Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 13
Woodring dropped to the floor, started crawling. He saw the silhouette of the husky looming in the faint grey light that marked the stairway. He turned, scrambled for the glow of the charcoal brazier.
He seized the simmering kettle, flung it towards the foot of the stairs. Renewed howls told him he had scored a direct hit.
He picked up the brazier, hurled it across the room before it burned his hands. The brazier struck the upturned table, spewed a glowing wave of live coals over the floor. A ripple of flame leaped from the kerosene spilled from the broken lamp.
Woodring had a brief glimpse of Vaznilko by the lurid light. The Count was frantically trying to beat out the fire crawling up his oil-soaked trousers.
The figure of the pseudo-blind man arose before Woodring. The blade of his kukri flashed upward. As it poised for a gleaming instant at the top of its swing, Woodring’s right arm lashed out. His fist smacked into the knife-wielder’s face. Before the man hit the floor, Woodring was hurtling up the stairs.
He ran down the dark hallway. He heard furious footsteps pounding up the staircase behind him. The outside door resisted his first effort to yank it open. His hand groped desperately over the smooth surface of the door, found a bolt. Swiftly he drew it back, burst out into the open.
After running half-way down the hillside to the bazaar, he slackened his pace. A British constable was standing on the last step of the flight, idly watching the confusion of the bazaar.
Woodring inhaled deeply. Never had a breath of air seemed so sweet, or the light of day so dazzlingly beautiful.
Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram was squatting on the floor outside of Woodring’s room, his lank knees drawn up under his black chin, when Woodring returned to Cotton-tree Lodge. He uncoiled himself, stood up, started to salaam—then stared bug-eyed at his dishevelled master.
“The sahib has seen the snows!” he gasped.
“The sahib has seen the snows,” said Woodring.
“And snows were red?”
“They were red.”
“On third morning!” The Tamil youth shuddered and muttered an incantation which followers of Shiva pronounce to ward off the malevolent influence of the Evil Eye. “Then adverse luck has begun?”
“On the contrary, Clemenceau,” said Woodring. “I’ve just been lucky. Very damned lucky, in fact.”
“But sahib’s eye is somewhat damaged. And clothing is totally disarranged. Am certain—”
“Any message for me, Clemenceau?” Woodring took out his keys.
“No, Sahib.”
“No one came here looking for me?”
“Nobody, Sahib.”
“Sure of that, Clemenceau?”
“Quite, Sahib,” the black youth insisted. “Have been guarding portals with great diligence.”
Woodring entered his room, closed the door behind him. The first thing that caught his eye was an open window directly opposite. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with a window being open—the bearer had probably been airing the room—yet the fact that the room was on the ground floor made Woodring instantly apprehensive.
He strode over to the window, frowned as he noticed that the shrubbery just outside had been bent and broken. He was still frowning when he heard a faint sigh behind him. He whirled.
Leda Carmaine was sitting on the edge of his bed.
She was sitting up very straight, as though making an effort to keep from toppling over. A cape of midnight blue hung from her shoulders, hiding her arms which were folded behind her. She was very pale, and a long livid welt crossed her left temple. She was hatless, and there was a leaf caught in her hair.
Woodring glowered at her for a moment before he said, “So you’re still at it.”
“I had a frightful time getting here,” said Leda, in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Woodring. “I’d guess the window, for one thing. Have you a prejudice against using doors?”
“I was afraid your bearer wouldn’t let me in … and I had to see you.”
“You might at least have closed the window,” said Woodring.
“I tried to,” said Leda, “but it was … I couldn’t manage.” She closed her eyes. “I’ve never fainted in my life,” she added. “But I suppose there has to be a first time—for everything.”
“Now listen,” said Woodring, “if you’re putting on a performance for my benefit, you can spare yourself the trouble. I’ve had about all the entertainment I can stand for a while. Your pal the Count just staged an amusing little number for me.”
Leda Carmaine opened her eyes. “Then … I’m too late?”
“You’re too late for the first act. But don’t feel badly. There’s probably more coming.”
Leda stood up. Her cloak dropped to the floor.
“Would you mind untying my hands?” she asked.
