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The Sexton Blake Library, May 1923, with
"In Darkest Madras"
A wonderful story of Eastern Mystery, featuring
the fascinating Hindoo character—
Gunga Dass.
Soothsayer—The Magic of Gunga Dass—Blake Accepts the Challenge.
"AND now, Tinker, I propose we spend the rest of the evening in Black Town and endeavour to see a little of real, naked India. This is our last night in the country for some time. To-morrow we return to England, for our task here is finished."
The eldest of the two Europeans, seated on the balcony of a fashionable Madras hotel, turned smilingly to his companion, a snub-nosed, freckled youth, whose only claim to beauty lay in a pair of twinkling blue eyes and an open and good-humoured countenance.
"Anything for a change, guv'nor," said the lad. "I'm getting a bit sick of European Madras. It isn't as Eastern as the East India Dock Road in dear old London. The bands here play the latest two-steps, the cinemas show the latest films, and our servants speak English a darned sight better than I can. Show me India without European clothes—stripped and naked!"
Sexton Blake smiled and glanced at the view before them. Flanking the sweeping esplanade of the sea-front were Government offices, European residences, and noble colleges, richly carved and gargoyled, and although robbed of their pristine freshness by time and its minion, the weather, they were smoothed into a rugged, weather-stained beauty pleasing to the eye.
To the left of Fort St. George a strip of golden sand stretched down into the sail-studded and moonlit waters of the Indian Ocean.
Fashionably attired men and women paraded the sea-front, and from the opera house came the sweet strains of an orchestra playing the prelude to Sullivan's "Iolanthe." It was hard to believe that not far from them was naked India, with its superstitions, intrigues, mysteries, and weird, occult knowledge handed down from generation to generation, for north of the fort lay Black Town, a far-reaching mass of stench-laden, tumble-down buildings, the native quarter of the city.
Sexton Blake and his assistant had been engaged upon a diplomatic mission on behalf of the India Office. Blake's tact and discretion had averted what might easily have become a serious menace to the British Raj, and on the morrow he and Tinker were to return to London, their task concluded, much to the relief of those Ministers in Westminster whose thankless under-taking it is to guard our interests in India.
"You'll see naked India all right in that four-mile square of brown iniquity yonder," Blake said. "Black Town harbours half the coloured crooks in the world. The night haunts of 'Frisco and the Montmarte are Band of Hope meetings in comparison. You'll see some Indian magic, too, my son. My advice to you is to watch it and then banish it from your mind. The occult sciences of the brown man cannot be fathomed by the European mind, and to attempt to probe beneath the surface of things Oriental is to flounder deeper into the mire."
Tinker nodded seriously.
"You're right, guv'nor. I've read a good bit about the 'phenomena' brought about by those fakir chaps, and, as you know, witnessed a few of their tricks— tricks that are inexplicable, like the one in which they cause a horseless gharry to go tearing over the ground at twenty miles an hour, and which have baffled the best brains in the world."
"Sheer trickery, of course. young 'un," Blake said. "The mystery of it all lies in the fact that the secret of the tricks has never been revealed. None of the fakir kidney have ever divulged the secrets which have been handed down to them through generations of 'magiis' of the long and mysterious Indian past. Many have formed the opinion that it never happens; that the audience are hypnotised by the fakir, and made to see what does not really occur—in short, that the fakir wills them to see the thing done, and that the audience imagine they do see it. But it seems thin to assume that one of those travelling holy men can hypnotise so many people, leaving not one to detect the fraud—if fraud it be."
"And yet Gunga Dass has penetrated their secrets."
Tinker spoke in a low voice and his eyes took on a peculiar expression as they turned in the direction of Black Town. It may have been the chill of the night breeze blowing across the Indian Ocean which caused the lad to shiver as though in the clasp of an icy hand.
Or could it have been the memory of a brown face and two dark eyes of hate—of a vow taken on the steps of the shrine of Kali, goddess of the devotees of Thuggee, a criminal gang he had helped his master to crush, a vow taken by Gunga Dass to destroy them Sexton Blake and he, as destroys the tiger, mercilessly, fighting with tooth and claw?
"Gunga Dass, wizard of Eastern intrigue and mystery, is as inexplicable as the Orient itself," Blake said gravely.
"It's strange the Indian police haven't laid him by the heels yet."
Blake smiled grimly.
"The man is as elusive as the wind," he said. "A master of the art of disguise, with a deep knowledge of the occult sciences of the Orient to aid him, as subtle as a snake and more dangerous in his sting, Gunga Dass can protect his liberty against the police of the world. Iron bars cannot hold him—twice he has escaped from a condemned cell—and in India, among three hundred million of his own race, to search for him would be a sheer waste of time and energy."
"But you will not give up your task?"
Blake's lips tightened, and he shook his head.
"I have also taken a vow, Tinker, and although not sworn on the shrine steps of some outlandish goddess, it is as sacred to me as Dass's own, I have vowed to bring Gunga Dass to justice, and to that end shall my life's work be devoted. But until he reveals his hand, breaks out in some daring coup, I am helpless.
'It has been three months since the swords were last unsheathed, since Dass pitted his wits against mine, and although the Hindoo managed to escape me, I then succeeded in bringing disaster upon his plans, and wrested the spoils from him at the eleventh hour.
"The man must by now be short of funds, and I am hoping that in the near future he will attempt some criminal enterprise. I should recognise his handiwork instantly, and it is possible when that time comes that he will leave some clue behind which will put me on his trail."
A silence fell between them, and the shadows did not leave the alertly thoughtful eyes of Tinker. He knew that between the brown man of India and his beloved master was a feud which would go down with them to the grave. Master-crook of the Orient, cunning and subtle as a snake, with a deep knowledge of those mystic, immutable forces of darkest India to make him doubly dangerous, Gunga Dass had many times in the past crossed swords with that great London detective Sexton Blake,
And in each of those grimly fought duels Blake, armed by his brilliant powers of deduction, as was Dass with the occult weapons of the mystic East, had found a foeman worthy of his steel.
It was a little over three months ago since Dass, by employing the occult weapon, had broken out of the condemned cell in a London prison. Since then the Hindoo had engaged himself in audacious coups, blazing a trail of crime across half the civilised world, a case in point being his nefarious attempt to gain possession of the mummified remains of the child of Parvati, a venerated Indian goddess, and thus claim the great reward offered by those of Parvati caste for the return of the great symbol of their faith.
In that exciting bid for a great fortune, Sexton Blake had again pitted his wits against the cunning Oriental, and succeeded in bringing his most carefully laid schemes to disaster, although at the eleventh hour Dass had managed to escape from him.
A mysterious flitting figure, clothing his real identity beneath a score of pseudo ones, the Indian police had been powerless to follow up the man's trail and bring him to justice. Gunga Dass was once more at large, lurking unseen somewhere in the great continent of India, obsessed with a consuming desire for vengeance against the man and boy who were the only stumbling blocks in a criminal career.
So occupied were the two detectives with thoughts of the past that neither noticed the tall figure of a shabby Hindoo who stood half concealed in the shadow of a doorway opposite the hotel balcony. The native was typical of his class—calculating and cunning of features, with the dark, piercing eyes of the hypnotist.
A striking, picturesque figure to the Western eye, he was unobtrusive of appearance in his own country, and many of similar dress and bearing could be found in the dark bye-ways of Black Town, Madras's hot-bed of intrigue and mystery.
His dark, smouldering eyes flamed with the light of a devil's torch as they were bent upon the figures of the two white men, and his features relaxed into an evil smile. They were wonderful features—handsome, and with the cruel nobility of the eagle in the dark eyes and hooked nose. His black beard and imperial black moustache were thick with white dust from the shizum-lined jungle roads, and the lank black hair, straggling over his powerful shoulders, was matted and uncombed.
An untidily-wound pugree was about his head, and his tall, lithe figure was loosely swathed in the black robes of a soothsayer, tattered and travel-stained. In one hand he carried a stout staff; across his broad back was slung a bundle of bedding, and fastened to this were brass lotahs and cooking pots.
From his sash depended a bag of broken food, and on his muscular arms were brass-studded bangles reaching up to his elbows. Cheap leather sandals encased his feet, and about his ankles were chased amulets of silver.
Suddenly his dark eyes became abnormally bright, and they rested in turn upon Blake and his assistant, as compelling as a magnet. The detective started as the knowledge of those bright eyes intruded upon his senses and glanced sharply from the brilliantly illumined balcony to the shadow of the doorway opposite.
He could see nothing, however, but in the lustrous, dark eyes of the Hindoo had suddenly appeared a brilliancy which seemed to hold the accumulated force of generations of Hindoo magii.
Blake started to his feet. The air seemed charged with an evil and hostile influence.
As he looked he felt, as though it were a keen wind, this influence growing stronger and stronger. He summoned every effort of will-power and tried to throw that malignant influence from him.
"Hypnotism, lad," he gasped. "Keep your eyes from that doorway opposite. Cover your head and face with a handkerchief—anything."
But that sensation of incredible evil grew stronger, as though the forces of the Pit were conspiring against them. And with it something warm, not physically warm, but with a physic warmth that cloyed and enveloped.
"What did you say, guv'nor? Hypnotism—"
The lad's voice trailed off into silence, and to the detective his voice had seemed to come from a great distance. Blake tried to tear his glance away, but some unseen power held it. Tinker shuddered, then grew rigid in his chair. To him it seemed that his brain had suddenly gone dreamy, although in some dim way he was conscious of his surroundings.
The dreams were mere aimless wanderings, but through them all ran a thread of consciousness that he and his master were in some deadly peril. And all the while he was conscious of some shadowy form lurking opposite, and of brilliant, mesmeric orbs which seemed to burn into his soul.
They were shadowy dreams, clouded by a foreboding of evil. The sense of some disaster overhanging them grew more defined. Someone was watching them. He felt sure of it—felt invisible eyes upon him. But what had happened to his brain? With an effort he dragged his eyes away from that fascinating shadow opposite. He glanced about him and shivered.
There was a strange, uncanny feeling in the air, and the knowledge of those watching, unseen eyes bore upon his consciousness until he felt he must scream aloud to break their spell. But what had happened to his tongue? He tried to cry out, to utter the alarm, but strive as he would he could not get the slightest sound past his lips.
A chill breeze swept his head, but the night was now hot and still. Surely the sky was darkening, the gaily coloured lamps twinkling like jewels on the balcony burning less brightly? He glanced upwards. Ah, the stars had died in the heavens! Something akin to stark terror stole insidiously upon him. And what had happened to his master? Sexton Blake lay rigid and still, and the greyness of death was on his features.
With an effort he controlled his shivering limbs. In some dim way he sensed they were in the power of Gunga Dass, master of Eastern mystery, bound by his mesmeric will as securely as though with cords. Those watching, unseen eyes seemed to be burning into his soul, robbing him of individual thought. He sniffed the air. An odour, musty as a house of the dead, was in his nostrils. His gaze was once more drawn to the doorway, and this time the hypnotist held his glance. From the doorway swirled a thin vapour. It grew into a dense cloud, and everywhere was an awful silence. Like a pall of virgin white, it enveloped them in an icy grip, relentless, freezing the marrow in their bones.
Then through the mist loomed a figure. It was the figure of Gunga Dass, brilliant-eyed, with a sardonic smile on his bearded lips. His eyes were so bright that surely they were lit by some internal radiance. He opened his lips, and his voice sounded cracked and far off.
"All hail, O wizard of the West," they heard the mocking voice of Dass saying, whilst their dim vision marked the leering smile. "So once again we meet. Then let it be as the gods decree. You will find the tiger still red of teeth and claw."
A cold sweat broke out on their skins. Dass had spoken now in a voice strangely reminiscent of the tiger's purr, and tiger-like he appeared, standing there in vision, his cruel eyes aflame, his lips drawn tightly across his white teeth.
"Sexton Blake"—the features of the vision suddenly underwent a startling change; they were now calm, even dignified—"I regret the necessity of keeping my vow. But when men cross swords in the battle of life, the defeated pay the penalty. I have now the honour of being the victor. Let me say, before your hearing is gone from you, that the death of such a brave foe will be less to me a joy than a sorrow.
"But the game is played; the gods have decreed; the end has come. Before dawn you must surely die. How, when, what matters since you have but a few short hours to live? At sunrise will the tiger have tired of its prey, and you will go out to tread the path the others have trod—the one end for the enemies of Gunga Dass."
Blake fought desperately for individual thought as a fuller realisation of Dass's weird powers grew upon him. He knew that unless he exerted his will to the utter-most his mind would be impervious to all impressions save those the mesmeriser allowed to enter—his individual soul-life would be suspended at the other's will.
The vision of his arch-enemy grew blurred and indistinct, as, setting his teeth, he strove to rise from his chair. His movements were as stiff as a marionette's, and the effort of the struggle against the mesmeriser's will brought out the sweat on his face. He overcame an impulse to rush forward and grapple with the man. He knew it to be an optical delusion.
For though his mental eyes had been forced to see that form, none was there!
In the struggle for freedom of thought, he awoke from the lethargy which had possessed his brain. Suddenly he was in full possession of his faculties, and the vision vanished completely. But what was that? His keen eyes caught sight of a shadowy form that left the doorway opposite, and vanished into the deeper gloom surrounding the high walls of the colleges.
"Gunga Dass in disguise,' he muttered grimly. "His hypnotic influence was responsible for my vision. It is an old trick of the fakirs. The man has probably had us under observation for days, for he would know of our arrival in India from the passenger list in the 'Madras Times,' and his subtle Oriental mind chose that way in order to show me I am impotent against him. Well, friend Dass, we shall see. I have won the first round, for my will has proved the stronger. Had I not been taken by surprise those confounded eyes of yours would never have taken my wits from me. I will meet cunning with cunning."
He turned and beckoned to one of the hotel servants, a slim Dher, intelligent of features. The man came forward, and bent his sleek head in obeisance.
"I have work for you to do, Mukhtarud," Blake said quickly. "Work which will mean both rupees and annas to you if you use your wits. Follow a tall native garbed as a soothsayer, and come back later and acquaint me of his movements. The man has just made off towards Fort St. George, so it is likely that he is heading for the native quarter. Get on his trail at once."
As the man left the hotel Blake turned his attention to his assistant. The lad's eyes were closed, and as Blake lifted one of the lids he saw that the pupil was set in a stony stare. Quickly he massaged the nerve centres of the temples and at the back of the neck. Soon Tinker opened amazed and startled eyes.
"Did you see him, guv'nor?" he said, glancing about the balcony with a little shiver of apprehension. "Gunga Dass! What does it all mean? It was uncanny. His threat to kill us, too! Do you think he will carry it out?"
A grave shadow fell across the detective's pale and thoughtful countenance, and he gazed from sombre eyes at the direction Dass had taken.
"As Dass has taken a vow to kill us, our duel with him will assuredly be one to the death," he said soberly. "But ere dawn it is possible we shall once more have him under lock and key. I have sent Mukhtarud to shadow him."
"Then you saw him, guv'nor?"
"He was concealed in a doorway opposite, and from there directed his hypnotist influence upon us," Blake said. "To an experienced hypnotist the trick was simple, and is of the same type of phenomena by which the fakirs impress the illiterate natives.
"When I regained my faculties I saw Dass slip from the doorway and make off for the native quarters. I immediately gave Mukhtarud instructions to follow him, and to hurry back to us as soon as possible with any information he might collect. The servant is sharp, and if there is anything to be learnt he will learn it.
"Come, lad, there is work for us to-night. Let us get into a simple native disguise in case we hear anything of importance. As coolies we should be able to pass unnoticed through the night haunts of the city."
"And our journey to England to-morrow, sir?"
"We must cancel it,' Blake said quietly. "Dass has thrown out the challenge and I accept it. Between that scoundrel and I there can never be a truce or quarter."
So the swords were again to be unsheathed. Tinker's pulses leapt at the thoughts, and his face became grim and purposeful beyond his years.
Blake glanced at the lad with a curious expression in his grey eyes for a moment, then said slowly:
"But you, Tinker, must return to England. It is almost condemning you to death to let you remain here. Remember we are now fighting Dass in the brown man's country. We can get little help from the police, and would have to play a lone hand, two against the many thousands of Thugs he could call to his standard."
"And leave you here to perhaps meet your death—alone, without a friend? Not likely, guv'nor! I didn't come out with you from England to desert you in your hour of peril!"
"My boy, you must. It is almost certain death to remain."
"Guv'nor, I won't!"
Tinker's obstinacy angered the detective until he read the misery in the lad's eyes. Tinker meant to live with him or die with him. And the eyes of the man from Baker Street softened.
"Tinker, be reasonable. Your life may depend—"
"And by my leaving you here may condemn you to death," Tinker said. "No; side by side there is a chance to defeat the ends of Gunga Dass. I've been able to get you from his hands before to-day, sir, and it may be that I shall be useful to you again."
Blake's hand went out and clasped that of the lad. He said no word, only that moment one more link was forged in the chain which held this man and lad together.
At the Joy-Shop—The Parsee Youth—Blake's Suspicion—Trapped.
IN their rooms at the hotel, Blake and his assistant lost no time in getting into coolie garb. Tinker was soon smearing his face and body with weak walnut-juice, and his white skin soon took on the unhealthy-looking and sallow tint of the Eurasian. Cunningly pencilled lines about his eyes added a good five years to his appearance, and a close-fitting wig of lank black hair completed a natural-looking transformation.
An ill-fitting suit of not over clean duck, shabby topee, and shapeless, native-made shoes of tan slashed with white buck, lent considerable effect to his clever disguise.
"Excellent, young 'un!" was Blake's comment, as Tinker submitted his disguise for his master's approval. "Now examine my little effort. There must be no flaws, for the eyes of Dass are as sharp as a snake's."
Tinker stared at Blake in amazement. He had been so occupied in attending to the details of his own disguise that he had paid little attention to his master's doings.
"Holy smoke, is it really you, guv'nor?" the lad chuckled. "What's the price of a throat-cut your way? You look the most villainous Dher I've yet set eyes on."
Sexton Blake's disguise was a masterpiece of the mummer's art. His skin had been stained to the hue of burnished copper by the use of walnut-juice, and two tiny strips of gummed silk held up the corners of his eyelids, giving them a pronounced Oriental slant.
On his brow was the painted red caste-mark of the goddess Kali, the Destroyer. A shaggy black beard streaked down his brown face, and greasy, black love-locks hung several inches below a filthy rag of a pugree which was wound about his head.
His clothes would have made a rag-and-bone merchant shudder, and his eyes, black and piercing, an effect obtained by the careful application of belladonna drops, glowed with a lambent fire beneath shaggy black eyebrows.
To the outward eye he was one of the many villainous-looking Thugs which haunt the purlieus of darkest Madras by night.
"Then you think I'll do, young 'un?" Blake said, staining his teeth red with betel nut.
"Do, guv'nor! Why, you've got our crack character actors beaten to a frazzle!"
A knock sounded at the door, and in response to Blake's summons, Mukhtarud, the servant entered. On the threshold he paused, and stared at the two from astonished and startled eyes.
"It's all right, Mukhtarud," Blake said smilingly. "My assistant and I are disguised. Well, did you succeeded in your mission?"
Mukhtarud salaamed. These Feringhees were mad, of course.
"Yes, sahib. I succeeded in shadowing the soothsayer to the joy-shop of Janjir, which lies in the Tamil Bazaar. I found out from one of the waiters that he has been living there for the past week in the name of Baji Rae, and that he describes himself as a wandering pundit. The joy-shop of Janjir is of evil repute, sahib, and if you pay it a visit I advise you to use caution."
"You have done well, Mukhturad," Blake said, pressing a ten-rupee note into the brown palm. "Remember that a still tongue makes a wise head, and may lead to more rupees."
A few minutes later the disguised detectives were walking in the direction of Fort St. George. The tropical moon hung like a great opalescent pearl in a star-spangled sky, and revealed to them their path. Devout worshippers were praying before the gaudy shrines of native saints. and from the city minarets sounded the sonorous notes of the muezzin calling the votaries to prayer.
As they merged into Black Town they found the night life of the city in full swing. Drinking-booths, eating-houses, and garish temples were ablaze with coloured lanterns, robbing the scene of much of its daylight squalor. The narrow streets, heavy with the odours of the Orient, were thronged with a picturesque, voluble crowd.
The centre of the streets were almost blocked with bags of grain, bales of merchandise, tethered bullocks and gharries. The noise of the crowd—of the buying and selling in the bazaar, the curses and execrations of the half-naked bullock drivers—rose in one indescribable din.
They were now in the centre of Black Town. Windowless shops flanked the streets, the sellers squatting on their hams knee-deep in their wares, smoking the eternal "hubble-bubble." Carpets and silks, curios in ivory and metal, illuminated Arabic manuscripts, highly coloured sweet-meats and sherbets—all could be bought in those wonderful bazaars, and the beauty of many of the goods ill-contrasted with the filth and squalor surrounding them.
"Here we are, young 'un," whispered Blake, halting before a café whose brilliant lights fell across the broken pavement.
Drawing aside the reed curtains, Blake and Tinker entered. The joy-shop of Janjir has long held the notorious reputation of being the foulest den in Madras. The café was thronged with a picturesque but dissipated crowd of lower caste Dhers, and on a platform in the centre a crowd of tuwaifs, or dancing-girls, were moving with floating motions, singing the ballads of Persia and Hindustan.
A dusky female, her grease-smeared arms smothered by brass-studded bangles, and with a great silver ring hanging from her squat nose, was dispensing gourds of bhung (native spirits) from a bar at the far end, surrounded by a crowd of swaggering Bengali youths, who had given a knowing cock to their gaudy turbans.
As Blake and Tinker quietly seated themselves at a bamboo table, a greasy-looking waiter, stripped to the waist, hurried to them.
"Amd machhli aur hilsa machbli dena," Blake said gravely, in fluent Hindustani.
"What have you ordered, guv'nor?" Tinker said, as the waiter hurried off. "It sounded pretty poisonous."
"But it will eat all right," Blake assured the lad. "I have ordered a dish of mango-fish and hilsa. As your Hindustani is weak, and has a pronounced Cockney accent, you'd better act the part of a deaf-and-dumb mute. Can you see anything of Dass? Look round unobtrusively."
A glance round the café assured them that Dass—unless, suspecting the possibility of being shadowed, he had adopted a fresh disguise—was not there.
"I will question the waiter," Blake said. "Mukhtarud states that he was sleeping here, so possibly he is in his private room."
When the waiter returned he placed the dishes on the table. A palm-leaf was piled high with Madras rice, and at the side of a number of lead-coloured chupatties were two smoking dishes of mango-fish and hilsa.
"Kitna pice, chhokra?"
"Ake rupee, sahib."
As Blake placed the rupee in the man's hand he saw that the dark eyes were bent on his own with a peculiar expression in their slumbrous depths. The look speedily vanished, though, and the man became suave and smiling.
"Have you any knowledge of one Baji Rao, the holy pundit?" asked Blake, in Hindustani. "I was informed that he was staying here. I have an urgent message for him."
A coolie at the next table, who had overheard the detective's conversation, started violently. and darted a keen glance at the disguised Britisher. Then he smiled, but his smile had nothing of humour in it.
"Baji Rao went out several minutes ago, sahib," said the waiter. "He will be back shortly."
Blake muttered his thanks, but he knew the man was lying. Something in the dark and evil eyes had told him that. The man at the next table got up and came towards him, his aquiline Indian features as expressionless as a bronze image. He was respectably clad in a cotton dhoti, striped native shirt, and pale blue turban. A deftly twisted imperial moustache adorned his upper lip, and on his breast was the brass badge of a Government servant.
"You were asking for Baji Rao, sahib," he said politely, sitting himself at the table. "I have known him for some time, and will point him out to you when he returns. He has gone to the bazaar to do some shopping."
Blake saw nothing suspicious in this, for the better type of native is polite to a degree with strangers. He turned his attention to his food. Tinker was already sampling the rice and the pungent-smelling curried mango-fish, eating it with his fingers in native fashion.
Then the polite young Hindoo stared down at the detective's palms. Blake, looking up, caught the glance, and looking down at his hands, bit his lip with chagrin. He had made a serious blunder in his disguise!
Instead of the palms of his hands being a dirty pink, as are the palms of all Hindoos, they were stained, like the rest of his skin, a deep shade of brown.
He glanced sharply at the stranger, but the lean, hawk-like features held about as much expression as a bronze caste. In that moment Blake felt he wanted to tear that inscrutable mask away and read the thoughts lurking behind.
He turned his attention once more to his food, determined to bluff the affair through. The Dher rested his arm on the table, his brow on his hand, which partly concealed his brilliant dark eyes. From beneath the penthouse of his shading fingers, he stared intently at the disguised face of the detective.
And the eyes of the young Dher had become the glittering, menacing orbs of Gunga Dass. The features of the man against whom he nursed so malignant a hatred had stirred the barbaric depths of the Oriental crook's nature, lashed with fury the wild animal which crouched there.
It was always there, locked up and chained. Sometimes it slept, but its sleep was light and uncertain. It growled and leapt at the bars of the cage sometimes. It dashed against the bars now, as the glittering orbs watched the detective, filled with the dominant desire to kill.
Savage ideas shot through his Eastern brain as the wild animal in him chafed and struggled in the fetters of his iron will. Blake should pay, and pay dearly. And the day of reckoning was at hand. His should be no commonplace revenge.
His hand had unconsciously dropped from his brow as he glared at the detective with these thoughts running riot in his brain, the evil spirit in him waking stronger as he gave it such devilish ideas to prey on. Soon it looked out of his eyes and transformed those brilliant orbs.
The deadly passion and purpose betrayed itself there for an instant in that sinister glare, a red flame beneath the lowering brows.
And at that moment Blake looked up. As for one brief instant he caught that malignant glare, he felt himself to be in danger. But was it a figment of his imagination? The young Dher now smiled courteously. He was at once suave, polite, genial.
"Baji Rao is a long time, sahib. I expect something has delayed him."
Blake nodded curtly, and turned his eyes away. The look which he had noticed, although only for a moment, on the Indian's face, gave him food for serious thought.
That gaze of dark and deadly malignity, the sinister gleam of those brilliant orbs, vaguely reminded him of something he had seen in the past. He turned his head slightly and subjected the hawk-like features to a close but unobtrusive scrutiny. But there was nothing in the inscrutable face to hint at any undercurrent beneath the calm surface.
Then in an unguarded moment Dass lost control of his features. An expression familiar to Blake crossed his face, and in that moment the detective knew the man before him to be Gunga Dass, cleverly disguised.
Before he could make up his mind as to what course to adopt, the door of the café swung open, and a young Parsee youth entered the room. His creamy-white features were sly and cunning, and there was a furtiveness about his eyes seldom seen in one of his caste.
He was attired in the black jacket and striped cashmere trousers beloved of his race, and on his head was the shining helmet of black glazed board worn by his caste, not unlike a bishop's mitre in appearance.
After glancing round the café his eyes came to rest on the disguised features of Gunga Dass. Blake thought he detected something of relief in the youth's expression, as he made his way to their table.
"Ah, Dass," said the youth, in perfect English, "I have been searching the city for you. Our plans have met with a reverse, I—"
"Silence, you fool!"
To Blake's surprise, Dass turned upon the youth in a fury, his dark eyes glittering. The Parsee recoiled, alarmed by the menace of the Hindoo's looks.
"Get out of here,' hissed Dass; and although his voice was low, every word reached the detective's ears. "Sexton Blake and his cursed chota-sahib Tinker sit opposite. Unless you want to end your days in gaol, get out! I will meet you later."
With a startled glance in the direction of Blake and Tinker, the Parsee hurried to the door. Blake betrayed not the slightest interest in the scene he had witnessed, and Tinker's eyes were bent on his plate, although by now he was fully alive to the fact that Gunga Dass sat opposite them.
Who was the Parsee youth, and what connection had one of his high caste with Gunga Dass, outlaw and criminal?
Then the Hindoo's voice, silky, holding the purr of a satisfied tiger, broke across their thoughts.
"You are my prisoners," he said softly. "A clever disguise, Blake sahib, but with one fatal mistake. Ah, I see by the direction your eyes have taken that you understand my meaning. It was your palms which gave me food for suspicion."
Blake threw all pretence aside, and jerked an automatic from his pocket. Dass did not seem to be in the least perturbed as he stared into the blue muzzle.
"Put it away, Blake," he said, with gentle irony. "This is not stage melodrama. I am about to give you a choice. Will you and your assistant come quietly to my room as prisoners, or must I denounce you as disguised police agents before everyone?"
"You talk in riddles, Dass," Blake said. "You are my prisoner. There is a warrant out for your arrest for the murder of Bhur Singh, and extradition papers have been signed by the British Home Secretary. I intend taking you back to England with me to face your charge. Hands up!"
Dass laughed mockingly, and rubbed his hands suavely.
