CHAPTER VIII
FIRST STEPS
Forward on the promenade deck of the _Poonah,_ in the shadow of thebridge, Amber stood with both elbows on the rail, dividing his somewhatperturbed attention between a noisy lot of lascar stewards, deckhands,and native third-class passengers in the bows below, and the long linesof Saugor Island, just then slipping past on the starboard beam.
On either hand, ahead, the low, livid green banks of the Hooghly wereclosing in, imperceptibly constricting the narrow channel through whichthe tawny tide swirled down to the sea at the full force of its ebb.Struggling under this handicap, the _Poonah_ trembled from stem tostern with the heavy labouring of the screw, straining forward like athoroughbred, its strength almost spent, with the end of the race insight. Across the white gleaming decks, as the bows swung from port tostarboard and back again, following the channel, purple-black shadowsslipped like oil. A languid land-wind blew fitfully down the estuary,in warm puffs dense with sickly-sweet jungle reek. The day was hot andsticky with humidity; a haze like a wall of dust coloured the skiesalmost to the zenith.
It was ten o'clock in the morning; Calcutta lay a hundred miles up theriver, approximately. By evenfall Amber expected to be in the city,whether he stuck by the steamer until she docked in the port, or lefther at Diamond Harbour, sixty miles upstream, and finished his journeyby rail. At the present moment he hardly knew which to do; in theordinary course of events he would have gone ashore at Diamond Harbour,thereby gaining an hour or two in the city. But within the lasteighteen hours events had been diverted from their normal course; andAmber was deeply troubled with misgivings.
Up to the day that the Poonah had sailed from Tilbury Dock, London,from the time he had left Quain among the sand-dunes of Long Island, hehad not been conscious of any sort of espionage upon his movements.That gaunt and threatening figure which he had seen silhouetted againstthe angry dawn had not again appeared to disturb or trouble him. Hisjourney across the Atlantic had been uneventful; he had personallyinvestigated the saloon passenger lists, the second and third cabinsand the steerage of the _Lusitania,_ not forgetting the crew, only tobe reassured by the absence of anybody aboard who even remotelysuggested an Indian spy. But from the hour that the _Poonah_ with itsmiscellaneous ship's company, white, yellow, brown, and black, hadwarped out into the Thames, he had felt he was being watched--hadrealised it instinctively, having nothing definite whereon to base hisfeeling. He was neither timorous nor given to conjuring up shapes ofterror from the depths of a nervous imagination; the sensation of beingunder the surveillance of unseen, prying eyes is unmistakable. Yet hehad tried to reason himself out of the belief--after taking allsensible precautions, such as never letting the photograph of SophiaFarrell out of his possession and keeping the Token next his skin, in achamois bag that nestled beneath his arm, swinging from a leather cordround his neck. And as day blended into eventless day, he had lulledhimself into an uneasy indifference. What if he were watched? Whatcould it profit any one to know what he did or how he did it, day byday? And with increasing infrequency he had come to question himself asto the reason for the spying on his movements.
Possibly the fruitlessness of any such speculation had much to do withhis gradual cessation of interest in the enigma. He was not credulousof the power of divination popularly ascribed to the Oriental; he waslittle inclined to believe that the nature of his errand to India hadbeen guessed, or that any native intelligence in India knew orsuspected the secret of Sophia Farrell's parentage--Rutton's solicitudeto the contrary notwithstanding. The theory that he most favoured inexplanation of the interest in him was that it had somehow become knownthat he bore with him the emerald. It was quite conceivable that thatjewel, intrinsically invaluable, was badly wanted by its formerpossessors, whether for the simple worth of it or because it played animportant part in the intrigue, or whatever it was, that had resultedin Rutton's suicide. For his own part, Amber cared nothing for it; hehad christened it, mentally, the Evil Eye--with a smile to himself;nonetheless he half-seriously suspected it of malign properties. He wasimaginative enough for that--or superstitious, if you prefer.
He would, however, gladly have surrendered the jewel to those whocoveted it, in exchange for a promise of immunity from assassination,had he known whom to approach with the offer and been free to make it.But he must first show it to Dhola Baksh of the Machua Bazaar. Afterthat, when its usefulness had been discharged, he would be glad of thechance to strike such a bargain....