Woodring stared. One shoulder was torn from Leda’s dress, exposing cruel, dark bruises that might have been raised by the lash of a whip. She turned around slowly. Her hands were bound behind her back. Her wrists were chafed by efforts to free herself. Still, Woodring hesitated. This might be just another play for his sympathy, another trap …
“Please,” said Leda.
Woodring strode over, set to work on the knots. He said, “I suppose Vaznilko did this.”
Leda nodded.
“Why?” Woodring demanded.
“Oh, we had a … slight argument—about you.”
“Me?” Woodring looked up from the tangle of cord.
“Yes, you. The Count accused me of having an interest in you that was not … well, professional.”
“You’re untied,” said Woodring curtly. “So you can go back now. I don’t need your help.”
Leda Carmaine turned around. She held her freed arms in front of her, looked at her chafed wrists.
“Thank you,” she said. “I can do the rest myself.”
She lifted the hem of her skirt. There was another length of cord bound tightly around her knees. She bent to loosen it. Then, before Woodring could move to catch her, she toppled over to the floor.
He stooped, gathered her in his arms. The hollow of her knees rested upon his right forearm, and her silken legs dangled lifelessly. The curve of her back slid into the angle of his left arm until her bare, bruised shoulder lay in the concavity of his hand. He was surprised that she seemed so light. He was scarcely aware of her weight, yet he was definitely aware of her nearness to him. She was such a damned alluring morsel!
Her eyes! That strange, perturbing light that shone from far inside their enigmatic depths, shone from another world perhaps, from another century, was not for him. Their dark lustre chilled him with a terrifying sense of the ruthless cunning of primeval Asia. The deep spark of guile faded instantly into an almost naïve tenderness, but Woodring could not rid himself of the first sinister impression.
“Better now?” he asked curtly.
In reply, her arm tightened about him. She smiled. In spite of himself, Woodring smiled in return.
There was a knock at the door. Gently but quickly Woodring let her feet slide to the floor. Her arm still clung to his neck.
The door opened wide. Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram said, “Sahib, there is—” He stopped, then added, “Pardon, Sahib! Ten thousand pardons!”
But he could not get the door closed because Ruth Ingram was already two steps into the room.
When she saw Woodring and Leda, Ruth recoiled half a step, as though she had been struck. For an instant her trim figure seemed to wilt, but only for the briefest of instants. Then it stiffened into proud contempt, as she asked:
“Isn’t it rather early in the morning for this sort of thing, Paul?”
“See here, Ruth,” said Woodring testily. “Don’t act like a child. Miss Carmaine’s got herself into considerable of a mess, trying to do me a good turn.”
“Yes, of course,” said Ruth in the same icy tones.
“Ruth, listen—”
“I came to see you,” Ruth continued, “because I had an important message from Uncle Alex, which I thought you ought to have right away. I had no idea you were busy.” She flounced towards the door.
The door slammed. It opened again almost immediately. The black head of Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram made a tentative appearance.
“Am overflowing with remorse, Sahib,” the Tamil said. “Had no inkling that sahib was entertaining previously. Otherwise should have prevented—”
“Get out!” said Woodring.
“Sahib should not have gazed at snows while red,” said the Tamil. The door closed.
Woodring had taken a belated bath and was shaving when his bearer came in with an envelope.
“Who brought the chit, Clemenceau?” Woodring asked, as he scraped the lather from his chin.
“The Mem-sahib’s bearer, Sahib—the Mem-sahib with the blue eyes.”
Woodring put down his razor, ripped open the envelope. He recognised the vertical copy-book hand:
“Dear Paul: You were right. I was acting like a child and I’m sincerely sorry. Will you come to tiffin with me so that I may apologise properly? The matter I mentioned this morning will be definitely concluded at ten o’clock to-night. I don’t dare entrust the details to this note, but will give them to you when I see you at noon. Contritely,
Ruth.”
Woodring crumpled the paper into a ball, tossed it over his shoulder. He whistled softly as he finished shaving. He felt particularly light-hearted, he told himself, because the end of his mission was in sight. Blenn had apparently been doing the undercover work himself, re-establishing the twice-broken contracts with Quombi La. And at ten o’clock the whole messy business would be over.
