UP INTO THE HILLS.
“Sahib, I am here!” said Jai Singh, in English, in a deep, guttural
tone.
“I’m glad to see you, Jai Singh,” responded Nick Carter. “But I did not
expect to find you so many miles from your home.”
“It is to help the sahib that I come,” replied Jai Singh, with dignity.
“The men of the hills have taken one who must be saved.”
“Great Scott!” broke in Jefferson Arnold. “What does he know about it? I
always have contended that these Indians know more than seems possible
unless they have supernatural powers at their back.”
“It is Sahib Leslie Arnold,” went on Jai Singh calmly. “In the temple it
was told to me that you would come.”
“What kind of bunk is that?” whispered Patsy. “Who told him, do you
think?”
“Keep quiet, Patsy,” warned Chick. “He’s liable to hear you. Don’t you
know that India is the land of mysteries? If you never believed in
ghosts and demons, and all that kind of thing, you’ve got a surprise
coming to you. You will find that things are not always what you see in
this country. Houdini, Herrman, and Keller are not in it with some of
these men when it comes to the black art.”
“Black rot!” muttered Patsy, entirely unconvinced.
Jai Singh was a noble figure. His light dress, suitable for such a
climate, emphasized his physical grace and strength. The white shirt was
open at the throat, and the white linen trousers, coming just below the
knee, allowed the muscles of his powerful legs to be seen as they moved
about under the dark satin skin like living things.
There were heavy golden armlets clanking at his wrists, and circlets of
the same precious metal were around his ankles.
The one thing out of keeping with his picturesque Orientalism was the
heavy automatic pistol which hung to a light cartridge belt around his
waist.
The latter was well supplied with cartridges, and the naturalness with
which the hand of the owner dropped upon the butt of his revolver now
and then suggested that he was no novice in the use of that particular
weapon of the white man.
“What do you know of my son, Jai Singh?” demanded Jefferson Arnold. “I
am Mr. Leslie’s father.”
“Jai Singh knows that,” was the reply. “He sees Leslie’s face when he
looks at you. I cannot tell anything of Sahib Leslie except that he has
gone into the great mountains far up the Brahmapootra.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. But some of my young men have.”
“When?”
“It is many days, sahib. I cannot tell how many times the moon has come
and gone since. But I came down to the sea to find those who might
belong to Sahib Leslie.”
“Yes?”
“And I burned certain herbs in the forest, and I called to me those who
tell me what I want to know. They told me you and Sahib Carter, and his
friend, who is Chick, were to be here. So, in my boat, with my men, I
came. I am here.”
Jai Singh made another obeisance. Then he waited for some one else to
speak.
As is customary with Hindus of high caste, Jai Singh had enough dignity
for a justice of the supreme court, added to a certain grace and
nobility that belongs peculiarly to his race when they feel themselves
entitled to consideration.
“You came down in the boat all the way along the Brahmapootra River?”
asked Nick.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you use the railroad?”
“I do not know anything about that,” returned Jai Singh. “Only once have
I been carried along by the smoke and fire, and that was with you. It
has been the custom of my fathers to go where they would in their boat.
I did the same as they,” returned Jai Singh simply. “But I will go in
the train with you.”
“All right! There is no time to lose.”
Nick Carter turned to Captain Southern.
“Can you run right in to the wharf without trouble, captain?”
“Yes. I only waited to see what those fellows in the boat were after.
Calcutta is a white man’s city--not the sort of place where lawlessness
is likely to be found. But you never know. Not so many scores of miles
in the back country the people are as wild as those in Calcutta are
quiet and commonplace.”
“That’s true,” agreed Jefferson Arnold. “Every time I come to India I am
struck by the fact that it is a land of amazing contrasts. It never
could surprise me to meet a tiger walking along the streets, arm in arm
with a cobra de capello, right there in Calcutta. It isn’t New York by a
long chalk. Yet you will find white women, in European clothing,
shopping in that city, over there, just as you will in Thirty-ninth
Street and Fifth Avenue.”
Jai Singh was instructed to get his boat, as well as the crew, on board
the ship, and the captain immediately gave orders to steam up to the
regular wharf belonging to Jefferson Arnold.
Nick Carter got Jai Singh in a retired place on deck, and the two talked
earnestly for nearly half an hour. At the end of that time the great
detective had a plan of action laid out which he followed as soon as the
_Marathon_ was warped up to her regular landing place.