"Quite a pretty little plan, Blake sahib," he said. "But, as it happens, I have other plans. Put that gun away before attention is attracted to us. Do you know what would happen if I were to strip you of your disguise and denounce you as a police spy? Take a look round. This café quite deserves its evil reputation. Half the criminal brains of the Orient are gathered here to-night. They would tear you and your chota-sahib limb from limb. East is East, my dear Blake."
Blake's heart sank within him as he glanced round the café. Already curious eyes were turned in his direction. They were an evil crowd, Thugs and Dacoits for the most part, and he knew that many of them must be in the pay of Gunga Dass, for the Hindoo master-mind seldom worked without a gang to back him up in his nefarious exploits.
Blake turned his glance upon the Hindoo, and said slowly:
"I have played into your hands, Dass, and agree to accompany you to your room, I choose that course not because I fear your cut-throat gang, but because while there is life in me there is still a chance that I shall live to bring you to the gallows. To that end shall my life's work be devoted."
"Bahut aacha, Blake sahib! That was well said," laughed Dass. "You are a brave man."
Sexton Blake, very erect, said slowly:
"Dass, I have no wish to plead for myself. Let me plead for one who is but a mere boy. Let Tinker go free and wreak your will upon me."
"Guv'nor, I don't wish this! Let us—"
Dass raised his hand.
"Free to dog my footsteps! Blake, do you think me mad?"
"He is only a boy."
"But possesses the wits of a man. He knows my secret, knows where I am hiding from justice. Therefore it is his life or mine. There is a door opposite leading to the sleeping quarters. Go through it; I will follow behind."
Tinker glanced at his master from wondering eyes. Was the detective, a fighter to the last ditch, to allow himself to be led like a lamb to the slaughter? It seemed like it. Blake was walking quietly to the door leading to the sleeping quarters, Dass close upon his heels.
Several of the Thugs, obeying the Hindoo's quick and unobtrusive signal, followed closely behind. Tinker felt muscular hands on his shoulders, and he was pushed roughly forward.
The next instant his master acted. The detective paused abruptly in his stride, causing Dass to bump into him from behind. Quick as lightning, Blake's cupped palms caught Dass at the back of his neck, and with a well-known wrestling throw the detective flung the man over his shoulder.
"The lights, Tinker—quick!"
Tinker writhed eel-like from the grip of his captors, and the next moment his automatic spoke. True to its aim sped the bullet, plugging the oil reservoir of the kerosene lamp which illuminated the café. Darkness speedily followed the drip, drip of the oil.
"To the door, Tinker!" yelled Blake, striking out at the shadowy forms closing in on him.
Confusion reigned. Above the din rang out the snarling voice of Dass:
"Guard the door! The Feringhees cannot escape. A thousand rupees for the man who captures them!"
But Blake had by now reached the door. He was bunched with clinging natives, but shook them from him as the wild boar shakes off the dogs that clamber upon his bristly sides.
"This way, Tinker!"
"I can't, guv'nor! The skunks have got me down," came the gasping voice of his assistant. "Get clear while you have the chance. I'm done."
But Blake gritted his teeth and sprang through the darkness in the direction from which Tinker's voice had come. Then began one of those Homeric struggles of one man against fifty.
At one moment covered by clinging adversaries, his arms, legs, and shoulders a hanging mass of brown bodies; at the next, free, desperate, alone in the midst of his foes, his face grim and set, the detective seemed less a man than a giant.
But the end quickly came. A chair, flung through the darkness, caught him on the forehead. Blake lost his balance, swayed, and fell. Ere he could rise he was pinioned by twenty hands. Five minutes later the two detectives were bound hand and foot in one of the rooms at the rear of the café, all the senses knocked from them by cowardly blows.
An Easterner's Vengeance—At the Serai—
The Tower of Silence—A Night of Horror
"THAT will do. Bring me the dhatura." As Dass's voice rang out the two Thugs eased the pressure of the roomals and flung the senseless Britishers to the floor, Dass bent over them. They were still alive, but their pulses were beating with the slowness of approaching death.
One of the Dhers went to a shelf and took down a bottle of dhatura, the deadliest and most remarkable drug known to the medical world. Much has been written about the "dope," of its wonderful properties, yet the secret of its manufacture is kept closely guarded by the fakirs, who use it in that bewildering trick when they allow themselves to be buried under the ground for days at a time, afterwards being dug out in a perfectly healthy, although dazed condition.
Bewildering as this trick may seem, If has often been performed before Western eyes during the fortnightly festival of Holi, held in honour of Krishna, when all sorts of licence and magic are indulged in.
Taking the bottle from the man, Dass forced a little of the sluggish brown fluid between the Britishers' lips. Their laboured breathing ceased entirely, and although the Hindoo held a mirror over their lips, not a trace of moisture appeared on the glass. Next he examined their pulses, but no sign of animation was there. Their bodies grew rigid, and every accepted symptom of death was present in those still figures.
Dass turned from his fell handiwork with a smile of satisfaction on his lips.
"Although my enemies appear to be quite dead, they are as much alive as you and I," he said, addressing one of the men, who appeared to jemadah of the gang. "Although all pulse and heart action is still, the vital properties in their blood live, and will continue to do so for many hours, for it takes a considerable time for the drug to work out of the system."
"May I ask your plans, master?"
Dass looked gloatingly down on the still bodies of the white men for a moment, and looking at his barbarically handsome features, his dark, expressive eyes, it was hard to believe that behind that Eastern beauty lurked so devilish a soul.
"They are to go on the Tower of Silence," he said, and his voice was calm and emotionless.
The gang shuddered and stared out of the glassless window. A great squat tower stood limned in the moonlight to the left of the fort, and above it wheeled a great cloud of vultures, screaming and occasionally flashing downwards, to rise again with human flesh in their voracious beaks.
The Towers of Silence, many of which are scattered throughout India, are the last resting place of those of Parsee faith. The bodies of the dead are deposited in fluted grooves on a grating on the top of the tower, and in a few hours the flesh is devoured by the numerous vultures which inhabit the trees surrounding the edifices, and nothing but the skeleton remains.
This method of interment originates from the veneration the Parsees pay to the elements and their zealous endeavours not to pollute them.
Parsees respect the dead, but consider corpses most unclean. The race, descendants of the old Persian Jews, and one of the greatest and most respected in India, venerate fire too much to allow it to be polluted by burning the dead. Water is almost equally respected, and so is the earth; hence this singular method of interment has been devised.
There is, it has been stated, another reason. Zartasht, one of their most venerated saints, said that rich and poor must meet in death; and this saying has been literally interpreted and carried out by the contrivance of a well which, lying in the centre of the fluted grooves of the tower, is a common receptacle for the dust of the dead.
Sir Jamshidji, who was a powerful man of the race, and other Parsee millionaires were placed, when dead, among the bones of the poor inmates of the Parsee Asylum in Bombay many years ago. The practice still flourishes to-day, and permission to view certain parts of the towers can he obtained by responsible persons from the secretary of the Parsee Panchayat.
And upon those grey towers, to be torn and lacerated by the voracious beaks of the kite vultures, were to lie the dead, yet living, bodies of Sexton Blake and Tinker.
As Dass stood beside his victims, he looked regal, a king among men, but looking into those black orbs, and into the blacker depths of the soul that lay beyond, one could divine something of the desire for vengeance which raged ceaselessly in that pitiless heart like a consuming fire.
"Being dangerous to our plans they must die," Dass said, in a voice which betrayed no emotion at all. "Dress them as poor Parsee travellers and carry them to the Serai. The keeper will find them dead, or apparently so, in the morning; and their bodies will be carried to the towers as soon as the Parsee Panchayat of Madras has been notified."
In less than an hour Blake and Tinker had been disguised as Parsee travellers. Cheap cotton dhoties were wrapped about their legs, and on their heads were placed the glazed, black helmets of the caste, while, after removing all traces of their old disguise, Dass stained their features to the creamy tint of the Persian race.
"Get them in a closed gharry to the serai," Dass said, "and lay them on the niches. Afterwards return here and report. I have other work for you later. Truly is Kali, the Mother Goddess, looking with favour upon her children this night. Soon we shall be wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and that thrice cursed Feringhee detective will live no more to thwart our plans."
Carrying out the rigid forms, the gang hailed a gharry, and, after bribing the driver, were soon bowling along the streets to the Serai, or native travellers' rest-house. Passing their victims out of the gharry, the gang carried them through the great entrance gates into a wide, enclosed space, with plenty of accommodation for camels, ekkas, and ponies, and little niches, or rooms, all around for travellers.
Inside all was confusion. Hairy Punjaubi dealers were watering and feeding their ponies, bearded camel-men giving fodder to their screaming, bubbling, discontented animals, and the "purdanashins," women, hidden behind a grass curtain in a far corner, added to the din by much laughing and chattering.
A fire in the centre of the great room provided the only illumination. Hugging the shadows of the walls, the gang carried the two Britishers towards the niches, and laid them side by side, afterwards leaving the place.
It was morning before they were discovered by the watchman, who, his attention arrested by the strange rigidity of their forms, summoned the Serai native hukim, or doctor. After a brief examination the hukim turned to the watchman and said:
"They are undoubtedly dead. See that the secretary of the Parsee Panchayat is advised, for they are of Parsee faith according to their clothes. It is strange they should have died together, man and boy. Suicide perhaps, for they are evidently poor travellers or beggars without a single piece in their pockets. Still, it is of no consequence to us, for they are of an alien faith and race."
As the watchman sped off to the Parsee Panchayat, the hukim, a grizzled old Hindoo, shrugged and turned away. He was a busy man, for there was cholera in the city. Besides, certificates of death are unknown in India, and post-mortems, except for the benefit of medical students, seldom carried out.
And at dusk that night there came to the Serai a distinguished body of Parsees, After the bodies had been examined and life once more pronounced extinct, four "Nasr Salars," or carriers of the dead, slipped on their white gloves and lifted the bodies with silver tongs to a bier.
Behind the bearers walked two bearded men, and about a hundred Parsees, clad-in virgin white, walked a little distance behind the bier, chanting in the soft Persian dialect, and playing stringed instruments, which throbbed and sobbed in a sweet minor key.
When the procession stood outside the Serai the men in white linked their clothes, an act in which there is said to be a mystic meaning. Soon they were moving on towards the grey towers, above which the great kite vultures screamed and wheeled. The faces of the Britishers were uncovered as they lay on the bier, and as they approached the edifice some of the bolder of the carrion-eaters perched themselves on the bamboo poles, screaming and flapping their great wings.
When they reached the tower they passed through a beautiful garden where a short ceremony was held. It was the soft hour of sunset, great bats were flickering to and fro, and the low evening haze lay like a pale blue veil over the land. Came the soft chant of the priest:
"That our brothers, firm believers in the resurrection and the re-assemblage of the atoms, here to be dispersed, shall live in a glorified and incorruptible body. Zorasta's mercy be upon them!"
Then, with impressive solemnity, the hundred men in white withdrew, and the Nasr Salars carried the bodies into the tower. In a stone chamber they were relieved of their burdens by the four men whose appearance defies description. Old and withered, with great tangled beards sweeping their naked and bony chests; with claw-like, tremulous hands, and bright, vulture-like eyes, it seemed impossible they could be of this world.
They were the keepers of the tower, living their lives in its confines, with the grinning skulls and bleached bones on the grating; the screaming vultures and blood-sucking bats as their only companions.
Carrying the bodies with tongs, these nightmare watchers of the dead placed them on the grating, side by side. Their faces, rigid as though set in death, stared up into the star-spangled heavens. Their eyes were mercifully closed to the bleached horrors around them.
Chanting a mournful dirge the bearers left the grating. Immediately, in a black, screaming cloud, the vultures descended, and Gunga Dass, watching from the roof of Janjir's joy-shop smiled his devilish smile.
Feathered Furies—The League of the Roomal— The Mystery Deepens.
IN a few seconds the victims of the Oriental's diabolical vengeance were hidden beneath the screaming fighting carrion-eaters.
Blake stirred a little as one of the cruel, curved beaks, as wicked as a shark's teeth, tore through his thin dhoti and lacerated his thigh.
Then into his dazed and drugged senses intruded a thread of consciousness that he was in some deadly peril. And all the while he was conscious of hovering, feathery shapes, and of luminous, beady eyes that seemed to hold all the concentrated evil of the Orient in their unblinking black depths.
Shadowy dreams possessed his brain, dreams that were mere aimless wanderings of the brain. But in them the nature of the peril which threatened him grew defined. Fleeting glimpses of vague shapes that flitted past him with monstrous flapping wings figured in them, at first obscurely; then the uncertain twilight of dreamland brightened; the dreamer could see what the danger was that threatened him.
Stone walls enclosed him and above him was the star-lit vault of heaven. He was buried beneath gaunt and feathery shapes that pecked and fought over his pain-racked limbs. And what lay about him? Those bleached bones and grinning skulls, the feathered furies fighting over his body—surely the whole were products of some nightmare dream?
In a frenzy of horror he dashed out his arms and gripped one of the birds by the throat. It fought and screamed in his clutch and the talons threatened to lacerate his arms to ribbons. And what was the matter with his limbs? They seemed lifeless and cold, and he was powerless to lift himself.
And as he gripped it seemed that his strong fingers melted and were turned into air. The chill of death was in him. In vain he tried to wrestle—to grapple that gaunt, feathery form. But his hands were as shadows, immaterial, impalpable. In vain he put forth all his strength, but it was the ghost of a grasp, and powerless against the material being.
The talons of the thing bit deeper into his flesh. He struggled in the horrible consciousness that he was nothing, and in the struggle his brain awakened from the lethargy which possessed it, and his limbs obeyed his will.
With a cry of horror, he scrambled to his feet. With raucous screams, the birds descended on his head and shoulders in a cloud, and the monstrous wings, flapping against his face, threatened to beat the senses from him.
He bent down and snatched up one of the bleached bones surrounding him. It was a thigh-bone; and with it he beat the winged furies from him. They fled to turrets of the tower, sinister grey shapes against the velvet blackness of the sky.
Then the horrified gaze of the detective fell upon Tinker. The lad had not yet recovered from the drug which Dass had administered. He ran to his assistant and dragged him to the shelter of the walls, where a projection of the stonework afforded them a little protection, should the vultures, infuriated at the loss of their prey, make another onslaught.
Still dazed from the effects of the drug, the detective glanced about him. He was on a circular grating, in the fluted grooves of which were dozens of skeletons, in various stages of decay. The musty odour of a house of the dead was in his nostrils.
"The Towers of Silence!" he muttered, shuddering in a revulsion of feeling. "Is Dass fiend or man?"
Suddenly a new horror possessed him. That icy coldness, like the chill of death, was once more creeping over his limbs. The potent drug was gaining mastery over his mind and limbs once more. What if he should succumb beneath its deadening effects?
Desperately he fought against the nausea, but suddenly his throat began to burn as if encased with a band of fire. He plucked feverishly at the collar of his native robes, which seemed to be choking him, forcing the blood to his head, so that his eyes were almost sightless.
As he fell to his knees, among the crumbling bones of an alien race, the sinister shapes on the tower turrets hopped, with grotesque and awkward movements, along the grating towards him. Cry after cry for help, hoarse and choking, left his lips. Still they came on, and their eyes, tiny pin-points of phosphorescent light, peered at him unblinkingly through the gloom.
Suddenly a moaning cry broke into the detective's frenzied thoughts. He turned his rapidly glazing eyes towards a circular hole, large enough to admit the passage of a man, in the grating. Above the edge appeared a face such as only the pen of a Dante could describe. It gibbered at him demonically, skeleton-like in its features, a living face in a place of long-dead things.
Blake stared at it in horror. Echoing hollowly around and about the great tower of the dead, rolled, booming, a peal of demoniacal laughter. It rose, it fell, it rose again. It was mad, devilish, a sound impossible to describe.
"My Heaven,' Blake muttered, "what is it?"
He rose like a drunken man, and there was madness in his glaring eyes as he turned them in the direction of that gibbering apparition. A low, shuddering cry left his lips. With quivering hands, as yellow and hooked as the claws of the vultures surrounding them, the nightmare horror pulled himself out of the aperture and approached nearer. The detective's heart leapt wildly in his breast; then seemed to suspend its pulsations and to grow icily cold. For past that clammily white face, those staring eyes, he could see other shapes rising from the pit, nameless visions which refused to disperse like the evil dreams he had hoped them to be.
The things which were advancing from that pit of the dead were actual, existent—to be counted with!
Further and further he drew himself away from them, snatching up Tinker in his arms, crouching in the shadows like a man demented with stark terror. Then, as they advanced yet closer—made as if to catch him in their skinny arms—he uttered a hoarse cry and sprang across the grating, on the side remote from those pallid horrors, who, strangely enough, were regarding him with a horror in their staring eyes akin to his own.
Then his brain succumbed to the drug. He reeled to the floor. How he shuddered as those yellow, skeleton-like hands touched his skin! How his very soul rose in revolt!
*
Then came a blank in the detective's recollections. When next he opened his eyes to the world again he was lying an a circular apartment of stone walls, high in one of which a solitary window gave a glimpse of sky like a square patch of velvet flecked with a few stars.
Bending over him was a vague shape, which to his dazed and horror-numbed senses gradually evolved from a shadow to—merciful heavens!—one of those pallid creatures which had crawled forth from the pit of the dead.
Iron man that he was, Blake dared not move—dared not make to pass that which lay between him and the door of the apartment. His whole body became chilled with horror. He dared not admit it was there, for he could not, with sanity, believe it to be anything human. For what he saw, yet dared not admit seeing in order to retain his sanity, was this:
A ghostly yellow face, which seemed to glisten in some faint reflected light, peered down at him with eyes as bright and black as a bird's, gibbered at him in some strange tongue, intruding where he had believed human intrusion to be impossible. And in the sinister shadows lurked others, vague shapes, whose presence seemed so utterly out of the realm of possibility—spirit forms who had risen from the ashes of the dead.
"My Heaven!" Blake whispered, and sprang into the centre of the room, Tinker was in their hands. They held him in their skinny arms, mere bones covered by a yellow, parchment-like skin. Trembling violently, his mind a feverish chaos, Blake sprang upon them.
"Sahib—sahib! We are your friends! Zoraster, in His mercy, has seen fit to resurrect you from the dead!"
Dead! Yes, that was it. He was dead. These nightmare men were not of his world. He laughed in a strange key, and his hands dropped to his sides. One of them came to him, and there was a kindness in his faded eyes which relieved the horror of his skeleton-like features.
"Who are you, sahib? You are not of our race? You were brought with your companion to the tower at dusk. Some miracle has happened. You were quite dead when we placed you on the grating, and some time afterwards we were attracted by your cries for help."
Blake grew calmer, and the strained look left his eyes. These men, so death-like in appearance, were the body carriers of those grim towers, men who had lived their lives amongst the dead ashes of past decades of their race. To his drugged and terror-distorted brain they had intruded like spirits of evil, but now he had proof that they were of flesh and blood, his mind became more rational.
"We are English,' he said, concealing with difficulty a shudder of revulsion as the man placed a yellow hand on his shoulder. "I am a detective, and by some means or other an enemy had me brought to the tower to be devoured by the vultures. But my assistant! Why do your friends hold him so—with a cloth covering his features?"
As the aged Parsee caught the white man's beseeching look, he muttered something beneath his breath, and in his dim eyes was a sympathy rarely seen. Blake grew sick at heart. The silence held a dread significance.
"He's not dead—my assistant?"
His life's blood seemed to be ebbing away from his heart, the strength from his limbs, as he saw the old man bend his head. Could it be true? Had the plucky lad gone at last? Blake felt as though the world had suddenly become very empty. Then a great rage took the place of the grief which was numbing him, and a silent vow to be revenged on Dass, the arch-murderer, the enemy of the white races, left him.
"Let me see the lad," he said.
Gently they carried the inert form to the bed. "As gently Blake lifted the cloth from the rigid features, and examined heart and pulse for any signs of animation. There was none. Every accepted symptom of death was present in that still, cold form.
Then, when hope was at its lowest ebb, Blake gave a little cry of gladness. From a wound, a flesh-torn wound in the arm caused by the sharp beak of a vulture, blood trickled in a red and mobile streak. Tinker lived! Blake's medical knowledge, which was considerable, told him that. If death possessed that form, the blood would be congealed and viscid, for rigor mortis would by now have set in.
And into Blake's mind flashed a memory of the past. A memory of when Dass, by using some subtle drug of the East, had faked death, and escaped from the prison mortuary to which they had carried him, for at the time the Hindoo had been incarcerated in the condemned cell of an English prison.
The affair unrolled itself plain and clear before him now. After falling into the hands of Dass at the joy-shop of Janjir, the scoundrel had doped them with this strange drug—dhatura—and had them carried to the tower as dead Parsees to be interned according to their supposed caste rites. His strong constitution had mercifully thrown off the effects of the drug in time, but Tinker still was under its influence, and before long would awaken to perfect health and strength.
Blake shuddered at the deadly nature of their common foe, in whose diabolical mind this fell affair had been devised. Then his eyes burned with concentrated hate and lust for vengeance. They blazed like hot coals in his white face. Dass should pay—pay to the hilt. And was not the hour of his vengeance at hand? When Tinker had been placed in safe hands, he would go to the joy-shop, and the reckoning would come. Dass, believing his evil scheme to have been successful, would be off his guard, and would fall into his hands.
"My friend is not dead," Blake said, turning to the repelling yet kindly Parsees, "but is suffering from the effect of a drug. If you can procure a gharry, I should be grateful, I have no time to explain now, except that we have been victims of a diabolical plot, but will send in a report to the secretary of the Panchayat."
Blake hesitated a minute.
"I understand little of your religion," he added, "yet enough to realise that our presence on the tower might be looked upon as a desecration. I assure you that the man responsible for the business will not go unpunished."
"No blame can he attached to you, sahib," said one of the watchers of the tower. "You were found at the native Serai, to all appearances dead, and wearing the chakka of our race. The Panehayat were notified, and you were brought here in the belief that you were of our caste. As we are forbidden to leave the tower, I will summon the watchman. He will find you a gharry."
Ten minutes later Blake had Tinker safely back at the hotel, and a British doctor from the fort was quickly in attendance. When his assistant had been pronounced out of danger, the detective went down to the hotel lobby, and, seating himself beneath a swinging punkah, considered his plans.
"I will go to the British commissioner and enlist his aid," he muttered. "With fifty juwams from the police-khana, I could draw a cordon around the joy-shop which would result in the capture of the whole gang. Thinking Tinker and me to be dead, Dass will neglect his usual precautions, and they should fall an easy prey."
As he rose to leave the hotel a night-porter hurried towards him.
"A gentleman to see you, sahib—a Mr. Fardunzi Parak, of the Zoroastrian Club."
"A Parsee," Blake said. "Very well, show the gentleman in. I can spare him little time, though."
A few minutes later an old gentleman, whose slightly Semitic cast of features betrayed his Parsee origin, was ushered into the detective's presence. His face was white and haggard, and his whole frame trembled as though gripped by some deep emotion. Blake's ready sympathy was aroused, and, rising, he dragged forward a chair.
"Sit down, Mr. Parak," he said kindly. "You appear to be in some deep trouble. Perhaps I can help you."
"Thank you, Mr. Blake! Heaven knows I need all the help I can get. I regret calling upon you at this late hour, but the affair is extremely urgent. My daughter has disappeared. She is in the hands of the dread League of the Roomal. Unless a rescue can be quickly effected, she will be sacrificed on the altar of some pagan goddess."
Blake glanced at the grief-stricken man in some surprise. Although familiar with most of the secret societies of the Orient, he had no knowledge of the League of the Roomal.
"Suppose you give me the details,' he said kindly. "I have no knowledge of the society you mention, although the roomal is the strangling-cloth of the worshippers of Kali the Destroyer. Does the league consist of a number of votaries of the goddess?"
"The league consists of a hundred and one priests of that evil goddess Kali—never more and never fewer," said the Parsee. "And they are greatly feared by the common herd, chiefly on account of the mystery which surrounds them. No one outside the sect knows where they worship. Vague rumour simply says that their temple is situated in the bowels of a great mountain in southern India. Their creed is a perfectly verbal one. Nothing is committed to writing, and the nature of their oath renders it impossible that any information can be divulged beyond the fraternity. It is terrible to think that my girl is in their clutches—my beautiful Zenda to be offered as a sacrifice to their hideous goddess!"
Blake stared at the man in horror.
"A human sacrifice!" he said sharply. "But surely those devilish rites have been stamped out?"
"It is impossible for you of the West to penetrate far below the surface of things Oriental, Mr. Blake," said the Parsee. "Even a few miles outside this city I have seen well-known business men wallowing naked in the blood of slain bullocks, and once, in my younger days, I saw a baby sacrificed on the altar of a jungle temple in the Terai country. The long arm of the British Raj cannot penetrate those dense jungle fastnesses, and many are the hideous and unholy rites practised there even at the present day."
Blake nodded, for he had long realised that beneath the calm and placid surface of the East ran dark and swift undercurrents which western eyes are never permitted to see.
"Have you any idea where this temple of the league is situated?"
The Parsee shook his head. His face had brightened a little, for there was something in the calm-voiced Englishman before him which inspired confidence.
"Its whereabouts is only known to the brothers of the sect," he said. "The limit in the number of the priesthood is a further safeguard against betrayal. As I have said, they, are never more or fewer than just one hundred and one. When a death occurs among the brotherhood, there is no burial and no incineration. He simply disappears, and is spoken of as having been carried away by Kali, the goddess of Death. The hundred surviving priests immediately elect his successor, a brother or a son from the same family being invariably chosen for the coveted dignity. In this way the league has grown to be a close family association, for the votaries of the goddess Kali inter-marry only among each other."
Mr. Parak paused for a moment, leaned his hand upon his arm, and gave way to the emotion within him.
"Mr. Blake, I know that every fifty moons—in other words, practically every five years—it is incumbent upon the High-priest of Kali to offer, as a living sacrifice to the bloodthirsty deity, a maiden of one of the fair races that dwell beyond the confines of India. I further know that the due observance of this dreadful rite is a matter of vital importance to the High-priest, for, failing his provision of a victim, he himself becomes a sacrifice to the death-goddess."
"What proof have you that your daughter has fallen into the hands of the league?" asked Blake, horrified by the distracted father's story. "I will help you in every way to effect her rescue. It is terrible to contemplate what her fate will be if left in those murderous hands."
"Heaven bless you, Mr. Blake!" said the father, clasping the detective's hands. "I will give you the story of her disappearance. An hour ago I was attracted by screams coming from my daughter's private apartment, and on rushing there found her missing. Evidence of a struggle lay in the fact that the curtains had been torn aside and that several articles of furniture had been overturned. I rushed into the street, but there was not a soul in sight. On returning to the room, in the hope of finding a clue, I found this."
The Parsee took something from his pocket, and handed it to the detective.
It was a thin circle of age-blackened rosetta wood, richly carved, and bearing the pattern of a Hindoo woman sitting on a throne. In one hand she held a roomal, and a tiny ruby, set in the centre of her brow, flashed with a venomous red spark.
About her waist was a girdle of skulls and withered hands, represented in the wood so that they appeared to be fastened to a large cobra coiled about her middle.
The whole pattern was repulsive and hideous in design, and Blake recognised at a glance that it was a representation of Kali, the Destroyer, the pagan goddess of evil, who has inspired her votaries to crimes horrible to contemplate in the long and mysterious Indian past.
"It was dropped by one of the men who carried my daughter off," said the Parsee, "and I believe it to be a badge of priesthood of the league. You will observe there is an inscription in Ramasee beneath. Translated, it reads: 'The League of the Roomal. Formed by the votaries of Kali the All-powerful, in order to perpetuate Her illustrious memory.'"
"May I retain this for the time being?" asked Blake, glancing at the design with undisguised curiosity. "It may help me in my investigations. I should also like a full description of your daughter. I will see that it is immediately telegraphed to every police-khana in India. To-morrow I will investigate the matter personally. I would do so at once, only I am engaged upon an urgent affair which I trust will be settled to-night. It is the capture of Gunga Dass, India's master-criminal, which at present occupies my time. Strangely enough, he is also a votary of Kali. It may be possible to extract some information as to the whereabouts of the secret temple of the league from him."
The Parsee's features lost much of their haggardness, for he was beginning to realise something of the capabilities which lay hidden beneath the placid exterior of the detective.
"Keep the carving by all means," he said. "I have a photograph of my daughter here, which will be far better than any verbal description. Heaven grant you success in your search!"
The old man, with trembling eagerness, took out a leather wallet and extracted a photograph. As Blake's keen eyes fell upon it, he jumped to his feet with a cry of astonishment. Two people were represented on the photograph—a beautiful Parsee girl, dressed in a silk saree of exquisite design, and a young man of the same Persian race, weak, and cunning of features.
"Who is the Parsee youth?" he asked sharply. "Unless I am badly mistaken, he had a hand in the abduction of your daughter. He was in the company of Gunga Dass, in Janjir's joy-shop, a low, haunt of the bazaar crowd, a few hours ago."