Such, in short, had been his frame of mind up to eight o'clock of theprevious evening. At that hour he had made a discovery which haddiverted the entire trend of his thoughts.
Doggott, ever a poor sailor, had been feeling ill and Amber had excusedhim early in the afternoon. About six o'clock he had gone to hisstateroom and dressed for dinner, unattended. Absorbed in anticipationsof the morrow, when first he should set foot in Calcutta and take thefirst step in pursuit of Sophia Farrell, he had absent-mindedlyneglected to empty the pockets of his discarded clothing. At seven hehad gone to dinner, leaving his stateroom door open, as was hishabit--a not unusual one with first-cabin passengers on longvoyages--and his flannels swinging from hooks in the wall. About eight,discovering his oversight through the absence of his cigarette-case, hehad hurried back to the stateroom to discover that he had beencuriously robbed.
His watch, his keys, his small change and his sovereign purse, hissilver cigarette-case--all the articles, in fact, that he wasaccustomed to stuff into his pockets--with one exception, were where hehad left them. But the leather envelope containing the portrait ofSophia Farrell was missing from the breast-pocket of his coat.
From the hour in which he had obtained it he had never but this oncelet it out of his personal possession. The envelope he had caused to beconstructed for its safe-keeping during his enforced inaction inLondon. He had never once looked at it save in strict privacy, secureeven from the eyes of Doggott; and the latter did not know what theleather case contained.
Thus his preconceived and self-constructed theory as to the extent ofThe Enemy's knowledge, was in an instant overthrown. "They" had seizedthe very first relaxation of his vigilance to rob him of that which hevalued most. And in his heart he feared and believed that the incidentindicated "their" intimacy not alone with his secret but with thatwhich he shared with Colonel Farrell.
Since then his every move toward regaining the photograph had beenfruitless. His stateroom steward, a sleek, soft Bengali boy who hadattended him all through the voyage with every indication of eagernessto oblige him, professed entire ignorance of the theft. That was onlyto be expected. But when Amber went to the purser and the lattercross-examined the steward in his presence, the Bengali stuck to hisprotestations of innocence without the tremor of an eyelash. In fact,he established an alibi by the testimony of his fellow-stewards.Further, when Amber publicly offered a reward of five guineas "and noquestions asked" and in private tempted the Bengali with much largeramounts, he accomplished nothing.
In the end, and in despair, Amber posted a notice on the ship'sbulletin-board, offering fifty guineas reward for the return of thephotograph to him either before landing or at the Great Eastern Hotel,Calcutta, and having thereby established his reputation as a mildlunatic, sat down to twirl his thumbs and await the outcome,confidently anticipating there would be none. "They" had outwitted himand not five hundred guineas would tempt "them," he believed. Itremained only to contrive a triumph in despite of this setback.
But how to set about it? How might he plan against forces of whose verynature he was ignorant--save that he guessed them to be evil? How couldhe look ahead and scheme to circumvent the unguessable machinations ofthe unknown?... His wits, like wild things in a cage, batteredthemselves to exhaustion against the implacable bars of hisunderstanding.
For the thousand-and-first time he reviewed the maddeningly scantystore of facts at his command, turning them over and over in his mind,vainly hopeful of inferring a clue. But, as always, he found histhoughts circli
ng a beaten track of conjecture.... What dread power hadhounded Rutton, forth from the haunts of his kind, from pillar to postof the world (as he had said) to his death among the desolate dunes ofLong Island? What "staggering blow against the peace and security ofthe world" could that or any power possibly strike, with Rutton for itstool, once it had caught and bent him to its will? What fear had setupon his lips a seal so awful that even in the shadow of death he hadnot dared speak, though to speak were to save the one being to whom hisheart turned in the end? To save his daughter from what, had hevoluntarily renounced her, giving her into another's care, forswearinghis paternal title to her love, refusing himself even the cold comfortof seeing her attain to the flower of her womanly beauty as another'schild? What--finally--was the ordeal of the Gateway of Swords, and whatcould it be that made the Gateway of Death seem preferable to it?
For the thousand-and-first time Amber abandoned his efforts to divinethe inscrutable, to overcome the insurmountable, to attain to theinaccessible, but abandoned them grudgingly, grimly denying thepossibility of ultimate failure. Though he were never to know the darkheart of the mystery, yet would he snatch from its pythonic coils thewoman he had sworn to save, the woman he loved!
