HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA
Trent, rested only by short naps on the way, stepped from the railway
carriage in the Cantonment Station, in Benares, and, after a ride past
dusty red brick barracks, reached the hotel--a series of small houses,
with one main building. To his disappointment he found no message from
Colonel Urqhart. Nor was Euan Kerth there. Mr. Kerth had arrived, he was
told, but was not in at present. Trent left word to be notified directly
Kerth returned, and went to his room, in one of the out-buildings.
Several hours later, refreshed by a sleep, washed and shaved, he seated
himself on the portico to wait for Euan Kerth. On one end, peddlers were
besieging a group of tourists; on the other, a girl with bronze-colored
hair sat reading, a native in a flowered chintz coat drowsing at her
feet. There was something slumberous and torpid in the scene. India,
like the world, relapsed into a lethargy after the tumult of war.
When he slipped his hand into his tunic pocket for his cheroots, he
found, instead of smokes, a hard, cold object. Withdrawing it, he
recognized, not without some surprise, the oval of coral he had found in
Manlove's hand. He remembered that Merriton had left it on the table in
his bungalow, and he had put it in his pocket with the intention of
returning it to the Head of Police before leaving Gaya. He would have to
send it back, now that a new complication had arisen--namely, the death
of Chatterjee; it might prove a valuable clue.
He studied it. Time had mellowed the design and smoothed the once-sharp
edges of the silver that rimmed the oval. Coral, he knew, was rarely
used for purposes of ornamentation in India. Too, the three-eyed deity,
a hideous figure, puzzled him, though he was by no means unversed in the
symbolism of the many religions of the land. Coral and silver. The
combination haunted him, was linked with an illusive fragment in his
memory. It came to him suddenly. Tibet. Coral and silver from Tibet.
While he was stationed at Darjeeling he frequently saw men from Phari
and Gyangste with coral and silver ornaments.
He continued to stare at the oval. The ugly face of the three-eyed
little god seemed to mock him; challenged him to fathom the power that
impelled these waves of mystery that lapped up and touched him, and
receded with their secrets. It brought a vision, too, of the hushed room
at Gaya.
That was a hurt which only the ointment of time could heal. The tissues
of human relationship mend slowly. His friendship for Manlove had taken
seed deeply, in a measure unconsciously, nurtured by months of intimate
companionship; and now his sensitive nature tingled and throbbed at the
violence with which it had been wrenched from its roots.
With the murder looming in his thoughts, his mission shrank. Adventure!
Fabulous isles!... Queer how last night's stars lose their fever and
passion when they become a memory. But perhaps the work would distract
him. At least it was different, and in his present mental condition the
very thought of medicines and human ills was intolerable.
Shadows lengthened between the buildings; the peddlers and tourists
disappeared; the bronze-haired girl had closed her book and lay back in
the chair, staring into space. Upon her he unconsciously focussed his
attention, and as he contemplated her, impersonally and as he would an
inanimate object, she shifted her eyes to him, stared coolly, turned
away, rose and entered her room.
And Trent forgot her.
A few minutes later, as he was at the point of making another inquiry
about Euan Kerth, he saw a man leave the central building and move
toward the portico where he sat--a man who approached and spoke his
name.
"Major Trent?"
They shook hands. Kerth was an immaculately dressed fellow, with smooth,
olive-tinted features. A rather Mephistophelian face. A small black
mustache, carefully waxed, helped the suggestion. His hair was
shiny-black, as were his eyes, and his dark complexion was only
emphasized by white twills and a white felt hat. His fingers were long
and slim, almost too well-shaped to be masculine. Something very fine
and sleek, Gallic rather than Anglo-Saxon--that was Euan Kerth.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting," he apologized in a
too-long-in-the-tropics drawl. "I've been with the Commissioner. You
arrived this afternoon?"
Trent nodded. He saw behind the assumed languorous air a keen, searching
glance; Kerth was measuring him as he was measuring Kerth. He came to
the tentative decision that he wasn't quite sure he liked him.
"Sit down, won't you?"--perfunctorily.
Kerth dropped with lazy grace into a chair and sat with his legs
sprawled wide apart. He proffered some of the blackest cheroots Trent
had ever seen.
"My Tamils," he explained, with an indolent smile. When the smokes were
lighted, he asked: "Just how much do you know of this little party we're
about to start, major?"
"As little as possible, I think."
Kerth puffed on his cheroot. "Ever heard of this woman who styles
herself the Swaying Cobra?"
"Never."
"Neither have I." A pause. "Of course you've heard of Chavigny?"
Trent's answer was a smile.
"We almost got him the other day, in Delhi. We traced him to a native
serai--Queen's Serai; but he eluded us. Left only a few blood-stains on
the floor of his room. Blood-stains sometimes tell a lot, but they
didn't in this instance. But Chavigny's bottled up in Delhi. Yet"--Kerth
smiled--"yet I wouldn't be at all surprised if he pulled the wool over
the Department's eyes. Of course you think he's involved in this
affair?"
Trent's eyes followed the spiral of smoke from his cheroot.
"He might be," was the slow reply, "and, again, he might not. What does
Sir Francis think?"
A wry smile. "He rarely confides in the Department. At any rate, I don't
fancy we'll encounter this Chavigny. You know he's been running at large
under the name of Leroux--Gilbert Leroux. Remember that; might be useful
some time. If you want my opinion--But I'm sure you don't. Now, as for
this Swaying Cobra--"
But he was interrupted as a porter appeared and salaamed.
"Major Trent Sahib?" he enquired.
Trent nodded and received an envelope with his name written upon it.