The eyes of the old Parsee became clouded.
"He is my adopted son," he said. "Many years ago my business partner died, as his son, his only child, was motherless, I took him under the shelter of my roof. When he reached the age of twenty-one his father's fortune, nearly a lakh of rupees, was made over to him; but he squandered the whole in two years, and came back to me penniless.
"I again accepted him into my household, even gave him a junior partnership in my business, in order to encourage him to run straight, but he robbed me right and left. Discovering his thefts, which, as I am a dealer in precious stones, was considerable; I washed my hands of him entirely.
"This took place about two months ago, and I have since heard that he has become a companion of thieves and haunts the vilest dens in Black Town. But, bad as he has been, there is surely some mistake! I cannot credit him guilty of so treacherous an act as to cause my only child, his playmate from boyhood days, to be stolen from me and sacrificed."
Blake studied the portrait of the youth carefully. There was weakness and cupidity in the Semitic features. Yet there was something pleasing in it, too. Some quality in the smile on the full lips, an expression in the dark eyes, beneath their drooping Oriental lids, hinted at that trace of virtue which is supposed to be present even in the worst of us.
Blake was inclined to think Fardunzi Parak was right. He could read a dishonest and shiftless nature in those features so faithfully portrayed, but not the hardness or evilness of a man who would deliver a young and beautiful girl to a body of Thugs whose religion was to destroy.
He slipped the photograph and carving of Kali into his pocket.
"I believe you to be right," he said thoughtfully, "although I am still convinced that this youth had a hand in the abduction of your daughter. It is possible that he has simply been the tool of Gunga Dass, and has been kept in ignorance of the purpose for which the girl was wanted."
"And you believe Gunga Dass to be implicated in the affair, Mr. Blake?"
Blake lit a cheroot, and smoked away thoughtfully for a moment, his mind busy with the intricate problem before him. He was convinced that Dass was in league with the brotherhood of the Kali priests, for he had suppressed the arch-murderer's Thug activities before to-day. and now-it would appear, if his theory that Dass held the power was correct, that the Hindoo was the High-priest of the sect, and that he had procured her for the purpose of sacrifice in order to save his own neck.
But what part had the adopted son of Fardunzi Parak played in the affair? When the young man had burst upon Dass in Janjir's joy-shop his manner had been wild and agitated in the extreme. Had he, aided by his knowledge of the household and the position of the rooms, carried off the girl and handed her over to Gunga Dass?
Blake inclined to this theory. He was beginning to see light. He had proof positive, by the conversation of Dass and the Parsee, that they had some evil scheme afoot, a scheme which Dass did not intend to reach Blake's ears.
"I am inclined to think that the young man will soon be making you an offer to release your daughter in return for a certain sum of money, Mr. Parak," he said slowly.
"Then this League of the Roomal badge of priesthood was simply left behind as a bluff?" said the Parsee. "Am I to understand that Biradah—that is the boy's name—has abducted her in order to hold her to ransom? By Heaven, I will see that the black-hearted young scoundrel does not touch a rupee! I will have him clapped into the House of Correction for this."
"To hold her to ransom was Biradah's intention, I believe," Blake said; "but I have a suspicion she is out of his hands now."
"How do you mean?"
"I believe that Biradah enlisted the aid of Dunga Dass to help him carry out his scheme, and that Dass has double-crossed him," Blake said thoughtfully. "It is possible that Dass instructed him and bluffed him into faking the abduction so that it would appear to be the work of the League of the Roomal, in order that you, terrorised by the fear of what your daughter's fate might be, would willingly pay a large sum in order to have her safely returned to you."
"Then am I to understand it is not the work of the league?" asked Parak, a note of relief in his voice. "That they are in no way implicated in the affair?"
Blake shook his head.
"No, Mr. Parak; I am convinced that Daas is the High-priest of the league, and that the girl is intended to be used as a sacrifice. But I am also convinced that Biradah knew nothing of this. While Biradah thought it was sheer bluff, Dass was working for his own ends as a genuine member of the league. Although I believe the youth to be unconscious of the fact, Zenda, your daughter is really in dire peril of her life."
"But you will rescue her?"
The old man was trembling with emotion, and, as Blake rose, he placed kindly hands on the bent shoulders.
"If I am successful in effecting the capture of Gunga Dass during the raid I have planned to take place at the joy-shop in a few hours' time, I feel certain your daughter will be saved," he said. "If my theory is correct, she must be hidden somewhere in Janjir's establishment. Go back to your house now. I will let you know immediately anything comes to light. Rest assured I shall leave no stone unturned to defeat the ends of Gunga Dass."
"Heaven bless you, Mr. Blake!' said the old Parsee, and his dimmed eyes looked their gratitude into the detective's. "It is terrible to contemplate the result of failure. I pray, with all my heart, you will be successful in your search!"
Blake pressed his hand in silent sympathy. They had walked to the hotel entrance now, and a young Hindoo, whose rolling gait indicated that he had looked upon the wine when it was red, lurched up the stone steps towards them.
He was attired in evening-dress, and his general appearance was that of one of the many students at the colleges who resided at the hotel. As he passed the detective Blake did not even glance in his direction, and, after wishing the Parsee good-night and offering him what encouragement he could, he left him and turned back into the hotel lobby.
As he passed a palm-tree, whose feathery plumes cast a deep shadow against the wall, the Hindoo, now betraying nothing of the inebriate in his noiseless and cat-like tread, detached himself from the gloom and raced after the unsuspecting Britisher.
In his hand he held a small tin cannister which glittered like silver, and, catching up with Blake, the man flung the contents full into the detective's face.
With a cry of pain, Blake staggered backwards. His eyes were burning like hot coals and were sightless. He felt hands roughly searching his clothing, the patter of swiftly retreating footsteps, and then the silence told him he was alone.
The Raid—The Cunning of Gunga Dass—On the Scent.
BLAKE leant against the wall in agony. His eyes were smarting and swollen, and his dazed senses had not yet realised what had taken place. He staggered to a table in the lounge, upon which stood a flask of water, and, soaking his handkerchief into the cooling liquid, he bathed his burning eyes.
"Hallo, Blake! What the deuce is the matter?"
Blake swung round at the sound of the voice, and dimly saw that Captain Mitchell, the medical officer he had summoned from the fort to Tinker's aid, was standing beside him, with a puzzled expression on his sunburned features.
"Hallo, Mitchell!" Blake said weakly. "Some dirty rascal must have flung pepper in my eyes and snatched my wallet. It's an old London pickpocket's trick, and darned painful, I can assure you. See what you can do for me, old man."
Opening his bag, the doctor took out an eye-glass, and washed the stinging pepper from under the lids with a cooling and soothing lotion. It afforded Blake almost instant relief, and in a few minutes he was able to see with tolerable clearness. Feeling in his pocket to ascertain the extent of his losses, he was amazed to find that the wooden carving of Kali was alone missing.
"I made a bit of a mistake in thinking it was the work of a common sneak-thief, Mitchell," he said grimly. "Gunga Dass, who was responsible for that little adventure of ours on the tower, is getting his hand in again."
"Phew! I've heard a good bit about this Dass, of course. The natives fear him like poison. Pretty dangerous and deadly sort of skunk, isn't he?"
"More deadly than a snake, old man," Blake said. "It sounds a bit melodramatic, but it is true. Already his minions must be aware of the fact that Tinker and I escaped from the tower. By the way, how is the lad?"
"Fine, Blake. He came round from the effects of the dhatura about an hour ago, and is now sleeping. I should let him hang on for a bit. He needs a good, sound healthy sleep to put him right. Your constitution is stronger than his, and it will be at least twenty-four hours before he is fit to get up."
Blake thanked the officer warmly for his kindly attentions, and the man departed.
"And now I'll get busy," Blake muttered grimly. "The fact that Dass knows I am at liberty will not make my task easier. One of his spies, the man who robbed me of the Kali carving, must have overheard my conversation with Parak, and is now doubtless speeding back to his master with the information that I am going to organise a raid on the joy-shop. I shall not be surprised to find that the birds have fled when I arrive."
After examining his automatic, Blake left the hotel, and, hiring a gharry, was soon being driven swiftly to the British Commissioner's office. Within an hour the official had placed fifty stalwart juwans at the detective's disposal, and preparations for the raid were complete.
"What are your plans, Mr. Blake?" asked Lieutenant Price, the European police-officer in charge of the party. " My squad are all dressed as ordinary coolies, the usual stunt when a raid is on, so as to allay suspicion."
"Then let them enter the joy-shop in small groups," said Blake. "Instruct them to sit down as ordinary customers until you and I arrive, and let our entry be the signal for the raid to commence. Tell them to lay their hands on everyone in the café. We can sift the innocent ones out afterwards. You and I will simply concentrate our efforts on catching Dass. He's the big noise of the show."
The officer nodded, and passed on the instructions to his men. They filed off in groups in the direction of Black Town, to the outward eye labourers and coolies out for a night's pleasure. Blake and his companion sauntered on in the rear, discussing the strange character of the man whose arrest they hoped to effect.
When they reached the café they found its doubtful pleasures in full swing. Peering through the curtain of chopped and dyed reeds which covered the doorway, they saw that the juwans were inside, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes with an air of indifference which successfully hid the purport of their mission. Besides the police, there was some forty men and native women in the establishment.
One man alone claimed his eyes. It was Gunga Dass, and the Hindoo did not seem to be in the least perturbed. He was sitting at a table surrounded by the police, but never once did he turn his eyes in their direction. The long, snakelike tube of a "hubble-bubble" hookah was in his mouth, and he was puffing away contentedly at the fragrant weed, which had given a strange dullness to his usually bright eyes.
"That's our man!" Blake whispered, an unusual note of excitement in his voice. "He appears to be dulled by the fumes of whatever drug he is smoking—hashish, I believe. Heavens, what a capture! Ready?"
The officer nodded, and, pushing aside the curtains, they entered. Immediately the place was in an uproar. Knives glittered in the light of the Oriental lamps, and dark eyes flashed as menacingly.
"This way, Price!" shouted Blake, fighting his way through the pack. "Let us make sure of Dass!"
Strangely enough, the Hindoo had not moved from his seat when the detectives reached him. He seemed oblivious of the confusion about him, and as Blake seized his arms he glanced up with an expression of mild reproach in his dull eyes.
"No trickery, Dass," Blake said sternly. "I shall not hesitate to shoot if you attempt resistance. You know your charges. You are for extradition to England on a charge of murdering Bhur Singh, a crime for which you have already been sentenced to death. And you would by now have paid the supreme penalty of the British law had not your devilish cunning brought you freedom."
"I am Gunga Dass."
The Hindoo said the words tonelessly. He was obviously "doped" to the eyebrows with hashish, and appeared quite indifferent to the fact that he stood in the shadow of the gallows. Blake, suspecting some trickery to be afoot, shook the man roughly and dragged him to his feet. By now the juwans had mastered the situation, and, except for the women, every person in the café was under arrest.
"Get half a dozen men to watch Dass while we search the rooms at the rear," Blake said. "I have an idea that Zenda, the Parsee girl, is hidden somewhere in the building."
With two pairs of handcuffs on his wrists and half a dozen stalwart men with drawn scimitars surrounding him, Dass had not the slightest chance of escape. Blake and the officer made an exhaustive search of the building, and in the room occupied by Dass several interesting discoveries were made.
On entering the room Blake's attention was attracted by something that gleamed and glittered on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and as he examined it a light of satisfaction came into his eyes.
The object proved to be a tiny jewelled star, and, glancing at the photograph, Blake found the ornament identical with the one Zenda Parak wore about her neck. Here was ample proof that the girl had been a prisoner in Dass's hands at the joy-shop.
"Look at all this make-up stuff lying about," said the officer, stepping over to a litter of grease-paints, crępe hair, and fining-in pencils which stood on a bamboo table. "This looks a bit fishy. There is disorder everywhere, and evidence of a hurried departure. Had we not Dass under arrest, this room would give me an impression that the man had made a hurried disguise and fled before we reached here, taking the girl with him. And what has become of her? She is nowhere on the premises."
Blake glanced from puzzled eyes about the room. Drawers had been turned out, and in a far corner was a patch free from dust, which indicated that a bag or small native trunk had recently been removed.
Yet Dass was certainly under arrest in the café, and apparently indifferent as to his fate. But what had happened to the girl? And why had Dass, usually as cunning as a snake, dulled his wits with hashish when he knew full well that Blake was hot upon his trail? The whole thing was inexplicable.
"Price," he said quickly, "have Dass brought up here. We have been tricked, I believe."
In less than a minute Dass stood before them, and Blake subjected the man to a searching scrutiny. It was undoubtedly the arch-criminal who stood before him. Every feature was identical—cruel, and holding something of the nobility of the eagle in the hooked nose and aquiline cast of countenance.
"What have you done with the girl, Zenda Parak?" Blake asked savagely.
"Zenda Parak?"
The man repeated the name in a surprised tone that was evidently genuine. Blake's puzzlement increased.
"The Parsee girl who is intended as a sacrifice to the evil goddess!" Blake thundered. "Do you deny she has been held a prisoner here? If so, perhaps you will explain how this jewelled star found its way into your apartment?"
As the detective held out the star, the Hindoo swayed drunkenly on his feet, and came closer to examine it. As he did so he shook his head.
"No malaam, sahib." Then a surprising thing happened. At that moment the Hindoo caught sight of his reflection in a large mirror over the dressing-table. He tottered to the glass with a cry of astonishment, and stared, blank-eyed, at his image reflected there. At that moment light burst into the detective's bewildered brain.
"By Heaven, we have been tricked, Price!" he cried savagely. "This man is not Gunga Dass, but a man disguised to resemble him!"
As he spoke the detective whipped out his handkerchief and sprang forward. Seizing the man by the hands, he rubbed at his face, and as the make-up was removed the features of a Hindoo resembling Dass, though now only to an extent which would have never deceived his eyes, were revealed.
"Well, I'm dashed!" said the officer blankly. "This beats cock-fighting, Blake. I could have sworn that guy was the man we're looking for."
"We have been very neatly tricked," Blake said warily. "I was a fool not to have suspected the truth when I first spoke to the man. His condition is due more to hypnotical suggestion than drugs, I fancy. While we have been nosing about here Dass has made a clean get-away, taking the girl with him, of course."
"Do you think this man a party to the trickery?"
"No. His surprise on seeing his altered features was genuine enough. Dass is a master of hypnotism, and we can assume that after getting this man under his will he disguised him to resemble himself and seated him in a conspicuous part of the cafe. Possibly he hoped that we should be some hours before discovering the deception, and that time would allow him to get clear of Madras."
"But how do you account for the man saying he was Gunga Dass? That fact alone seems to indicate he is implicated. I think I'll take him along to the police-khana with the others."
"By all means," Blake said. "It is pretty safe to assume he is a member of the gang. I intend trying to extract information from him later. But you can take it from me that when he stated he was Gunga Dass he was still under the other's influence, his master having put the suggestion into his brain. It would be a simple feat to a hypnotist of Dass's ability."
Price nodded, and, turning to the man, addressed him sternly:
"Who are you? You had better make a clean breast of the affair."
It was obvious that the Hindoo was slowly gaining freedom of thought, for that dull light had left his dark, slumbrous eyes.
"Are you a member of the League of the Roomal?" Blake demanded, glancing at the red Kali caste-mark on his brow.
The man started violently, and an ashen paleness crept into his cheeks, despite his brown skin. Blake's eyes gleamed as he saw his random shaft had hit the mark.
"If you can give me any information concerning the league, I promise you freedom from the law," Price said. "Come! You need feel no qualms in giving your master away. He has let you down badly over this affair, and you owe him little allegiance."
"I tell you nothing, sahib," said the Thug, and he trembled in a fit of fear. "You do not know the nature of those about whom you ask. They would kill me."
"Nonsense!" Price said sharply. "You shall have ample police protection."
"Sahib, you do not know their deadly nature. Once a man—this is many years ago, protector of the poor—was going to sell them to the Raj. He died with the words on his lips—was murdered, but by what agency none could tell, for the room at the time was crowded with police officials, and no stranger had entered. Do what you will with me, but do not question me as to the League of the Roomal."
"Do you know of a reputable hypnotist?" Blake said, turning to the officer. "He will quickly extract the information we want from this man. There is no doubt but that he is a priest of the league and knows their secrets."
With a terrified cry, the man flung himself at the detective's feet. His face was haggard, and his eyes had the scared look of a hunted animal.
"Sahib—sahib," he cried, and his brown hands beat against his breast, "if you do this thing you send me to my death! Even your own life will be endangered!"
Blake pushed the terrified wretch from him. One of the juwans had already left the room in search of the hypnotist.
"Tie him to that chair," Blake said, "See that he has no chance to move his head. He must be a favourable subject, otherwise Dass could not have had him so completely under his spell."
Soon the juwans had the struggling and pleading wretch fast in the chair. There was nothing wonderful in the detective's scheme. India is a land of hypnotism, and it is estimated that ten out of every thousand of the natives possess the gift. The black and piercing eyes of the Hindoo lend themselves admirably to the art, and in every district of the larger towns, such as Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta, the tourist will see great signboards of the professors, offering to teach the practice for a few rupees.
When the hypnotist arrived he proved to be a man of striking presence—tall, strong, and shapely, his smart, clean-shaven face, with sharply chiselled features and keen, black eyes, looking very picturesque beneath his gold-and-crimson turban. He stood, solid and motionless, surveying his subject with a searching glance, awaiting Blake's order to proceed with the performance, and, with every muscle showing beneath his dark silky skin, Blake could not help comparing him to a bronze statue of some old Greek athlete.
"I wish you to extract information from this man concerning a secret religious sect calling themselves the League of the Roomal," Blake said. "Above all, I wish to learn the whereabouts of their temple. You will be well paid for your trouble."
The hypnotist nodded, and advanced towards the terrified man in the chair. As his lustrous eyes became fixed in an intent stare on the rolling and terrified orbs of the other, a renewed burst of entreaty left the Thug's lips.
"Cowardly skunk!" muttered Price in disgust. "Anyone would think the league were endowed with supernatural powers. The man's safe enough here."
Beneath the intent stare of the hypnotist the lids of the subject narrowed. The pupils dilated and became fixed in a blank stare on the brilliant, mesmeric orbs of the other. Those eyes seemed to be burning into his brain like two glowing sparks, robbing his limbs of action, his mind of individual thought.
In vain he tried to force his glance away from those abnormally bright eyes. At a signal from the mesmerist the juwans released the man's bonds. The hypnotist made a slight pass, and the subject walked towards him with stiff, marionette-like action, as the jungle hare advances to the voracious cobra when it falls beneath its hypnotic spell.
"Stop!"
The hypnotist's voice rang out sharply, authoritatively. The Hindoo halted in his stride, and the wooden rigidity of his figure relaxed to a more natural pose.
"What is your name, and what connection have you with the League of the Roomal?"
As the commanding timbre of the voice rang out came a sharp whizzing sound, a cry of agony, and the hypnotised man crashed to the floor. White to the lips, Blake rushed forward and knelt beside him. The spell had been broken now, and the man writhed in agony on the floor, a slight froth showing on his convulsively working lips. "The League of Roomal!" he shrieked. "It is death to those who betray them!
The Secret Obtained—Blake Solves the Mystery—Bound for the Kali Temple.
THEY stared down in bewildered amazement at the brown man writhing at their feet. It was apparent that the end was not far off, for his eyes were glazed and his legs twisted out of all human shape by the agony which seared his muscles.
"See that no one leaves the room!" Blake said sharply. "Heavens, Price, what magic is this? That no one entered through the door I am prepared to swear. I was standing right against it."
"It's uncanny," said Lieutenant Price. "The man has been murdered before our eyes, yet the hand that struck him down was unseen. But look, Blake, I believe the poor wretch is trying to tell you something."
Blake bent closer to the dying man.
"You wish to speak to me?" he asked gently. "Believe me, I had no idea that this would happen. I promise you your death shall not go unavenged."
"Yes, I will tell you all I know." The agony-wrung sweat trickled down the unhappy man's face, and the words left him with an effort. "My assassin is a member of the league, for it is death to divulge their secrets. Go to Budgahpoor, in Southern India. Three coss from the town you will come to the Bawhar Hills. The bowels of the range have been hollowed out into the form of a temple, like the Caves of Karli in the Western Ghauts. When the new moon is born, ten days from now, the white girl will be offered as a sacrifice on Kali's altar."
"And is Gunga Dass the High-priest of the league?" Blake said, gently slipping an arm beneath the man's head, in order to ease his position. "Whatever your sins have been, you have atoned for them now. You have been the means of saving a young and innocent girl from a ghastly fate."
"Gunga Dass—bad man—High-priest!"
They were the last words which left the unfortunate man's lips, for the next moment he died in the detective's arms. Blake gently carried him to a bed, and began to examine the body for a clue as to how the man had been murdered.
In his neck an ivory thorn, smeared with a brown substance, had buried itself for two-thirds of its length. It had pierced the tough brown skin with appalling ease.
Here's a devil trick for you," he said, turning to Price. "A poisoned dart. They are usually directed through a blow-pipe, and can be aimed as far as forty feet with deadly effect. The poison works almost instantly, and there is enough on here to kill a dozen men."
"But how did it reach him, Blake? Everyone in the room is above suspicion."
"Through the window, I believe," said Blake. "Like most Indian windows, it is glassless. The man was visible from the street, and anyone passing could have directed the dart unnoticed. The weapon has the advantage of being discharged without sound.
"You're right, I believe," said the officer. "You're up against a pretty tough proposition in this league. Well, our work here is finished. Better look out for yourself now, old man. You are dangerous to their liberty, and they'll do you in, as they have that poor wretch there, if they get a chance."
Blake nodded grimly. He was beginning to appreciate the deadly menace of the fanatical worshippers who had banded themselves together under the name of the League of the Roomal.
"I'll make use of Dass's make-up tackle," he said. "Get this poor chap to the burning-ground, and see that he is interned according to the rites of his caste. Make an effort to lay hands on Dass, too. Circulate his description all over India, and to Budgahpoor in particular. We can be pretty sure that the Temple of Kali is the man's destination. Tinker and I will leave for there to-morrow. I am now off to see Fardunzi Parak, father of the girl, to acquaint him with the news."
*
"This will be the place, guv'nor. Rather out of the way. It seems it can only be approached by sailing up the Tahilla river."
It was the morning arranged for the detective's start on the journey to the Temple of Kali, and Tinker, looking little the worse for his adventure on the Tower of Silence, was bending over a map in their room at the hotel.
"We must journey by rail to Jehanpur, on the mouth of the Tahilla." Blake said, busily engaged in cleaning and oiling his Winchester. "The district is evidently little known, and probably we shall be the first white men to set foot in Budgahpoor. From Jehanpur we must hire a boat and rowers. There is little time to be lost, for in ten days' time, when the new moon is born, the sacrifice is due to take place."
But it was not until the morning of the fifth day that they reached the mouth of the Tahilla. A boat was hired without difficulty, provisions and a medicine-chest were got on board, and they started on the last lap of their journey.
For a time their course lay through charming Indian countryside. The Hindoo serang, or chief boatman, squatted himself aft, close to the tiller, while the four rowers, well forward, bent to their oars with a lusty shout in chorus of "Hulma!" at every stroke. The large houseboat was, however, no racing skiff, and their progress was more stately than rapid.
The morning sun had not risen above the belt of tall palms, and the river was in deep and cool shadow. Groups of native huts every now and again appeared nestling in clear spaces, and naked little urchins, with glossy brown skin, dashed down to the waterside immediately they caught sight of the boat, and, racing along the bank or splashing into the water, gave forth the cry which is almost the baby language of all Orientals who live in contract with European civilisation: "Bakshish, bakshish!"
Tinker threw a handful of small coins, and there was ducking and. diving and general merriment amongst the youngsters, while the boatmen of their own accord, slackened their stroke and grinned good-humouredly, showing their gleaming white teeth and muttering "Shabash, shabash!" ("Bravo, bravo!") when a coin happened to be secured in a specially adroit manner.
However, gradually the habitations grew fewer and further between, and at last they glided from a narrow and tortuous channel on to a gleaming sheet of water fringed by dense mangrove swamps, and with not a sign of human occupation in evidence.
As their boat emerged from the semi-darkness of the river, the gleam of the strong morning sun almost dazzled them, and the whirr of a thousand wings of duck and other water-fowl added to momentary confusion.
Blake took the scene coolly enough, for it was no new experience for him. He had, moreover, his gun ready at hand, and a prompt right and left was followed by several dull thuds of dead and wounded birds flopping on to the water. The men in the boat appreciated the situation, and quickly dragged on board a couple of brace of plump and splendidly plumaged mallards.
"That's breakfast made sure of," remarked Blake, lighting a cheroot. "Now, serang, up sail and get ahead while the morning is still cool."
The rowers soon had their oars shipped and a broad billow of canvas spread to the morning breeze. As the boat sped through the water, the prow cutting a path of foam on the molten surface, and the waves so caused leaping and gurgling towards the gunwale, they could have imagined themselves at sea. Instead, however, they were on a great sheet of fresh water, winding inwards, amidst dense forests, towards the towering barrier of the Western Ghauts.
But as they sailed southward the channel gradually narrowed, and then, after a sharp bend to the east, they were floating on such a stream as the Thames at Reading, although the scene was widely different to that of the quietly beautiful English river.
They were buried in the midst of tropical vegetation run riot. Its tangled profusion baffled description—everywhere a limitless luxuriance of foliage and flowers. The coconut-palms waved their plumes aloft, and formed a dense, almost unbroken, expanse of leafage. Interspread among them were areca-trees, jackfruit-trees, palmyras, and occasionally teak-trees of enormous girth.
Clambering from stem to stem were rattans and creepers, with clustering blossoms of brightest hues, while orchids in infinite variety festooned the tree trunks and hung, in odorous racemes, to a length of three or four feet, making a gorgeous garden high in mid-air.
At intervals they skirted low alluvial islands, one dense matted jungle of shrub-like vegetation, and countless flocks of brightly-plumaged paroquets would darken the air, circling round the boat and screaming at their intrusion.
Myriads of gorgeous butterflies also hovered aloft and around. Occasionally a mugger, or crocodile, which until their close approach seemed like a fallen tree-trunk, would slither into the water after watching them for a moment with blinking eyelids and smug complacency.
Sometimes they were close enough to the forests to notice the emerald-green tree-snakes hanging pendant from the leafy branches, or a painted krait stretched its length between two stems, looking more like a dead stick than a deadly venomous reptile.
Monkeys, too, chattered from the tree-tops, and every now and then raised a deafening chorus of affrighted protest at the party's disturbance of their morning meal. Besides the innumerable parrots, other gorgeously-plumaged birds rose into the air and gleamed like jewels in the sunlight. Flocks of the sacred pea-fowl at times dazzled their eyes with an azure sheen.
And that night they camped on the river, sitting long into the might, now talking of the adventures before them, now listening to the eerie sounds borne to them from the jungle. At times they heard the shrill cry of a baboon, then the sharp yap of a single jackal, followed by a weird, discordant chorus from the whole pack of night prowlers; and once they held their breath in awe when the prolonged and reverberating roar of a tiger resounded through the forest, and for quite ten minutes made every other animal within hearing dumb with terror.
Then to sleep—the last view to meet the closing eyes the star-spangled vault of Heaven, the last sound to strike the dulling ears the animal life of that vast and gloomy jungle.
In the Temple of Kali.
DAY followed day in a listless, dreamy existence which might have fulfilled the aspirations of an opium-eater.
At one stage of the journey they were forced to land in order to provision the boat, and there met with unexpected adventure.
In the village, where no other white foot had trod, they met with a kindly reception. There were sights of deepest interest to them, and much that was picturesque to admire, notably the women, in their brilliantly coloured sarees, carrying on their heads to the village tank brightly polished brass and copper water-pots. But, oh, the horrors of that necessity of every Indian village, the water-tank.
It was approached by steps, at the foot of which men and women were bathing and rinsing out their mouths, buffaloes were being watered and having the mud rubbed off them, clothes were being washed, and water-pots being filled for the day's cooking and drinking.
"Small wonder that cholera stalks over the land claiming its ten of thousands every year," Blake said. "But come, young 'un. Let us have a look at the temple yonder."
There was a small temple close to the tank, a garland of withered flowers stretched across the lintel of the door, through which they saw the idol, hideous with red-lead and stained with oil, and the attendant priest in the act of ringing a clanging set of bells, which were suspended from the roof by brass chains, the while he muttered his mantras, or prayers.
On the further side of the tank was another shrine, near which were a number of tombs. These, they were told by an aged fakir seated close by soliciting alms, his tattered rags and ash-bedaubed face making him a hideous rather than pity-inspiring object, were tombs erected long ago in honour of women who performed the rite of suttee by casting their living bodies on their husbands' funeral pyres.
