NUMBER ONE OF THE SECRET SERVICE.
Ommony did go straight to McGregor but he and Diana, his enormous
wolf-hound, walked and club bets had to be called off because there was
no cab-driver from whom the _chuprassi_[1] could bludgeon information.
Neither his nor Diana’s temper was improved by the behavior of the
crowd. The dog’s size and apparent ferocity cleared a course, but that
convenience was not so pleasant as the manners of twenty years ago, when
men made way for an Englishman without hesitation—without dreaming of
doing anything else.
The thrice-breathed air of Delhi gave him melancholia. It was not
agreeable to see men spit with calculated insolence. The heat made the
sweat drip from his beard on to the bosom of a new silk shirt. The smell
of over-civilized, unnaturally clothed humans was nauseating. By the
time he reached an unimaginably ugly, rawly new administration building
he felt about as sweetly reasonable as a dog with hydrophobia, and was
tired, with feet accustomed to the softness, and ears used to the
silence, of long jungle lanes.
However, his spirits rose as he approached the steps. He may have made a
signal, because the moment the _chuprassi_ saw him he straightened
himself suddenly and ran before him, up-stairs and along a corridor. By
the time Ommony reached a door with no name on it, at the far end of the
building, the _chuprassi_ was waiting to open it—had already done the
announcing—had already seen a said-to-be important personage shown out
with, scant excuses through another door. The _chuprassi’s_ salaam was
that of a worshiper of secrets, to a man who knows secrets and can keep
them; there is no more marrow-deep obeisance in the world than that.
And now no ceremony. The office door clicked softly with a spring-lock
and shut out the world that bows and scrapes to hide its enmity and
spits to disguise self-conscious meanness. A man sat at a desk and
grinned.
“Sit. Smoke. Take your coat off. Sun in your eyes? Try the other chair.
Dog need water? Give her some out of the filter. Now—”
John McGregor passed cigars and turned his back toward a laden desk. He
was a middle-sized, middle-aged man with snow-white hair in a crisp
mass, that would have been curly if he had let it grow long enough. His
white mustache made him look older than his years, but his skin was
young and reddish, although that again was offset by crow’s-feet at the
corners of noticeably dark-gray eyes. His hands looked like a
conjurer’s; he could do anything with them, even to keeping them
perfectly still.
“So you’ve actually turned in your resignation? We grow!” he remarked,
laughing. “Everything grows—except me; I’m in the same old rut. I’ll
get the ax—get pensioned some day—dreadful fate! Did you have your
interview with Jenkins? What happened? I can see you had the best of
it—but how?”
Ommony laid three letters on the desk—purple ink on faded paper, in a
woman’s handwriting. McGregor laughed aloud—one bark, like the cry of a
fox that scents its quarry on the fluke of a changing wind.
“Perfect!” he remarked, picking up the letters and beginning to read the
top one. “Did you blackmail him?”
“I did.”
“I could have saved you that trouble, you know. I could have ‘broke’
him. He deserves it,” said McGregor, knitting his brows over the letter
in his hand. “Man, man, he certainly deserves it!”
“If we all got our deserts the world ’ud stand still.” Ommony chose a
cigar and bit the end off. “He’s a more than half-efficient bureaucrat.
Let India suck him dry and spew him forth presently to end his days at
Surbiton or Cheltenham.”
McGregor went on reading, holding his breath. “Have you read these?” he
asked suddenly.
Ommony nodded. McGregor chewed at his mustache and made noises with his
teeth that brought Diana’s ears up, cocked alertly.
“Man, they’re pitiful! Imagine a brute like Jenkins having such a hold
on any one—and he—good God! He ought to have been hanged—no, that’s
too good for him! I suppose there’s no human law that covers such a
case.”
“None,” Ommony answered grimly. “But I’m pious. I _think_ there’s a
Higher Law that adjusts that sort of thing eventually. If not, I’d have
killed the brute myself.”
“Listen to this.”
“Don’t read ’em aloud, Mac. It’s sacrilege. And I’m raw. It was at least
partly my fault.”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
“It was, Mac. Elsa wasn’t so many years younger than me, but even when
we were kids we were more like father and child than brother and sister.