And while the black steamer with the buff super-structure toiled on,cleaving its arduous way through the turbulent yellow flood between thecontracting shores of the Sunderbunds, while the offshore wind buffetedAmber's cheeks with the hot panting breath of Bengal, his eyes, dimmedwith dreaming, saw only Her face.
So often of late had he in solitude pondered her photograph, strivingto solve the puzzle of her heart that was to him a mystery asunfathomable as that which threatened her, that he had merely to thinkof her to bring her picture vividly before him. He could close his eyes(he closed them now, shutting out the moving panorama of the river) andsee the girl that he had known in those few dear hours: the girl witheyes as brown as sepia but illumined by traces of gold in theirides--eyes that could smile and frown and be sweetly grave, all inthe time that a man needs to catch his breath; the girl with theimmaculate, silken skin, milk-white, with the rose-blush of young bloodbeneath; with lips softly crimson as satin petals of a flower, thatcould smile a man into slavery; the girl to contemplate whose adorablymodelled chin and firm, round, young neck would soften the austerity ofan anchorite; in whose hair was blended every deep shade of bronze andgold....
Something clutched at his heart as with a hand of ice. He could neverforget, dared not remember what he could not believe yet dared notdeny. To him, reared as he had been, the barrier of mixed blood rosebetween them, a thing surmountable only at the cost of caste; theshadow of that horror lay upon his soul like ink--as black as thesilhouetted rails and masts and rigging of the _Poonah_ on her deadwhite decks. He could win her heart only to lose his world. And stillhe loved, still pursued his steadfast way toward her, knowing that,were he to find her and his passion to be returned, death alone couldavert their union in marriage. He might not forget but ... he loved.With him the high wind of Romance was a living gale, levelling everyobstacle between him and the desire of his heart.
This is to be borne in mind: it was the man's first love. Theretoforethe habits of a thinker had set his feet in paths apart from those ofother men. Pretty women he had always admired--from a discreetdistance; that distance abridged, he had always found himself a littleafraid of and dismayed by them. They were the world's disturbingelement; they took men's lives in the rosy hollows of their palms andmoulded them as they would. While Amber had desired to mould his ownlife. The theme of love that runs a golden thread through the drabfabric of existence had to him been an illusion--a hallucination towhich others were subject, from which he was happily, if unaccountably,exempt. But that had been yesterday; to-day....
In the afternoon the _Poonah_ touched at Diamond Harbour, landing themajority of her passengers. Amber was among those few who remainedaboard.
When the steamer swung off from the jetty and, now aided by afavourable tide, resumed her progress up the river, he replaced hisnotice on the bulletin-board with one offering a hundred guineas forthe return of the photograph before they docked in the port ofCalcutta; the offer of fifty guineas for its return to the GreatEastern Hotel remained unaltered.
His anticipations were not disappointed; positively nothing came of it.All afternoon the _Poonah_ plodded steadily on toward the pall of smokethat hemmed the northern horizon. The reedy river banks narrowed andreceded, gorgeous with colour, unvaryingly monotonous, revealingnothing. Behind walls of rank foliage, dense green curtains almostimpenetrable even to light, the flat and spongy delta of the Ganges laydecorously screened. If now and again the hangings parted theydisclosed nothing more than a brief vista of half-stagnant water or alittle clearing, half-overgrown, with the crumbling red brick walls ofsome roofless and abandoned dwelling.
In the lavender and gold and scarlet of a windless sunset, Calcuttalifted suddenly up before them, a fairy city, mystic and unreal withits spires and domes and minarets a-glare with hot colour behind ahedge of etched black masts and funnels--all dimmed and made indefiniteby a heavy dun haze of smoke: lifted up in glory against the eveningsky and was blotted out as if by magic by the swooping night; thenlived again in a myriad lights pin-pricked upon the densebluish-blackness.
The _Poonah_ slipped in to her dock under cover of darkness. Amber,disembarking with Doggott, climbed into an open ghari on the landingstage and was driven swiftly to his hotel.
As he alighted and, leaving Doggott to settle with the ghariwallah,crossed the sidewalk to the hotel entrance, a beggar slipped throughthe throng of wayfarers, whining at his elbow:
"Give, O give, Protector of the Poor!"