On the outskirts of the village they came across the burning ground for Hindoos of caste, and noticed the remains of several significant heaps of firewood. There they encountered a procession of men, naked from the waist upwards, with their greasy. black love-locks hanging down.
One of their number walked in front carrying an earthen vessel containing a burning cow-dung cake, and behind him, on a bier made of two bamboos with cross bars, was a body dressed in white and covered with garlands, the face of the corpse, which was streaked with red ochre, presenting a truly ghastly appearance. The bier was borne on the shoulders of four men, while those following behind chanted out a mournful invocation to their diety.
Suddenly an old man rushed from the group of mourners following behind, and flung himself at the detective's feet. "Sahib, sahib! Protector of the poor! Truly is my heart desolated," sobbed the old man, in the patois of the district. "My only son has been slain by the purrat-bagh (man-eating tiger), the sabre-toothed devil-god who lurks yonder in the jungle to kill. Six men in as many weeks has the tiger carried away from the village, and I beg of you, great one, to take your guns which speak death and seek him out."
Blake turned to Tinker with a doubtful smile.
"What do you think, young 'un?' he said. "As you don't know the lingo very well I'd better explain. The man states there is a great man-eating tiger haunting the jungle surrounding the village, and that he has already carried off six men. His son, on the bier, has also fallen a victim, though it appears the beast did not carry him off. They want us to take our guns and shoot the animal."
"Sure. guv'nor." Tinker said, and his eyes glistened. "We can't get any further until the morning, for our boatmen are worn out. We may as well do that as lounge about the village. It doesn't affect our plans, for we shall arrive at Budgahpoor two days before the new moon is due."
And so it was settled that they should seek out the tiger that evening at dusk. The heat of the day was passed in a prolonged siesta, for every one of the party was worn out by the journey. Towards evening the final preparations were made for the slaying of the man-eater which had caused such terror among the villagers, and caused them to shun, day and night, the ravine where the brute had its lair.
Their mode of procedure was to be as follows: A mechan, or platform, had been erected on a tree a few score of yards from the entrance to the nullah where the beast lay, and a young bullock was tethered within close range of the shooting box. The night, owing to the absence of the moon, was sure to be one of intense darkness.
In the last dusk of evening they sought their retreat, and hoisted themselves on the platform, accompanied by two experienced village shikaris, or hunters. The bullock was tethered within six yards of their lace of concealment, the local shikari, who performed the final operation, inserting a sharp splinter of wood between the flesh of the animal's leg and the thong which bound it to the stake. This soon caused the poor brute to bellow with pain, and so informed Master Stripes of the banquet that awaited him.
"Not a word, young 'un," breathed Blake, his eyes trying vainly to pierce the gloom.
Hour after hour they lay, hardly moving a muscle, ear and eye ceaselessly on the alert. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night, except the short frequent bellowings of the tethered ox.
Hour followed hour, and the state of tension became almost unendurable. But Blake and Tinker were both too keen sportsmen to throw up the sponge merely because of the monotony of waiting, and the two shikaris lay behind them as motionless and silent and patient as bronze statues.
At last, when midnight was long past, the sharp crack of a twig in the jungle hard by arrested every ear, and brought their fingers to the trigger.
"Quiet," whispered Blake, as two great green and gleaming eyes shone in the darkness. "The least sound will scare him away."
The eyes vanished, and a moment of breathless suspense followed. Then a terrific roar, which came from almost close beneath them, seemed to make the very platform on which they lay stretched tremble. The poor bullock gave a scream of agony and fright. In another instant all was over.
There was a loud thud as the tiger, no doubt springing from a considerable distance, lighted upon his victim's shoulders, and Blake could faintly distinguish the blow with which one of his sledge-hammer forepaws felled the bullock, with a crash of breaking undergrowth, to the ground. There was a crunching of bones accompanied by intermittent growlings.
They knew pretty well where the tiger must now be crouched, and no time was to be lost, for the brute would almost for certain endeavour to drag his victim away to some distance from the place of slaughter. The tethered rope would offer small resistance, as a single wrench of the carnivore's powerful jaws would tear the bullock's body from the bound limb.
The munching of bones indicated that the tiger had at least commenced his meal on the spot. Oh, for a gleam of moonlight to give them the chance of a sure aim. All at once they distinctly caught sight, through the ink-black darkness, of a pair of sapphire-gleaming eyes.
"Now, young 'un," whispered Blake, and his voice trembled with excitement.
Almost simultaneously their rifles cracked, the vivid flashes lighting up the darkness and showing them for one brief instant the tiger crouched on the ground looking towards them, and gnawing at one of the bullock's hind-quarters.
"Got him," breathed Tinker. "Did you see him, sir? A twelve footer, if he's an inch."
They seemed hardly to have drawn their triggers when a terrifying roar of mingled rage and pain shook the jungle. There was the crashing of the matted underwood, as the palpably wounded brute writhed in his agony. Then they were conscious of a growling, roaring fury right beneath, and for a moment their hearts stood still. One of the shikaris lighted a torch and thrust it downwards. The tiger was revealed as it seemed to gather its strength for a last effort. It reared itself against the tree trunk on which they were ensconced, tearing great gashes in the bark with its claws. Its mouth, streaming with blood, opened for another roar, when Blake sent a bullet down the gaping, crimson cavern with not more than a couple of feet between muzzle of tiger and muzzle of gun.
Hundreds of natives were waiting some distance away in order to witness the dénouement of the night's work. Their rifle fire, followed by the gleaming of the torches as they descended from the platform, showed the anxious watchers how the contest had gone. They speedily gathered around the slain monarch of the jungle. He lay stretched full length on his side, a splendid animal. Unlike many man-eaters, whose teeth are decayed, and whose coat is mangy and over great patches quite hairless, this tiger had a beautiful skin, vividly striped, and holding the sheen of silk.
"Just over twelve feet from tip of nose to tip of tail, sahib," said one of the shikaris, running a tape over the stiffening bulk. "It is a beast such as the royal sahibs, who shoot through the jungles of the Terai, seldom have luck to see."
The crowd of natives pressed round the corpse, spitting upon it and reviling it with the Hindoo's whole comprehensive vocabulary. Blake, however, lost no time mounting guard, when he saw knives begin to gleam and evidence on the part of the revilers of an intention to tear their dreaded and hated enemy to pieces. Blake was determined not to let the trophy of this splendid tiger skin be spoiled.
On the urgent entreaty of one old man, a native munsiff, or headman, he allowed a few hairs to be pulled from the tiger's tail, each of these being a priceless charm to the fortunate possessors.
Then a long stout sapling was cut down, the carcass was slung to it by the legs being tied together, and amidst the most infernal din that ever smote upon man's ears, caused by the rattling of iron pots, the beating of tom-toms, the screeching of harsh, flute-like instruments, and the yelling of scores of human throats, the slain man-eater was borne in triumph to the boat.
In the early grey of morning they were once more on the move, and rowed away from the scene of their rather prolonged stay. It was nearly an hour before the rolling beat of tom-toms died away in the distance. The villagers had kept up an all-night pandemonium in honour of the slaying of their dreaded enemy.
*
The rest of the journey was completed through country which wore the typical Indian dry-weather look. Everything was barren, dusty, and parched. The ground was baked, and even near the banks of the river, which had now dwindled to little more than a narrow stream scarcely, in places, permitting the passage of their boat, cracked with deep and yawning fissures, while the horizon was seen through a haze of dust and heat which lengthened distance in a dreamy, mirage-like manner.
Many interesting scenes were met with, as when they saw a party of Yogis, or Hindoo religious mendicants, accompanied by a troop of holy monkeys These men, saints in the estimation of the simple village folk, were almost naked, their hair was filthy and matted, their faces were ash-sprinkled and paint-bedaubed, and their bodies were hideously set forth with ecclesiastical patterns, symbols of their gods. Indeed, it was difficult to say which of the gang, the men or the monkeys, afforded the most grotesque spectacle. They were an evil-smelling crowd, and Blake and Tinker took good care not to let them come between the wind and their majesties.
"I estimate we are not more than ten miles from our destination now, young 'un," Blake said. "I think it would be best were we to leave the boat here and do the rest of the journey overland."
And so at dawn that day Blake and Tinker left the boat in care of the serang, and going to the horse dealer of a near-by village hired two ponies with the curious recommendation of being "five feet in length, three feet in height, three feet in fatness, four years in age, ponies of race, very swift in running."
By late afternoon they had reached the city. The valley they had descended widened out in a great plateau, flat almost as a billiard table. Right in the centre of this gleamed; in the rays of the declining sun, the minarets, the domes, the temples and marble palaces of an ancient Indian city. They had reached Budgahpoor, the Thug city of South India, where never before had a white foot trod.
For a time the beauty of the scene held them spellbound as they stood on the slope leading to the plateau, the city and plain, with the silver waters of the Tahilla meandering across in a gleaming streak, at their feet.
So near were they, that in the great courtyard of an immense marble palace, which could only be that of the Dewan of the city, they could follow the evolutions of a troop of mounted cavalry, in scarlet and white uniforms, gaily careering, their drawn swords flashing like tongues of silver light.
"That will be the range of hills of which the dying man spoke," said Blake, pointing to a low lying pile of nearly white rocks to the north of the city. "Come, the hour of darkness will soon be upon us."
As Tinker turned his pony in the direction of the hills, a low cry left his lips.
"Look, look!" he ejaculated, with outstretched arm.
Blake followed the direction indicated.
The rays of the setting sun were gilding the hills and fell upon the precipitous peak of a mountain top which was the highest eminence of the range. The glare from the west was falling direct and dazzling on the marble-white slab of rock, and upon it were letter-like characters which were not the fashioning of Nature, but the work of man's hands.
"Kali, Goddess of Death."
The characters were in Ramasee script, but Blake had little difficulty in translating them. The truth of the dying priest's story was now proved beyond doubt.
"What are your plans to rescue the girl, guv'nor?" Tinker asked, as they rode along in a cloud of white dust. "We must use caution. Dass is a heap more dangerous than that tiger we shot."
Blake nodded gravely. The molten orb of the sun dipped behind the frowning brow of the Western Ghauts, and the devices on the rock were blurred in shadow. The darkness deepened rapidly all around, and with it came a closer realisation of their peril.
"I first intend to get into the temple," Blake said. "It is useless to form any plan until we arrive, young 'un. We have not the slightest idea of the geography of the place. All we know is that the Tahilla flows through the hills. Not an unusual happening in India, for the mountains are as soft as chalk."
Keeping the rock in view in the uncertain light they zigzagged along the hill sides, choosing the paths which led upwards and in the direction of their goal. At last they found themselves directly under the precipice, and were forced to dismount.
"We'll tie our ponies here, leave them food, and return for them later,' Blake said. "Wind that rope about you. It may come in useful later. Take a good stock of ammunition in your bandolier, too. As there are exactly one hundred and one priests of the sect the odds are going to be pretty heavy, young 'un. We dare not venture into the city for aid. I suspect all the inhabitants to be in league with the Thugs. The town has an ill repute in India."
After making the ponies comfortable, they forced their way up the steep incline and through a thick growth of creepers and other undergrowth. This laborious work continued for half an hour, until at last they gained a foothold on a ledge of rock clear of vegetation.
"This must be the place," said Tinker. "But there is no opening here. All this is solid rock."
"Look!" said Blake.
Tinker followed the direction of his outstretched hand. A few yards above them, directly beneath the inscription carved into the rock, was another natural platform on the mountain side. They plunged into the brushwood again, and in a few minutes had gained a foothold on the new ground. Before them yawned a great gaping cleft in the wall of rock.
"Hurrah!' cried Tinker, in triumphant excitement.
"Hush, young 'un," Blake said warningly, as the echo of his voice reverberated in the hollow of the mountain side.
They entered the chasm, and Blake cautiously switched on this electric torch. A few steps brought them to a halt, for they found themselves standing on the edge of a cavern so vast that the towering mountain must have been but a thin shell covering the cavity. They lay down upon the ledge.
Blake thought it prudent to shunt off his torch now, and gradually they accustomed their eyes to the darkness.
"This is evidently not the entrance used by the votaries," Blake whispered, "for I can see no means of descent. We must fasten the rope to this boulder and trust to luck that it is long enough to reach the bottom. I will descend first."
The attachment was made, the loose end dropped, and Blake descended hand over hand down the aerial ladder. After an anxious time for Tinker the rope ceased to oscillate, and was at the same time released from Blake's weight. Evidently he had safely reached the bottom.
"Are you right, young 'un," floated up Blake's whispered tones from the depths. "There's a good eight feet to drop when you reach the end of the rope. Be careful, and see if the rope has frayed or not before you attempt the descent."
In a few minutes the lad stood with Blake at the bottom of the great cleft. As all was silent Blake flashed on his torch, holding his handkerchief over the bulb in order to reduce its brilliant glare. Their next move was a matter of some perplexity.
"It's a perfect honeycomb," Blake whispered. "It must have taken centuries to fashion the place."
The light was sufficient for them to see there were at least a score of passages and branching caves leading from the central cavern in which they stood. Which one lead to the Temple of Kali, grim goddess of death? To wander at random into a maze of corridors, and away from their only means of regaining the mountain side again would have been foolishly rash. As they stood in perplexed silence, they heard, faintly but distinctly audible, the murmurous splash of running water—no doubt the subterranean reach of the Tahilla.
"It is the stream," Blake said in a low voice. "Let us make for it, and we shall then have something to start from."
Without further conversation they cautiously advanced, the light from the torch clearly revealing their path. The rush of water grew louder and louder. At last they came to a dead face of a wall which barred their progress. The sound of the running stream smote still more loudly on their ears and evidently proceeded from some passage to their right.
They advanced into it slowly, watching their steps in case of some yawning chasm, about a couple of hundred yards, when the path took a sharp turn, and before them lay another extensive cave, not so large as the previous one, but still of considerable extent.
The first thing to arrest attention was the stream of flowing water, the gurgle of which up to the present had served as their guide. It divided the white sanded floor like a gleaming streak of silver. The river at this part was not wide, but of considerable depth and current, and as they stood over the water they were struck by its opalescent clearness, which revealed every rock, almost every pebble, in the bed.
Following the course of the channel, the adventurous detectives observed that at a distance it formed itself into a wide basin. There they directed their steps, and found themselves in the presence of some strange works of man.
The rock on the further side of the basin, which formed an almost perfect semi-circle was carved into the shape of colossal figures standing out in bas-relief. Great pillars rose upwards, and their capitals were so cunningly sculptured as to give the semblance of bulging out and supporting the mighty mass of rock which formed the roof of the cavern.
Between these pillars were giant images of strange gods and goddesses. The centre one was a seated figure of Buddha, around which were the sacred symbols of the bull, the elephant, the horse, an animal like the dog, but with a jackal's head, the monkey, the serpent with the extended hood, the lotus flower and the pipul branch—all chiselled out of the solid rock deeply and boldly.
On either side of the central images were graven presentments of colossal figures, some with twelve arms, some with eight, some furnished with wings, each bearing a distinctive symbol.
"Wonderful," whispered Blake. "Some of these statues must stand eighty feet high, and beat anything I've yet seen in this country, even the Caves of Karli, a similar building in the Western Ghauts."
As they stood on the water's edge gazing upon the huge idols they were impressed with wonder how mortal man, equipped with only the rude appliances of prehistoric times, had ever accomplished the work of carving them from rock. The cave carvings of India are an inscrutable mystery, and the works upon which Blake and Tinker gazed far excelled anything they had before seen.
On the further side of the basin, right at the feet of the colossal figure of Buddha, the waters boiled and bubbled as they were sucked down through some cavernous aperture into the nether depths of the mountain. Visible exit there was none, and even had they crossed the little lake, further advance in that direction was barred by the great wall of rock on which the silent, giant-like images were graven.
"We must now follow up its course," Blake said. "This is not the Temple of Kali, for no idol to her memory is here."
Onwards and onwards they went. All along the walls of the galleries were carven figures in almost bewildering variety, and numerous inscriptions in strange characters, most of which even Blake, skilled in these matters, failed completely to decipher.
He was able to explain to Tinker, however, that they were evidences of a succession of religions having had their votaries in those subterranean depths, symbols of Hinduism, in several forms, and Buddhism being mingled in incongruous fashion.
They had traversed quite a number of the winding corridors, when at a turn in the passage they simultaneously and instinctively halted. A distant clanking noise reached their ears. Its nature was unmistakable; the sound was caused by the rhythmical clashing of brazen symbols. They at once realised they were approaching a place where some form of worship was taking place.
With redoubled caution they resumed their advance, and the echo of the clanking brass grew in volume, and gradually became inter-mingled with the monotonous chanting of human voices.
Blake drew his revolver and motioned Tinker to do likewise, for he knew that should they happen to fall into the hands of Dass and his brother priests they would be torn to pieces. While they hoped that in those labyrinthine recesses they would escape detection, they were prepared to make a bold bid for life and freedom, and to rescue in the teeth of the mob the unfortunate and beautiful Zenda Parak, who had fallen into their murderous and fanatical hands.
So cautiously, and with every nerve throbbing, they stole on in the dim light of the torch, till the noise made by the worshippers grew deafening, and they knew that another turn or two would bring them within their view.
A Hideous Ritual—The Rescue—Dass's Treachery.
BLAKE switched off the light, and they were in total darkness, except for a dull glare in advance, caused by torches or a bonfire, towards which they directed their steps.
The corridor evidently narrowed, for the light, though less than a hundred yards distant, gleamed only in a small space, appearing for all the world like the disc of a very large bull's-eye lantern. Soon the gallery became so circumscribed that their feet were washed by the waters of the quickly flowing river, and with uplifted arms they could touch the walls above their heads.
Their breath came quick with excitement when the end of the corridor was reached, and they gazed upon the weird scene that was being enacted before them.
Another vast cavern lay before the detectives, illuminated by the glare of many torches, some of which were planted in the ground and others carried in the hands of several scores of white-robed men, who slowly circled round and round a great image of the evil goddess Kali placed on a lofty altar of stone.
For a time the scene fascinated them, and they were unobservant of details. But at last three things forced themselves upon their attention. They noticed that each priest carried in one hand a torch, and in the other a cymbal, which he clashed against those carried by his fellows on either side—now to the left, now to the right—at measured intervals.
All the while a chorus was chanted, and the figures circled round the great image.
Then they looked at the great altar and colossal image, fully thirty feet high, placed on it. The latter was hideous in the extreme. There was not much carving nor artistic work about it; the goddess was simply a great block of stone cut rudely into human shape. The figure was provided with three massive arms, one growing out of the throat and grasping a representation in stone of the roomal, or Thug strangling-cloth, and had leering, distorted features and wide-open, ogre-like mouth.
The head and body were bedaubed plentifully with vermillion paint, and about the waist was an immense serpent, the sculpturing of this part being good and extremely realistic; but, with a shudder of horror, they saw that bleached human skulls were fastened to it, and below hung scores of withered hands.
"Oh, Heaven, guv'nor!" whispered Tinker, and the lad was sick with horror as he turned his eyes from that revolting scene. "Do you see? Human skulls and hands! There must be hundreds fastened to that great girdle."
Blake nodded, and gazed from eyes that expressed their disgust. The rough-hewn mass of rock upon which the idol stood was engraved with an elaborate scroll of griffins, monkeys, rams' and bulls' heads, and other devices, all stained with hideous crimson streaks. The whole altar stood on a great pavement of what they saw at a glance was beaten gold.
At last the dance ceased. The priests stuck their torches in the sand, and prostrated themselves on the golden pavement of the altar. Then four of their number advanced from the far side to that on which the detectives stood, bearing trays before them. These went right up to the altar, and two of their number clambered on to the image itself
From the trays strings of sparkling jewels were handed up, and in a few minutes the hideous goddess was gleaming with almost countless diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, amethysts, topazes— precious stones of every variety, and in a profusion that excelled the wildest imaginative flights of the Arabian story-teller.
The ceremony of clothing the idol in this priceless array of jewels completed, the priests arose from their prostrate position, and, again grasping the torches and holding them aloft, slowly circled round the image, then filed away, intoning all the while in a low, subdued chant.
The procession disappeared from view, and the sound of the voices gradually died away. There was no light now in the Great cave, except that given by four oil-lamps placed at the corners of the altar. By their fitful gleam the detectives could sEe that eight priests remained behind as custodians of the temple. These had stretched themselves on the golden pavement, no doubt sleeplessly vigilant to guard their deity and her treasures.
"Look, guv'nor!" Tinker breathed, his voice tense with excitement. "Look! Just over there"—pointing in the direction indicated with one of his hands—" by the mouth of the corridor there is a shadow. I saw it move a second ago."
Blake took a pair of binoculars from his belt, and directed his gaze to the spot indicated by Tinker.
"It is the Parsee youth—the adopted son of Parak," he said. "Can it be he has repented his action in abducting the girl, and, finding out Dass's hellish scheme, has come to rescue her?"
As they looked they saw the youth creeping silently over the sand and moving directly towards the image of Kali, grim goddess of Death.
"He's going to attempt to rob the goddess," whispered Tinker, in a tone of intense excitement. "Great Scott? If he's detected, those priests will tear him limb from limb!"
"Jewels have a fascination for Orientals, and no doubt he thinks it is no wrong for a Parsee to pillage the temple of a heathen goddess."
They ceased, however, to discuss the motive for the youth's presence, for their eyes were now concentrated intently upon the lithe figure of the Persian, which was moving closer and closer to the image, taking advantage of every patch of shadow.
For a moment he lay motionless between two of the priests, who were evidently wrapped in slumber. The next instant he had slipped beyond them, and was actually on the golden pavement. Nearer and nearer he advanced to the idol, standing erect close against the side of the stone pedestal upon which the image rested. They saw his arms raise towards the string of jewels but his hand fell short of the lowest.
In front of the god was a step about two feet high, and, with bated breath, they saw the dark figure glide round towards the grimacing face of the figure of stone. Now he had reached the elevated block, and, with noiseless and cat-like tread, he raised himself on the narrow platform. His hand reached up towards the jewels, and for an instant the watchers saw a thousand facets of the gems glittering in the lamplight through the motion caused by his touch.
But all at once there was a grinding, clanking noise, as of some ponderous machinery set in motion, and, almost in the twinkling of an eye, the stone arms of the goddess seemed to sweep round and embrace the figure of the intruder. The absolute stillness that had reigned in the temple was further broken by a piercing scream of agony. In a moment the arms of the image were withdrawn, and the goddess had resumed her wonted attitude.
"My Heaven!" gasped Blake, white to the lips. "The poor fellow's body is crushed beyond recognition."
On the golden pavement beneath lay, crushed and battered out of all human shape, what they could scarcely recognise as the body of the unhappy Parsee youth, and the gleams of the torches carried by the eight priests, who had started to their feet and at once lighted them, showed them the front of the image stained with fresh blood.
"Come! We have seen enough for to-day," whispered Blake, chilled with horror by the ghastly tragedy they had witnessed. "Let us get back to the hillside and form our plans. To-morrow they intend to slay Zenda Parak in the same way as the Parsee youth has met his end—another skull to be added to that hellish girdle. We have no time to lose if we are to save her."
Their last glance at the god revealed a thousand many-coloured jewels flashing in the torchlight, and the mangled and crushed body beneath. They stole silently along the corridor and back into the cave where the colossal Buddha and his attendants looked down on the limpid basin of water with unchanging and stony stare; then through the passage to the rope, and finally to the rock plateau above.
There they drank into their lungs the sweet air of heaven, all the more sweet after the gruesome sights they had witnessed.
*
The mantle of night had slipped its folds over the valley and hills; darkness was upon the face of the earth. From the hillside they could see that the palaces and temples of the city blazed with thousands of different coloured lamps, and that the gardens were decked out with lights gleaming like glow-worms amidst the luxuriant foliage. The tom-tomming of a thousand native drums, muffled by distance, rolled up the mountain side. This and the lavish illuminations convinced Sexton Blake that a native festival was being celebrated in honour of Kali and the grim sacrifice of the girl, which was to take place to-morrow.
"Now, Tinker, we must get busy," Blake said. "I intend by some means to capture one of those priests guarding the idol, and take his place. Fortunately I brought my make-up case with me. You must conceal yourself in the temple near at hand, and be ready to come to my aid when I need you. It is impossible to arrange any special plan of action at present. It will have to be done on the spur of the moment and when a suitable occasion arises. Probably the girl is hidden somewhere in the temple, but to look for her now in that honeycomb would only prove a waste of time."
"And probably result in our own capture," Tinker said. "You're right, guv'nor. Only I don't like the idea of you going among that murdering crew alone. it is the only way, though. You can speak the language, and possibly may be able to pump them for information. Well, let's get down to the ponies.
"I have another idea. There are only two entrances to the Temple of Kali—the one we traversed and the one the priests left by. If, at the moment of rescue, we could block up the one by means of an explosion, we could hold the other against a thousand men. They could only advance along it one at a time."
"But why block up the one, young 'un? I don't see that it would serve any useful purpose."
"It would block their exit, for we should be holding the other with rifle fire. After you had got clear with the girl I could also block the other and trap them in the temple. There are plenty of overhanging rocks that would fall with a comparatively slight explosion. By the time they had dislodged the debris and made a way through we should be miles away."
Blake gave the lad a glance of keen appreciation.
"And I suppose you intend stripping our reserve ammunition of cordite and powder for the explosion?" he said. "A good idea, Tinker. We will act on it right away."
Returning to the ponies, Blake took his make-up case from a saddle wallet, and, after collecting all the firearms, consisting of a brace of Winchesters and three Army pattern colts, Tinker emptied all their ammunition into a nosebag, and they started off back to the temple.
When they finally arrived back at the Temple of Kali the tragic figure of the Parsee had been removed, and the priests appeared to sleep soundly on their platform of beaten gold. As Tinker had pointed out, there were two entrances only to the temple, the other passages being simply cul-de-sacs which ended in a solid wall of rock, and which in bygone days had been used as sleeping chambers by the hundred and one priests of the goddess.
Taking advantage of every patch of shadow, they crept across the rear of the temple to the other passage, the one used by the priests. Just inside its entrance to the cave temple there was a great overhanging mass of rock which a comparatively small amount of force properly applied could not fail to dislodge.
Near it they found a deep fissure in the wall of the passage, and no artificial receptacle for the explosive could have been more actively situated. Taking out his knife, Tinker was soon stripping the brass cartridge cases from the ammunition, and packing the straw-like strips of cordite in the fissure.
The black powder in the rings beneath the percussion-caps he laid in a trail to act as a fuse. It was laborious work, but just before dawn both passages had been mined, and should their plans prove effective, they would be able to trap the priests like entombed rats.
"And what about Dass?" whispered Tinker, as, their work finished, they squatted in the shadows. "It is hopeless trying to capture him this time. We cannot get help in this part of the country, for the arm of the British Raj does not cover it. As high priest of the goddess, he is bound to be here for the ceremony of sacrifice. I reckon the best thing we can do is to shoot him down at the altar of his evil deity. There will never be an easy moment for us while he has his liberty, and goodness knows what murderous scheme will occupy his attention next."
But Blake shook his head. In spite of the deadly menace with which the Hindoo overshadowed their lives, he could not shoot down the man in cold blood.
"Let it be sufficient that we attempt to foil his plans this time," he said. "Never fear, lad. There'll come a day when the long account will be settled in full, and Dass expiates his crimes upon an English scaffold. And now, my boy, I'm going to creep out and knock one of those priests silly. This is no time for etiquette. Keep your rifle ready, and be ready to come to my aid should I bungle the affair."
An anxious ten minutes followed, and Tinker watched his master's movements from eyes which revealed his suspense of mind. On all fours the detective crept from their hiding-place, and on reaching the nearest slumbering priest he dashed his fist into the man's face. It was repulsive work for a man of Blake's sporting instincts, but the life-of Zenda Parak was at stake.
Tinker held his breath as the sickening squelch of the blow sounded through the temple, but none of the guardians of the idol stirred. The man lay like a log, with all the senses knocked out of him, and silently Blake carried him to their hiding-place.
"Good egg, sir! You didn't make any bones about it. He won't be seeing daylight fer a few hours, I bet!"
"Better truss him up in case of accidents, after I've stripped him of his clothes," said Blake. "We can't afford to risk anything."
Blake never travelled without everything necessary for a disguise, as the contents of his compact make-up box revealed. In a very few minutes he had donned the priest's robe, altered the hue of his face, and traced a few skilful lines with a make-up pencil. In daylight the deception might have been discovered, but in a torch-lit cavern, and with ample opportunity for keeping his features in shadow, there was a fine chance of his ruse succeeding.
"Light the powder-fuse immediately the struggle which is bound to come when the girl is led to the altar takes place," were his parting instructions to Tinker. "I will make for the other passage, and get the girl up the rope at once. You must remain to cover my retreat and light the other fuse. Good-bye, dear lad, and don't run any more risks than you can help."
