr, removing his pince-nez with a decisive
click. "Same name, same club. I can tell you, that it gave _me_ a nasty
shock; but, of course, here is the heir, now his father is dead, come
out to nose about, and make enquiries."
"He may enquire till he's blue--he will find that he has undertaken a
fool's errand. Why can't the young ass leave well alone?" demanded Mr.
Fleming testily.
"Because he doesn't believe things _are_ well," sharply rejoined his
partner.
"And intends to better them, eh? If he is not mighty careful, he will
lose his half-loaf; and anyway it's a deuced nuisance; a very awkward
business--we shall have the fellow in and out all day, bothering for
information."
"Well, he won't get it!" declared Mr. Fleming. "Let's send for him,
and see what he is like? Here, Parsons!" he shouted to a pallid clerk;
"just ask the gentleman to step this way."
In less than two minutes, the said gentleman, alert, well-groomed, and
self-possessed, was bowing to the firm.
"Very glad to see you, Captain Mallender," lied Mr. Parr, the more
prominent of the partners. "Just arrived, find it rather sultry, eh?"
"Yes," agreed the caller in a pleasant manly voice, "it's a bit of a
change from an English winter--can't say much for your climate!"
"Won't you take a chair?" suavely suggested Mr. Fleming. "I suppose you
have come out with the usual battery of rifles, to shoot big game?"
"Shoot big game! No," replied Mallender, as he seated himself, placed
his hat carefully beside him on the dusty matting, and then in a clear
decided tone, promptly announced his mission. "The fact is, I'm here
to make enquiries about my Uncle and namesake, an officer in the Blue
Hussars, who disappeared mysteriously about thirty years ago, when
camping up in Coorg."
Mr. Parr nodded gravely, and considered the speaker with a sharp
appraising eye--a veritable rat's eye. His partner merely exhibited
a detached and judicial attitude, as he twisted the visitor's card
between his bleached, fat fingers.
"He was supposed to have been drowned in the Cauvery, or carried off
by a tiger," continued the young man, "and after the family had put on
mourning, and the step had gone in the regiment, he wrote to my father,
to say that although dead to the world, he was still in the land of the
living--I have this letter in my possession."
Here the speaker hesitated for a moment, and looked expectantly at
his audience; but the representatives of the house of Brown and Brown
maintained an unsympathetic and professional silence, only broken by
the ticking of a typewriter, and the creaking of a punkah.
"The letter," resumed Mallender, "stated that my Uncle would draw
half his income through your firm, the other half would be paid to my
father, as the price of his silence; and on condition that he made no
attempt to trace his brother, or allowed it to be known that he was
still alive. After considerable reluctance and delay, my father agreed.
You follow me?"
"Oh, yes--we follow you," assented Mr. Fleming, with a bland calmness,
almost feline in its composure.
"My father died two months ago; before the end, he told me of the
existence of his brother and the source of the greater part of his
income; he also spoke of his promise--a promise he deeply regretted.
However, a pledge given before I was born has no hold on me. If my
Uncle is alive, I am determined to find him, and speak to him face to
face."
Having made this declaration, Captain Mallender paused, and leaning on
the knob of his umbrella, gravely contemplated his companions.
"Ah, so that's your plan!" exclaimed Mr. Fleming, as he dabbed his
forehead with a silk handkerchief--he suffered severely from heat.
"Have you seen my Uncle since he wrote that letter?" inquired Mallender.
"No. We have never seen him, and we cannot tell you anything about
him," was the brusque and unsatisfactory reply.
"But I presume you know where he is to be found? You must have some
address?"
"Which we are bound never to divulge; and in your case, my dear sir,
is it not imprudent to risk the loss of four thousand a year--in fact,
most of your income?"
Mr. Parr broke off dramatically, in order to allow the fact to soak
into the mind of this good-looking lunatic.
"Possibly you may not be disturbed in the house or park," supplemented
his partner, "but it is from sound investments that the bulk of the
money comes. Formerly, interest was higher, but securities fluctuate.
We have done our best--yes, we have done our best."
Here Mr. Fleming folded his hands across his capacious cummerbund, and
assumed an expression of benign satisfaction.
"Oh, your best, of course," quickly assented Mallender. "I did not
come out here with an eye to _money_. What brought me to India was
to find my Uncle," and his umbrella struck the matting with such a
vigorous thump, that it raised a little puff of dust. "I have my own
ideas. I've given this business a great deal of--er--consideration, and
I don't mind telling you, I firmly believe my Uncle to be dead, and
that some infernal scoundrel is impersonating him, and living on half
his fortune. Our share was just a bribe to shut our mouths and stifle
inquiries. Now," suddenly appealing to Mr. Parr, "what do you say?"
"Well, Captain Mallender," and he gave a laugh of ironical amusement,
"if I must give an opinion, _I_ say, that your idea would make a
valuable plot for a sixpenny shocker, but that is all there is in it."
"There is everything in it," replied the young man forcibly. "By all
accounts my Uncle was remarkable for his high spirits and energy, a
keen soldier--but not attached to the East. _He_ heard the _West_
a-calling, and was always looking forward to returning home; his
letters were full of it. I've read them myself. So I ask you why--if
alive--he should cut adrift from all he cared for, and bury himself in
a country that he loathed?"
"Yes, yes, I must admit there is something in what you say," conceded
Mr. Parr. "He was a handsome, headstrong, young officer. I saw him
once, in this very office, when I was a junior--but--but----" and he
pursed up his thin purple lips, "things happen, changes take place in
people's characters, as well as in their constitutions. We have all to
reckon with the unexpected; at any rate, we have Captain Mallender's
instructions, and in his handwriting."