"Pardon me"--this to Kerth as he tore off the end.
The missive was written in English, in feminine handwriting, and carried
a faint, illusive odor--that of sandalwood.
GREETINGS!
I, the Swaying Cobra, welcome you to the Sacred City and beg
the honor of a visit from you to-night. If you will be at the
shop of Abdul Kerim, in the Sadar Bazaar, at eight-thirty
o'clock, my trusted servant, Chandra Lal, will meet you and
conduct you to my humble dwelling.
Your faithful servant,
THE SWAYING COBRA
When he had read it, he handed it to Kerth, who let his eyes run down
the page and smiled.
"Suppose we move to the dining-hall?" the latter suggested. "I'll finish
what I have to say there."
Trent assented, and they rose and left the veranda.
As the purple-tongued shadows lapped them up, the last of the row of
doors opened, and the girl with the bronze hair came out and moved after
them toward the dining-hall.
2
"In other words," said Kerth, as a soft-shod "boy" arrayed the meal
before them, "you are to deliver yourself blindfolded into the hands of
this Swaying Cobra, and if she says go to the moon, then, according to
the Old Man, you're to go there, without questioning."
Trent listened, apparently abstractedly, for he was studying the
amazingly clear profile of the girl at the next table. Punkahs, worked
by electricity, disturbed straying tendrils of reddish-gold hair.
"The woman mystifies me as much as the affair itself," Kerth went on.
"Who is she? It's evident the Old Man trusts her--to a degree. From her
name, 'Swaying Cobra,' I'd judge she's a nautch, yet, on the other hand,
I'm inclined to think she's above that. Fact is, the Old Man was too
infernally secretive about her; seemed afraid he'd tell me something.
However, he isn't absolutely sure of her. If he was, I wouldn't be
here."
A tourist, was Trent's conclusion. (For he was still studying the girl.)
She choked over the greasy, peppery curry concoction. A moment later her
soft voice floated to him as she spoke to her "boy."
"Confound him! Is he listening to me?" Kerth wondered. Then aloud, "My
part is this: I'm to rig myself up as a native--a Rajput--and accompany
you as your servant. My name will be Rawul Din."
Trent's eyes turned sharply from the girl to Kerth. He noticed,
incidentally, that the latter's hair would need no lamp-black to make it
like a native's.
"Suppose she objects?"
Kerth smiled--an expression that was almost sinister because of his
dark, satanic features.
"That's the point: she _must not_ object!" After a pause he resumed:
"The Old Man wanted that firmly impressed. In some way or other she must
be forced to agree to that condition. You're the diplomat of this
expedition; that means it's up to you. So said the Old Man. I'm to be
the connecting link between you and the Department."
"Is that keeping faith with her?"
"According to the letter of the contract, yes; morally, no. As I
understand it, she demanded your word of honor you wouldn't
'communicate' any information. Therefore, you must not; what I don't
hear and learn for myself is the Department's loss. Neat way of beating
the devil around the bush, isn't it?"
It was not visible upon Trent's face whether or not he agreed with
Kerth. However, his next question hinted negatively.
"If she discovers you're not Rawul Din, the Rajput, what then?"
Kerth shrugged. "_Adrushtam!_" he said, which means, "It is Fate!" Then
he lighted a cheroot and leaned upon his elbows, a queer smile lurking
in the corners of his mouth. "It means this, major," he continued. "If
she's loyal, as the Old Man believes, she will either be very angry and
throw over the whole business, or overlook it and simply demand that
espionage be discontinued. But"--his face, veiled by smoke, looked more
satanic than ever--"if she isn't loyal, then--well, we'll both
probably...." He finished with a lift of his eyebrows.
Trent watched the bronze-haired girl as she left the dining-hall--as did
others, for she was a type to draw eyes.
"To-night's the test," Kerth observed aloud. "If you succeed in forcing
your point, good. Otherwise, I return to Delhi." He looked at his watch.
"It's close to seven now, and my metamorphosis will require some time.
Shall we adjourn?"
They did.
3
Before Trent left his room he placed the oval of coral in his handbag;
then he went out on the portico to smoke and watch the stars gather
about the cleaving silhouette of a church steeple across from the hotel
grounds.
At one end of the veranda two shadowy forms were conversing; a woman's
voice drifted to him, a soft voice that slurred and caressed the words
it spoke. It was vaguely familiar, and in a detached manner he
identified it with the girl of the dining-hall.
The phosphorescent hands of his wrist-watch crept to five minutes to
eight before Euan Kerth put in his appearance. A heavy footstep
announced a turbaned man. He halted in the light cast from a window;
executed a salaam. He wore white breeches, an alpaca coat and a white
shawl. A huge turban shadowed a brown face and a carefully waxed
mustache. Had it not been for that and the slim hands, Trent would not
have recognized him.
"_Salaam, Huzoor!_" was his greeting. "Is the _Huzoor_ ready?"--this in
the manner of a native trying to affect an Oxford accent.
Trent nodded and rose, and Kerth fell in behind.
"There's no need to take a gharry," said Kerth. "The Sadar Bazaar isn't
far."
Their walk led them past the dusty red brick barracks that Trent had
seen that afternoon, and within a short while they reached the Sadar
Bazaar, where, after many inquiries, they were directed to the shop of
Abdul Kerim--a dingy little hole in a narrow lane. A native was lounging
in the doorway, but at their approach he straightened up and salaamed.
"Major Trent Sahib?" he queried respectfully, with a grin that displayed
betel-stained teeth. "I am Chandra Lal." Then he looked inquisitively at
Kerth. "Who is this, Sahib?"