She had the spirituality and the brains; I had the brute-strength and
was presumed to have the common sense; it made a rather happy
combination. As soon as I got settled in the forest I wrote home to her
to come out and keep house for me. I used to trust Jenkins in those
days. It was I who introduced them. Jenkins introduced her to Kananda
Pal.”
“That swine!”
“No, he wasn’t such a swine as Jenkins,” said Ommony. “Kananda Pal was a
poor devil who was born into a black art family. He didn’t know any
better. His father used to make him stare into ink-pools and all that
devilment before he was knee-high to a duck. He used to do stunts with
spooks and things. Jenkins, on the other hand, had a decent heritage and
ditched it. It was he who invited Kananda Pal to hypnotize Elsa. Between
the two of them they did a devil’s job of it. She almost lost her mind,
and Jenkins had the filthy gall to use that as excuse for breaking the
engagement.”
“My God! But think if he had married her! Man, man!”
“True. But think of the indecency of making that excuse! I called in
Fred Terry—”
“Top-hole—generous—gallant—gay! Man, what a delightful fellow Terry
was!” said McGregor. “Did he really fall in love with her? You know, he
was recklessly generous enough to—”
“Yes,” said Ommony. “He almost cured her; and he fell in love. She loved
him—don’t see how any real woman could have helped it. But Jenkins and
Kananda Pal—oh, curse them both!”
“Amen!” remarked McGregor. “Well—we’ve got what _we_ want. How did you
hear of these letters?—Just think of it! That poor girl writing to a
brute like Jenkins to give her mind back to her. So that she may—oh, my
God!”
“I saw Kananda Pal before he died. That was recently. He was quite sorry
about his share in the business. He tried to put all the blame on
Jenkins—you know how rotters always accuse each other when the cat’s
out of the bag. He told me of the letters, so I went to Jenkins
yesterday and, having resigned, I was in position to be rather blunt. In
fact, I was dam’ blunt. He denied their existence at first, but he
handed ’em over when I explained what I intended to do if he didn’t!”
“I wonder why he’d kept them,” said McGregor.
“The pig had kept them to prove she was mad, if any one should ever
accuse him of having wronged her,” Ommony answered. “Do they read like a
mad-woman’s letters?”
“Man, man! They’re pitiful! They read like the letters of a drug-addict,
struggling to throw off the cursed stuff, and all the while crying for
it. Lord save us, what a time Fred Terry must have had!”
“Increasingly rarely,” said Ommony. “He had almost cured her. The
attacks were intermittent. Terry heard of a sacred place in the hills—a
sort of Himalayan Lourdes, I take it—and they set off together, twenty
years ago, to find the place. I never found a trace of them, but I heard
rumors, and I’ve always believed they disappeared into the Ahbor
country.”
“Where they probably were crucified!” McGregor added grimly.
“I don’t know,” said Ommony. “I’ve heard tales about a mysterious stone
in the Ahbor country that’s supposed to have magic qualities. Terry
probably heard about it too, and he was just the man to go in search of
it. I’ve also heard it said that the ‘Masters’ live in the Ahbor
Valley.”
McGregor shook his head and smiled. “Still harping on that string?”
“One hundred million people, at a very conservative estimate, of whom at
least a million are thinkers, believe that the Masters exist,” Ommony
retorted. “Who are you and I, to say they don’t? If they do, and if
they’re in the Ahbor Valley, I propose to prove it.”
McGregor’s smile widened to a grin. “Men who are as wise as they are
said to be, would know how to keep out of sight. The Mahatmas, or
Masters, as you call them, are a mare’s nest, Ommony, old man. However,
there may be something in the other rumor. By the way: who’s this
adopted daughter of Miss Sanburn?”
“Never heard of her.”
“You’re trustee of the Marmaduke Mission, aren’t you? Know Miss Sanburn
intimately? When did you last see her?”
“A year ago. She comes to Delhi once a year to meet me on the mission
business. About once in three years I go to Tilgaun. I’m due there now.”
“And you never heard of an adopted daughter? Then listen to this.”
