Bombay Mail, page 14
Chapter Nineteen: CHAMBER OF HORROR
Jack Hawley stood with his back against the door of Doctor Lenoir’s compartment, returning the stares of Xavier and Martini.
“Let’s sit down,” said Xavier at last.
“Not yet,” said Hawley. “I’ve got a little business to transact with your friend here.”
“My friend?” Xavier looked at Martini in bland astonishment. “Why, I never saw the man before.”
“Funny you’d hire a perfect stranger to rob me,” said Hawley.
“Rob you?” Xavier continued to be the most amazed person on earth.
Hawley nodded.
“Surprised, aren’t you?” he inquired. “How does it happen that you two travel in the same compartment?”
“This is my compartment,” lied Xavier. “I was out strolling around at the last station, and when I came back, this man was here. Probably just got on the train.”
“He’s been on for some time,” said Hawley. “Haven’t you— What is your name, anyhow?”
“Who, me? Giovanni Martini, whadya tink!” said the man with the fez.
“What did he steal from you, Hawley, old man?” asked Xavier with great concern.
“You’ll see,” snapped Hawley. “Take off your clothes, Martini.”
“Take off—what?”
“Strip,” ordered Hawley, “to the skin!”
Martini sputtered in protest. Hawley seized him by the collar.
“Take off every stitch,” said Hawley, “or I’ll tear ’em off.”
“I say,” said Xavier, “you can’t make a man—”
“I’m doing it, ain’t I?” countered Hawley savagely. Martini had suddenly become docile. Obediently he was getting undressed. Xavier, his nostrils quivering like a rabbit’s, was watching him through narrowed eyes. Hawley was snatching at each garment, turning it inside out, searching the seams. He looked into Martini’s shoes, socks, and fez. When he had finished he began all over again, while Martini stood by, naked, with a foolish expression on his face.
Hawley found nothing but a pocketknife and a second-class ticket from Allahabad to Bombay. No sign of the tobacco pouch, no trace of the rubies. He dropped the knife and ticket to the floor.
He flung the clothes in Martini’s face.
“Put ’em on,” he ordered. He glanced hurriedly about the compartment.
“Hawley,” Xavier began, shaking his head slowly, “don’t you think you ought to apologize to this—”
“What’s in that bag?” demanded Hawley. His finger indicated the black Gladstone bag on the floor.
“I don’t know,” said Xavier truthfully.
“Why don’t you know? You said this was your compartment?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Open that bag!” Hawley commanded.
“I say, Hawley, you’ve gone mad!” Xavier protested.
“You know what I’m looking for,” barked Hawley. “Open that bag!”
Xavier hesitated. He had seen Martini carrying the bag into the compartment. Martini might have hidden something in it.
Hawley walked up to Xavier until his face was close to the Eurasian’s sallow features. His eyes were blazing with all the rage and resentment he had felt since he first discovered that Xavier had betrayed him. His fists were clenched.
“Are you going to open it?”
Xavier licked his dry lips. He was afraid of the insane determination that had come over the youth. Still, he had Martini to back him—
“I don’t have to take orders from you,” said Xavier. “I—”
Hawley’s fist smacked against the side of Xavier’s jaw. Xavier crashed backward into a corner. He sat on the floor, with one hand to his cheek. Martini paused in the act of stepping into his trousers to stare at him.
Hawley strode over to Xavier, picked him up by the armpits, literally flung him back across the compartment.
“Now open it!” he ordered.
Xavier looked around at Martini. Martini was very busy getting dressed. He made no move to come to Xavier’s aid. Xavier got to his knees and opened the bag. He drew out a long canvas sack tied at the top with heavy cord.
“You see, Hawley,” said Xavier. “There’s nothing.”
Hawley turned the leather bag upside down. It was empty. He looked at the canvas sack hanging from Xavier’s hands. Something heavy made it bulge at the bottom.
“Untie that sack,” ordered Hawley.
Xavier was perspiring. He plucked clumsily at the knots. His fingers trembled.
Hawley bent over, picked up Martini’s pocketknife from the floor, snapped the blade open, slashed through the knots in Xavier’s hand. The mouth of the canvas sack gaped wide.
The bulge at the bottom of the sack moved, distended the canvas sides. Martini yelled. Xavier dropped the sack.
An ugly blunt head darted out from the folds of the canvas and a long slender snake slithered quickly across the floor.
Xavier backed away in terror, almost upsetting Hawley. Martini sprang upon a berth.
There seemed to be no end to the snake. It was still uncoiling when a second head appeared at the mouth of the bag, and the thin, olive-brown body of another serpent traced rapid, sinuous curves at right angles to the first.
“King cobras!” breathed Xavier.
“Madonna!” exclaimed Martini fervently.