"My servant."
Chandra Lal shook his head. "I was instructed to bring only Major Trent
Sahib."
"But it is my wish that my bearer accompany me."
The native shifted uncomfortably. "The sahib's wish is law; yet if I do
other than I have been bidden I will be a disobedient servant." Another
glimpse of scarlet teeth; a rather nervous smile. "So what shall I do,
Sahib?"
"My man shall go--_maloom hai_!"--sternly. "I will be responsible to
your mistress."
Chandra Lal saluted. "_Achcha_, Sahib! I have a carriage in the street!"
At the mouth of the lane a landau was waiting, and when Trent and Kerth
were seated on cushioned springs, Chandra Lal flicked his whip.
Out of the Cantonment they were whirled, and eastward into the old city,
where constricted streets refused passage to any vehicle. They drew up
by an oval-shaped, tree-grown expanse, and the landau was left in charge
of a man who was waiting for that particular purpose. Then began a
journey on foot that was memorable to the two Englishmen because of the
muddle of dim, narrow highways into which it took them. Chandra Lal
leading, they percolated through streets and passages that stank of
every unpleasantness known to Indian cities; mere clefts where the stars
swam at distances immeasurable; stairs, tunneled lanes and alleys, and
amidst ramshackle, tumbled buildings and temples and shrines.
Trent's sense of direction was completely baffled when they came at
length to a quarter where the houses were more pretentious--a long
street of several-storied dwellings, of projecting eaves, of white walls
and of latticed windows that hinted at the lurking mystery of zenana and
harem.
Into one of these houses the native guided them, up a short flight of
stairs and into a dark room. The air was fresh and cool, fanned by
invisible punkahs. A snap brought on electric lights, and Trent blinked
about him; blinked and suppressed a smile, for he realized the entrance
into the room while it was yet unlighted was done for purely dramatic
effect.
His eyes, roving around the chamber, missed not a detail; a chamber
wholly amazing and incredible to the Westerner, who rarely, if ever,
sees into the houses of the wealthy, high caste Hindus. Trent, however,
(to whom India was an open book, as much as it ever will be to any white
man) was only mildly surprised. The chandeliers were crystal, tinted
amber by the yellow lights. Brassware and gold brocade (the latter hung
to hide all doors except the one by which they had entered) introduced
an effect of rich browns and richer golds; and a spire of incense
uncoiled from a brazen bowl to be dispelled by punkahs and leave the
heavy fragrance of musk swimming in the air.
"My mistress will join you presently," announced Chandra Lal. "Be
seated, Sahib, and you will be served with refreshments!"
Trent flung himself upon a divan pushed against the wall; silken
cushions yielded to his weight and clung to him caressingly. Kerth
dropped cross-legged at his feet.
Before Chandra Lal made his exit he drew the gold-hued draperies
opposite where Trent reclined, drew bamboo blinds and disclosed a white
arch that framed a portion of a garden. Stone steps sank into a
courtyard where rustling shrubs wove shadows about a fountain; falling
water played flute-notes on a tiled basin; stars scraped a white wall.
"She's no novice, this cobra," thought Trent. "Wonder if she's anything
like her lair?"
"... wine," thought Kerth. "And we must drink it ... unless--yes, guile
for guile."
Suddenly, from behind gold curtains, came the faint whispering of music.
Trent smothered an insurgent desire to laugh. Incongruity, the essence
of India! The music was made by a gramophone! Presently he recognized
the tune--Tschaikowsky's "Serenade Melancholique"!
He glanced furtively at Kerth. The latter's face was expressionless, his
slim hands toying with the tassel of a cushion. Trent sensed in his
attitude the same wild desire to laugh that possessed him.
"Steady!" he mentally encouraged himself, fixing his gaze upon a piece
of brassware close by--a _lota_ overlaid with copper and chased with
mythological figures. "Hmm.... Half as old as India, I'll wager," ran
his musings. "Siva--who the deuce is the other chap?"
Gold brocades parted and a turbaned servant glided out silently with a
tray, which he placed on a pearl-inlaid table. Claret-hued wine glowed
in twin beaten-brass goblets, rich as melted rubies. One he passed to
Trent, the other to Kerth. Then he made a soundless departure.
Inwardly, Trent smiled. And drained his goblet. The gramophone ceased;
only the music of the fountain stole to him, with a breath of fragrant
shrubs that made the incense seem sensuous and heavy.
Again the brass _lota_ claimed his gaze; held it until he heard a sigh
from Kerth and looked down to see the latter's eyelids droop, to see his
eyes close and his chin sink into his white shawl.
"Damn!" he swore, almost inaudibly, and his hand sprang to Kerth's
shoulder and gripped it none too gently. "Rawul Din!"
As he pronounced the name, Kerth fell against the cushions of the divan,
drugged in sleep. Some one laughed--a laugh that rippled low in the
throat. Trent did not look toward the sound immediately, although that
was his first impulse. He let his eyes turn naturally and rest, at first
incredulously, upon the woman who had entered and who stood regarding
him with a mocking smile. The blood flooded his temples; after a second
it receded, leaving him cold, numb, with a tingling sense of unreality.
He did not rise; merely stared; and presently forced a smile.
"Sarojini Nanjee," he said, trying to put down the emotions that
declared insurrection against his will. And he repeated, "Sarojini
Nanjee, the Swaying Cobra?" He smiled. "I confess, I never once
suspected."