Preoccupied, Amber hardly heard, and passed on; but the native stuckleech-like to his side.
"Give, hazoor--and the mercy of God shall be upon the Heaven-born forten-thousand years!"
Now "Heaven-born" is flattery properly reserved for those who sit inhigh places. Amber turned and eyed the man curiously, at the same timedropping into the filthy, importunate palm a few annas.
"May the shadow of the Heaven-born be long upon the land, when he shallhave passed through the Gateway of Swords!"
And like a flash the man was gone--dodging nimbly round the ghari andacross Old Court House Street, losing himself almost instantly in thepress of early evening traffic.
"The devil!" said Amber thoughtfully. "Why should it be assumed that Ihave any shadow of an intention of entering that damnable Gateway ofSwords?"
An incident at the desk, while he was arranging for his room, furthermystified him. He had given his name to the clerk, who looked up,smiling.
"Mr. David Amber?" he said.
"Why, yes--"
"We were expecting you, sir. You came by the _Poonah_?"
"Yes, but--"
"There's a note for you." The man turned to a rack, sorting out a smallsquare envelope from others pigeon-holed under "A."
Could it be possible that Sophia Farrell had been advised of hiscoming? Amber's hand trembled slightly with eagerness and excitement ashe took the missive.
"An Eurasian boy left it for you half an hour ago," said the clerk.
"Thank you," returned Amber, controlling himself sufficiently to waituntil he should be conducted to his room before opening the note.
It was not, he observed later, superscribed in a feminine hand. Couldit be from Quain's friend Labertouche? Who else?... Amber lifted hisshoulders resignedly. "I wish Quain had minded his own business," hesaid ungratefully; "I can take care of myself. This Labertouche'llprobably make life a misery for me."
There was a quality in the note, however, to make him forget hisresentment of Quain's well-meant interference.
"My dear Sir," it began formally: "Quain's letter did not reach meuntil this afternoon; a circumstance which I regret. Otherwise I shouldbe better prepared to assist you. I have, on the other hand, set afootenquiries which may shortly result in some interesting informationbearing upon the matters which engage yo
u. I expect to have news of theFs. to-night, and shall be glad to communicate it to you at once. I ampresuming that you purpose losing no time in attending to the affair ofthe goldsmith, but I take the liberty of advising you that to attemptto find him without proper guidance or preparation would be anundertaking hazardous in the extreme. May I offer you my services? Ifyou decide to accept them, be good enough to come before ten to-nightto the sailors' lodging house known as 'Honest George's,' back of theLal Bazaar, and ask for Honest George himself, refraining frommentioning my name. Dress yourself in your oldest and shabbiestclothing; you cannot overdo this, since the neighbourhood isquestionable and a well-dressed man would immediately become an objectof suspicion. Do not wear the ring; keep it about you, out of sight.Should this fail to reach you in time, try to-morrow night betweeneight and ten. You would serve us both well by _burning_ thisimmediately. Pray believe me yours to command in all respects."
There was no signature.
Amber frowned and whistled over this. "Undoubtedly from Labertouche,"he considered. "But why this flavour of intrigue? Does he know anythingmore than I do? I presume he must. It'd be a great comfort if.... Holdon. 'News of the Fs.' That spells the Farrells. How in blazes does heknow anything about the Farrells? I told Quain nothing.... Can it be atrap? Is it possible that the chap who took that photographrecognised...?"
The problem held him in perplexity throughout the evening meal. Heturned it over this way and that without being able to arrive at anycomforting solution. Impulse in the end decided him--impulse and aglance at his watch which told him that the time grew short. "I'll go,"he declared, "no matter what. It's nearly nine, but the Lal Bazaar'snot far."
In the face of Doggott's unbending disapproval he left the hotel sometwenty minutes later, having levied on Doggott's wardrobe for suitableclothing. Dressed in an old suit of soft grey serge, somewhat too largefor him, and wearing a grey felt hat with the brim pulled down over hiseyes, he felt that he was not easily to be identified with hisevery-day self--the David Amber whose exacting yet conservative"correctness" had become a by-word with his friends.