McGregor opened a file and produced a letter written in English on cheap
ruled paper.
“This is from Number 888—Sirdar Sirohe Singh of Tilguan, who has been
on the secret roster since before my time. His home is somewhere near
the mission. ‘Number 888 to Number 1. Important. Miss Sanburn of mission
near here did procure fragment of crystal jade by unknown means, same
having been broken from antiquity of unknown whereabouts and being
reputed to possess mysterious qualities. _Miss Sanburn’s adopted
daughter_’—get that?—‘intending to return same, was prevented by theft
of fragment, female thief being subsequently murdered by being thrown
from precipice, after which, fragment disappeared totally. Search for
fragment being now conducted by anonymous individuals. Should say much
trouble will ensue unless recovery is prompt and secret. _Miss Sanburn’s
adopted daughter_’—get that again?—‘has vanished. Should advise much
precaution not to arouse public curiosity. 888.’—“What do you make of
it?” asked McGregor.
“Nothing. Never heard of an adopted daughter.”
“Then what do you make of this?”
McGregor’s left hand went into a desk-drawer, and something the color of
deep sea-water over a sandy bottom flashed in the sunlight as Ommony
caught it. He held it to the light. It was stone, not more than two
inches thick at the thickest part, and rather larger than the palm of
his hand. It was so transparent he could see his fingers through it; yet
it was almost fabulously green. One side was curved, and polished so
perfectly that it felt like wet soap to the touch; the other side was
nearly a plane surface, only slightly uneven, as if it had been split
off from another piece.
“It looks like jade,” said Ommony.
“It is. But did you ever see jade like it? Hold it to the light again.”
There was not a flaw. The sun shone through it as through glass, except
that when the stone was moved there was a vague obscurity, as if the
plane where the breakage had occurred in some way distorted the light.
“Keep on looking at it,” said McGregor, watching.
“No, thanks.” Ommony laid the stone on his knee and deliberately glanced
around the room from one object to another. “I rebel against that stuff
instinctively.”
“You recognize the symptoms?”
“Yes. There’s a polished black-granite sphere in the crypt of a ruined
temple near Darjiling, that produces the same sort of effect when you
stare at it. I’m told the Ka’aba at Mecca does the same, but that’s
hearsay.”
“Put the stone in your pocket,” said McGregor. “Keep it there a day or
two. It’s the fragment that’s missing from Tilgaun, and you’ll discover
it has peculiar properties. Talk with Chutter Chand about it, he can
tell you something interesting. He tried to explain to me, but it’s over
my head—Secret Service kills imagination—I live in a mess of
statistics and card-indexes that ’ud mummify a Sybil. All the same, I
suspect that piece of jade will help you to trace the Terrys; and, if
you dare to take a crack at the Ahbor country—”
“How did you come by the stone?” asked Ommony.
“I sent C99—that’s Tin Lal—to Tilgaun to look into rumors of trouble
up there. Tin Lal used to be a good man, although he was always a
thorough-paced rascal. But the Service isn’t what it used to be, Ommony;
even our best men are taking sides nowadays, or playing for their own
hand. India’s going to the dogs. Tin Lal came back and reported
everything quiet at Tilgaun—said the murders were mere family feuds.
But he took that piece of jade to Chutter Chand, the jeweler, and
offered it for sale. Told a lame-duck story. Chutter Chand put him
off—kept the stone for appraisal—and brought it to me. I provided Tin
Lal—naturally—with a year behind the bars—no, not on account of the
stone. He had committed plenty of crimes to choose from. I chose a
little one just to discipline him. But here’s the interesting part:
either Tin Lal talked in the jail—_or_ some one followed him from
Tilgaun. Anyway, some one traced that piece of jade to this office. I
have had an anonymous letter about it,—worth attention—interesting.
You’ll notice it’s signed with a glyph—I’ve never seen a glyph quite
like it—and the handwriting is an educated woman’s. Read it for
yourself.”