Outlined against the gold draperies she stood, dressed as nautches
dress, only with more richness and without the customary head-scarf. Her
garments were full and as shimmery as cobwebs in the sun, and confined
at the waist with a goldcloth girdle that matched the tint of her
marvelously smooth skin. Her eyes burned under heavy lids, burned and
mocked him; and by their feverish brightness he understood that this
meeting wrought in her an excitement equal to his, although she was
prepared for it.
"I did not intend that you should suspect," she told him as she moved to
the divan where he reclined. "I knew you would not come if you did."
Not until then did he rise. He smiled, and the smile lingered as she
bent over Kerth and drew back the lids from his eyes.
"Why did you disobey me by bringing this man?" she demanded, and,
assured that Kerth was drugged, dropped gracefully upon the cushions.
"Why did you drug him?" he countered.
The blood still throbbed at his temples. The irony of it, that they
should meet again! And on this mission! She was as beautiful as ever.
But the lure of her eyes--eyes as purple as moist violets--of her smooth
golden skin and lithe body, no longer affected him. All that was in the
sepulcher of the past. A memory that was like the taste of stale wine
upon the tongue.
"I put a sleeping powder in his wine because what I am going to say is
for only _your_ ears," she replied.
"And you're called the Swaying Cobra," he mused, more to himself than to
the woman, "or did another write that note?"
"I am the Swaying Cobra." A pause. She studied him from under
half-lowered lids. "I dance for those I love. I have only venom for
those I hate."
The Swaying Cobra! He almost laughed. That was a good symptom, that he
could be amused. A pretty viper! Resolving to let her open the subject
of his visit, he allowed his eyes to wander about the room.
"Here I cease trying to be an Englishwoman," she said, perceiving his
inquisitive look. He did not fail to register the ring of bitterness
beneath that assertion. "In Jehelumpore and in Delhi it is different,
but here--here I am a Rajputni." Another pause. She laughed, and it was
not without a sting. "I know what you are thinking: that you will refuse
to work with me because--because of a foolish Anglo-Saxon
sentimentalism!"
She waited for him to respond; he did not.
"But why not forget that we ever knew each other--and did we ever really
know each other? Why not regard this as an impersonal affair?
Individuals do not count where an empire is concerned."
Trent smiled discreetly and held his tongue.
"I bear you no rancor," she went on. "On the contrary, I recognize and
respect the qualities that prompted me to select you for this
mission--imagination, wits, honor! Yes, for these things I chose
you--forgetting that when we last saw each other it was not under the
most pleasant circumstances. What is dead is dead."
She fell silent, and he spoke for the first time.
"You've anticipated," he said. "I was sent here to work with you and I
intend to. I've already forgot that we ever met before to-night. What is
dead is dead."
The woman smiled--but had she known what was in his mind at that moment
she might not have been so pleased. However, she did not. And she lay
back among the brocaded cushions, quite at ease, her hands clasped
behind her head, chin tilted, eyes looking upon him as a cat's eyes look
upon the mouse it is about to play with.
All of which did not pass unobserved by Trent, who pictured, instead of
a woman lying upon the gold silks with her head lifted, a lithe,
beautiful cobra with its black hood raised above the cushions; pictured
her thus, and returned her gaze with frankness and a smile that disarmed
her.
She clapped her hands and a servant brought wine. "Were you well
informed as to the terms of the agreement?" she questioned, handing him
a cup of claret-hued liquor.
"I believe so."
"That when you leave this house you are no longer Major Arnold Trent,
but another--a well of secrets from which no man can draw, and as mute
as the Buddha at Sarnath?"
He demonstrated that he could do so by remaining silent. She resumed:
"And you will do as I direct?"
"To a reasonable extent," he modified.
"To a reasonable extent," she repeated, and nodded. "And if you do not
understand a thing, you will trust to my judgment that it is better you
do not understand it."
"Then I'm to deliver myself blindfolded?" he put in, remembering Kerth's
words of the early evening and glancing involuntarily toward the drugged
figure.
"You will be told all that it is consistent to tell." She took a sip of
wine and surveyed him. "What is your first question?"
He thrust back the query that came to his tongue and reverted to his
conservative tactics. He sat as mute and expressionless as the Buddha at
Sarnath. When a moment had passed, she announced:
"You would like to know how I know what I know about the jewels; is it
not so?"
"I would like to know _what_ you know first," he corrected.
She laughed--that laugh that rippled low in her throat.
"What I know is locked away safely until the time is ripe to bring it
forth. Meanwhile, I will say this much: the jewels have not left India."
"Then they _will_?"
He flashed out the question with the air of a fencer thrusting at a weak
point in his opponent's guard. But foil met foil. She replied:
"Did I say so, O wise one? Again your thoughts are as clear as a crystal
pool. You say to yourself, 'Such a hoard of jewels cannot be smuggled
out of India; she is trying to confuse me.' But nay! The gods of India
are many and I swear by all of them that every gem that was stolen, down
to the last pearl, can be spirited out of India at any moment it is so
desired--and under the very eyes, nay, the protection, of your Secret
Service!"
If this statement surprised him, his face did not betray it; he
disconcerted her by looking interestedly at the brass _lota_. His
indifference drew fire.
"I said it could be done!" she declared. "Whether it will be is for you
to learn. Oh, you do not deceive me! I know you are consumed with
curiosity, under that shell of yours! Your Raj, well fed and growing fat
with wisdom, thinks it has a clue. Chavigny! The Raj thinks Chavigny is
involved!"
She leaned closer; peered intently into his eyes. The illusive fragrance
of sandalwood from her hair was not calculated to make him feel any more
at ease. But he did not stir nor wink an eyelid under the close
scrutiny.