Once away from the Great Eastern he quietly insinuated himself into thetide of the city's night life that tirelessly ebbs and flows north ofDalhousie Square--the restless currents of native life that moveceaselessly in obedience to impulses so meaningless and strange to theOccidental understanding. Before he realised it he had leftcivilisation behind him and was breathing the atmosphere, heady andweird, of the Thousand-and-One Nights. The Lal Bazaar seethed round himnoisily, with a roaring not unlike that of a surf in the hearing of himwho had so long lived separate from such scenes. But gradually thestrangeness of it passed away and he began to feel at home. And erelong he passed in a single stride from the glare of many lights and thetumult of a hundred tongues to the dark and the quiet hush of an alleythat wormed a sinuous way through the hinterland of the bazaar. Herethe air hung close and still and gravid with the odour of the East,half stench, half perfume, wholly individual and indescribable; hereblack shadows clung jealously to black and slimy walls, while lighterones but vaguely suggestive of robed figures glided silently hither andyon; and odd noises, whispers, sobs, sounds of laughter and of rage,assailed the ear and excited the imagination....
At a corner where there was more light he came upon a policeman whosetunic, helmet, and truncheon were so closely patterned after those ofthe London Bobby that the simple sight of them was calculated to reviveconfidence in the security of one's person. He inspected Amber shrewdlywhile the latter was asking his way to Honest George's, and in responsejerked a white-gloved thumb down the wide thoroughfare.
"You carn't miss it, sir--s'ylors' boardin'-'ouse, all lit up andlikely with a row on at the bar. Mind your eye, guv'nor. It ayn't aplyce you'd ought to visit on your lone."
"Thanks; I've business there. I reckon to take care of myself."
Nevertheless it was with a mind preyed upon by forebodings that Amberstumbled down the cobbled way, reeking with filth, toward theestablishment of Honest George. Why on earth should Labertouche make anappointment in so unholy a spot? Amber's doubts revived and he becamemore than half persuaded that this must be a snare devised by thoseacute intelligences which had instigated both the theft of thephotograph and that snarled mock-benediction of the mendicant.
"I don't like it," he admitted ruefully; "it's so canny."
He stopped in front of a building whose squat brick facade was letteredwith the reassuring sobriquet of its proprietor. A bench, running thewidth of the structure, was thick with sprawling loafers, who smokedand spat and spoke a jargon of the seas, the chief part of which wasblasphemy. Within, visible through windows never closed, was a crowdedbarroom ablaze with flaring gas-jets, uproarious with voices thick withdrink.
One needed courage of no common order to run the gauntlet of that rowdyroom and brave the more secret dangers of the infamous den. "You've gotto have your nerve with you," Amber put it. "But I suppose it's all inthe game. Let's chance it." And he entered.
Compared with the atmosphere of that public-room a blast from Hell weresweet and cooling, thought Amber; the first whiff he had of it all butstaggered him; and he found himself gasping, perspiration starting fromevery pore. Faint with disgust he elbowed his way through the mob tothe bar, thankful that those about him, absorbed in the engrossingoccupation of getting drunk, paid him not the least heed. Flatteninghimself against the rail he cast about for the proprietor. A blowsy,sweating barmaid caught his eye and without a word slapped down uponthe sloppy counter before him a glass four fingers deep withunspeakable whiskey. And he realised that he would have to drink it; torefuse would be to attract attention, perhaps with unpleasantconsequences. "It's more than I bargained for," he grumbled, making apretence of swallowing the dose, and to his huge relief managing tospill two-thirds of it down the front of his coat. What he swallowedbit like an acid. Tears came to his eyes, but he choked down the cough,and as soon as he could speak paid the girl. "Where's the boss?" heasked.
"Who?" Her glance was penetrating. "Oh, he's wytin' for you." Shenodded, lifting a shrill voice. "Garge, O Garge! 'Ere's that Yankee."With a bare red elbow she indicated the further end of the room."You'll find 'im down there," she said, her look not unkindly.
Amber thanked her quietly and, extricating himself from the press roundthe bar, made his way in the direction indicated. A couple of billiardtables with a small mob of onlookers hindered him, but by main strengthand diplomacy he wormed his way past and reached the rear of the room.There were fewer loafers here and he had little hesitation aboutselecting from an attendant circle of sycophants the genius of thedive--Honest George himself, a fat and burly ruffian who filled tooverflowing the inadequate accommodation of an armchair. Sitting thusenthroned in his shirt-sleeves, his greasy and unshaven red faceirradiating a sort of low good-humour that was belied by the coldcunning of his little eyes, he fulfilled admirably the requirements ofthe role he played self-cast.