A warm handclasp. Nothing more was necessary between these two who understood each other so well, and to whom the risk of their lives was practically an everyday occurrence. Then the detective crawled to the altar and arranged himself beside the sleeping figures of the priests on the pavement of gold, his eyes alert and watchful.
Tinker bound and gagged the still unconscious priest, and dragged him into one of the caves. Then, with rifle across his knees, he took up a position within the black shadow of the passage, the rippling waters of the Tahilla coursing with murmurous splash at his feet, commanding a full view of the altar, with its dim lamps and prostrate guardians, and, above all, the faintly outlined image of Kali, grim goddess of Death.
And it seemed they were not to be condemned to prolonged expectancy. Before they had been many hours stationed at their posts, the crash of a gong from the inner caves announced the opening of the dread drama in which they were to play so prominent a part.
The instant the loud reverberating sound awoke the silence of the temple, the eight custodians, including the disguised detective, who hung back a little and followed their movements, sprang to their feet and lighted their torches at the altar lamps, then ranged themselves round the elevated pavement of beaten gold.
Blake sighed with relief as it became palpable that none suspected the deception, but took the precaution to keep himself in the shadows as much as possible. In a brief space of time the great cavern was illuminated by the flickering glare of a hundred-and-one torches and the throng of white-robed priests pressed round the idol.
The usual dance followed, this time with frenzied vigour, and the white-robed figures circled with almost dazzling rapidity, their clanging cymbals making a deafening din. By the glare of the blazing torches, Tinker could see that their faces were livid with fanatical excitement. They were absolutely insensible to pain, for every now and then a cymbal would be dashed by its bearer against his breast, and through the rent garments the lad could see crimson patches of blood.
As the hellish ritual proceeded, exhaustion overtook some of the votaries of the goddess, and the men dropped in their tracks, and were hustled from the path, like senseless logs, by the naked feet of their brother priests.
Fortunately Blake did not have to take part in this, for the custodians of the image remained standing on the pavement of gold. For quite an hour the wild, whirling dance continued, and now the leaping flames of the torches had died to a dull red glow, and only the feeble light of the altar lamps illuminated the cavern.
Every now and then a temporary flare would illuminate the scene, and show that the dervishes had now dropped to the ground, exhausted and motionless, with the exception of about a score, who still tottered around with feebly moving legs and arms too weak to clash the cymbals.
Above everything could be seen in the fitful gleam of the vermillion-stained, ogre-like visage of the god, gloating, as it were, on the spectacle of blood and brutality beneath. Soon the last dancer had sunk upon the sandy floor, and all was still, the eight custodian priests standing as motionless as statues.
An hour elapsed, and no change took place, Tinker stared with fascinated eyes upon the terrible scene that had been enacted before him. At last the loud peal from the hidden gong again smote on their ears, and some of the exhausted dancers at once showed signs of returning animation, and rose to their feet. Those who were still motionless were shaken by their comrades, and soon the whole priesthood prostrated before the altar in an attitude of adoration.
Once more the gong rang, and the recumbent figures raised themselves from the ground to a kneeling position.
This time there advanced from the inner cavern, holding in his hands an immense torch, an imposing figure, in which Blake and Tinker at once recognised the person of Gunga Dass, the High Priest of Kali.
Bearing his head aloft with the rapt, enthusiastic visage of an inspired prophet, his long beard flowing over his spotless white garment, towering above his brother priests in his fine stature, the Hindoo master-mind indeed looked a god among men.
Slowly he advanced and planted his torch in a socket close to the golden pavement in front of the goddess. In a loud voice he addressed the goddess Kali, and all the while up into the stony face of the uncouth image gazed this high priest, silent, motionless, and such is the power of suggestion that even to Blake and Tinker it seemed that the cruel, distorted face of Kali was now beaming down, smiling and benevolent, upon her head votary.
Then a rite that was new to them was begun. Ascending by what were no doubt specially contrived footholds, Dass climbed up the great stone idol and planted the torch he carried in a socket evidently prepared for the purpose. Then one of the brotherhood carried forward a footstool of gold before the goddess. As Dass climbed down a gong within the caves resounded with slow-measured peals, and amidst dead silence but for this sonorous note, the graceful figure of a young girl, clad in snow-white, silken robes flowing in mazy masses from her shoulders and waist, advanced towards the altar, led by the hand of two of the priesthood.
It was Zenda Parak, whose beautiful body was to be offered as a sacrifice on the altar of the pagan goddess. The long-expected moment had arrived. Blake caught a fleeting glimpse of Tinker rushing across the rear of the temple, and the next second there was a deafening crash. The detective's throat became choked with dust, and his body felt as if smitten by a hundred blows.
At the same moment, with a yell from the priesthood as from a thousand devils ringing in his ears, his feet clanging on the golden pavement, Blake dashed towards the girl and lifted her bodily in his arms.
"To the cleft, quick, guv'nor!" yelled Tinker, and his rifle was already spitting desolation among the white-robed ranks of the priests.
As Blake turned to flee with the girl, the figure of Gunga Dass was upon him, and to this day the Baker Street man had never forgotten the tiger-like savagery of that passion-distorted countenance.
Slinging the screaming girl over his shoulder, he dashed his fist clean into the brown face. Dass fell like a log, and the detective snatched a long Damascene blade, wonderfully light and supple, keen of edge as the finest ground razor, from the man's girdle.
A dozen pairs of luridly gleaming eyes and a dozen flashing daggers were close upon him, but one great sweep of that supple blade scored a semi-circle of blood around him. The weapon seemed to swish through the air and through solid, resisting flesh with equal ease. Then he turned and fled into the passage leading to the cleft, Tinker holding the infuriated mob behind him with his death-spitting Winchester. Blake had a faint recollection of passing Tinker in the gloom of the passage, his set face, that characteristic grin of his, a trifle grimmer now, playing even then around his mouth.
Then, as he passed the colossal Buddha, another crash reached his ears, followed by the deep rumble of an avalanche of rock. Tinker had blocked the passage, and the priesthood were entombed like rats. The next moment the lad was beside him.
"The banks of the river have burst with the explosion, guv'nor," gasped the lad. "The temple is slowly being flooded. They cannot possibly escape and are absolutely cut off from communication with the outer world. We are safe from pursuit."
Blake's face went white with horror.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "They will drown like rats. Can't we do something? They are devils incarnate, but we cannot let scores of our fellow creatures go to their death without lifting a finger to save them."
The girl had fainted now, and they laid her on the floor of the passage; Blake gazed down with compassion at her beautiful face, white and inanimate against the sombre background of sand. Her complexion was pale olive, her lips a vivid scarlet found only in the East, and her hair, streaming in an ebony cloud over the breast, was as dark as the night of her beautiful eyes.
"Tinker," he said suddenly, "take the girl and conceal yourselves near until I catch you up. I am going back to help pull the debris away so that those wretched men have at least a sporting chance for life.
"Rescue them!' Tinker retorted in surprise. "Those wicked dogs! Why, guv'nor, if you got the lot clear to save them from drowning the first act they would do would be to run a dagger through you."
But Blake was gone, speeding down the passage towards the entombed priesthood. Shortly after he passed the colossal Buddha a sound reached his ears which caused him to halt and listen intently. It was the rush and roar of waters.
By his feet the bed of the Tahilla was rapidly running dry and the waters were finding an outlet in the Temple of Kali— the Temple of Death in all verity now. As he reached the great boulders which had been dislodged by the explosion the shrieks of the doomed men met his ears, and, peering up through the gloom, he caught a gleam of torchlight streaking through a break in the rocks.
As he reached it and scrambled through what a spectacle met his eyes! The only light now shed was from the torch Dass had fixed in the socket on the idol's head, but the gleam of this was sufficient to illuminate the terrible scene that was being enacted beneath.
Over all there swept a boiling, seething flood of waters, and the sound of the inrushing torrent smote upon the ear like the roar of Niagara. Around the base of the image were clinging some three score white-clad figures, the surviving priests of Kali. And even as he gazed upon that awful scene, one of the miserable wretches would drop into the boiling waters below and be sucked down into the swirling tide, disappearing into the black darkness of the waters with one last cry of agony and despair.
Kali, Kali, Goddess of Death, hadst thou ever before such a hecatomb of hapless victims through all the centuries during which thy hideous, distorted, ogre-like visage leered down upon thy fanatic worshippers and upon their devilish deeds of blood, thine own abominable and revolting ritual?
As he gazed, frozen with horror and realising he was powerless to help them, the image of the goddess still gleamed with the fire of ten thousand jewels sparkling in the flickering torchlight. And from the breast of the idol flashed towards him, with greatest brilliancy of all, two centres of light. They were the eyes of a human being, the eyes of Gunga Dass, master-crook of the Orient, high priest of Kali, who clung to the image of his goddess as his last foothold of safety.
Blake now held his electric torch in his hand. Hence it was that the eyes of Dass were fixed upon him, and even at that distance he felt that their glare was kindled by relentless hate and a fierce burning for revenge.
"My heaven," muttered Blake, "it all happened in a moment! Not merely the waters of the Tahilla, but other streams, must have been turned into the cavern. Soon the mountain, but a hollow crust, will burst with the pressure of the water, and the whole town will be flooded.
Blake was too fascinated to think of his own safety. He could but gaze upon the dread scene in silence.
One by one the white, clinging figures were swallowed up in the seething flood. Now none remained but Gunga Dass alone, and the crown of Kali's head, round which his arms were flung, was but a few feet above the fast rising tide. The torch upon the apex of the idol was still alight, seeming to burn in its solitary state with enhanced brilliancy. He could still see the white, gleaming eyes of Dass fixed upon him.
At last there was a lurch. The image of the goddess seemed to quiver and rock for a second to and fro, and then the accursed, stone-graven features, with stereotyped, hateful leer, disappeared into the black waters, lost to human sight for ever. With a hiss the torch was extinguished, and Dass's flashing eyes were gone. Dense, murky darkness reigned unbroken over the face of the sullenly gurgling waters.
Blake shouted to the drowning man, and waved his torch by way of signal.
Was it fancy, or was it a faint, responsive cry that was borne across the flood?
It was a human voice! There it came again, inarticulate, but the cry of a perishing human being.
Blake knelt on the rocks and lowered the lamp to the full length of his arm.
Yes, there in the circle of light thrown on the swirling waters, Blake could see the upraised face of Dass, calm, immobile, rapt as ever, but with those brilliant orbs still gleaming with revengeful hate.
But in the detective's mind was no thought but to rescue his drowning fellow-being, treacherous and implacable enemy though he was. He unwrapped the silk cummerbund of the priestly garment from his waist, and threw down one end to Dass. The tension of the scarf showed at once that he had grasped it.
He stooped to clutch at the figure of the man who but a few hours before had been his deadly foe seeking to kill him. The surface of the waters was not much more than two feet now from the rock upon which he was outstretched.
In a few seconds Blake had him in his grasp, every thought of enmity absent from his chivalrous mind. Great heavens, would Dass pull him in with him into the boiling flood? Was his sole desire to murder him, to cause the detective to perish with him? Was that the gleam of a dagger in his upraised hand?
A warning cry from Tinker rang in Blake's ears, and Blake felt the figure of Dass he had clutched thrust from him and himself being dragged back to safety.
"My heaven, he meant to drown you! I saw it in the devil's face," cried Tinker. "Thank the stars I came back for you after hiding the girl in a place of safety!"
"Listen," Blake cried—"listen! The rush of waters in the corridor beneath."
"For our lives, guv'nor, for our lives!" cried Tinker. "Soon the mountain must burst. It cannot stand the pressure much longer!"
Blake swung the torch aloft for one last gaze into the temple of Kali—grim Goddess of Death in all verity. Clinging to a ledge high in the rocky wall, only some few yards' distant, was Gunga Dass, his calm face now distorted by baffled rage.
"The arm of Kali will yet reach the son of a pig that defiled the sacred pavement of gold!" he yelled with concentrated hate and fury as they turned to flee.
And the cry of the doomed rang in their ears as they sped along the cave corridors, through which now commenced to surge an angry and rapidly rising flood.
Would they ever gain the rope? But at last they were out of the caves, breathing the fresh air of heaven, hand clasped in hand, in silent gratitude to God for their escape.
The Catastrophe on the Plain—Blake's Delirium.
AFTER a moment their eyes, as if by a common impulse, swept across the plains of Budjarpoor, and as they gazed yet another terrible tragedy was being enacted before them. They at once became conscious that something unusual was happening. Why that mile-long, struggling, yelling crowd of natives, numbering many tens of hundreds, meandering across the level ground?
The procession was the first thought which struck their minds. But a brief contemplation of the scene showed that the vast multitude of figures was standing still. A low, confused murmur of voices was echoed from the plains.
"The sacred river of Tahilla has run dry, the result of the explosions," Blake said quietly, grasping the full situation. "The whole Thug population has turned out to witness the miracle, for, knowing nothing of the affair, it must appear a miracle to them."
He was right. Clustered along the banks, perched upon projecting rocks, crowding into even the waterless bed of the river, were thousands upon thousands of natives, old and young, men and women and children, clad in costumes of a hundred different hues, the whole forming in the brilliant morning sunshine a kaleidoscopic picture of surpassing beauty.
But as they gazed a sickening sense of dread stole into their hearts, and in imagination the roar of the vast volumes of subterranean waters again resounded in their ears.
"My stars, guv'nor, the flood! They will be swept away!"
But the bed of the river on the plains was still dry, and the only sounds that reached their ears were the parched crackle of the dense jungle around them and the distant murmur of voices from beneath.
"The waters must burst from the hills," Blake said. "The passages may be choked up with debris just now, but there are millions of tons of water pouring into it, and the momentary check will add power to its strength. Where have you hidden the girl? Is she quite safe?"
"Right as rain, sir. I have placed her in a dell on one of the smaller hills and made her a bed of ferns. She will perhaps have recovered by now. I left a note pinned to her dress explaining the situation briefly, and asking her not to move until we return. I wouldn't have left her, guv'nor, only you had been away so long that I became anxious. And it's a thumping good job I came after you. The skunk meant to drag you to death with him."
Blake nodded, and shuddered slightly at the memory of the terrible tragedy he had witnessed in the bowels of the mountain.
"Tinker, we must devise some means to give these people warning of the danger which threatens them," he said. "Thugs and dacoits they may be, but we cannot see them die without lifting a hand on their behalf."
"You're a queer fish at times, sir, but I reckon you're right," Tinker said. "It's too much like shoving one's head into the lion's mouth for my liking, but we'll get on with it. I expect a dagger-thrust will be our reward. Anyway, the girl will have a good chance to get clear when she comes round."
At the very moment Tinker spoke these words the mountain beneath their feet seemed to give a throb and a quiver. Some years before Blake had experienced an earthquake shock in South America, and the present sensation was for all the world identical.
At the same instant they heard a yell of dismay coming simultaneously from hundreds of human throats.
"The waters are bursting through," gasped Tinker. "We are too late to help them."
They had no time to exchange further words. A still mightier and more terrible sound now smote upon their ears—the roar of an imprisoned Niagara bursting from its bounds, and dashing across the plains with the rapidity of a galloping steed, with white curling crest twenty feet high, rushed the waters of the Tahilla, following their old, deep channel, but with resistless power scouring from it like so many straws every obstruction—rocks and tree stumps and human beings, which were swept away and lost to view in that foaming, roaring flood.
They stood silent and transfixed with horror. A panic-stricken cry, the memory of which will ring in their ears for ever, rose with a sharp resonance from the plain, and was followed by a prolonged dolorous wail from at least ten thousand human beings.
Involuntarily they closed their eyes and shut out the terrible spectacle.
Within a few moments they opened them, and it was with a sense of relief they realised they still beheld many thousands of spots of colour, each of which betokened a man or a woman, or a child, not yet swallowed up in the devouring waters.
But the bright, solid mass of brilliant costumes was now severed in two by the seething, milk-white river, the sullen roar of which rose from the plain and reverberated among the echoing mountains.
Thank Heaven! Only those in the bed of the stream had perished. The hundreds had been borne swiftly to their doom, but the thousands had been spared.
O Kali, Goddess of Death, thy priesthood annihilated, thy temple wrecked, thine image dismantled and shattered, thy priceless jewels and golden pavement swept away mingling with the skulls which formed thy hideous girdle; the simple worshippers of the limpid stream which for countless generations laved thy bloodstained feet, decimated and plunged into grief and mourning; O Kali, Goddess of Death, is the record of thy baneful worship at an end, is thy fatal influence at last broken for ever, is the world now free for all time from thine accursed, fanatic spell?
Blake's reflections were broken in upon by Tinker.
"Guv'nor, for the love of Mike, let us get back to the girl. Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors hasn't been in the running with the events of the last few hours."
"We have witnessed a terrible calamity," Blake said gravely, "but it is a compensating comfort to reflect that the whole brood of Yama's accursed priesthood is swept from the face of the earth—drowned miserably, like rats in a flooded hole, annihilated with all the paraphernalia of their hideous worship."
"And Dass, sir? Do you think he stands a chance? He was safe for a time on the rocky ledge to which he clung."
Blake gazed grave-eyed upon the sad disaster which had overtaken the Thugs on the plain.
"I believe he was washed with the flood from the mountain," Blake said. "Drowned and battered like the rest, a last sacrifice to Kali. No man more richly deserves his doom. But you are right, lad. Let us return to the girl. She probably needs our care. As soon as we reach a friendly village we must get an ayah to attend her on the journey back to Madras. It will be a happy day for Mr. Parak when his daughter is returned to him."
"She's a stunner, guv'nor," Tinker said with enthusiasm, leading the way to the cleft in the hill in which he had laid the unconscious girl. "Eyes like a gazelle's. I— Hullo! what's the matter? You look jolly dicky. And there's blood showing on your sleeve."
Blake had suddenly gone very white, and surrounding a rent in the sleeve of his tunic was an ominous red patch.
"I'm all right, young 'un," Blake said, but the anxious ears of Tinker could detect feebleness in his master's tones. "Dass must have got me with his knife when I tried to lift the revengeful skunk out of the water. As soon as we know the girl is safe I will doctor the wound up. The medicine chest will come in handy after all."
"And get a few hours' sleep before we push on," Tinker said. "You've gone through enough to knock a horse up."
Blake smiled grimly. He was beginning to feel faint, and the trees and figure of Tinker seemed to dance around him.
"Well, here's the dell where I left the girl," Tinker said, as they burst through the trailing vines and creepers into a small clearing. "I—"
Tinker broke off and stared about him as if unable to believe his eyes. The dell was empty, and in the flattened grasses and ferns lay evidence of a struggle.
"Good Heaven! She's gone, guv'nor!"
Pale to the lips Blake staggered into the clearing. As he knelt in the flattened grasses he saw something which arrested his attention, and a low cry left his lips.
"Gunga Dass!" he said bitterly. "Look at this, young 'un."
'Dass!' Tinker gazed down from startled eyes. "But it's impossible. He's dead. No one could have escaped from the temple."
"Dass was here a few minutes ago," Blake said grimly. "It seems we must begin our task again."
Deeply printed in the sandy soil were several imprints of a naked foot, slightly deformed through the continual wearing of a cheap wooden sandal kept on the foot by a knob retainer, which, fitting between the big and second toes, had caused them to grow in the shape of half circles.
Blake's lips were tightly set. He knew that Dass, in his less palmy days, had worn such sandals, bringing about the slight deformity of the toes. Once before in his battle of wits against the Oriental had a similar clue considerably aided his investigations.
"It's. Dass's trade mark all right," Tinker said grimly. "But how the deuce did he escape?'
Blake's attention was again arrested. This time by a trickle of water running down the hillside into the dell.
"Through the same fissure from which this water is running, I suspect," he said. "The temple must extend to the hill on which we now stand. The water in the cavern lifted him as high as the roof, and before the flood burst through he must have reached the fissure and wormed his way out. He probably stumbled across the girl by accident when making his way down the slope to the city."
Tinker nodded glumly.
"I noticed a few stray rays of light coming through the roof of the temple," he said, "and expect there are plenty of cracks large enough to permit a man's passage. We have been nearly an hour watching the disaster which overtook the people on the plain, and that would give Dass plenty of time to get clear. I'm going after him at once. There's little doubt he's made for some haunt in Budjarpoor, for the footprints point in that direction."
"But you, guv'nor, why you're properly knocked. I'm going to dress that wound with an antiseptic from the medicine chest, and then rig you up a fern bed. You have a rest while I try and locate Dass and the girl. I'll come back in a few hours with all the information I can glean, and we can act together to rescue her at dusk."
Blake made a feeble protest, but Tinker gently but firmly urged his master to the fern bed he had made for the unlucky Zenda Parak, The detective had just a dim sense of pleasure as he stretched his bruised body on the soft leaves. Soon he began to feel hot and cold all over at the same time.
He realised that fever had him in its grip. Tinker, now thoroughly alarmed at his master's condition, hurried off to the ponies for quinine and bandages. The white man tossed about on his fern couch, and then the present gradually faded from his mind.
*
He was again in the Temple of Kali before the leering, revolting visage of the jewel-bedecked, torch-illuminated, blood-bedaubed idol, and in his arms was a warm and breathing bundle, which he guarded jealously from the quick thrust of sword and dagger.
Now the deafening shock of an explosion dashes him to the ground, and mountains of rock pour themselves upon him, leaving him dead at last now and in silence whose absolute profundity is beyond the power of mere imagination.
The next minute, however, he is again fighting for dear life in the hissing, murky waters, the arms of Gunga Dass clutching him and dragging him down, down, down, while the brown man's terrible fiendish eyes, burning with concentrated hate and lust for vengeance, blaze like hot coals close to his face.
But now he tears himself clear from Dass's death grip, and the last yell of passion from the-high priest and his threatenings ring in his ears and mingle with the roar of the rushing flood, by which he is borne on and on with frightful velocity. He is engulfed in the great, yawning cavern down which gaze with frozen and unchanging stare the colossal Buddha and his attendant gods and goddesses. The tons upon tons of descending waters crush the breath and all the very life out of him, and he is dead, and all the past to him is nothing but a sullen and distant roar.
But he is brought back to life by the shrill, anguished cry of a hundred thousand human beings face to face with the dreadful vision of sudden death, and he sees once more the milk-white waters sweep like a destroying fiend across the plain, the brightly-clad victims disappearing in the surging flood with one last flash of vivid colour, like the shed petals of a poppy in the cataract of a mountain stream.
Then he starts, horror-stricken, at the sight of the unhappy Parsee youth's rigid, death-fixed form stretched battered and crushed on the pavement of gold, a string of glittering bauble clenched in his hand. Then darkness. Tinker is bending over him, laving his face with cooling water.
*
"Where am I?" Blake feebly murmured.
"Guv'nor—dear old guv'nor, do you know me? Oh, thank Heaven!" It was Tinker's voice.
"What has happened? Where am I?" Blake asked again.
"Rest quiet, sir. You will know all in good time. You have been unconscious for nearly three days. We are in Dass's hands. While I was tending you on the hills he came back with a dozen of his Thugs. You were then unconscious and I could do nothing against such odds. But don't worry. We'll get out of the fix somehow. Now drink this and sleep again."
Blake took the draught from his hands. And he wondered much—once more in the murderous hands of Gunga Dass! But as he wondered and wondered he fell asleep—into a dreamless sleep which was like balm to his wearied brain.
Face to Face with Dass—in the Shadow of Death—A Desperate Encounter.
BLAKE was informed afterwards that he had slept for twelve hours straight on, this being the first peaceful and undisturbed rest he had enjoyed since the fever, with its accompanying delirium, had laid him by the heels. He awoke thoroughly refreshed, weak, but with the cobweb of frenzied imagination and distorted recollection swept from his brain.
"Well, guv'nor, how now?' Tinker said, a note of cheeriness in his voice despite their depressing situation. "That shut-eye has done you no end of good, I'll bet. You've had a pretty stiff bout of malaria.
Blake rose stiffly from the bamboo charpoy on which he had been lying during his illness, and it was with a sensation of intense pleasure that he once more felt his feet.
"So we are in the hands of Dass, eh, young 'un," he said grimly. "And what of Zenda Parak?"
"She's being kept a closely guarded prisoner in the zenana here," Tinker said. "We are in the Dewan's palace at Budjarpoor, and the Dewan is none other than our tigerish friend, Gunga Dass. There's something about that man I can't quite fathom, guv'nor. He spared no expense to get you fit and well again. A native hukim was in constant attendance upon you, and Zenda Parak was allowed to nurse you. His is a pretty complex nature."
Blake nodded thoughtfully.
"There is a streak of vanity in Dass which causes him to ape the sportsman," he said slowly. "On many occasions in the past has he extended chivalry to us when least expected. Yet it is a sort of chivalry that could only be born in his subtle, Oriental brain. Like the tiger he is fond of playing and toying with his prey before the kill. He likes to see an enemy die fighting. It is like hunting. When the fox has a good chance it adds zest to the kill. But give me the yarn complete, young 'un. There is still much I am in the dark about."
"After Dass and his minions had affected our capture," said the lad, "we were brought straight to this show. I haven't set eyes on Dass since; but he has sent servants to the cell in order to make inquiries about your condition. Zenda Parak is now quite fit, but has no recollection of Dass carrying her off. She has been treated quite courteously as have we. What's actually in the wind I don't know, but the girl told me when she was in to nurse you this morning that Dass had forced her to write a letter to her father in Madras asking him to pay over certain monies to our dusky friend in return for her liberty.
"It seems that Dass's idea, now that the Temple of Kali has been wrecked, is to hold her to a pretty stiff ransom. Mr. Parak must be a very wealthy man, and it is quite on the cards that he would willingly pay over a lakh of rupees for her safe return. His anxiety and suspense must be terrible at this moment, for we have been absent over a fortnight, and he has heard no word from us."
An expression of relief crossed the detective's features.
"Then we need have no anxiety at present as to the girl's fate," Blake said. "Dass will not harm her if his desire is now to hold her to ransom. But is there no chance of escape from here?"
Tinker shook his head dubiously. They were in an apartment of stone walls, high in one of which a barred window permitted a glimpse of burning sky. The only door in the cell was made of thick rosetta-wood, and the cell furniture was composed from frail bamboo—a futile weapon with which to battle against stone and iron.
"It's pretty hopeless," Tinker said. "Even if we got clear from the palace Dass's horsemen would probably overtake us before we could reach the boat. It's a ten-mile journey from here, remember, and as your condition is still weak it would take us some time to cover the distance. Still, we're going to have an attempt at something. It's not much to my liking to cool our heels here, waiting for Dass to strike."
"Do you think the girl stands a better chance of escaping?" asked Blake. "Being a girl she may not be so strongly confined and guarded."
"Nothing doing," Tinker said. "I've already discussed it with her. The zenana attendants are with her night and day, and armed gaolers pace the corridors. Dass is leaving little to chance this time. I— Hallo, someone's coming!"
"Gunga Dass, I believe," Blake said. "There is no mistaking his cat-like tread. Look here. young 'un, I'm going to feign illness. We might stand a better chance that way."
Blake noiselessly returned to the charpoy and stretched himself upon it. Came the grate of a key in the lock, and the next moment the door opened to admit Gunga Dass. The Hindoo was accompanied by two gaolers; but at his signal they departed, closing the door behind them, leaving their master alone with his two white prisoners, Blake lay very still upon the charpoy, and his breathing appeared laboured and difficult.
For a few seconds silence fell upon everyone in the cell. Even Tinker was momentarily awed by the noble and impressive presence. The face of the High Priest of Kali wore that rapt, intense look which had always been its most marked characteristic. His eyes shone with a sort of inspired gleam. The brilliant ray of Indian sunshine coming through the barred window played around his head like an aureole.
A robe of pale blue silk swathed his tall and stately figure, and in his turban a diamond rose gleamed and blazed with a thousand shafts of colour. At his waist was a jewelled scimitar, and, as though with an unconscious movement, his hand rested upon the glittering hilt, a hidden light blazed in his dark eyes as they rested upon the pale, composed features of his enemy.
"Gunga Dass," said Blake, his voice quivering with a deep emotion that he could not suppress, "may I ask what evil scheme has prompted you to spare my life so long? I thank you for your hospitable treatment, but wish it had come from cleaner hands."
Dass answered in Ramasee, the Thug dialect. His words came slowly and deliberately, and he spoke in a sing-song, as if he were uttering some incantation.
"None but a priest of Kali has ever stood in the temple of the Death Goddess, none but a priest of Kali has ever trodden upon the golden pavement of the altar. O Kali, Goddess of Death, Goddess of the Unseen, Goddess of Mystery, Kali, Kali, thou who wafteth away the souls of men, soon shalt thou receive the soul of this infidel who has desecrated thine own illustrious crumbled thy temple to dust, caused the annihilation of thy priesthood, shattered thy glorious image."