"Chavigny!" she mocked. "Chavigny, the famous thief! Chavigny, whom some
silly Secret Service man tracked to Indore--and lost! Chavigny, driven
into hiding in Delhi! Pah! Let the Raj search for Chavigny, let it turn
Delhi inside out--while we look on and laugh! You--you have imagination!
I can guess what is in your mind, for I, too, have imagination! You have
pictured a gigantic criminal organization--a gem syndicate, let us
say--a flock of jewel vultures who have swooped down and plucked clean
the bones of the empire! And perhaps you even think Chavigny the leader,
yes?"
She smiled, quite pleased with herself. Then once more she leaned close
to him.
"What would you think if I told you there is such a band--an order, we
will call it--of jewel vultures who have flown away with riches worth a
dozen rajah's ransoms? What would you think? Only"--she paused
dramatically--"we will omit Chavigny, for if there be such an order he
is not its head nor in it!"
He drew out his smokes; passed them to her. She refused, and he lighted
a cigarette and flicked the match through the archway. Then he
suggested:
"Aren't all cards to go on the table?"
She smiled wisely. "No, I can play them more effectively one by one,"
was her retort.
His brain was working swiftly yet carefully. When he had selected his
words he uttered them.
"Presuming there is such an order, as you call it, we'll go further and
say that you, by some unguessable means, have become a member; and are
working with them for the Raj."
She looked her approval. "Presumably"--with a nod. That word was a key
to further knowledge.
"Then it would seem logical, if I'm to work with you, for me to be
initiated into the mysteries of this order--become a member, in other
words."
"Go on," she encouraged.
"So the purpose of this visit, I take it, is for me to learn the 'Open
Sesame' of the order."
And having said that much, he realized it was sufficient and relapsed
into quiet to let her do the rest of the talking.
"You have already proved that I chose well," she announced. "But before
I go on you must give me your word of honor that all I have said and
will say, all that occurs until I release you from the promise, will
never be repeated--by word or writing."
"I give it," he returned quietly.
She leaned over and deftly drew back the lids from Kerth's eyes; Trent
caught a fleeting glimpse of the whites.
"To-morrow you leave Benares," she directed, again assured. "You will
take a train in the morning for Bombay and go to an address which I
shall give you; and do as I instruct." Her hand slipped under her waist
and brought out a long blank envelope. "In this envelope are your
instructions. I must have your promise not to read them until you are on
the train to Bombay; then destroy them immediately."
He inclined his head and placed the envelope in his pocket.
"You said that when I leave this house I am no longer Major Trent," he
reminded.
"You are Robert Tavernake, a jeweller, from London. All that is
contained in the instructions."
"Including the name of the order?"--his curiosity escaping him.
For answer she clapped her hands and curtains parted to admit a servant
with a black lacquer tray. From the tray she lifted a small box; opened
it as the servant padded out.
"This is the symbol of the order"--removing a string of beads.
Had Trent felt any hesitancy about plunging into this blind mission it
would have vanished at sight of the beads--reddish coral beads, with an
oval-shaped pendant overlaid with the silver image of a three-eyed god!
The only emotion he displayed was to moisten his lips; but it required
all the force he could marshal to check the questions that flooded to
his tongue, to mask his surprise and reach with a steady hand for the
beads. Despite his control, it seemed for a moment that he would betray
his nervousness.
"... the Order of the Falcon," he heard her say. "See--" She inserted
her fingernail under the silver band that finished the coral; the
pendant opened, like a locket. The interior was silver and a name was
engraved upon the back--"Robert Tavernake."
She snapped the oval shut and he took the beads; twisted them carelessly
around his fingers, until the deep reddish coral seemed like huge drops
of blood welling from his hand. As he caught the significance of the
illusion, he looked up quickly and spoke.
"Am I to carry these?"
She nodded.
His thoughts swung back to the oval that lay in his handbag at the
hotel.
"Is it customary to have the name engraved--like this?"--with a gesture.
After the words left his mouth he realized he had made an indiscreet
move. She looked at him suspiciously, then answered:
"Customary, yes--among those who possess such beads."
He did not fail to grasp the insinuation that her speech bore. He
glanced down at the beads in his hand, casually enough; toyed with them;
slipped them into his pocket. His heart had not resumed its normal beat,
but the tension had eased. He fastened his eyes upon the relaxed figure
of Kerth and--
"It will be permissible, I presume," he began, as though the sight of
the turbaned head suggested the question, "to take my bearer along?"
Did a smile flicker across her eyes, he wondered, or was it only his
fancy? The answer came decisively.
"It is scarcely practicable."
"Why?"--a shade too artlessly.
"Servants have eyes to see and ears to hear."
Something in her tone caused him to wonder if she had penetrated under
Kerth's masquerade. All the while he was subconsciously thinking of the
mate to the oval in his pocket.
"What harm in taking him to Bombay?" he pursued, conscious that he was
losing ground.
Again he could have taken oath that he saw the shadow of a smile in her
eyes.
"To Bombay?" she repeated thoughtfully. "No"--slowly--"no, I see no
objection. I concede that." But he did not like the manner in which she
said it.
"Conditionally, however," she added. "He must leave to-night. When he
reaches Bombay let him reserve a room for you at the Taj Mahal--and
wait."
Trent was discreet enough to accept her terms without question. His eyes
returned to Kerth. He saw him stir slightly, heard a sigh leave his
lips. The woman, too, saw and heard.
"He is awakening," she observed. "I shall summon Chandra Lal to guide
you back to your hotel."
Again she clapped her hands; again the servant appeared. She spoke to
him swiftly, not in English nor Hindustani, but in a tongue Trent did
not understand, and the man vanished with a salaam.