At noon he was asking for Ruth Ingram at the Woodlands Hotel.
“Miss Ingram’s not in, sir,” the clerk said.
“Not in? She was expecting me.”
“She went out half an hour ago, sir. She seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.”
“Did she leave any word for me?” Woodring asked.
“No, sir,” the clerk replied. “As I said before, sir, she seemed in a bit of a hurry.”
Woodring turned away from the desk. Ruth had probably gone out on some last-minute errand. Women, he believed, always had last-minute errands. She would undoubtedly be back for tiffin. He would wait. He sat down and ordered a gin-and-bitters.
He had consumed three gin-and-bitters before he decided he had better look at his watch. It was long after one o’clock. Ruth was more than an hour late.
He sauntered to the entrance of the dining-room, glanced in to see if she might be waiting for him there. She wasn’t. He inquired again at the desk. She had not returned. He went upstairs to her room.
After knocking several times, he tried the door, found it unlocked. He walked in. At first glance he saw nothing amiss in the room. There was no evidence of the hurried flight the hotel clerk spoke of. Yet Woodring began a thorough search for some clue as to where Ruth may have gone. He found it on the dressing-table. An envelope, stuck into the frame of the mirror, was addressed simply: “Paul.” Woodring opened it and read:
“Dear Paul:
“I am leaving this for you here because if I am back in time, there will be no need for you to have it, and if I’m not back, then I know you will be up here looking for me. At least, I think you will.
“What has happened is this: A chaprassi has just come, saying that Uncle Alex urgently wants to see me. He won’t tell me where Uncle Alex is, but this is not unusual, since my uncle is obviously guarding the secret of his hiding-place very carefully. So I am going with him.
“Nevertheless, so many strange and awful things have been happening lately, that I am not completely reassured. If I am prevented from returning in time, then, here is the information I was to give you: The time I already told you. The gentleman is the same you were to meet this morning. The place is the Lamasery of the Red Monks on the Lebong Road. Good luck, Paul.
Ruth.”
Woodring had just finished reading the note when there was a timid knock on the door. He thrust the paper into his pocket, tiptoed across the room. He stood at the door, listening, while the knock was repeated twice. Finally a man’s voice said, “It’s just Mr. Hubertson. Could I speak to you a moment?”
Woodring opened the door.
“You!” said Hubertson. Then a sly smile crinkled his lips. “I might have known you’d be here. So much the better. I came to ask if there was any news from—What’s the matter, Woodring? You look as though you’d just lost your best friend.”
Woodring said nothing. With a gesture of his head he motioned to Hubertson to come in.
“Where’s Miss Ingram?” Hubertson asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You—Has anything happened?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Woodring. “Look at this.”
He handed Hubertson Ruth’s note. The white-haired engineer adjusted his pince-nez. His lips moved as he scanned the lines.
“I’ve been waiting nearly two hours,” said Woodring. “And the hotel clerk said she left half an hour before I arrived.”
“Wel-l-l …” Hubertson pursed his lips as he handed back the note. “There may not be anything wrong. After all, Mr. Blenn may be at some distance in the hills, and travel on horseback is not very rapid, you know. She’ll probably return soon.”
“She won’t!” Woodring declared. “She’s been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? But, my dear Woodring, what for?”
“For ransom,” Woodring replied. “Only it won’t be paid in money. Whoever kidnapped Ruth will demand the envelope that the Nawab of Shimalghar is so anxious to get.”
“When were you to conclude your deal with the Nawab’s agent?”
“At ten to-night.”
“And in the meantime, what do you plan to do?”
“Wait,” said Woodring. “Wait for a message from Ruth—or the man who kidnapped her.”
“And if the message is what you expect,” asked Hubertson, “will you be able to conclude the deal on Shimalghar?”
“I’ll decide when I get the message.”
Hubertson patted him paternally on the shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let’s wait for her downstairs. It may not be as bad as you think.”
They waited. Woodring drank chota pegs—he didn’t know how many. He drank them automatically, and without the slightest effort. His nerves were too tensely knotted, his brain too full of tumultuous, confusing thoughts, to respond to the action of the whisky.