Cheaply dramatic as this might sound to the unemotional English brain, Blake knew the deadly intent of this brown man of mystery. Dass would not hesitate to accomplish the deed of vengeance he had sworn by his outraged goddess to perform. But when would the Hindoo strike? His face was expressionless now, as unreadable as a sheet of inanimate bronze. The eyes alone seemed to live, two glowing, vital sparks set in features calm and reposed.
Blake felt a desire to tear away that inscrutable mask and read the secret purpose lurking behind. Probably Dass read the white man's thoughts, for a smile flickered for an instant on his bearded lips.
"The hour of your doom will be swiftly upon you, Blake sahib," he said suavely. "Too long have you thwarted my desires. In Budjarpoor the long arm of the British Raj is powerless to stay my hand. My hour of triumph has come."
"You relentless fiend," Tinker said angrily. "You're making a blunder, too, about the Raj. Lieutenant Price of the Madras European Police is fully acquainted with our movements, and being suspicious at having heard no word from the guv'nor and me he is bound to follow us up with his juwans,"
It was indeed, the white men's only hope. During the days of his master's illness Tinker had clutched at this hope as a drowning man clutches at a straw. But would the Madras police officer arrive in time?
Dass glanced mockingly into the angered features of the boy detective.
"You under estimate me,' he said, in tones so derisive that Tinker suppressed only with difficulty a desire to fling himself upon the man. "In India, practically every man has his price. The serang and rowers of your boat, traced to their river camp by my men, have been bribed to return to their district and acquaint the Commissioner sahib resident there with a regrettable account of your deaths while tiger shooting in the jungle. Certain evidence has been manufactured for them which will place the supposed happening above dispute.
"The girl, since you and your accursed master have brought disaster upon Kali's temple and made her sacrifice to the illustrious goddess impossible, shall be returned to her father in return for a substantial ransom. Few men dare make a stand against the League of the Roomal, and we are practically immune from the law.
"A new priesthood is quickly to be formed, and this time, since we have no temple, our aim will be to gain possession of much wealth and become a power which even the thrice cursed Raj will fear. In short, we are to be the enemies of the white races, and our ambition is to overthrow the Raj and cast off native India's thraldom."
Blake turned slowly to his enemy. His movements were suggestive of weakness. Dass, thrown off his guard, moved closer, and stared down with glowing and derisive eyes into the pale features of the man against whom he cherished so implacable a hatred.
"I shall regret your death, Blake sahib, for you have always been a brave and chivalrous foe, But while you live there can be no security for me, and I admit I fear the brain which has raised you to the top-most pinnacle of your profession. Your death is necessary to the success of my future plans."
"And what of Tinker? He is but a boy in the first blush of boyhood. I am prepared to die. That is the daily risk my profession brings. Wreck your will upon me, but let the lad go free."
But even as he spoke the detective knew his plea for the lad to be but a waste of breath. All he read in the brilliant eyes of Dass was a glow of triumph, born of the knowledge that he had brought torture to the mind of Sexton Blake.
"Tinker shall live," Dass said, an inscrutable light in his eyes, "yet his shall be a living death. Once a man—this is many years ago, Blake sahib—committed an offence against our goddess. He was destined as a sacrifice upon her illustrious altar, but this man was cunning, very cunning. He cut off his hand before our eyes, and the deformity saved his life. Your knowledge of Hindoo mythology will tell you that as a deformed man he could not be sacrificed, for that would be an insult to Kali. But we have many ways of silencing a man for ever in India, Blake sahib, even though the laws of our religion might forbid his death. In a week he was a raving lunatic, and the wise pundits told the people he was possessed of Yama, the Evil One. His life was not a happy one. I will respect your wish, Feringhee. Tinker shall live."
"You fiend," gasped Blake, staring up horror-stricken into the brown face bending over him. "You inhuman brute! Would that you had perished with the votaries of your accursed deity, the last trace of the most bloodstained creed ever met with among the revolting religions of India. By heavens! I am tempted to kill you as you stand before me."
But Dass only laughed mockingly at the white man's impotent rage. Fearing nothing, for Blake's features were as colour-less as death and he shook as though in the grip of ague, he advanced even closer, taunting and torturing the detective in soft-tongued Ramasee, as a fiend might torture a denizen of the Pit.
Then a surprising thing happened, Blake's recumbent figure immediately became virile and active. With a quick movement he sprang to the floor, and the next instant his fist shot out with all his hatred for the brown man behind the smashing blow.
Clean on the left point of the jaw the bunched knuckles landed, and there sounded the sharp crack of a broken bone. Dass balanced himself on his tip-toes for a few seconds, his brown fingers clutching wildly at the air.
"What a beauty," breathed Tinker, rushing forward silently and catching the man before he should thud, with rattling scimitar, to the floor. "Couldn't have done it better myself. What now?"
Blake came forward and glanced down at his unconscious foe. The alarm had not been raised, although the soft, monotonous tread of the gaoler in the passage outside as he paced his beat, plainly reached their ears.
"Strip off his robes," Blake whispered quickly. "There is just a chance that the plan I have in my mind will succeed. Any attempt at escape, however great the risk, is better than waiting like lambs for the slaughter."
As quickly as Blake divested himself of his own garments, Tinker disrobed the Hindoo. In a short space of time Dass was attired in the detective's garments, and Blake wore the silk robe and turban affected by Gunga Dass.
"Now help' me to get him on the charpoy,' Blake said in low tones. "Turn his face away from the door. That's right. You squat over in the corner yonder, and leave the rest to me. I am going to get one of the gaolers outside into the cell under a pretence and fix him in the same manner as I have done Dass. Then I want you to get into the man's clothes, and we must trust to luck to get away from the place. If we are successful in doing that we had better conceal ourselves somewhere in the bazaars of the city, and return for the girl at a more favourable opportunity. It would be foolish to attempt that now, for our escape would very quickly be detected. As Dass intends to hold her to ransom we need have no fears for her safety."
As Tinker took up a natural position on a stool in a corner of the cell, Blake went to the door and rapped against it with his foot. The bright beam of sunshine was dying into a pallid streak, and night would soon be upon them with tropical suddenness. Already the cell was shadowed and gloomy.
In response to the detective's kick a key grated in the lock, and the ponderous door opened to admit the figure of a gaoler. Outside nothing stirred, and Blake concluded with satisfaction that the man was alone on his beat.
"Tamblar bharke pani lao," Blake said, in Hindustani, his face turned from the man, and speaking in excellent imitation of Dass's tones.
As the gaoler salaamed and turned to fetch the tumbler of water Blake had requested, the detective swung his clenched hand round in a semi-circle, catching the man full on the temple. Without a groan he crashed to the floor.
"Dirty work, but it had to be done, young 'un," Blake said crisply. "Now hurry and get into his clothes. That Pindharee cloak he wears will conceal your features well. So far, so good. The alarm has not been raised."
In a very short space of time Tinker was arrayed in the brown man's cloak, shirt, and dhoti. The soiled hood of the cloak, reeking of stale coconut oil, threw a deep shadow across his features. The dusk was fast deepening now, and silently and with cautious steps they stole from the cell.
At the end of the corridor lay a door. It was the only exit. Blake, with a hand on the knob, paused. From the other side came a confused murmur of voices, and the flickering gleams of a fire showed every now and then through the knot-hole in one of the panels.
"The guard-room," whispered Tinker. "I remember coming through it when we were brought to the cell."
Blake nodded, and applied his eyes to the knot-hole. Limned in the ruddy glow of the fire, he could vaguely distinguish the forms of four stalwart gaolers, squatting on their hams and smoking a friendly and communal hookah pipe, chattering the while in soft-tongued Hindustani.
"Come, Tinker," he whispered; "we must risk it. Back to back, remember, if we have to fight our way through. There is a chance that we may escape detection, however, for the firelight provides but a dim illustration."
Drawing a deep breath, Blake opened the door and stepped into the room, Tinker following closely behind. The gaolers sprang to their feet and salaamed deeply. Blake gruffly acknowledged the salute, and passed to the other side of the room, where he could faintly distinguish the outlines of a door. One of the men sprang to it, opening it for the disguised man whom they believed to be their master.
Then Blake bit his lip; and his heart thumped in an uncomfortable manner. As the door opened a comparatively brilliant ray of light streamed down from above, the light of a kerosene lantern fixed over the doorway on the outside. In its glow the white and beardless face of the Britisher was plainly revealed,
"Tumhara ham kya (Who are you)?" cried the gaoler, and a dagger, drawn with lightning swiftness from his cummerbund, gleamed like a tongue of silver in the light. "You are not our master. Tamara, Mhara—quickly! The Feringhee dogs would escape."
Blake drew the scimitar from his waist and struck the man with the flat of the blade across the head. He fell like a pole-axed ox, stunned and senseless. The next moment the other three were upon them. Blake dropped the scimitar and fought with the white man's weapons—bare fists. His arms shot out like piston-rods, and Tinker, head down, blue eyes glowing with delight, nobly backed him up. In a few seconds it was all over.
"And that's that!" murmured the lad, tenderly caressing his bruised knuckles.
"The courtyard lies outside. I think I can remember the direction of the gates. I hope the next chap I punch at is a bit fatter than that beauty at my feet. He's got a jaw-bone like a razor."
Picking their way over the unconscious Thugs, they stepped out into the courtyard. The sound of the conflict had raised the alarm. Torches, hissing like cats, sprang into flame, dispersing the gloom as if by magic. With a yelling horde at their heels, they raced towards the gates. A dozen pairs of luridly gleaming eyes and a dozen flashing daggers were close upon them, and Tinker felt one of the knives, thrown from a distance, lacerate one of his cheeks. When they reached the courtyard, they found at least a dozen of the Thugs gathered there to cut off their escape. Blake's breathing became laboured, for his bout of fever had lowered even his vitality.
As he rushed at the natives, he stumbled and fell. The next moment a stalwart Thug stood over him, his upraised scimitar threatening to crash through his skull.
But at that moment Tinker darted forward, tackling the man Rugger fashion even as the blow was descending. Blake felt the cold, sharp sting of the deflected steel pass right across his shoulder, but he was saved.
"Now, guv'nor!" panted the lad, driving his knee with all his strength on the man's chin as he brought him to the ground. "One good rush, and we're through."
Together they dashed forward, and the yells of the horde about them broke like pandemonium through the evening gloom. Both were nearly spent; the perspiration ran off their faces like rain; their chests heaved as they gasped for breath.
One son of Kali, evidently fighting on home-made rules, fastened his teeth in Blake's neck, but the detective shook him off, as the mongoose shakes off a rat, where-upon the pagan butted him in the face with his skull. Then Blake lifted him off his feet, the muscles on his powerful arms bunched, and, with a mighty effort, he flung the brown man full into the face of the foe.
Down they crashed like ninepins well taken by the "cheese." In the twinkling of an eye the whites were through the breech, and, after passing through the gates, they clanged the doors shut and raced in the shadows flung down by a line of palms towards the dim lights of the city.
Gradually the shouts of the pursuers died away in the distance. Aided by the uncertain light, the detectives had thrown them off the trail. They were now in a narrow, winding thoroughfare, flanked by mean habitations. Swarthy skinned Hindoos stood in knots around the gutter drinking-booths, each bearing on their brow the red caste-mark of Kali.
Blake and Tinker slowed down to a walk, for to run would be to arouse suspicion. Their lives would not be worth a penny should the Thugs discover them to be white men, the race who had done their utmost to suppress Thuggee under the able leadership of the Right Hon. Lord Elphinstone, G.C.H., Governor of Bombay in 1853.
As they walked past the men and through the dimly lit bazaars, the detectives surveyed them with interest—their hard, leathery skins, their hawk-like eyes, and mouths that set like rat-traps, and their graceful, Pathan-like movement.
"Ugly customers," whispered Tinker. "We seem to be in a regular hornet's nest here. What's the next move? We are in a pretty tight hole."
"The best thing we can do is to get some stain for our features, and purchase a set of Hindoo clothes," Blake said. "It is risky for us to keep to these garments, for Dass's minions would easily recognise us. It is dark here, and no one will see our movements. Lend me that cloak for a minute. it conceals the features better than does my rig-out. I'll go to one of the stalls in the bazaar and purchase clothes and chimnagi—a stain which the natives use on woodwork. Don't move until I return."
Blake disappeared in the direction of one of the dimly-lit bazaars. In a few moments he returned, carrying a bundle of coarse puce garments, and a chatti of chimnagi.
"Everything's O.K.," he whispered. "Now slip into these. The stain will tint our skins a deep brown, and prove an effective disguise. After we have hidden the robes of Dass and the gaoler we will find lodgings in the Serai for the night. As your Hindustani is faulty, and you have no knowledge of Ramassee, you had better act the part of the deaf-and-dumb mute. To-morrow we will return to the palace and attempt the rescue of Zenda Parak."
The Watchers—At the Serai—An Unexpected Ally—Blake's Ruse.
SO intent were Blake and Tinker in effecting a change of disguise that neither noticed a group of shadowy figures whose sinister presence was almost totally concealed in the deep shadow flung down by a small temple opposite.
Strangely enough, another figure loomed vaguely through the gloom, about a hundred yards further up the street, the figure of a youthful Hindoo, dressed in tattered garments, and with a basket of pan and betel hanging by a strap across his chest.
In a few minutes the change of clothing and complexion had been carried out. Hiding the garments taken from Dass and the gaoler beneath a heap of evil-smelling garbage at the side of the crazy pathway, Blake and Tinker looked cautiously about them, then struck off for the bazaars, the direction in which they were certain to find the native rest-houses.
At a distance of about a hundred feet behind them followed the watching Thugs, three in number, walking with cat-like and noiseless tread, hugging so closely the shadows of the walls that it was impossible to detect their presence. And behind them, proceeding with equal silence and caution, followed the young Hindoo vendor of pan and betel.
It was a case of the shadowers being themselves followed. Despite the stillness and apparent solitude about them, Blake and Tinker were far from being off their guard. The voice of caution within, ignoring these physical evidences of solitude, spoke urgently of lurking assassins; of murderous Easterns, armed with curved knives; of the deathly menaces which hid in the shadows about them, in the many shadows cloaking the holes and corners of the ramshackle buildings, crannies, and portals to which the moonlight could not penetrate.
Were they not in the Thug city of India, surrounded by a sect whose religion was to destroy, counting their atrocities as reverently as a nun counts the beads of her rosary? To those who do not understand the peculiar construction of Oriental society, Thuggee must seem the fruits of a morbid imagination. There is undeniable proof that the vile practice of murder as a religion in the dark places of the great continent is still surviving, despite the British conquest, to this day, and that it has survived from remote antiquity in Hindustan. Ameer Ali, the great Thug jemadah of the middle of last century, confessed to a British official, Colonel Meadows Taylor, to over a hundred murders committed by his own hands before dying in the Penal Settlement at Penang.
Kali, the death-goddess, is by no means a figure of fiction, and the revolting chronicles of her teachings, the horrible rites enacted by her votaries, may be read of in any book on Hindoo mythology. And through this grim city of naked India, with sinister figures dogging their steps, with the mysterious figure of the young Hindoo creeping along stealthily behind the shadowers, walked Sexton Blake and Tinker.
Once Blake thought he detected the sound of a soft footfall behind him. He swung round rapidly, but nothing but shadow and quietude reigned. Once, looking down in the direction of the bazaars, Tinker gave a start, for a black patch of shadow moved swiftly ahead and merged into the deeper shadows bordering a high wall.
His heart leapt momentarily, then in another instant the explanation of the mystery became apparent—in the presence of a gaunt and prowling pariah. Bestowing a suspicious glance in their direction, the animal slunk away, to feed on the evil-smelling garbage which lined the gutters.
"Eerie sort of place," grunted the lad. "That looks like a Serai ahead. I vote we take it in turns to sleep."
Blake nodded. They made their way to the dimly-lighted entrance of a large stone building, outside the walls of which several animals were tethered. Blake spoke to the watchman in Hindustani and for the small sum of two annas (twopence) the detectives were loaned a blanket each and permitted to sleep round a fire which blazed on a slab of stone in the centre of the gloomy hall.
To their relief the fire was deserted, but round the walls they could vaguely discern the slumbering forms of several natives. Immediately their backs were turned to the door the men who had so insidiously shadowed crept through the entrance, conversed in low tones for a few seconds with the watchman, a low-caste Dher of villainous aspect, then stole silently to the shadows of a wall.
Occasionally the flickering glow from the fire revealed their presence, three sinister figures, their bodies hunched and apish, squatting grotesque in the changing light.
And scarcely had they taken up their position than the youthful, vigilant-eyed Hindoo also entered the Serai. Strangely enough his eyes were a deep blue as they were revealed for a moment in the firelight, and contrasted somewhat oddly with his copper coloured skin.
Silent as a cat he, too, crept into the shadows and, tucking his toes beneath him in true Oriental fashion, squatted down, covering his head with a gaily-striped blanket.
"You take the first sleep, young 'un," Blake said, his eyes watchful and vigilant. "That is if these confounded camels will let you."
Tinker grinned and settled himself down to slumber. The lad was worn out, having spent most of his nights lately in attending to his master during Blake's bout of fever. Despite the din of the camels he was soon sleeping soundly.
Where sleep in a native Serai is concerned men may propose, camels dispose. They spend their nights in a ring of camelhood, huddled together for warmth; and if they do not have nightmare or bite each other in their sleep, mere humans may hope for comparative silence. At least twenty of the beasts were housed about twenty feet from the fire, the Punjabi drivers sleeping at a respectful distance from their uncouth feet.
They were imitating every animal they could have met since the days of the Ark, when one had to know everybody. They mewed like cats, hissed like reptiles, roared like lions, barked like dogs, squawked like geese, and bellowed like baby bulls. Also, they gargled their throats like elderly invalids.
They turned their faces disconcertingly upon the detective, sneering with long yellow teeth, and started bubbling as if their mouths were full of pink soapsuds.
Suddenly a moving shadow caught the detective's eye. He started to his feet with a warning cry to Tinker. At that instant another figure, a repellent figure that approached, stooping, apish, with a sort of loping gait, crossed from some spot invisible to the detective, and sprang like a wild animal on Blake's back.
It was a Hindoo, wearing a short loose garment of the smock pattern. In his hand he carried a roomal. In the instant of his spring he had whipped it about Blake's throat with unerring dexterity, which was evidenced by one short, strangled cry that came from the white man's lips. Tinker felt bony, clawish fingers about his throat and awoke with a startled cry. He could detect the presence of incredibly long finger-nails—nails as long as those of some buried vampire of the black ages. Then something seemed to encase his neck like a band of fire. Through a mist he saw that his master was also being attacked.
Blake was down face forward on the floor, with the ape-like figure of the Hindoo perched between his shoulders, bending forward, the wicked brown fingers at work, tightening the strangling cloth. Then another figure sprang into view of the lad's rapidly dimming vision. Sprang from nowhere, as it seemed, swooped upon the horrible figure squatting, simianesque, between Blake's shoulder-blades, and grasped him by the neck.
Tinker struggled desperately to free himself from the man perched on his own back. Dimly he saw the stranger, who had proved so unexpected an ally, lift the Thug without seeming to exert any strength whatever. He lifted the strangler in that remorseless grasp, so that the Hindoo's hands, after one convulsive upward movement, hung limply beside him like the paws of a rat in the grip of a terrier.
"You murderous skunk!" Tinker heard him say in a repressed, savage undertone. "So you thought you'd give the roomal an innings! Go and join your pal!"
Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure, the stranger, who had spoken in English as only the Britisher can, grasped the Hindoo by his loose, smock-like garment, swung him back once—a mighty swing—and hurled him at the other monkey-like form on Tinker's back as one might hurl a sack of rubbish.
Tinker felt the impact of the collision, and to his relief the dreadful pressure of the cloth about his neck ceased. Blake was already on his feet, and the lad struggled up to join him.
"Who are you?" gasped the lad, peering from grateful eyes into the dusky face. "We owe you the deuce of a lot. The skunks—"
"No time for thanks," laughed the stranger. "Come, let us get out of this before we are surrounded. Follow me, I'll lead you to a place of safety."
The sound of the brief scuffle had raised the alarm. The three raced through the Serai gates, flooring the watchman who tried to prevent their exit, and ran along the silent streets until the sounds of pursuit had died away in the distance.
"Phew, that was a hot ten minutes!" panted the stranger. "Good job I decided to follow you on to Budjarpoor, Blake, old son. You'd both have been cold mutton in another couple of minutes."
"Price of the Madras European," Blake panted. "Great Scott, old man, what the deuce brings you this way? You turned up in the nick of time, anyway."
"Got a fortnight's complementary leave for rounding up that gang in Janjir's joy-shop," said the officer, grasping their hands warmly. "Thought I couldn't use it to better advantage than by coming down and seeing how you were getting on over that League of the Roomal job. I heard a rumour coming down the river that a hungry tiger had made a mess of you both. I know what these boatmen are in this quarter of India, though, and decided to come along and investigate."
"And how did you happen to be in the Serai?" asked Blake. "Why didn't you make your presence known earlier?"
"Because I happened to be outside the gates of the palace when you and the lad fought your way through," said Lieutenant Price. "Gosh, it was some fight, too! I had a suspicion you were imprisoned there, for the high priest of a faith is often made Dewan of the city where the temple lies. When you broke through the guards and set off for the city with the jackal pack at your heels I joined in the chase, and none suspected me as I was clad like a nigger minstrel. I even threw them off the scent by swearing I had glimpsed you tearing down a side street.
"As soon as possible I left them to run off in the opposite direction you had taken, then sped after you. I had nearly caught you up when I saw some of Dass's spies, evidently posted in the bazaars, shadowing you. I shadowed them in turn. They followed you to the Serai, and there launched the attack on you. You know the rest."
"Have you brought any men with you?" asked Blake.
"Not a soul," said Price. "This district is out of the Raj's jurisdiction, and we have no power. Besides, it would take an army of men to fight the forces of Dass here. The place simply teems with Thugs. And now for your yarn. I bet you've had a strenuous time. Any news of the girl?"
Briefly the man from Baker Street gave the officer an account of their stirring adventures.
"My stars, it reads like a piece of sensational fiction!" said Price, as Blake concluded. "I'd have given a year's pay to have sampled the excitement with you. You've done the country a heap of good by wiping out the whole brood of Kali's priesthood. Look here, I've taken a bit of a bungalow on the outskirts of the city. I believe we shall be safe there for a time. Let us get to it and form our plans."
Within a quarter of an hour they had reached the bungalow hired by the Britisher in the guise of a Hindoo, on the outskirts of the city and practically within a stone's throw of the Dewan's palace. The exciting incident in the Serai had banished all thoughts or desire of sleep from their minds, and they sat on the verandah, their eyes turned in the direction of the palace, puzzling out the task confronting them.
The great dome of the sky was like a great blue curtain patched with a million stars, and the southern cross inclined towards its setting, heralding the approach of dawn. From the hills came the chattering laugh of a hyena, the yelping chorus of a pack of jackals, and the great vampire bats flickered overhead with luminous eyes.
For an hour or more the Britishers were silent, each busy with their thoughts, seeking a plan to effect the rescue of Zenda Parak. Dawn came at length, and the shadows of night began slowly to disperse. Sometimes the horizon was opal, sometimes it throbbed with azure fire, or blazed ruby red, as the torch of sunrise swept east and west.
Just at sun-up the stretch of sand and sparse jungle leading to the mountains was lily pale—then, as the horizon flamed, a dazzling flood of gold poured over the dunes. The sun was a fantastic brooch of beaten copper, caught in a veil of ruby gauze, while here and there a belated star was a dull, flawed emerald sewn into the veil's fringe.
Shadows crept westward across the sand like passing spirits. A group of children in red and blue, staring avidly at the wonders of the dawn, were like a bunch of ragged poppies in the sand. The mangy pariah dogs set up a dismal howl for food. Patriarchal persons blew by, in that graceful way in which people do blow by in India, driving a flock of goats or bullocks. These men dressed as their ancestors had dressed in the time of Kali. How nice, thought Tinker, to wear the same clothes for a hundred years if you happen to live, and never out of fashion. If a few of your things dropped off by degrees, you would still be all right, and nobody would be rude enough to notice!
Lieutenant Price stretched himself, and knocked out the cold ashes of his pipe.
"I'm stumped, Blake," he said frankly. "We seem to be up against a brick wall. Even if we had the luck to get into the palace and rescue the girl, we should never get her safely to Madras. Dass's horsemen would overtake us before we could journey ten miles. It would be impossible to make our way by river, too. Like a blind ass; I dismissed my boat and rowers on reaching here, thinking I could easily obtain one from the city when I wished to return. You can bet your boots Dass will turn that into a fond dream. He will spare no effort to prevent us leaving the district. You can gamble on it that his men are watching every jungle road to cut off our escape."
Blake nodded thoughtfully. A daring scheme was slowly being pieced together in his shrewd brain.
"Look here," he said. "There is only one way in which the affair can be worked. We must capture Gunga Dass. I intend to impersonate him, gain entry to the palace, and order the girl's removal to Madras. I have impersonated the man before with success. We are practically of the same height and build, and I have had ample opportunities of studying his mannerisms and voice.
Price looked at the detective from startled eyes.
"Phew!" he whistled softly "You're taking on some job, old man. One thing, I've an A1 set of disguises with me, and that will help you a lot. You will find everything you need in my bag. But how do you propose to capture Dass?"
Before Blake could answer, an ash-sprinkled, paint-bedaubed, and generally hideous fakir came into their view. He squatted within a few yards of the bungalow, with his mat, brass water vessel, and other paraphernalia for a prolonged stay around him.
"The very thing," Blake said. "The man is a spy, probably sent by Dass. That means we are suspected of being in hiding here. Probably your sudden entry into the town and the hiring of the bungalow has attracted suspicion."
"What do you intend doing, guv'nor?"
"I intend to borrow the fakir's unwashed personality for a time," Blake said. "That will get me into the palace. There I hope to be able to get a private interview with Dass. It should not be difficult, as the man will be expected to make his report, I shall then attempt to overpower Dass, make up as the man in detail, and order the girl's immediate removal to Madras in order that the ransom might be extracted from her father."
"Gee whiz!' commented Tinker. "It sounds all right. But where do we come in? I don't like the idea of you putting your head in the lion's mouth alone."
"I have a plan by which you will be at hand the whole time," Blake said. ' But we will talk of that later. Our first move will be to find out whether or not our suspicions of the fakir are correct. Come with me."
They rose and sauntered carelessly in the direction of the fakir. At their approach, the dirty vagabond prostrated himself, knocked his forehead on the ground, and whined for money, He kept on monotonously droning, "Salaam, sahibs; salaam, sahibs," in answer to every carefully put inquiry, bowing his face to the ground at each repetition of the phrase.
Blake contemplated his figure for some time, occasionally catching a glimpse of the momentarily upturned features. Suddenly Lieutenant Price stepped forward with a curious smile on his lips.
"Leave him to me, Blake," he said.
Then, bending forward, he said, in a quiet, impressive tone:
"Juggoo Mull."
At the sound of the name the fakir ceased his bleating in an instant, and sat bolt upright with an almost fierce expression of surprise.
Lieutenant Price contemplated the hideous visage for quite a minute. "As I thought," he muttered in English. Then he addressed the man in a strange tongue. As he spoke, the fakir's face changed colour beneath its mask of paint and ashes. His servile abasement gave place to a far more sincere form of reverence. He folded his arms across his breast, bowed his face, and, finally, uncovering, placed his turban at the feet of the officer, the most extreme form of homage an Oriental can display. The shaven skull of the man made his appearance even more hideous still, but at a word from Price he lost no time in replacing his head-gear. Then the officer turned to Blake and Tinker, who were curious of his strange power over the man.
"An old friend of mine in a new guise," he said, with a quiet smile. "The man is Juggoo Mull, robber of the Madras Bank, some years ago. I was lucky enough to secure his arrest, and he got five years' rigorous for the job. The man's wife and children would have starved had I not used my influence with the Madras Poor House authorities, and found them shelter until the man's sentence had expired. When he finally was set at liberty he came to my office and professed his gratitude. It seems he went crook again a few months ago, though, and became a member of Dass's gang in Madras."
"Then he is a spy," said Blake.
"Yes, and for a consideration is willing to help us. He will now accompany us to the bungalow, and after you have copied your disguise from him, he is willing to journey to Noorjehanpur, where a British Assistant-Commissioner is in residence, and deliver a letter giving our whereabouts and asking for help. There is a strong force of British and native soldiery in the town, and they will come as quickly as possible to our aid. I thought it best to take this precaution in case of a hitch in our plans."
"Good egg," said Tinker. "You're being no end useful in this little stunt, old son."
The fakir followed them in docile silence to the bungalow. When they were seated, the fakir told his story to Blake at the police officer's command.
"I was sent by Gunga Dass to spy on you, sahib," said the man. "My master was suspicious of this bungalow, having found out it was recently hired by a stranger, and sent me to watch. Had I known that stranger was the Honourable Price I would have had no hand in the affair, for of a truth is he the protector of the poor, and my heart is grateful towards him. If you intend visiting the palace in my guise, I beg you to use caution, sahib, for the eyes of the cobra are less keen than the eyes of Dass, which see everything.