He passed to Ommony an exquisitely fashioned silver tube with a cap at
either end. Ommony shook out a long sheet of very good English
writing-paper. It was ivory-colored, heavy, and scented with some kind
of incense. There was no date—no address—no signature, except a
peculiar glyph, rather like an ancient, much simplified Chinese
character. The writing was condensed into the middle of the page,
leaving very wide margins, and had been done with a fine steel pen.
“The stone that was brought from Tilgaun by Tin Lal and was
offered for sale by him to Chutter Chand is one that no
honorable man would care to keep from its real owners. There is
merit in a good deed and the reward of him who does justly
without thought of reward is tenfold. There are secrets not safe
to be pried into. There is light too bright to look into. There
is truth more true than can be told. If you will change the
color of the sash on the _chuprassi_ at the front door, one
shall present himself to you to whom you may return the stone
with absolute assurance that it will reach its real owners.
Honesty and happiness are one. The truth comes not to him who is
inquisitive, but to him who does what is right and leaves the
result to Destiny.”
Ommony examined the writing minutely, sniffed the paper, held it to the
light, then picked up the tube and examined that.
“Who brought it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It was handed to the _chuprassi_ by a native he says he
thinks was disguised.”
“Did you try changing the _chuprassi’s_ sash?”
“Naturally. A deaf and dumb man came. He looked like a Tibetan. He
approached the _chuprassi_ and touched his sash, so the _chuprassi_
brought him up to me. He was unquestionably deaf and dumb—stone-deaf,
and half of his tongue was missing. The drums of his ears had been bored
through—when he was a baby probably. I showed him the stone and he
tried to take it from me. I had to have him forcibly ejected from the
office; and of course I had him followed, but he disappeared utterly,
after wandering aimlessly all over Delhi until nearly midnight. I have
had a look-out kept, but he seems to have vanished without trace.”
“Have you drawn any conclusions?”
McGregor smiled. “I never draw them before it’s safe to say they’re
proved. But a young woman almost certainly wrote that letter; Miss
Sanburn’s adopted daughter—”
“Who I don’t believe exists,” said Ommony.
“—is reported by 888, who has hitherto _always_ been reliable, to have
disappeared. She disappeared, if she ever _did_ exist, from Tilgaun; the
stone unquestionably came from Tilgaun, and it seems to have been in
Miss Sanburn’s possession, in the mission. _Ergo_—just as a flying
hypothesis—Miss Sanburn’s adopted daughter _may_ have written that
letter. If so, she’s in Delhi, because the ink on that paper had not
been dry more than an hour or two when it reached me.”
“Have you searched the hotels?”
“Of course. And the trains are being watched.”
“I’m curious to meet Hannah Sanburn’s adopted daughter!” said Ommony
dryly. “I’ve known Hannah ever since she came to India more than twenty
years ago. I’ve been co-trustee ever since Marmaduke died, and I don’t
believe Hannah Sanburn has kept a single secret from me. In fact, it has
been the other way; she has passed most of her difficult personal
problems along to me for solution. I’ve a dozen files full of her
letters, of which I dare say five per cent. are purely personal. I think
I know all her private business. As recently as last year, when we met
here in Delhi,—well—never mind; but if she had an adopted daughter, or
an entanglement of any kind, I think I’d know it.”