At four o’clock Ruth Ingram had not returned. Woodring got up suddenly, took his leave of Hubertson, hurried back to Cotton-tree Lodge. The message which he expected and dreaded had arrived!
With reluctant fingers he took the soiled envelope from Georges Clemenceau Malaswaram. He stared at it for at least thirty seconds without opening it.
“Where did you get this, Clemenceau?” he asked.
“Smallish coolie brought same momentarily, Sahib,” said the bearer. “Slightly soiled Lepcha coolie exuding unsanitary odours. No doubt containing bad news, Sahib, since red snows—”
“Chup raho!” snapped Woodring, at last opening the envelope.
The message was in pencil, printed in block letters—although there was no need to disguise the handwriting as far as Woodring was concerned. He was convinced he knew the author. The text read:
WOODRING—MISS INGRAM IS SAFE AND WILL HAVE THE BEST OF CARE UNTIL NINE O’CLOCK TO-NIGHT. BEYOND THAT TIME HER SAFETY IS IN YOUR HANDS. AT NINE O’CLOCK YOU WILL ENGAGE A HORSE AND RIDE NORTHWARD ALONG THE LEBONG ROAD. WHEN YOU HAVE GONE A MILE BEYOND THE JUNCTION OF BIRCH HILL ROAD WATCH THE BRIDLE PATHS COMING IN FROM THE RIGHT. WHEN YOU SEE A WHITE CLOTH HANGING FROM A BRANCH, TURN INTO THE PATH AND CONTINUE RIDING UNTIL YOU SEE A LIGHT FLASH TWICE. YOU WILL THEN TURN YOUR HORSE AROUND. DROP AN ENVELOPE CONTAINING A CERTAIN PHOTOGRAPHIC NEGATIVE, AND RIDE BACK TO THE ROAD. IF YOU FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS, MISS INGRAM WILL RETURN TO HER HOTEL BY TEN-THIRTY. IF YOU FAIL IN ANY PARTICULAR, IF YOU NOTIFY THE POLICE OR ANY THIRD PARTY, OR IF YOU ATTEMPT TO HAVE YOURSELF FOLLOWED, SHE WILL NEVER RETURN. YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT WE ARE IN DEADLY EARNEST.
There was no signature.
Woodring read the note three times. Although he knew in advance what it would contain, the sight of the words started a cold, numb feeling of frustration creeping over him. He continued to stare at the paper when he had finished reading it. Then he became slowly aware that some one was standing behind him. He whirled.
“Hope I’m not intruding, old man,” said Henry Emmet-Tansley, “but finding myself in an unexpected state of sobriety this afternoon, it occurred to me that I owed you an apology for being slightly bottled on each of our previous meetings. So I’ve come to ask you to have dinner with me to-night. You might bring Miss Ingram, so I can apologise for barging into her compartment on the Mail. And—I say, old man, are you ill? You’re white as a ghost.”
“I’m quite all right,” said Woodring.
“Then you’ll come to dinner to-night?”
“Thanks,” said Woodring, “but I expect to be very busy to-night.”
“And Miss Ingram?”
“She’ll be busy too.”
“That’s too bad.” Emmet-Tansley glanced curiously at the paper which Woodring still held in his hand. “Well, some other time, then,” he added. “Meanwhile keep out of mischief, won’t you?”
“Good-bye,” said Woodring. “And thanks.”
As he watched Emmet-Tansley leave, he wondered vaguely whether the red-head had been reading over his shoulder before he was aware of his presence.
It did not take Woodring long to make his decision. It was made, in fact, before he was even certain that Ruth had been kidnapped. He had always known there could be no alternative.
To give up the photographic negative to Ruth’s kidnappers would mean a personal loss of 25,000 rupees, for the Shimalghar deal, apparently, was as good as concluded. It would also mean a loss of his future with the Blenn organisation. Blenn couldn’t very well give him the sack for acting on behalf of Ruth, but he would certainly blame him for the failure of his great ambition which hinged on the Shimalghar Concession. Moreover, Blenn was obviously not very sentimental about his niece, or he would never have manceuvered her into an engagement with Basil Stiller.