Sarojini rose; Trent, too, got up.
"_Salaam, Burra Dakktar_," she said, lapsing into Hindustani and
bringing the visit to an end. "I, the Swaying Cobra--who dance for those
I love, but have only venom for those I hate--bid thee farewell until
the gods bring us together again. And may that be soon!"
She smiled and contemplated him, once more as a cat contemplating prey;
smiled with eyes that spoke mockery as she suffered him to salute her
fingers; and the last picture he had of her was as she crossed the
golden room and parted the golden curtains, vanishing like a cobra into
its lair.
He turned then to Kerth and shook him. The latter was slow to awaken.
Lids lifted to reveal rheumy eyes, but as he recognized Trent sleep was
wiped away, like a cobweb. His gaze swept the room; he rose unsteadily.
"I am ready, Sahib!" announced Chandra Lal, appearing in the doorway.
Kerth opened his mouth, as if to speak; shut it; shot Trent a cryptic
glance.
"Come." This from Trent, laconically.
Thus they left the house of the Swaying Cobra, left it with its vain,
old-world atmosphere and its golden room; re-traversed the labyrinth of
streets; got into the landau; whirled toward the Cantonment.
4
Not until they reached the hotel, until Chandra Lal flicked his whip and
rolled away into the gloom, did either of the Englishmen speak.
"So you've known her before!" observed Kerth as they approached Trent's
room.
Trent said, without surprise: "You heard?"
"Everything.... I'll drop over and find out about the Bombay trains;
join you in a moment."
As Kerth moved toward the central building, Trent unlocked the door.
After he switched on the light, his first act was to open his bag and
insert his hand into the pocket where he had left the piece of coral.
His fingers trembled, for he felt that he was questioning for the
identity of Manlove's slayer; trembled--and groped in an empty pocket.
For several seconds he stood motionless, trying to adjust himself to the
situation. When he came into full sentience, he looked carefully through
the bag. He even searched his pockets. But the oval was not to be
found.... Some one had entered his room; stolen it. The realization
burned like acid into his brain. But if--
His mental inquest was cut short as a knock announced Kerth.
"Message for you," said the latter, extending a telegram.
Trent hastily tore it open; read:
"Party fitting description bought ticket for Mughal Sarai last night.
_Khansammah_ at dak bungalow says she asked questions about you and
Manlove. Following up clue. Nothing new. Urqhart."
A sense of disappointment smote him. First Chatterjee; then the oval;
now this! A series of blind alleys.
He applied a match to the telegram and watched it burn.
"Train leaves in an hour and a half," Kerth volunteered, taking a seat
and staring inquisitively at the ashes as they fluttered to the floor.
"How'd you suspect the wine?" Trent enquired, unbuttoning his tunic.
"It's my business to suspect. I emptied the cup under the divan and,
afterwards, expected any minute to see it seeping out. As it is, I'm
not sure she didn't smell a mouse. Gad! The way she pulled back my
eyelids!"
Trent hung his tunic on a chair. "Don't object if I get comfortable, do
you?" he asked. "Rather done up; awake all last night, you know."
Kerth waved his slim hand. "Go ahead; I'll have to pack up shortly."
Then, as Trent undressed: "This Sarojini, she's a shrewd one, major, and
I don't envy you the task of matching blades with her. However, you
gained a point on her to-night. I was rather surprised that she gave in
so easily; not so sure, either, that there isn't a trick in it." He
laughed easily. "Oh, I'll wager she has a bag of tricks! And do you
think she was telling the truth when she said Chavigny has nothing to do
with this Order of the Falcon?"
Trent, stripped but for one garment, propped himself against two
pillows, pencil and pad in hand.
"I'm sure I don't know," he returned, making a notation. "Pardon me for
taking a few notes; 'fraid I'll forget 'em. No, don't go.... About
Chavigny: why should she say he isn't, if he is?"
"To confuse you." Kerth drew out a silver cigarette case. "Have a smoke?
And what d'you suppose she meant by saying the jewels could be spirited
out of India under the protection of the S. S.?" Kerth searched from
pocket to pocket for a match. "Have you a light, major?"
Trent's hand moved involuntarily to his side; then he motioned toward
his tunic.
"In the pocket."
And he continued to write as Kerth reached into the pocket of his coat.
He read the notes he had made:
Who the deuce would want the pendant? Answer: if a name is
engraved inside, it would be very valuable to the owner. Yet
the fact that the coral was found in M.'s hand doesn't prove
conclusively that its owner is the murderer.
He looked up as Kerth extended a lighted match, took it and held it to
his cheroot.
"Thanks"--briefly.
"Do you think," interrogated Kerth, "you could find her lair without a
guide?"
Trent smiled. "Hardly."
"I'd take oath that her man, Chandra Lal, led us along the same street
twice! Oh, she's a wily one! And the way she had us taken into the room
while it was dark!"
He puffed on his cheroot and Trent continued to jot down notes.
"Furthermore," Kerth drawled, "why doesn't she want you to read those
instructions until to-morrow? Some catch in it."
Conversation languished, and presently Kerth drew out his watch and
observed: "Nearly midnight. I'll have to be moving on."
He rose and extended his hand.
"I'll take a room at a native serai in Bombay--for atmosphere--and meet
you at the station. Until then, good luck!"
In the doorway he paused. He looked particularly satanic at that moment,
and again Trent was not quite sure that he liked him.
"Bombay, major!" were his parting words. And the door closed behind him.