Telling Chick and Patsy to keep somewhere near the wharf, so that they
could be found when he returned, Nick Carter strolled off with Jefferson
Arnold and Jai Singh to the office of the Arnold corporation on one of
the several business streets of the ancient city.
There were white and Indian employees about the place. But in the office
was only one young man, an American, who had been brought up in his
native city, New York, until he had taken the position of assistant
manager in the Calcutta branch of the importing and steamship house of
the Arnold Company, a year before.
This young man’s name was John McKeever, and he was as keen as a newly
ground bayonet.
“Hello, McKeever!” was Jefferson Arnold’s greeting. “What has become of
Pike?”
“Gone,” replied McKeever laconically.
“Know where?”
“No idea. He just simply dried up. I came here one morning and he had
cleaned out the safe and decamped. I went to the bank and found he had
not deposited much of late, but that, two days before, he had taken out
most of the company’s balance.”
“And they let him have it without question, eh?” put in Nick Carter.
“Certainly. It was not an unusual thing for him to take out all the
money he had there--or most of it, especially when one of the ships of
the company was nearly due. Everybody knew that the steamer _Jefferson_
was expected about that time.”
“The _Jefferson_ is the sister ship of the _Marathon_, Carter,”
explained Arnold incidentally. “They are the two finest vessels of our
fleet.”
“So he had no difficulty in getting the money,” continued McKeever. “It
was supposed he meant to ship the cash to the home office in New York.”
“I see,” nodded Nick Carter. “Pretty well managed. But what about Leslie
Arnold, Mr. McKeever?”
“He had been in the office two or three times. He said he was going
tiger hunting soon, but that he thought he’d wait till the _Jefferson_
came in, so that he could hear something about his father and affairs at
home generally by direct word of mouth from the captain.”
“But he did not wait, after all?”
“No. He vanished just about the time Pike went,” replied McKeever. “We
are not sure that there is any relation between the two in appearances.
But there are the facts, just as I give them to you.”
“A hundred thousand dollars, you told me in your telegram, McKeever,”
observed Jefferson thoughtfully.
“That’s what I figure it,” answered the young man. “But I cannot swear
that Pike didn’t fix the books.”
“H’m! Very likely he did,” grunted Jefferson. “Well, we’ll get out on
the night train. Jai Singh will have to be our guide. He seems to have
some idea of where we may find Leslie. What do you say, Carter?”
“That’s the only thing to do,” answered the detective. “We will get what
things we need and go. There is nothing to be done here. Fortunately, I
know both your son and Pike. So does my man Chick. My other assistant,
Patsy Garvan, has never seen either of them. But I can rely on him to
help when the time comes.”
“Will you take your bloodhound?” asked Jefferson Arnold.
“Certainly! Old Captain has been useful in too many cases for me to
leave him behind.”
“I was hoping you would take him,” said Jefferson. “We are likely to
find ourselves against some of the tough tribes when we get up the
country, and a dog who can follow a good scent will be a mighty
comfortable friend in the party.”
“Well, that’s all, then,” remarked Nick Carter. “I just wanted to know
from your assistant manager the exact status of the case.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the millionaire, putting an
affectionate hand on John McKeever’s shoulder. “You spoke of McKeever as
‘the assistant manager.’ You should have said ‘manager and confidential
agent.’ This is his position here now. He takes William Pike’s place.”
There was a general handshake, with John McKeever’s sharp eyes a little
dulled by emotion. Then his employer and Nick Carter went out into the
simmering streets.
Seeking as much shade as they could, they strolled slowly back to the
wharf where they had left the others.
Calcutta is a hot place in the afternoon, and nothing could be done
until the sun began to go down. Then those who had been curled up in any
partly cool place they could find for the inevitable siesta, stirred
themselves, and the little party made its way to the railroad station.
Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, Chick, and Patsy Garvan all gathered in
the coach reserve for high-caste natives and white persons, while Jai
Singh and his men took their places in a car of lower class, to smoke
cigarettes and doze throughout the night.
Captain was in the baggage car, where he made friends with the native
train men, and seemed to be as contented as he always was anywhere so
long as he had enough food and water.
They had begun the first stage of what might prove to be a long journey
in the hunt for the missing Leslie Arnold.