"When you pass the Dewan's guards say the word bhai, which means brother. It is the password, and they will admit you without question. Walk straight across the courtyard to the Dewan's private apartments. In the first corridor you will come across a door with a tiger's head set on a shield upon it. In that room you will find Gunga Dass. Knock three times on the door, and you will be admitted."
Then, to the detective's surprise, the Hindoo pulled the matted and tangled beard from his chin, revealing the features of a much younger man.
"It will be as well if you wear this, sahib," he said. "As I, too, am disguised you will have little difficulty in carrying the deception through. Dass is not very familiar with the identity I have assumed."
Blake gave a quiet smile of satisfaction.
"You will lose nothing by this," he said.
Lieutenant Price took out an exceedingly well-fitted make-up box from a native-made bag beneath the truckle bed he had installed in the bungalow and handed it to the detective. Blake expressed surprise as he opened the box; its contents were such that any actor might have been excused in envying the officer of its possession.
"I'm more often in disguise than not on my job," laughed the officer. "As a white in India I could learn nothing, for my nationality would bring instant suspicion on me in some of the haunts I am forced to visit in Madras in the execution of my duty. Go ahead; you'll find everything you want there."
At Blake's request the man disguised as a fakir turned his face to the strong sunlight pouring through a window. After toning his face and whole body—the man was practically naked—to the exact hue of the Hindoo's skin with walnut juice, the detective built up his features in imitation of the others with pliable moulding wax. Aquiline nose, a slight prominence of the cheekbones, and an Oriental slant of the eyelids was soon faithfully produced. Then Blake set to work with a lining-in pencil. He worked carefully and thoroughly, for his life depended on the accuracy of his disguise. With infinite care the network of sun lines beneath the native's eyes were copied; then Blake fitted the beard to his face, sticking it carefully into position with the aid of gum Arabic. False and bushy eyebrows, manufactured from crepe hair, and with every tuft set separately into position, were then attached.
Next, after binding the man's pugree about his head in order to conceal his unshaven head, Blake carefully applied a particular substance to his eyes. The pupils quickly expanded until the whole iris shone a deep, lustrous black. He studied the man's face carefully for a moment, then, showing a wonderful control of his facial muscles, altered the whole expression of his face to an exact reproduction of the Hindoo's. The effect was almost uncanny. Sexton Blake had disappeared, and in his place sat Juggoo Mull, minion of Gunga Dass.
"Salaam, sahib. Bakhshish, sahib," whined Blake.
The tones were wonderfully similar to those of Juggoo Mull. Every inflection of voice was there, pitched in the high, emotional tones of the Hindoo.
"Gosh, Blake, you're a marvel!" laughed Price. "I'd better apply the ashes and pigment to you now. You'd pass through the eye of a needle in that get up."
Going to the rude hearth where a fire had been recently burning, the officer took up a liberal handful of white wood ash and sprinkled it over the detective's face and chest. Next, hideous red streaks of pigment were drawn on the brow and chest, the man's rings and bracelets transformed to the detective's ankles, arms, and fingers, and when a change of clothing had been effected, the man from Baker Street was the living counterpart of the Hindoo.
"Now for my final instructions," Blake said. "Get the Hindoo on the road to Noorjehanpur with the letter to the assistant-commissioner at once. In half an hour, if my ruse is successful, an attack will be made on the bungalow and you will be taken prisoners by Dass's men and brought to the palace. I—"
"Easy on, old man," protested Price. "We're in for a bit of a birthday, I can see."
"Go on, guv'nor," Tinker said. "I'm beginning to get you."
"Jolly sight more than I am," grunted the officer, but something in his eyes told he had every confidence in the detective's judgment.
"It is the only way I can get you near me in order to render any help I might require in the palace," Blake said. "No harm will come to you. If I were not confident of this I would not drag you into the affair. Just make a show of resistance in order to ease suspicion. Dass's men will handle you pretty carefully, for Dass will want you whole and tight at the palace.
Sudden death at the hands of his minions is not his idea of revenge. His evil Oriental mind chooses and devises more subtle means of dealing death to these who cross his path."
"And how shall we account for your absence?" said Tinker. "That will have to be explained away."
"If you are questioned simply spring the tale that I have set off for Madras in order to bring back help," said Blake. "Well, is everything clear?"
"Quite," said Price, and there was enthusiasm in his tones now. "Here, old man, take this shooter of mine. It's the only one I have, but yours is the job carrying the lion's share of risk. You may need it. Good luck, Blake!"
A quick handshake and Blake was gone, in a few minutes to confront his deadly foe face to face.
At the Dewan's Palace—Blake's Strategy—Where is Zenda Parak?
WITH the quick, lithe steps of a Hindoo, Sexton Blake made for the Dewan's palace. The streets of the city were full of colour and life. Biblical patriarchs on asses rode by women with huge gold nose-rings, in glowing copper and coral robes, with large ornamental brass water jars on their veiled heads, stood on the steps of the tank slim figures dark against a golden sky.
The feathery plumes of distant palm-groves glinted with a peacock-blue sheen. Children played in the gutters, imps whose red-and-amber rags rang out high notes of colour like the clash of cymbals. Camels made faces and noises. Hindoos tore this way and that, doing as little work as possible, and the din of vendors of pan and betel was deafening.
Although but a little past dawn the wonderful coloured cinema show of an Indian city's daily life had begun to flash and flicker. Squatting in the gutters, with gaily-striped awnings over their shaven heads, crowded young and old Hindoos with dusky faces and wonderful, expressive eyes, struggling to sell painted postcards, strings of glittering beads; necklaces of cornelian and great lumps of golden amber; fans, perfumes, sticks of smoking incense, toy camels cleverly made of jute; fly whisks from Birmingham with handles of beads and dangling shells; rings and brooches from the same town; cheap, gay jewellery; scarfs from Asuit, white, black, and pale blue, glittering like miniature cataracts of silver as brown arms held them up.
Darting urchins hawked tame monkeys. Copper-tinted, classic-featured youths in white had golden crowns of bananas round their turbans, withered patriarchs in blue dhotis offered oranges or immense bunches of mixed flowers, fresh and fragrant as the morning, or baskets of tiny rahat plums, red and bright as rubies.
Dignified men stalked by, bearing on nobly poised heads pots of growing bush-roses or azaleas. Jet-black giants, wound in rainbow-striped cottons, clanked brass saucers like cymbals, advertising the highly-coloured drinks in their glass jars.
In the open stalls of the bazaars shone the clear golden sunshine, lighting in a yellow glow precious stones, carved ivories, silver anklets, Persian rugs, and embroideries, brilliant as humming-birds' wings, all displayed in the windows where dark eyes looked out eagerly for buyers.
The whole city seemed to consist of one vast, concentrated desire on the part of the brown men to sell things. Although buyers were scarce they shouted and wheedled on the side walks, and the roadway between was a wide river of colour and life. Gharries carried rich, royal-clad merchants to their business. Now and then a face of pale ivory glimmered through a veil and eyes of ink and diamonds shot starry glances from passing gharry windows.
Tangled, it would seem, inextricably with streams of traffic, surging both ways, moved the "ships of the desert," loaded with emerald-green bersim; long-lifting necks, and calm, mysterious eyes of camels high above the cloaked heads of striding Easterns, heads of blue-eyed water-buffaloes, and head of trim, white-tassled Kabuli ponies.
But Blake had little interest for the novelty and wonder of the scene. He had reached the gates of the palace courtyard now. Two members of the Dewan's guard stepped towards him with bared blades as he entered and dark eyes peered questioningly into his disguised features.
"Adz sakalin khawun?" demanded one gruffly, resting the point of his blade on the detective's breast. "What is the password, brother?"
"Bhai,' Blake said curtly. "I wish for audience with the Dewan. Are your eyes so dulled with bhung (native whisky) that you do not recognise me as Juggoo Mull, who went out to search for the thrice-cursed Feringhees? And I have found them, my brothers. Send a party of the guards to the bungalow at the fringe of the city. Capture them and bring them before the Dewan, but harm them not lest our master's wrath falls upon you."
"Shabash, shabash!" cried the man, revealing his glistening teeth in a grin of delight. "Surely shall we drink of bhung and sing a moonakib this night. Your commands are on our heads and eyes, Juggoo Mull."
Blake, his eyes dancing with elation at the success of his ruse, gave a curt nod and left them. He had surmounted one obstacle but there was a sterner one yet to face. Could he carry out his impersonation before the sharp, piercing eyes of Gunga Dass, eyes that seemed to penetrate the soul and read men's secrets lurking behind the flesh?
Drawing a deep breath he entered a corridor of the palace whose beautiful ornamentations told him that it led to the Dewan's private apartments. A few yards down the corridor, tessellated with mosaic tiles of rainbow hues, he came to a door on which hung the head of a tiger, crimson and gaping of jaws, vividly streaked with black on the flat skull. Despite his iron nerves, the detective shivered slightly. Strangely reminiscent of the tiger were the glowing eyes and soft, purring voice of Gunga Dass.
He knocked three times on the door, and a silky voice bade him enter. As he stepped inside he was blinded for an instant. In contrast to the glaring Indian sunshine he had just left, the room was in darkness. In a few seconds, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could make out surrounding objects with tolerable distinctness.
The air was heavy with the perfume of frankincense, which smouldered from a brass vessel hanging from the domed ceiling. The floor was thickly carpeted, but, save for an ornate inlaid table, and a long, low-cushioned seat placed immediately beneath a hanging lamp burning in a globular green shade, it was devoid of decoration.
The walls were draped with green curtains, so that, except for the presence of the carved door, the four sides of the apartment appeared to be uniform.
Nothing stirred. Not even an echo of the busy city penetrated the place. Blake's face looked waxen and unnatural in the weird light which shone down upon him. Where was Dass? Blake was certain it was the Hindoo's voice which had bidden him enter.
A minute passed by in unbroken silence. Blake was breathing rapidly. So still was the curious apartment that the detective could hear the faint crackling sound made by the burning charcoal in the brass pot. Wisps of blue-grey smoke rose through the perforated lid, and he began to watch them fascinatedly, so lithe they seemed, like wraiths of serpents creeping up into the gloomy dome above.
The silence was broken by the sweet note of a silver gong close at hand.
Sexton Blake started, and his eyes turned instantly in the direction of the green-draped wall before him.
The light above his head suddenly went out.
Out of the darkness dawned a vague light, and in it a shape seemed to take form. As the light increased, the effect was as though part of the wall had become transparent, so as to reveal the interior of an inner room, where a figure was seated in a massive ebony chair.
The figure was that of Gunga Dass, richly robed, and wearing a white turban in which blazed the jewelled insignia of his rank. His slim brown hands, of the colour of bronze, rested on the arms of the chairs, and on the first finger of the right hand gleamed a big talismanic ring. The face of the Hindoo was lowered, but from under his brows his abnormally large eyes regarded the detective fixedly.
So dim did the light remain that it was impossible to discern details with anything like clearness, but that the bearded face of the man with those wonderful eyes was strikingly handsome in a cruel, barbaric sort of way there could be no doubt.
Dass slightly raised his hand in greeting, the big ring glittering in the subdued light. Blake drew a deep breath, and advanced through an opening in the curtain to the inner chamber.
"Be seated, Juggoo Mull."
Blake seated himself like a man in a dream. The statuesque repose and the weirdness of Dass's unfaltering gaze thrilled him uncannily. With an effort, he cast the feeling from him.
"I have good news for you, master," he said, and every intonation and inflection of Juggoo Mull's voice was there. "I have found the Feringhee dogs. The guards have been sent to capture them and bring them before you. In a few minutes they will be here."
Not by as much as a flicker of his lashes did Dass betray his thoughts. Then suddenly he leant forward, and his brown fingers rested on the detective's shoulders. Blake shivered for a moment. It seemed that those hidden talons for one moment had become unsheathed.
"You have done well, faithful one, and you shall not go unrewarded."
As Dass spoke, he drew a small bag of gold from his cummerbund and flung it at the detective's feet. Blake snatched it up with the cunning assumption of greed in keeping with the character of the man he was so cleverly impersonating, and all the while the brilliant eyes of the other subjected him to a searching scrutiny, long, narrow, slightly oblique eyes, glowing strangely in the faint, reflected light.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by the protesting voice of Tinker. Dass turned his wonderful, Satanic countenance in the direction. As the door opened and the Britishers were thrust into the room, the man rose to his feet with an exclamation of annoyance and chagrin.
"Where is Blake sahib?"
His voice was strangely like a snarl of some wild beast robbed of its prey. He turned fiercely upon the disguised detective, who bent his head in a humble salaam.
"I cannot say, master. But there are ways of dragging the truth from the accursed chota-sahib Tinker. Bring them here and then dismiss the guards. Your men are enraged against the Feringhees, who have destroyed Kali's illustrious temple, and should they learn of the whereabouts of Blake, they might seek him out and take the law into their own hands. That would rob you of a fitting vengeance against the dog."
To Blake's relief he had struck the right note. After Tinker and Lieutenant Price had been brought forward, Dass dismissed his minions with a curt gesture.
"Where is your thrice-accursed master?"
Tinker grinned serenely into the infuriated face of Dass. The man's lips tightened over his white teeth in an animal-like snarl.
"Speak, dog!"
Dass drew with lightning swiftness a curved dhrogeda knife from his cummerbund and held it against the lad's throat. Tinker felt it prick into the skin, and watched from fascinated eyes a thin red trickle which stained the bright blade.
"Sexton Blake is here!"
As the calm voice rang out, Dass stared about him in bewilderment. For once the cunning Hindoo was at a loss.
"Sexton Blake," he muttered. He stared into the disguised face of the detective with puzzled eyes. "Who are you?" he added, and his voice was like the hiss of a startled snake. "Sexton Blake?"
"Yes, and I have you covered, Dass," Blake drew the revolver Price had given him from his robes and covered the Hindoo between his glaring eyes. "Make a sound, a movement, and I swear I will shoot you down. Seize him, Tinker! Lock the door, Price, in case of interruption."
The tables had been turned very neatly. Realising the futility of showing resistance, Dass submitted to being bound hand and foot by the grinning and delighted Tinker, who had concealed in his clothing several yards of stout cord for the purpose.
Blake kept the blue muzzle of the revolver in a direct line with the master-mind's head, and the steely light in his eyes, born of the scoundrel's treatment of Tinker, showed he would not hesitate to carry out his threat if occasion arose.
"All serene, old man," said Price, returning from the door. "Not a sound outside. The game's in our hands now."
Blake nodded with grim satisfaction. Tinker stuffed a gag between the bearded lips, and there was now no fear of Dass raising the alarm. Rapidly the detective wiped the make-up from his face, and set about the task confronting him.
In half an hour he presented a very fair counterpart of Gunga Dass. It was all very fantastic, very reminiscent of Christmas charades, but the face had a grim, murderous undercurrent—the life of a woman hung upon their success, probably, besides their own lives; the swamping of European Indian by the brown hordes of Dass might well be the price of their failure.
The minutes fled by, and Blake, calm and unruffled, was still concentrated on his task. An hour, and his work was a masterpiece. In the glowing eyes of Dass crept a look of admiration for his enemy. This, was cunning of a nature the brown man of India could understand and appreciate.
"I think that will do," Blake said, after carefully scrutinising every feature of his disguise in a mirror fitted in the lid of the make-up box. "Hide Dass behind one of the curtains. You'd better glance over his ropes, Tinker, to make sure he has no chance to escape."
Dass's eyes flashed one malignant look at the detective before he was carried away by Tinker and the police-officer; then the heavy curtains hid his body from view. Coming back they stood, a sullen-faced pair, against the ebony chair, Blake went to the door and unlocked it. Returning, he seated himself. The light was dim and uncertain, and the detective was positive that the eyes of the Hindoo's minions would fail to pierce his disguise. Knowing the man so well, he knew his every trick of speech and mannerism.
He clanged loudly upon the silver gong at his side, and before many seconds the guards answered his summons. They came forward with respectful salaams, and it was evident that Dass had them well under his authority.
"Bring the girl forward!" Blake spoke with a note of authority in his tones, and the suave, silky voice of Dass was well imitated. "Also, see that several fast horses and a zenana cart are ready at once. I intend taking the girl and these Feringhee dogs to Madras at once. It is dangerous to remain here, for Blake sahib has escaped our vigilance, and is on his way to Noorjehanpur to seek the aid of the Commissioner. There is no time to be lost, for the soldiers and the sahib-dog will soon be upon us."
Blake glanced at the men sharply, then held his breath. None had stirred to obey his command, and they were regarding him with a puzzled, almost bewildered expression in their dark eyes. One of them shambled forward and addressed him. Blake gripped the butt of the revolver hidden in his robes, and its cold touch gave him renewed confidence.
"Why do you stand like dolts?" he thundered. "Are you hungering for the lash? Sons of pigs! Eaters of garbage! Carry out my wishes at once."
They recoiled before the well-assumed fury in his voice, but that puzzled expression did not leave their swart faces.
"Master, the man who had come forward spoke humbly, subserviently, "have you forgotten your commands of last night. Did you not order the jemadah and his men to convey the girl to Madras then? They left several hours before dawn, honourable one, and by now are many coss upon their journey."
Blake bit his lip and subjected the men to a searching glance. There was nothing of suspicion, only wonderment in their dark, expressive eyes. With a gesture of weariness he drew a hand across his brow.
"Yes, yes," he said, in a dazed tone. "Of course, I remember now. Who is the budmash who filled my hashish pipe? Of a truth the foul stuff was roasted too much, and was strong enough to stupefy the gods themselves. A thousand curses on the clumsy dolt. Let me think. To where did I send the girl? Was it Madras? I have smoked so long that my brain seems dead."
"Your orders were secret, if you remember, honourable one," said the servant. "Probably it was to Madras, since you told us your reason in sending her away was that you might extract a ransom from her father. You were to leave here yourself for Madras to-day, sahib. Everything is in readiness for your departure."
"Ah, yes. I remember now. I shall be ready in an hour's time. Bind these Feringhees. They shall accompany me. If the accursed Raj seeks their release they shall pay heavily for it. Two syces to look after the horses will be a sufficient retinue. It would be unwise to attract attention."
The men came forward and bound the officer and Tinker with stout ropes. They made a little effort of resistance in order to allay suspicion, and in a few minutes the guards had finished their task. At a signal from Blake the men withdrew.
"A pretty close shave, guv'nor," Tinker said in low tones, when the door had closed behind them. "What's the next stunt? This affair has altered our plans. The best thing we can do is to get out of here and back to Madras. There we might be able to trace the girl out. But what about Dass? We're not going to let the skunk go free. How the deuce are we going to smuggle him out?"
Blake became thoughtful for a moment. This fresh development needed careful consideration. It would be impossible to overtake the girl and her escort, for they had too great a start. But where would he seek for her in Madras? It was a city as big as London, and many were its strange hovels, hidden from the European eye, in which the girl could be concealed. The task would be hopeless. True, the girl was in little danger, and her freedom was obtainable in return for a ransom. But Blake was not disposed to let the matter rest at that. He was out to defeat the ends of Gunga Dass.
"We seem up against a brick wall, old man," said Price, "And if we capture Dass and take him away as prisoner, the gang might exact their vengeance upon the girl."
Blake nodded.
"Look here," he said, in tones so low that it was impossible for the bound figure behind the curtains to overhear. "Our best plan will be to let Dass go free for a time. It is distasteful, of course, but I can see no other way out of the difficulty. He is bound to make straight for Madras to supervise the plans for extracting the ransom from Mr. Parak. We must shadow him to the city. His footsteps will lead us to the place he has got the girl hidden."
The two gave a nod of approval.
"You've hit the right nail, sir," said Tinker, "Well, I vote we get out of this place as soon as possible. I don't feel any too comfortable in it. But you might see that we take plenty of grub along with us. I'm famished."
"I expect we shall get a royal send-off," smiled Blake. "I wonder what Dass did with our rifles and ammunition when we were captured? We shall need them probably. My plan is to hide in the jungle near the path Dass must take, and follow him on at a distance of about two miles. When Madras is reached, we shall, of course, get as close upon his heels as possible."
Blake clanged the gong once more. A servant appeared in answer to his summons.
"See that the rifles taken from the Feringhee dogs are placed with my baggage," he said curtly. "Also the ammunition. I am ready to start. Ask the guards to carry the prisoners to the tonga, and to see that we are well provisioned and have several goat-skins of water. I shall be back amongst you probably in a few weeks."
The man made low obeisance, and a few minutes later the guards entered and carried the prisoners to a tonga wagon which, drawn by humped-backed bullocks, stood in the rear of a gaily-caparisoned Arab horse intended for the man who had so successfully impersonated the Dewan. Blake left the head and shoulders of Dass protruding a little distance beyond the edge of the curtain, so that the man would shortly be discovered, then followed on with dignified tread.
A fanfare of trumpets pealed out, a blatant note, heralding the approach of one great and important as he made his way across the courtyard, a grim smile of humour on his lips. With easy grace he mounted the saddle, dismissing the guards with a haughty wave of his hand. The attendant syces whipped up the bullocks, and at an easy pace the party set off, Blake turning his horse's head in the direction of the jungle, which gleamed like a belt of emerald green through the shimmer of heat.
Tracked Through the Jungle.
WHEN the outskirts of the jungle had been reached, Blake ordered the party to draw up beneath a great banian tree, whose spreading branches afforded shelter from the glaring rays of the sun.
Inside the tonga, Tinker and the police-officer had worked free their ropes, and a few minutes after the halt they crept from the wagon and threw themselves upon the unsuspecting syces. In a very short space of time. With scarcely a show of resistance, the two natives were securely bound with the ropes and laid side by side beneath the wagon cover.
"Now for some grub, guv'nor," said Tinker. "They've provisioned us with a queer lot of native stuff. Everything from curried fish to dried mangoes. Still, we've got our guns back, so there will be snipe and quail for supper."
In a few minutes the party were sitting down to a meal at which the untraveled European would shudder. From the position they occupied, they could see across the plains of Budjarpoor, the great dome and slender minarets of the Dewan's palace. The distance, although the shimmering heat appeared to lessen it in a dreamy, mirage-like way, was considerably over three miles, and they would have ample warning of Dass's approach.
The plains had a very different aspect than when they had set eyes on them for the first time. The scene of beauty was now utterly destroyed; every bush and sapling and tree had disappeared, and nothing remained but a rugged, barren gorge, down which the waters of the Tahilla tumbled in a series of small cascades.
The great, gaping hole through which the waters had burst was not to be seen; it had been overwhelmed by the great face of rock which had towered above, with the word "Kali" graven high up in immense Ramassee characters, and which had apparently sunk down and toppled forward, lying now in massive fragments, from among the interstices of which trickled the subterranean waters in a thousand tiny rivulets. The luxuriant ferns of vivid green were no more; everything was bleakness and desolation.
As Blake, his meal finished, surveyed the forlorn scene, a gleam of something white caught his eye, lying a few yards from the outer fringe of the jungle. He went to it and curiously picked it up. It was a delicately-chiselled eye, the eye of the towering Buddha, which through the centuries had gazed down with stony and unchanging stare upon the limpid stream and countless worshippers.
"A relic of the past," he said grimly. "I mean to keep it as long as I live. It is our real trophy from the Temple of Kali."
"Except Zenda Parak," Tinker said with a smile.
The rest of the day was spent in organising their camp arrangements. At dusk a peal of trumpets warned them that something unusual was taking place at the palace. In the distance they could dimly discern a party of horsemen, who, having dashed through the palace gates, were making for the jungle at a sharp canter.
"Dass," whispered Blake. "Let us get the wagon and outfit hidden in the undergrowth.
They evidently hope to overtake us, but will have to slow down before dawn, in order for provisions to reach them. An hour after they have passed, we will take the same path. Quick—there is little time to lose."
Within ten minutes the outfit was concealed from view in the dense vines and creepers which trailed like buntings from the trees. A few minutes later the horsemen flashed past along the jungle path. They caught a fleeting glimpse of Dass riding at their head, an impressive, turbaned figure, with a scarlet cloak, mounted on a beautiful black Arab, with a coat as glossy as satin.
"Doesn't look very pleased with himself!" chuckled Tinker, as the thunder of horse-hoofs died away in the distance. "Did you get an idea of the number of his party?"
"About a dozen, roughly," said Price. "Pretty formidable odds if we ever get to grips."
Rifles were cleaned and loaded, the wagon bullocks fed and watered, and in an hour the party followed the jungle road in the direction taken by the galloping horsemen. The tropical moon hung like a great opalescent pearl in the night sky, and its rays, falling through the interlacing branches of the trees, revealed their path with tolerable distinctness. The bush was very quiet, but uncannily alive.
Tinker and Price were driving the bullock, and the syces lay securely bound in the body of the wagon behind them. Once the detective reined in and sniffed the air. Its foetid reek told him that a tiger had a few seconds before crossed the path. Its whereabouts were soon revealed by the startled cry of a sambhar.
Towards dawn they entered a tiny village peopled by a dark-skinned caste of the Waralis tribe. The watchman, in reply to Blake's carefully-put questions, gave them the intelligence that a party of horsemen had passed through some hours before. As the tribe seemed to be friendly disposed, the party rested there for an hour, and Blake recruited several sturdy youths as bearers, thinking they would be useful in case of a brush with the enemy.
Also they were fortunate enough to secure a couple of switch-tailed Kabuli ponies and a mule from the village horse-dealer. The mule would be useful to carry their baggage, for the wagon impeded their rate of travel. For a substantial bribe the headman consented to take charge of the two syces, and to release them in a week's time.
On the third day it became apparent that Dass was not at any point taking to the river. The hoof-prints of the party were clearly defined in the thick shizum dust covering the jungle road, and it was a simple matter to keep to the trail, despite the fact that several side paths led to various small jungle towns.
"Where do you think they are making for?" Tinker asked, after a week of jungle discomforts had been suffered. "I suppose everything is all right? We can but follow their trail. It seems funny, though, that they should still stick to the jungle, when they could have entrained at Bahadpur; the town we passed through late last night. There was a branch line of the G.I.P. and a small station in the place, and they could have reached Madras by a circuitous route on it."
Blake nodded thoughtfully. They had encamped in a small clearing for the night, and the bearers were slumbering around a camp-fire, A sense of uneasiness, of impending disaster, had settled on the Baker Street man during the last few days.
It has happened to more than one party of travellers through the dense jungles of India that they have been dogged, hour by hour, for weeks together, by a tiger.
In the daytime, the rustle of tall reeds or the waving of the long grass at some little distance has betrayed the creature's presence; in the night-time the soft pat, pat of its footfall around the halting-place has borne testimony to its ceaseless vigilance.
But every attempt to sight the animal and to shoot it had proved ineffectual.
No more dreadful feeling can be imagined than that caused by the companionship of such a brute for one long week after another. Every nerve, sleeping and waking, is kept in a constant state of tension. The agony of watching, even of merely lying awake and listening at night-time, becomes at last almost unbearable.
Then comes the hour when vigilance for one single instant is relaxed. There is a roar, a rush by a mighty mass of bristling hair and gaping jaws, a dull, sickening thud, a crunching of bones, and the man-slaying monster has leapt back unscathed into the jungle, with its prey dangling between its terrible fangs.
The little party is short by one. A comrade has gone. Rifles are grasped too late. Only looks of blank dismay are exchanged by the survivors.
Next night the pat, pat is heard around the camp again.
Blake laughed softly to himself and tried to disperse the diseased and morbid fancy which was beginning to take root in his mind. But as he lay wrapped in his blanket beneath the star-bespangled vault of heaven, he listened with strained ears and watched with strained eyes the fantastic shadows the flickering flames of the camp-fire flung on the matted undergrowth.
He could not get rid of the conviction that he was being hunted, ceaselessly and noiselessly, by a human tiger.
*
"I think we will double the sentries to night, guv'nor. I'm too dog-tired to keep watch myself, and you look fairly knocked."
Blake yawned and stretched himself on his bed of ferns. The nights occupied in trailing Dass had been spent in sleepless vigil, and the detective realised that the limit of his endurance had been reached. He glanced round the jungle clearing. The bush was quiet, and the far-off chatter of a hyena alone broke the stillness.
"Then see that Zamindah and the head syce are put on watch," he said. "They are sound men. I don't like the idea, but unless we get some shut-eye we look like being on the sick list. Arm each sentry, and load their guns with five rounds of ball. Instruct them to shoot low, but on sight, should anyone come prowling round."
Tinker went to the tonga, beneath whose body the bearers were wrapped in slumber. Rousing the two natives, he armed them and marched them to their posts, instructing them to keep an alert watch and to rouse the camp should they have the slightest suspicion that intruders were approaching the camp. This done, he returned to his master, and within a few minutes both the white men had dropped off into restless and fitful sleep.