"Ah, probably a forgery! By all accounts, a highly cultivated native
art."
"There is no question of imposture," rejoined Mr. Parr emphatically.
"I am afraid I must differ with you. I believe there has been foul
play, and I am determined to remain in India, till I have got to the
bottom of this affair."
As the man of business listened to this announcement, his whole
expression changed oddly, his withered face seemed to tighten--but in
another second the look had faded.
"Can you give me any particulars?" resumed Mallender.
"Oh, yes, I can certainly do that," acquiesced Mr. Parr now, clearing
his throat, and crossing a pair of startlingly thin legs. "The
simple facts were these. Captain Mallender and two brother officers
went on a shooting trip from Bangalore in the beginning of the hot
weather, 1881. They worked up through Mysore, into Coorg; one morning
shortly before their leave expired, Captain Mallender's tent was
found to be empty--the bed had not been slept in, his belongings were
scattered about, a novel and a half-written letter lay open beside his
cigar-case. Apparently, he had gone for a stroll before turning in.
They said he was a restless young fellow, always eager to be doing
something: fishing, bathing, shooting, exploring, and twice as active
as his comrades; it looked as if he had wandered out, on one of his
erratic rambles, and come to an untimely end. Some thought, he had been
drowned in the Cauvery, but his body was not recovered--and dead or
alive, he was never seen again."
"No, of course not!" assented his nephew with significant emphasis.
"Such disappearances are not altogether unknown," supplemented Mr.
Fleming, with an air of imparting instruction to juvenile ignorance.
"Oriental life has an irresistible fascination for some natures; the
glamour, the relief from convention and the tyranny of the starched
collar, the lure of attractive and voluptuous women, idleness, ease,
luxury, _drugs_! I could tell you of an officer who went crazy about
a beautiful Kashmeri, and actually abandoned his regiment and his
nationality, in order to live as a native! Twice his friends came
from England to fetch him home, and each time he escaped--even at the
eleventh hour in Bombay, plunged into the bazaars, hid his identity,
and was lost, in _every_ sense!"
"I'll swear my Uncle wasn't that sort," protested Mallender. "He was a
sportsman, and as hard as nails; a soft sleepy existence among divans
and hukas, would never appeal to him. I am absolutely convinced, that
he was decoyed out of his tent, and murdered; and as I've already
told you, I do not intend to return home, till I have unravelled the
mystery, and run the impostor to ground--to this I stick!" and once
more he thumped his umbrella, and disturbed the dust of weeks.
"Then in that case, I'm afraid you will make a lifelong stay in India,"
rejoined Mr. Parr--smiling as one smiles at the absurd pretensions of a
child.
"Perhaps so," assented the young man shortly; "I intend to see this
affair through--and my time is now my own. I conclude that you feel
bound not to assist me, or give me the name of the town where the
letters are posted?"
"Oh, no objection, Captain Mallender, no objection whatever," Mr.
Fleming responded with effusion; "the letters are posted in different
places all over the country, within, say, a radius of four hundred
miles. For instance, we may receive one communication from Georgetown
here in Madras, the next from Bangalore, from an obscure post office in
the hills, or a remote village in the plains. Let me think: the last
was from a railway station called Erode--so you see, my dear sir, that
your Uncle's movements are erratic, and his address is vague. Accept
a piece of absolutely disinterested advice," and here the speaker
tendered a soft, empty hand. "You will do no good out here, you will
only waste time and money, without results. Give up the quest, and
return home!"
"No," and Mallender's eyes flashed. "What you say more than ever
convinces me that the man who writes to you is a criminal, who goes in
abject fear of his life, and is hiding from justice."
"Oh, very well, Captain Mallender, _very_ well!" gobbled Mr. Fleming,
and his tone was throaty and offended, "there is no more to be said--it
is not our business to argue; we merely state facts. You say, you have
no doubt that your relative is dead. You may also rest assured, that
from the day it is made known to our client that you are determined to
trace him--the allowance, as paid through our firm, will cease."
"Well, I'll take all risks," declared this rash adventurer. "And there
is one thing I can promise you. I intend to put the fear of death into
your--er--correspondent! Some fellows come out to India for what they
call 'Shikar'; this business is _my_ shikar--instead of bison, tiger,
or elephants--and mind you, it's not Uncle I am bent on tracking, but
your unseen client, the murderous ruffian who impersonates him!" Then,
rising after a somewhat prolonged and hostile silence:
"Gentlemen, I see you are not disposed to wish me luck, so I must do
my best to worry through alone. I shall call on you before I leave the
country, and I'll let you know if I have any success. All letters to
the Bank of Madras will be forwarded."
An extraordinary snorting noise, and the waving of a fin-like hand,
was the only adieu vouchsafed by Mr. Fleming, but his partner jerked
himself out of his seat, and said:
"All right, Captain Mallender, and I make no doubt that if you persist
in your 'shikar,' we shall be communicating with you at an early date."
"Oh, you mean about the money? So be it," and with a hasty farewell,
the visitor effected a rapid exit, ran down the worn stone stairs,
flung himself into his _gharry_, and commanded the driver to take him
to the Brigade Office in St. George's Fort.
Meanwhile Mr. Fleming lay back in his office chair, mopping his
glistening pink face, and gasped out:
"That young fellow is going to give trouble!"
To which unpleasant suggestion, his companion calmly replied:
"Trouble for himself--yes! He will burn his fingers badly, without
money he is tethered, and cannot move far. I bet you what you like,"
rapping his glasses on the desk, "that we shall have him here before
the rains borrowing the coin to take him to England."