"'Ere, you!" he hailed Amber brusquely. "You're a 'ell of a job-'unter,ain't you? Mister Abercrombie's been wytin' for you this hour gone.'Know the w'y upstairs?"
His tone was boisterous enough to fix upon Amber the attention of theknot of loafers round the arm-chair. Amber felt himself under theparticular regard of a dozen pair of eyes, felt that his measure wastaken and his identification complete. Displeased, he answered curtly:"No."
"This w'y, then." Honest George hoisted himself ponderously out of hisarm-chair and lumbered heavily across the room, shouldering the crowdaside with a high-handed contempt for the pack of them. Jerking open asmall door in the side wall, he beckoned Amber on with a backward nodof his heavy head. "Be a bit lively, carn't you?" he growled; andAmber, in despite of qualms of distrust, followed the fellow into asmall and noisome hallway lighted by a single gas-jet. On the one handa flight of rickety steps ran up into repellent obscurity; on the othera low door stood open to the night.
The crimp lowered his voice. "Your friend's this w'y." He waved his fatred hand to
ward the door. "Them fools back there 'll think you'retryin' for a berth with Abercrombie, the ship-master. I 'opes you'llnot tyke offense at the w'y I 'ad to rag you back there, sir."
"No," said Amber, and Honest George led the way out into a small,flagged well between towering black walls and left him at the thresholdof a second doorway. "Two flights up, the door at the top," he said;"knock twice and then twice." And without waiting for an answer helurched heavily back to his own establishment.
Amber watched his broad back fill the dimly-lighted doorway oppositeand disappear, of two minds whether or not to turn tail and run.Suspicious enough in the beginning, the affair had now an exceedingevil smell--as repulsive figuratively as was the actual effluvium ofthe premises. He hung hesitant in doubt, with a heart oppressed bythose grim and silent walls of blackness that loomed above him. Withfeet slipping on slimy flags he might be pardoned for harbouringsuspicions of some fouler treachery. The yawning mouth of the narrowdoorway, with the blackness of Erebus within, was deterring at itsbest; in such a hole a man might be snared and slain and his screams,though they rang to high Heaven, would fall meaningless on mundaneears. Honest George's with its flare of lights and its crowd had beenquestionable enough....
With a shrug, at length, he took his courage in his hands--and hislife, too, for all he knew to the contrary--and moved on into theblackness, groping his way cautiously down a short corridor, hisfingers on either side brushing walls of rotten plaster. He hadabsolutely nothing to guide him beyond the crimp's terse instructions.Underfoot the flooring seemed to sag ominously; it creaked hideously.Abruptly he stumbled against an obstruction, halted, and lighted amatch.
The insignificant flame showed him a flight of stairs, leading up todarkness. With a drumming heart he began to ascend, counting twenty-onesteps ere his feet failed to find another. Then groping again, one handencountered a baluster-rail; with this for guide he turned and followedit until it began to slant upwards. This time he counted sixteen stepsbefore his eyes, rising above the level of the upper floor, discoveredto him a thin line of light, bright along the threshold of a door. Hebegan to breathe more freely, yet apprehension kept him strung up to ahigh tension of nerves.
He knuckled the door loudly--one double knock followed by another.
From within a voice called cheerfully, in English: "Come in."
He fumbled for the knob, found and turned it, and entered a small,low-ceiled chamber, very cosy with lamplight, and simply furnished witha single chair, a charpoy, a water-jug, a large mirror, and beneath thelatter a dressing-table littered with a collection of toilet gear,cosmetics and bottles, which would have done credit to an actress.
There was but a single person in the room and he occupied the chairbefore the dressing-table. As Amber came in, he rose; a middle-agedbabu in a suit of pink satin, very dirty. In one hand something caughtthe light, glittering.
"Oah, Mister Amber, I believe?" he gurgled, oily and affable. "Believeme most charmed to make acquaintance." And he laughed agreeably.
But Amber's face had darkened. With an oath he sprang back, threw hisweight against the door, and with his left hand shot the bolt, whilehis right whipped from his pocket Rutton's automatic pistol.
"Drop that gun, you monkey!" he cried sharply. "I was afraid of this,but I think you and I'll have an accounting before any one else gets inhere."