An hour passed. Alert and watchful, the natives paced their beat, chattering in subdued voices. Suddenly Zamindah, an alert Bhil, paused in his stride, staring into the shadows of the bush. His keen ear had detected some unusual sound.
"Did you hear it, my brother?" Zamindah raised his rifle as he spoke. "It was the crack of a dry twig. I—"
The Hindoo's voice trailed off into silence. The finger crooked round the trigger of his rifle seemed suddenly to have become lifeless. It was stiff and unnatural, as if stricken with some strange paralytical disease.
He glanced quickly at his companion. The man was standing like a figure of stone, not even the flicker of an eyelid betraying the fact that his life's blood still flowed in his veins.
In the bush something stirred; in the ghostly moonlight, as it advanced into the clearing, the shadowy form took on shape and colour. It was Gunga Dass, and his tread was as light as a panther's as he approached the rigid forms of the sentries.
Zamindah fought desperately for individual thought, but the intent stare of Dass's eyes robbed his every limb of action. They were peculiar eyes, set in almond-shaped lids, and possessing a strange brilliance which made them appear to be lit by some internal radiance, and lent them a fascination which held one's gaze.
The other native had fallen completely beneath the hypnotist's spell. To Zamindah the clearing seemed to grow suddenly dark, and out of the darkness, seeming as if intensified by the gloom, the luminous eyes of Dass glowed like tiny lamps, fascinating and compelling.
"Why not sleep? Surely you are tired, my brother?"
As the low and silky voice died into silence, a pleasant drowsiness took possession of a brain which had suddenly grown infinitely tired, and the next moment Zamindah's soul-life had become utterly suspended at the hypnotist's will. Dass was using the occult weapon.
There was something terrible in the contemplation of this strange man's power—something uncanny in the thought that he could suspend all action for any period he wished in a fellow human by an unspoken command from his strangely bright eyes.
Yet it was no wonderful feat which Dass had performed. In India, that land of mysticism and strange powers, hypnotism is a common gift. It is the domination of a strong will over a weaker one, and the brilliant eyes of the Asiastic lend themselves to perfection in the uncanny art of the mesmerist.
In short, it is the power of producing in the mind of another of weaker will a kind of unconsciousness to external objects, while the mind still remains active to the hypnotist's will.
With cat-like tread the cunning Hindoo approached the slumbering form of Sexton Blake. The fire had died to mere glowing embers, and the camp was wrapped in slumber and silence.
In his brown hands the master-mind held a small, glittering tube. Came a sharp click as it snapped beneath the pressure of his fingers. The next moment a thin, greenish vapour curled and wrapped itself about the exposed features of the slumbering detective. Blake stirred slightly, then lay curiously still.
The next moment Dass had lifted him in his arms. Looking down from malevolent eyes into the inanimate features, the Hindoo carried him off into the jungle.
An Oriental's Vengeance—Lost in the Jungle—The Man Dwarf.
WHEN the detective opened his eyes to the world again he became dimly conscious of a shadowy form bending over him, which gradually to his drug-dulled eyes evolved into the figure of Gunga Dass.
He saw he was in a tent-like apartment and the twitter of birds and golden hue of the canvas told him it was daylight. There was a gap in his recollections he could not bridge. How had he fallen into the hands of his arch-enemy, and where were his companions?
"All hail, O wizard of the West," he heard the mocking voice of Dass saying, while his dim vision marked the sneering smile. "O great wizard of the wise, against whom I have dared to pit my humble power, all hail."
Blake struggled into a sitting position. For the first time he noticed that a third person was in the tent. Blake stared at the squatting figure with horror in his eyes. Such a character had never before come within his experiences.
"Your companion, Blake sahib," said Dass. "I trust he will prove entertaining."
It was doubtful if Blake heard the words. He was gazing with a fixed, fascinated stare at the uncouth, apish figure squatting before him. It was that of a wizened, hunch-backed dwarf, and in the man's evil eyes shone a malevolent gleam which told of insanity.
He was a spectacle to shudder at. Not so much on account of his natural hideousness, increased a thousandfold by the tattered and filthy rags which barely covered him. Not so much on account of his sparsely bearded jaws, his hare lip, his torn and bleeding feet, and his ape-like, wasted frame.
Not only because, looking at the animal, as he crouched, one hairy brown arm pendant between his knees, he was so horribly inhuman that one shuddered to think that women and children must, of necessity, confess to fellowship of kind with such a monster.
But because also, in his slavering mouth, his restless fingers, and his bloodshot, malevolent eyes, there lurked a hint of some horror more terrible than madness; and the shadow of this unknown horror, clinging to the creature, repelled and disgusted, as though he bore about with him the reek of shambles.
"Mehvas!" Dass's voice rang out with a sharp note of authority. "Come and make friends. The sahib is your new master. I know you will serve him well, unless—"
The Hindoo broke off for a moment and laughed evilly. As the apish figure shambled forward he too broke into a laugh, horrible, demonaical. With monkey-like movements the creature approached the detective, felt him with fingers as attenuated and claw-like as the talons of an eagle, and leered elfishly into the white man's horrified face.
"Unless I get hungry, O master."
As the guttural voice spoke Blake shuddered. On the man's hairy arms were bangles of human teeth. His brow was decorated with a circle of red pigment, in the centre of which were three vertical lines of blue. He was a cannibal, a denizen of the gloomy jungles of the little-explored Manasia country of the South which had vomited him forth, and of the loathsome, animal-like Kasabi* tribe.
* This tribe is now practically extinct, but many interesting photographs of them are to be seen in different museums in India, the one in Madras in particular. As recently as ten years ago Lieutenant O'Hara fell a victim to their vile practices. Many of the tribe are deformed and ape-like in appearance.
"And now, Blake sahib, I bid you farewell. Soon, very soon, you will curse the day you crossed swords with Gunga Dass. You are in the heart of the jungle, and there is no path within ten miles from here. You are without food, water, or rifle, and Mehvas, madman and cannibal, is your only companion. Yet one of you will live, will find food so necessary to life. I think your brain will tell you whom the survivor will be."
Blake stared at the devilish, yet barbarically handsome face of the Hindoo with a horror impossible to describe in his eyes.
"My Heaven! Are you fiend or man, Dass? You dare not do this thing. It is against all the laws of humanity."
The mocking laughter in the dark eyes stung the detective to madness. He leapt upon the brown man like a wild beast at bay, but the apish figure of the dwarf was quicker still. Before Blake could reach the Hindoo the dwarf had swung clean upon his back, and the sudden impact sent the white man staggering to the grassy floor.
He grappled with the horror in a frenzy of rage but the skinny legs and arms seemed to wrap around him like the coils of a serpent, and the sinews were like steel wire.
For several minutes the struggle continued, then suddenly the dwarf sprang clear. With grotesque movements the man hopped with surprising speed to the outside of the tent and burst into a peal of taunting laughter that had the ring of madness.
Blake, desperate now, dashed at the man, his grey eyes holding a savage light foreign to them. The next minute the dwarf leapt into the air and his hairy arms clutched the overhanging branches of a giant banyan tree.
With the agility of a monkey the creature drew himself into the higher branches, hanging there, like a great, hunch-backed ape, flinging down taunts and making horrible gestures with a sheath-knife he had drawn from the coils of his hair which was as long as a woman's and coiled in matted disorder upon his round head.
Blake gritted his teeth, and swung round for Dass. The man had disappeared. In which direction had he gone? Blake was at a loss. The tent had been pitched in a clearing formed by the collapse of a huge tree which had beaten to the ground several others in its fall. About him was a solid wall of undergrowth through which a man could scarcely force a passage.
The detective was probably in the tightest corner of his career. He had not the faintest notion of which direction to take. The springy vines and creepers had already closed up the passage forced by Dass—the only direction leading to the nearest jungle path.
If he took any other he would only be advancing deeper into the vast jungle, to fall the prey of its wild denizens.
And, worst of all, there was the dwarf to contend with, and the man's insane cunning. To sleep would be to die. He knew his endurance could not hold out against that of the uncivilised man of the jungle. It is the terrible privilege of insanity to be sleepless.
When sleep and fatigue should compel Blake to relax his vigilance the monster would fall on him, and, horrible thought, another bangle of bleached teeth would be added to the hideous decorations on the hairy arms.
And what had happened to Tinker and the police officer? Were they too about to share some terrible fate? Blake groaned aloud in his misery.
He broke off a stout cudgel from the fallen tree, and picking his way of the rotting trunk, forced his way into the trailing vines. The dwarf, holding the knife in his teeth, caught hold of the higher branches of the tree in which he was perched, and swung himself across the clearing.
The grotesque, hunched figure landed in the branches of a tree above the detective's head, then, swinging from branch to branch, from tree to tree, commenced to follow him as he forced his way through the undergrowth, which in places grew higher than his head.
Hour after hour passed, but no signs of a path rewarded the detective's efforts. Night fell, and with it the jungle awakened to life. Came the soft growl of cheetahs, the yelp of startled monkeys and paroquets as the hunch-back disturbed them in their lairs, and occasionally the prolonged and reverberating roar of the jungle king.
The undergrowth is prickly and dense. The detective's clothes are torn, his hands and feet bleeding, and already he feels out-wearied. And in the tree tops, like some monstrous ape, the dwarf still dogs his steps, throwing down taunts at the white man's superhuman efforts, brandishing the glittering knife.
It is now the third day, and Blake has not closed his eyes. His face is as haggard, his eyes as bloodshot, as those of his horrible companion. No food, except a few withered berries, has passed his lips, and the gnawing of his stomach, the painful swelling of his tongue which already protrudes beyond his cracked lips, is almost unendurable.
That night the detective is too weak to move, and he sinks into the clearing they have reached. As his glazed eyes fall about him he starts to his feet with a cry of dismay. He is back at his starting point. The white outlines of the tent, limned in the moonlight, mock his eyes which now have a wolfish glare.
The dwarf drops from the tree which he first ascended, and, chuckling at his superior sagacity, clutched the haft of the knife which soon must drink blood. For two days the monster has promised himself that on the next the white man must sink down into an exhausted sleep—and die.
The man is more horrible than ever to contemplate. His stomach has dwindled almost to nothing, his face is famine-sharpened, the glare in his eyes has become accentuated, and Blake, gaunt, his clothing torn to rags, sits, his eyes gleaming hate and horror, at the taunting, gesticulating, grotesque imp who is only waiting for his vigilance to be relaxed.
Blake feels his strength deserting him, and his brain becomes overpowered with fatigue. Despite his every effort his head sags forward. He must rest, or go mad. His limbs are powerless. His eyelids are glued together. With a desperate effort he struggles to his feet. He sleeps as he stands, swaying about him like a man befuddled with liquor. He sleeps—and the dwarf, grinning with ferocious joy, approaches and uplifts the knife.
Its flash intrudes into the swimming senses. The dwarf approaches nearer; Blake tries to evade the man, and leap away into the bush. In vain. The insatiable dwarf, ravenous with famine, and sustained by madness, is not to be shaken off. Blake tries to run, but his legs bend under him. The cudgel he has still retained feels as heavy as lead.
He flings it at the dwarf, catching the man in his gloating face, and draws blood.
Then horror lends him strength. He bursts into the underwood, and into the trees swings the dwarf, snarling like the wild beast he is.
An hour passes, and Blake still keeps the strength born of his horror and desperation. Blindly he pushes his way forward, the horrible taunts of the monster in the branches ringing in his ears. It is dawn now. Exhaustion claims the detective. He is about to sink when the ruddy glow of a fire through the trees catches his filmy eyes. For a moment his brain is too dazed to grasp the situation.
The truth flashes into his brain. He feels inspired with a new hope. It is the light of a fire. That tiny glow seems to him as glorious as the Pillar of Fire that lead the Israelites. There were human beings near him!—and he totters forward with the last effort of his remaining strength towards the blessed token of their presence.
The dwarf barks and chatters like some great ape in his rage, then turns and swings his way back to the jungle fastnesses.
The Rescue of Zenda Parak—Out of the Sea— Homeward Bound.
THEN comes a blank in the detective's recollection. When next he opened his eyes again, he found to his astonishment he was back in the rooms of his hotel in Madras. Had it all been a dream? Those gruesome memories of the Temple of Death—of the apish dwarf who had so relentlessly pursued him through the jungle—but a web woven in the loom of imagination? He struggled into an upright position. Tinker was instantly at his side.
"Well, guv'nor, how now?" said the lad cheerily. "You've had the deuce of a rough passage. Now you've got your thinking apparatus back, perhaps you'll tell me what has happened? You suddenly disappear from the camp, like a billiard ball in the hands of a magician, and we see nothing of you for three days, when you came staggering in to us, without a second's warning, looking as if you've been through—you know—where it's hot."
Blake smiled weakly. Despite the banter in the lad's tones there was a sympathy rare to one so young in his eyes as he smoothed his master's pillows.
"A rough passage isn't in it, young 'un," Blake said. He then gave the lad the details of those terrible days spent in the heart of the jungle with his loathsome companion. Tinker's merry blue eyes clouded with horror as the detective came to the end of his grim narrative.
"The dirty skunk!" the lad said explosively, and his sturdy fists clenched in a spasm of hatred against the diabolical Hindoo. "Boiling oil is too good for the blighter. But we'll get even with him yet. Guv'nor, since you've been ill, I've been far from idle. I've managed to find out Dass's present haunt."
Blake flung his assistant a glance of keen appreciation, which brought the flush of a girl to the lad's freckled cheeks.
"Go on, young 'un," he said quietly.
"Well, sir, after you disappeared, I gave up all thoughts of Dass for the time being, and concentrated upon finding out what had happened to you. I found the trace of Dass's slightly deformed footprints leading from where you had been sleeping in the jungle, and also a broken phial which had evidently contained a pungent drug in vapour form.
"That gave me a pretty stiff dose of wind-up, I can tell you. Price and I searched the jungle for two days, but we could find no trace of you. We were funky to leave the spot, in case you should manage to make your escape and return. Although you looked a bit of a horror when you staggered back into the camp, I can assure you we were more than pleased to see you.
"As soon as you reached us you collapsed. We made a rough palkee on which to carry you, and went back to Bahadpur, where we got you on the train to Madras. We reached here yesterday, and I had the doctor in from the fort to look after you. Then Mr. Parak called, and showed me a letter he had received from Dass demanding a lakh of rupees for the girl, and saying that he would later make arrangements for Mr. Parak to hand over the money.
"I took a good squint at the letter, and that put me on his trail. It had been posted from the dak-khana in Grant Road, and I was a little surprised to find it had been written with a pen. You know as well as I do, sir, that not one Hindoo in ten thousand uses a steel-nibbed pen. They invariably use a quill from the tail of a peacock. After putting things together, I came to the conclusion that the letter had been written at the dak-khana. They provide steel pens, and ink there, you know, for the office at Grant Road, being opposite the cotton market, is a busy one.
"It was quite on the cards that Dass would write his second letter, dealing with the arrangements for Mr. Parak to pay over the dibs, from Grant Road. I got into simple coolie disguise and loitered about the place. Two hours afterwards a Hindoo, looking like a prosperous merchant, came in, and, going up to the place where writing materials can be borrowed, the man started to write a letter. As soon as he had finished I raced over to the blotter, held a small mirror before it, and managed to trace out the word 'Parak.'
"That was conclusive proof that the man was Dass in disguise. I hurried out of the place and shadowed him to a rough quarter in Black Town. At dusk I had a scout round the show and saw an old dhohi woman washing a silk saree which I instantly recognised as belonging to Zenda Parak. That was enough for me. I returned to the hotel to await your, recovery. I didn't care about handing the affair over to Price, decent chap though he is. Dass is as slippy as an eel, and I was half afraid he might bungle the job. The son of Satan is in a position to call a couple of hundred of the dacoit kidney to his aid in that quarter."
Blake was out of bed in a second.
"Steady, guv'nor!" Tinker said warningly. "The M.O. said you were to keep in bed for a couple of—"
"Tinker, you've done splendidly! Now, don't spoil it by being an old washerwoman. Have you the second letter?"
Tinker grinned as he saw that his news had bucked up his master more than a gallon of medicine could have done. He extracted the second letter from his pocket.
"Here it is! And as cunning a little way of getting the money, without exposing himself to risk, that I've heard of. Mr. Parak had already drawn the money from the bank in notes, in spite of my persuasions to the contrary. The poor old chap is distracted. He'd give his last anna to get the girl back safely. She's worth it, anyway."
Blake nodded and opened the letter. It ran thus:
"At sunset you will row out to Morabi Point and bring the money demanded for the safe return of your daughter. I shall await you some half-coss from the coast in a small boat. You must come alone, and should any attempt be made to trap me, your daughter's life will pay the penalty. If you fail to come, I have other means of forcing the money from you. I enclose a lock of the girl's hair. The next time my enclosure will be of a grimmer nature should you refuse to pay. I think you will understand.
"GUNGA DASS."
"The callous brute!" Blake said. "Still, the letter is very satisfactory. This places the man in our hands. Tinker, all being well, we shall have the fiend under lock and key by sunset. I have work for you now. Go to Lieutenant Price and instruct him to raid Dass's haunt at sunset. Make no arrests, simply concentrate on the rescue of Zenda Parak."
"But Dass, sir—what of him?"
"I will attend to him," Blake said grimly, and the steely glint in his eyes boded ill for the Hindoo when they came to grips. "Dass will be in my hands to-night."
"But how, guv'nor? If you row out with a party of men, he is bound to sight you and head his boat for a deserted stretch of the coast. He wouldn't be fool enough to come in an ordinary rowing-boat. You can bet your boots he'll have a powerful engine on board."
"I shall be there with a dozen men, and he will not have the faintest suspicion that I have him trapped until the moment of action," Blake said quietly. "Now hop off and get busy, young 'un. In two hours it will be sunset."
And the intrigued and puzzled Tinker left the room. Although his master's plan savoured of the supernatural, the lad had little doubt but that the detective would keep his word and effect the arrest of their arch-enemy.
*
Sunset on the sparkling Indian Ocean. As the faded golden fingers of the sun died from the face of the waters, the moon came into its own, and the sea became a limitless pattern of fretted silver. A light breeze had sprung up with the approach of night, and on it was borne the faint chug-chug of a motor-boat.
In the stern of the vessel the lone figure of a man was seated, dressed in flowing garments that fluttered about him and revealed the muscular development of his lithe frame. It was Gunga Dass, and his dark eyes lit up with a gleam of satisfaction as through the starlight he could faintly discern a small rowing-boat approaching.
But where was Sexton Blake? Dass, fearing a trap, kept a vigilant, watchful stare over the waters. Only the one small vessel was in sight. It would seem that the man from Baker Street had failed to keep his vow!
The boat gradually crept nearer, and Dass could now discern the figure of Mr. Parak bending at the oars. Soon they were within hailing distance, and still the face of the waters was deserted.
"You are a wise man, Mr. Parak," Dass said, in his silky, suave tones. "Ride on the swell. I will come alongside you. Have you brought the money?"
"Yes, you inhuman wretch!" said Mr. Parak, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "But what guarantee have I that you will return my daughter?"
Dass had drawn alongside now, and one brown hand clutched the side of the other boat. Suddenly a low cry escaped the man's lips, followed by a fierce Eastern oath. A few yards away the sea was bubbling and gurgling in a strange manner, and a miniature water spout spurted up, causing the two small boats to rock dangerously about.
It was as though some strange monster was rising from the gloomy depths of that vast ocean. Covered with a shaggy drapery of sea-weed rose something above the seething surface, to which the uncertain starlight lent a grotesque shape.
The superstitious, Eastern mind of Dass became obsessed with a great terror, and he cowered down in the boat with a cry of fear. His wonderful intellectual power succumbed beneath imagination—the unconscious religion of the soul. If ever he was nigh repentance it was then. All the horrible unseen life of the ocean seemed to be rising up and surrounding him.
As he flung up his arms in terror, his shadow, thrown by the moon on the waters, took the shape of an avenging phantom.
Phantoms of his past crimes gibbered at him and, covering his eyes with his hands, he fell shudderingly upon his knees with a shrill yelp of fear. As if the sound had called up some spirit that lurked below, a stern voice rang out:
"Gunga Dass!"
It was a human voice—the voice of Sexton Blake. The terror which had overmastered the man was instantly flung aside. He uncovered his eyes and stared in bewilderment at the scene confronting him. A submarine lay like a huge shark on the surface of the ocean, reflecting the light of the moon and stars in a steely glitter.
On the narrow iron deck were the figures of several bluejackets, and in the centre of them, with a machine-gun before him directed on the Hindoo's boat, stood Sexton Blake.
The man from Baker Street had kept his word!
*
A happy little group were assembled in the home of Mr. Parak later that night. They were Sexton Blake, Tinker, the old Parsee, and his beautiful daughter, Zenda.
"Mr. Blake, how can I thank you for the dangers and perils you and your brave assistant have risked On my behalf?" said the girl, her sweet voice tremulous with emotion. "The happenings of the last few weeks have been like an evil dream."
"I think that most of the laurels belong to Tinker," Blake said smilingly. "It was a piece of smart work that put him on Dass's trail here in Madras."
"Oh, rot, sir!" Tinker said, flushing to the roots of his hair as the Parsee girl turned her fine eyes upon him with a warm gratitude in their depths. "And the raid went off easily, too. Price had about fifty men down there, and we had Miss Parak out of her cell in a jiffy. there was scarcely a good punch in the whole business."
"Except when you fought your way through about six of those horrible Thugs to get to my cell, Mr. Tinker," said Zenda, with a mischievous glance at the lad's flushed and freckled face. "But now I expect you are a little anxious to hear my story. It is quite a short one. After I was abducted from my room by a whole crowd of those horrible Thugs, the man you call Gunga Dass hypnotised me, and the spell was not broken until you snatched me from them in front of that hideous idol. I thought I was safe then, but you can judge my horror when I regained consciousness to find myself a prisoner at the Dewan's palace."
"It has been a terrible business—terrible!" said Mr. Parak, slipping his arm affectionately through his daughter's. "I shall remember you both with gratitude as long as I live. And that foolish boy—to die, a Parsee, on the altar of a pagan goddess whose image he was about to plunder—"
The kindly old man broke off with a sigh, and the beautiful face of the girl became clouded.
"But we will forget the past," said Mr. Parak. "And now, Mr. Blake, will you and Tinker remain my guests for a time? I can assure you that nothing would give Zenda and myself greater pleasure."
Blake hesitated, but only for a moment.
"I regret it is impossible for us to accept your hospitality, Mr. Parak, greatly as we appreciate it," he said. "The game for us has not yet ended. Until I get Gunga Dass safely under lock and key in the condemned cell of an English prison, I shall know little peace of mind. The man is probably the most deadly menace society has ever known, and until the world, for all time, is rid of him, I shall be ceaseless in my vigilance."
Mr. Parak nodded. All India for years had rung with the news of Dass's daring and murderous enterprises.
"You are right," he said. "The man is more dangerous than the snake, and society will owe you a great debt when the monster is at last placed on your English gallows."
"I vote we run along to the police-khana and have a look at him," Tinker said. "Fine chap though Price is, he has not the knowledge of Dass's cunning that we have. What do you say, guv'nor?"
"I was about to suggest it," Blake said. Then, turning to the Parsee. "And now, Mr. Parak, we will take our farewell, happy in the knowledge that our poor efforts have ended so successfully."
But not until they had wrung the Britishers' hands again and again would father and daughter allow them to depart. Some time later they found themselves at the police-khana. Where Lieutenant Price met them.
"The submarine trick was a bit of smart work, Blake," said the officer admiringly. "I should never have thought of it in ten years, although I knew that the Gulf Fleet had come down from Basra and was anchored off the harbour. And now I suppose you want to take a glimpse of your bird? The fact that he is trapped doesn't seem to worry him much. In fact, he seems quite pleased with himself. Somehow I can't rid myself of the idea that the man has some cunning move up his sleeve."
Blake nodded shortly, and there were shadows in the alertly-thoughtful eyes. In silence he followed the officer to the strongly-guarded cell occupied by Dass. Men were stationed every few feet down the corridor, and outside the iron-bound door two juwans stood, alert and watchful, rifles in hand. Although escape for the Hindoo seemed impossible, the detective's face was graver than usual.
When they entered the cell, Dass rose to his feet, and his dark eyes sought Blake's with a mocking light in their slumberous depths. The reflected light of a screened lamp threw into relief the set and pitiless features beneath the jewelled turban.
A splendid and romantic figure, truly, even in the hour of his fall. But it was not the splendour, nor even the stern tragedy written on the handsome face, which caused Blake to feel a cold hand grasp at his confidence that Dass would prey upon the world no more. It was the sudden intuitive realisation that the battle was yet far from ended.
"Hail, Blake Sahib!" Dass said in Hindustani. "So thou hast come to mock me—to flaunt the laurels the eleventh hour hast given thee."
"You lie, Dass!" Blake said sternly. "I have come to see if your prison is sufficient guard against your devilish cunning. To-morrow I take you back to England with me. There a just punishment awaits you."
Dass's mocking laugh broke across the detective's words.
"And think you your prisons can hold me?" he said, and there was a world of confidence in his voice. "Bah, the swords are but sheathed for a time. One day I shall strike back, as strikes the cobra, silently and without warning. Even now the British Raj totters, and a strong man, at whose call ten thousand sabres would awaken from their scabbards in which they have slept so long, could bring it in crumbling ruins at his feet. You know my ambitions, Feringhee. Know you that no crime has yet soiled my hands which has not been a means to attain the ends I struggle for. I have sought to kill you because you are a man dangerous to my plans—a man of steel and iron, of untiring energy and great courage, I fear you, Westerner, and because I fear you I hate you. Is that not the way of the world? Yet even where I hate I admire, and when you die—for one day you will die at my hands, O wizard of the West—I shall know regret.
"Your accursed race waged determined war against my illustrious father, a great rajah of the North, because he saw fit to resist your invasion of our country. He died fighting, and I his son, was driven into exile, bereft of pomp and title, made an outcast. These things stirred me to the depths. Since then have I planned for the great hour when I should seek revenge for him and myself. And that hour approaches with flying feet. Soon all India will be ablaze. I have worked for it, slain for it, stooped to petty theft for it, and almost the hour has come."
"You speak like a child, Dass," Blake said. "How can you escape to do these things? I know you are possessed of gifts which my Western brain cannot penetrate; but they will aid you nothing against the stone and iron of a condemned cell. And your hatred and accusations against my race are unjust. Law and order now reigns where there had been nothing but plundering and devastation; prosperity where there had been endless famine. It is the strongest and wisest who conquer. The triumph of the weakling is but a short one, nor is the rule of the despot of long duration. Your father was a despot, and, because of that, in their wisdom, my race saw fit to dethrone him. And what is your chance against the Empire?
There are Englishmen whose deeds outrival the legends of Krishna. They fought in your youth, Dass, and you should know them."
Dass ground his teeth together in a storm of passion.
"They are dead." There was a reluctant admiration in his tone.
"Their sons live."
"The sons inherit not always the courage of their fathers," said Dass. "You scoff at my power! Wait until the swords that sleep in a hundred thousand scabbards awake at my word. Kali, the All-Highest, has shown me the way to serve my people, the path I must tread to fulfill my destiny.
Suddenly his face lost its regal grandness. Resolve was still there, but armed with treachery and all the hundred and one weapons of Oriental cunning.
"You doubt my ability to escape. Then watch, for in watching you will learn of the powers of Gunga Dass. In a few weeks it will be war once more between us, and when the time comes you will fight, not to drag me to the gallows, but for the accursed British Raj. And there are things more mightier than the sword."
For a moment the two men watched each other in silence, as two wrestlers, each seeking to measure the other's strength.
"It is well, Dass. If you have not boasted, we shall meet again."
"We shall meet again, Blake sahib," Dass said quietly. "Iron bars cannot hold one inspired by Kali."
Blake, followed by Tinker and Price, turned and left the cell.
*
Three weeks later Blake sat in the consult-room at Baker Street. After arriving at Tilbury that morning they had handed over their prisoner, who throughout the journey had been quiet and impassive, to Detective-inspector Rollings of New Scotland Yard, with instructions to guard him closely.
As Blake sat back in his chair and mused over the eventful past weeks, he wondered whether it had all been a dream; whether those weird, gruesome memories of the Temple of Death and its horrors were but a web woven in the loom of imagination; whether the picture he could call so vividly to his mind of the rock inscription telling that there, in the bowels of the mountain, was "The Temple of Kali, who wafts of the Souls of Men," was but a phantasy of the brain.
But then his eye falls upon one visible, tangible relic of the past, as it rests upon the desk before him. It is the delicately chiselled eye of Buddha, which had, unchangingly, seen generation after generation of worshippers drift past his altar, and the limpid stream which laved his feet of stone.
The Temple of Death was not a dream, but as real as the menacing shadow of Gunga Dass.
Roy Glashan's Library
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