Trent stared at the blank panels for a moment; then, while he ran his
fingers through his hair, he glanced over his notes:
Something queer about this Chavigny. May not belong to Order,
but he's not to be overlooked. Last alias was Gilbert Leroux,
Kerth said. Kerth is a downy bird. Gilbert Leroux. Names mean
nothing. Sarojini took particular pains to empress it upon me
that Chavigny is _non compos mentis_. Therefore, he isn't. He's
something. What? And--Sarojini is a connection of the Nawab of
Jehelumpore--the jewels of the Nawab were among those stolen.
Find out if she was in Jehelumpore at time of theft.
Then he tore off the slip of paper, crumpled it and held a corner to his
cheroot. When the blaze lapped up to his fingers he let the paper fall
to the floor, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed and reached
for his tunic. From the inside pocket he removed the long envelope
Sarojini Nanjee had given him. It was sealed and its white surface
invited inspection. He made a movement to open it; hesitated. Why not?
As Kerth suggested, there might be a trick--and he knew only too well
that she was not above chicanery. But he did not open it; slipped it
under his pillow.
A glance at his wrist-watch. He procured his revolver; snapped open the
breech; inspected the cartridges; clicked it shut; placed it beneath the
pillow with the envelope. Then he switched off the light and lay with
his cheroot's end glowing in the darkness.
The discovery of the symbol of the Order revealed another side to the
mystery surrounding Manlove's death, and during the ride back to the
hotel he had constructed a new theory--a theory that he reviewed now.
The analogy between the Swaying Cobra and the woman of the
cobra-bracelet did not escape him. One suggested the other. Surely it
was plausible to surmise that Sarojini was the veiled woman, although he
was at a loss to find a convincing motive for her presence at Gaya.
However, Colonel Urqhart's telegram stated that the woman had made
inquiries about him--and what other woman was interested? Further proof
was offered by the fact that the mysterious woman left Gaya on the night
of the tragedy for Mughal Sarai, the junction for Benares. Finally,
there was the coral pendant-stone. Sarojini had called it the "symbol"
of the Order; therefore, only a member of that mysterious band was
likely to possess it, and had not she admitted she was a member? And the
pendant-stone was stolen--evidently for the reason that engraved inside
was the name of its owner. Sarojini was in Benares; it was logical to
assume, then, that some one in her employ had entered his room and
removed the condemning evidence.
But, on the other hand, there were elements to upset this theory. Clues
indicated that Manlove was stabbed at the bungalow and carried to the
temple-ruins. Could a woman do that? Under the stress of circumstances,
yes. But why move the body--unless to hide it? Or had Manlove been
mortally wounded at the house and gone of his own volition to the ruins
before his death? Possible--but he could conjecture no cause for such
action.
And there was Chatterjee. Since the receipt of the telegram telling of
his death, Trent was of the opinion that the native knew something about
the crime and for that reason was killed. Had Chatterjee gone to the
bungalow that night, grief-crazed and believing Trent responsible for
his child's death, to administer primitive justice? Had he witnessed the
crime and fled? Of course, there was the possibility that Chatterjee's
death might have been a coincidence--the termination of a quarrel
between him and another native. Yet Trent was not inclined to lay great
importance upon this, as he considered, meager explanation and his
thoughts returned to the woman.
He could fix the guilt upon neither Sarojini Nanjee nor Chatterjee. Of
the two, he least suspected the native. He knew the woman to be
unscrupulous--whether to the point of murder he was uncertain. True, it
may not have been deliberate murder. She might have gone to the bungalow
for (again) a mysterious reason; might have been discovered by
Manlove.... But the glove did not exactly fit. Nor had he any concrete
reason to believe her the woman of the cobra-bracelet--or to believe the
woman of the cobra-bracelet involved. That the latter had worn a heavy
veil, surrounded her, in his eyes, with an aura of mystery. This he
realized, and gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Nevertheless, the coral pendant linked Sarojini with the crime;
suggested that even though she did not actually commit the deed, she was
undoubtedly implicated.
All of which did not clear the mystery; instead, bewildered him the more
and kept suspicion, like the needle of a compass, wavering between
Chatterjee, Sarojini Nanjee, the woman of the cobra-bracelet (if she
were not Sarojini) and a person unknown.
His cheroot had burned low, and he got up and flung it away, and made
sure the door was secure before he returned to the bed; then he relaxed
and lay staring up into the darkness--darkness that was hotter because
of the thick mosquito-curtain--until he fell asleep.
5
Trent returned to consciousness gradually, as a diver rising from the
bottom of the sea. He was aware of another presence in the room before
he was completely awake, and he strained at the threads of sleep that
still entangled him.
The first proof of a presence in the hot, dark void that enclosed him
was the sound of repressed breathing. He felt, now at the helm of his
faculties, a movement under his pillow--realized it was a _hand_, a hand
that withdrew stealthily, that belonged to a dark figure crouched
outside the mosquito-curtain. A turban and shoulders were silhouetted
upon the gray rectangle of a window. He sensed eyes upon him, cat-like
eyes that saw despite the darkness.
With a stealth that proved that the intruder was no novice, but of the
school of thieves that graduate well-nigh perfect adepts in the art of
silent movement, the silhouette receded from the bed. Trent realized
that in all probability his revolver had been placed beyond reach;
attack by surprise was impossible because of the mosquito-curtain. So he
lay there, undecided, scarcely breathing; and, after a moment, he let
his hand slide slowly, cautiously, toward his pillow.
The silhouette halted; was motionless.
Trent's hand touched the seam of the pillow and pressed underneath. It
encountered steel.
The silhouetted turban was moving again--toward the door.