Hawley said nothing. He stared, held by a terrible fascination. He realized with dismay that the three men, in their instinctive retreat from the unexpected contents of the black bag, had allowed themselves to be cornered. The great length of the king cobras gave them a striking range that had the men backed up against the wall at the dead end of the compartment. The first snake, no thicker than two thumbs, was nearly ten feet long, and lay lightly looped between the two berths. The second cobra, a few feet shorter, was moving restlessly across the other end of the compartment, cutting off any escape through the doors of the compartment or into the lavatory, the door to which was slightly ajar.
“Damn you, Hawley!” Xavier suddenly screamed. “You did this! You knew what was in that bag! You—!”
“Shut up!” breathed Hawley.
Xavier had backed against Hawley, pressing him against the wall. His quick movements had roused the first snake into a position of defense. The cobra’s head was raised a foot above the floor, its neck, flattened and distended, drawn back in the shape of an S, poised to strike.
The scales on the under side of the cobra’s throat gleamed with an orange tinge in the fading light. Its tongue flickered incessantly.
Hawley could hear Xavier’s teeth chattering, feel his body trembling. Then he saw Xavier’s hand dart out, grab a pillow from the berth, hurl it at the poised snake.
While the pillow was in the air, the cobra struck. Lightning swift, its scaly length shot forward.
The pillow brushed its head in flight, deflected its aim. With astonishing force, the snake’s blunt nose thudded against the mattress at the edge of the berth, a foot from where Xavier stood.
There was a hiss, like air escaping from a pricked balloon.
A second later, the cobra was coiled again, nearer this time.
The other snake was goaded to a frenzy by the activity of its mate. It glided rapidly nearer, twisting over the tail of the first cobra, then veered off, its raised head and flickering tongue exploring the foot of the opposite berth on which Martini was crouched. With the tip of its tail still on the floor, it slithered up the end of the berth and looped a yard of glistening olive scales at the foot of the bed. Hawley remembered having heard that the king cobra was the most insolently aggressive as well as the most deadly of venomous snakes. He believed it.
A moan of fear escaped Xavier. He was pressing backward against Hawley with such force that Hawley had difficulty in breathing. Hawley pushed him gently, to get his breath.
“Damn you, Hawley!” screamed Xavier. “Hiding behind me, like a stinking coward! Get out in front! You belong in front of me, damn you!”
He whirled, seized Hawley’s shoulders in hands made strong by desperate terror, dragged him clear of the floor.
“Xavier, for God’s sake!”
Xavier held Hawley in front of him like a shield. Hawley’s weight threw him off his balance. He took an involuntary step forward, toward the coiled cobra.
Hawley curled his legs high, twisted, flung himself side-ways to the berth. He saw the cobra’s mouth split hideously wide. He saw the fangs extended in the upper jaw as the ugly head flashed forward. He heard a thud, a hiss, a rustle of scales on the floor, as the cobra coiled again instantly.
An inhuman, piercing howl of horror and dismay arose from Xavier’s throat and died in a whimper. Like an echo, the locomotive whistle shrieked in the thickening dusk.
Xavier was sitting huddled at the head of the berth, ripping away one leg of his silk trousers. Halfway between the ankle and the knee, two red spots showed in the flesh— the marks of fangs.
“Bit me!” gasped Xavier. “Bit me! I’ll die! Your fault, Hawley. Your fault! You’ve killed me! Do something, damn you! Do something!”
The Bombay Mail thundered past a Calcutta-bound passenger train. The passing cars, already lighted, flashed a checkered yellow glow into the gloom of the compartment. By the glow, Hawley could see the tense face of Martini. He was still crouched on the berth opposite, not daring to move or look away from the beady bronze eyes of the second cobra. The lights of the passing train vanished, leaving a trail of comparative silence. Hawley could no longer see the first cobra on the floor. He fumbled at the head of the berth until he found an electric switch, flooded the compartment with light.
“Do something!” wailed Xavier.
Hawley still had Martini’s pocketknife—the knife with which he had cut the cords that freed the snakes. After all, it was partly his fault that Xavier had been bitten. He lifted Xavier’s leg in one hand, slashed the flesh deeply about the fang marks with the knife. Xavier whimpered.
“What are you doing? You’re—”
“Trying to drain some of the poison,” said Hawley. He withdrew his hands quickly. He was full of cuts and bruises. He might poison himself.
“You’re killing me,” complained Xavier. His face was gray, his eyes round.
“I’m doing the best I can.”
The cobra on the floor was rustling its coils with a faint, dry sound as it changed its position without taking its eyes off the enemy.
Hawley tore a strip of silk from Xavier’s trousers to make a tourniquet. It probably would do no good. Nothing was any good against the bite of the king cobra except the specific serum.
“I can’t feel anything, Hawley,” cried Xavier. “I’m going numb. I’m going to die, Hawley. I’m going to get out of here.”