“Women are damned deep,” McGregor answered. “Well; we’ve not much to go
on. I’ll entrust that stone to you; if you’re still willing to try to
get into the Ahbor country, I’ll do everything I can to assist. You’ve a
fair excuse for trying; and you’re a bachelor. Dammit, if I were, I’d go
with you! Of course, you understand, if the State Department learns of
it you’ll be rounded up and brought back. Do you realize the other
difficulties? Sven Hedin is said to have made the last attempt to get
through from the North. He failed. In the last hundred years about a
dozen Europeans have had a crack at it. Several died, and none got
through—unless Terry and your sister did, and if so, they almost
certainly died. When Younghusband went to Lhassa he considered sending
one regiment back by way of the Ahbor Valley but countermanded the order
when he realized that a force of fifty thousand men wouldn’t stand a
chance of getting through. From time to time the government has sent six
Goorkha spies into the country. None ever came back. It’s almost a
certainty that the River Tsangpo of Tibet flows through the valley and
becomes the Brahmaputra lower down, but nobody has proved it; nor has
any one explained why the Tsangpo contains more water than the
Brahmaputra. Old Kinthup, the pundit on the Indian Survey Staff, traced
the Tsangpo down as far as the waterfall where it plunges into the Ahbor
Valley, and he threw a hundred marked logs into the river, which were
watched for lower down; but none of the logs appeared at the lower end,
and not even Kinthup managed to get into the valley. The strangest part
about it is, that the Northern Ahbors come down frequently to the
Southern Ahbor country to trade, and they even intermarry with the
Southern Ahbors. But they never say a word about their valley. The rajah
of Tilgaun—the uncle of the present man—caught two and put them to
torture, but they died silent. And another strange thing is, that nobody
knows how the Northern Ahbors get into and out of their country. The
river is a lot too swift for boats. The forest seems impenetrable. The
cliffs are unclimbable. There was an attempt made last year to explore
by airplane, but the attempt failed; there’s a ninety-mile wind half the
time, and some of the passes to the south are sixteen or seventeen
thousand feet in the air to begin with. I’m told carburetors won’t work,
and they can’t carry enough fuel.—So, if you’re determined to make the
attempt, slip away secretly, and don’t leave your courage behind! If it
weren’t that you’ve a right to visit Tilgaun I should say you’d have no
chance, but you _might_ make it, if you’re awfully discreet and start
from the Tilgaun Mission. If it’s ever found out that I encouraged
you—”
“You’ve been reeling off discouragement for fifteen minutes!”
“Yes, but if it’s known I knew—”
“You needn’t worry. What made you say you think this stone will help me
to trace the Terrys?”
“Nothing definite, except that it gives me an excuse for sending you to
Tilgaun more or less officially. I employ you to investigate the mystery
connected with that stone. As far as Tilgaun you’re responsible to me.
If you decide to go on from there, you’ll have to throw me over—disobey
orders. You understand, I order you to come straight back here from
Tilgaun. If you disobey, you do it off your own bat, without my official
knowledge. And I’m afraid, old thing, you’ll have to pay your own
expenses.”
Ommony nodded.
“See Chutter Chand,” said McGregor, “and dine with me to-night—not at
the club—that ’ud start all sorts of rumors flying—say at Mrs.
Cornock-Campbell’s—her husband’s away, but that doesn’t matter. She’s
the only woman I ever dared tell secrets to. Leave it to me to contrive
the invitation—how’ll that do?”
“Mrs. Cornock-Campbell is a better man than you or me. Nine o’clock.
I’ll be there,” said Ommony, noticing a certain slyness in McGregor’s
smile. He bridled at it.
“Still laughing about the ‘Masters,’ Mac?”
“No, no. I’d forgotten them. Not that they exist—but never mind.”
“What then?”
“I’ll tell you after dinner, or rather some one else will. I wonder
whether you’ll laugh too—or wince! Trot along and have your talk with
Chutter Chand.”
-----
[1] Uniformed doorkeeper.
DECIPHERED FROM A PALM-LEAF MANUSCRIPT
DISCOVERED IN A CAVE IN HINDUSTAN
Those who are acquainted with the day and night knew that the
Day of Brahma is a thousand revolutions of the Yugas, and that
the Night extendeth for a thousand more. Now the Maha-yuga
consisteth of four parts, of which the last, being called the
Kali Yuga, is the least, having but four-hundred-and-thirty-two
thousand years. The length of a Maha-yuga, is
four-million-and-three-hundred-and-twenty thousand years; that
is, one thousandth part of a Day of Brahma. And man was in the
beginning, although not as he is now, nor as he will be . . .
[Here the palm-leaf is broken and illegible] . . . There were
races in the world, whose wisemen knew all the seven principles,
so that they understood matter in all its forms and were its
masters. They were those to whom gold was as nothing, because
they could make it, and for whom the elements brought
forth. . . . . [Here there is another break] . . . And there
were giants on the earth in those days, and there were dwarfs,
most evil. There was war, and they destroyed. . . . [Here the
leaf is broken off, and all the rest is missing.]