Trent gripped the revolver. He turned on his side noisily and sighed, as
though in sleep. At the sounds, the dark figure stepped swiftly to one
side of the window, thus vacating the gray rectangle.
Trent waited no longer. He raised the mosquito-curtain and jumped. And
the thing he apprehended happened. His head and shoulders became
enmeshed in the netting. Cursing his awkwardness, he rent the fabric
with a downward sweep of his hand. As he leaped through the opening, he
saw the door flung wide, saw the man plunge out.
He pressed the trigger--and it snapped harmlessly.
"Damn!" he spat out, knowing the weapon had been tampered with.
Again he pressed the trigger; again that absurd click.
Meanwhile the door slammed. The crash awakened him to the fact that the
thief was escaping, and he dashed across the room and threw open the
door. As he emerged, a figure disappeared behind the far corner.
He rushed in pursuit, his bare feet padding upon the stone flags. At the
end of the portico he halted sharply, almost colliding with something in
white--a something that appeared, as if by magic, from behind a suddenly
opened door; that came to a standstill as abruptly as he, and gasped.
"Oh!"
Words died in Trent's throat. The girl, whom he recognized as she of the
bronze hair, wore a long white garment, and her hair fell in heavy
braids over her shoulders; her hands were at her throat.
For a moment they stood and stared, both speechless. Then:
"Oh!" she repeated, with a hysterical little laugh. "You frightened me!
I woke up and--" She swallowed with difficulty. Her eyes dropped to her
nightdress, she threw a significant look toward him and darted into her
room.
Not until he heard the key turn in the lock did he remember the very
substantial reason for his presence on the portico--and then that reason
was nowhere in sight, but was, he surmised, at a safe distance,
laughing at the awkwardness of all sahibs in general and one sahib in
particular.
His face burning, and not altogether from the heat, he returned to his
room. The glowing hands of his wrist-watch pointed to nearly two
o'clock.
When he switched on the light it shone on six cartridges lying upon the
table--cartridges that deft fingers had removed from his revolver and
left to mock him. It was no mystery how the thief had managed to get in,
for he knew that entrance could be effected with the aid of a master
key, but it did puzzle him that neither his money nor the contents of
his bag were touched. He suspected, however, now that he had time to
review the affair, that the intruder had not come bent on loot, but
after one particular thing--and when he assured himself that that thing
was safe under his pillow, he guessed that his awakening had prevented
the man from making away with it.
As he held up the envelope, he was once more seized by an impulse to
open it. But, as before, he placed the tempting object under the pillow.
Then he returned the cartridges to the breech, and, after propping a
chair against the door, turned off the light and stretched himself upon
the bed.
Again a wave of mystery had lapped up and touched him, and receded
without leaving a hint of the power that energized it. He could not
suspect Sarojini Nanjee, for he saw no reason why she should have the
envelope stolen. Other hands were at work.
But thoughts and questions did not harry him long. He felt certain that
he need not fear another intrusion that night, and when drowsiness
returned he yielded to it.
6
The next morning at _burra hazri_, or "big breakfast," he found himself
searching the dining-hall for the bronze-haired girl; but she was not
there, nor did she appear during the meal.
When he returned to his room he discovered a letter under the door, and
tore it open with quickened interest as he recognized the handwriting
and inhaled the delicate fragrance of sandalwood.
GREETINGS!
You will no doubt be surprised when I inform you that instead
of going to Bombay, you will go to Calcutta. The address of the
place to which you are to report is set forth in the packet I
gave you, and which you, being a man of honor, have not read
ere you receive this. I told you Bombay last night because one
can never be sure there are no ears listening, even in one's
own house.
Your bearer, Rawul Din (who, I assure you, is worthy of the
confidence you impose in him) will by this time be on his way
to Bombay, which inconvenience to you I regret exceedingly.
However, you shall have a servant. One Tambusami, an excellent
bearer, will meet you in Calcutta. Regarding your own man,
Rawul Din: he is, I am sure, a most obedient servant and will
carry out your instructions by waiting in Bombay.
Meanwhile, I trust you will have a most pleasant journey and
will grow in both wisdom and prosperity.
Your humble servant,
SAROJINI NANJEE
When Trent finished reading the letter he smiled. He felt no anger, nor
even chagrin; he was amused; he could picture with what satisfaction she
penned that missive. She was as full of tricks as a street-juggler, this
Swaying Cobra. Whether she discovered Kerth's true identity or only
suspected he might act as a listening-post for the Intelligence
Department, he did not know; he knew only that Sarojini Nanjee had
outwitted the Government in the first move of the game.
The remainder of the morning he spent in making arrangements for his
departure. While he was having his luggage removed from his room he saw
the bronze-haired girl--a glimpse of white and gold as she crossed the
portico. She did not even glance at him.
Two-thirty, with a sun glaring down implacably upon the dusty
Cantonment, found him pacing the platform of the railway station.
Suddenly he caught a glimmer of bronze, a familiar face among many
unfamiliar ones. It may have been the advent of the train, roaring up in
a cloud of heat, that made her turn quickly--and it may not. She hurried
into a carriage, followed by a porter in a flowered chintz coat.
As the train puffed out, Trent drew from his pocket the envelope
Sarojini Nanjee had given him and tore off the end; read the closely
written pages; reread them; made a few notes; memorized certain
passages, and consigned the packet to ashes. One sentence stood out in
his brain, in raised lettering:
... Thursday night to the house of his Excellency the Mandarin
Li Kwai Kung, in the Street of the River of the Moon, which is
in the Chinese colony at Calcutta.
It was Wednesday now.