Flinging his arms about like a maniac, Xavier stood up on the bed. He took three steps, collapsed, and rolled off.
The cobra that had struck Xavier gave an angry hiss, formed a menacing coil as Xavier hit the floor. The snake lay with head poised, its flattened neck vibrating through a nervous arc, for several minutes. When Xavier did not move, the snake uncoiled and slithered over to explore the inert form. Its long, scaly body slid over Xavier’s legs, while the head doubled back across the shoulders. It left Xavier and glided in a tangled course across the floor, as though looking for something. Water, perhaps. Yes, that must be it—water. Hawley drew a deep breath of hope. The cobra had stopped at the door of the lavatory, its head poised, its tongue flickering. The door was still ajar. The cobra glided in.
Hawley stood up. He watched the tail disappear. He was free! The door by which Xavier lay was unguarded. He could get outside the compartment, ride on the step, climb to the roof, anything to get away from this scaly, crawling terror. Then he looked at Martini. Martini was still crouched motionless on the opposite berth, watching the second cobra that lay coiled almost at his feet. If Martini moved, the cobra would strike.
Martini was a thief. Martini had stolen Hawley’s rubies. Still, he was a man. He was a human being in distress. Hawley was free to escape, but Martini was at the mercy of the deadliest of snakes. Poetic justice, perhaps, but— Hawley hesitated. Should he try to help Martini? Could he help? Yes, he probably could—at considerable risk to himself. He had seen Indians handle cobras in Bengal. He might bargain with Martini. Get my rubies back for me, and I’ll save your life. No, a man doesn’t bargain with a fellow who’s facing death. He would help.
Hawley pulled the blanket from the berth behind him. He moved slowly across the compartment, inch by inch, watching the serpent he intended to conquer. He stood back of the cobra for several minutes. Then with a quick movement he threw the blanket over the coiled snake to prevent its striking. The tail protruded. Hawley grabbed it, jerked the cobra out of its coil, flung it to the floor. Before it could coil again, Hawley planted his foot on the snake, the edge of his shoe so close behind the head that it could not turn and bite. The cobra’s tail looped and lashed furiously. Its angry jaws opened with a hissing sound.
Hawley seized his blanket, buried the snake’s head in it. His heart beating wildly, he reached down, fastened his fingers tightly around the narrow segment of snake between the head and edge of his shoe. If he could only keep his grip, the cobra could not bite him. He removed his foot, lifted the snake high. The lashing tail looped and whipped about his legs. With his free left hand he caught up the folds of the blanket, bundled it about the squirming tail. He turned, kicked open the door to the lavatory, hurled in the blanket and cobra, slammed the door.
He leaned against the wall and drew a deep breath. The Bombay Mail was grinding to a stop. He saw the lights of the station. He saw the smile of profound relief and gratitude on Martini’s face. Martini still had not moved from the berth. Then Hawley turned and opened the door of the compartment. He would get help for Xavier, who lay on the floor where he had fallen.
As he stepped down to the station platform, Hawley collided with the tall, black-bearded Doctor Lenoir. Behind Doctor Lenoir was Inspector Prike.
“A man’s been bitten by a cobra,” Hawley blurted. “Can you—?”
“Cobra? What idiot released my cobras?” demanded Doctor Lenoir. “What dishonest fool has been prowling in my baggages?”
“It was an accident,” said Hawley. “A man’s been bitten—”
“Then my cobras are dead?” exclaimed Doctor Lenoir excitedly. “Where are my king cobras? They must be dead, or you would not be walking about in this compartment like this.”
He stepped over the prostrate form of Xavier, picked up the empty Gladstone bag and the canvas sack, dropped them with a gesture of despair.
“The snakes are in there,” said Hawley, pointing. “They’re alive. But this—”
“How long ago was he bitten?” asked Doctor Lenoir, noticing Xavier at last.
“About forty minutes ago.”
“And how long unconscious?”
“Twenty minutes, I think.”
Doctor Lenoir shook his head.
“The fangs seem to have struck a vein. It is grave. Still—”
He dragged a case from under one of the berths, took out a hypodermic syringe, broke the end off a tube of serum, filled the syringe.
“We shall probably save him,” said Doctor Lenoir, as he injected the serum into the unconscious Xavier. “He does not deserve it—meddling about with other people’s baggages.”
“All right, Hawley!” Inspector Prike, who had been standing outside the compartment, watching from the platform, now stepped in and grasped Hawley’s arm. “Your holiday’s over. You’ve got some explaining to do!”
“Inspector,” said Hawley, “I had to get after this man Martini—”
“What man?”
“This man here—”
Hawley turned. His jaw dropped. Martini had disappeared. The window on the far side of the car was open. Hawley swore.
“Come along, Houdini,” said Inspector Prike, dangling a pair of handcuffs. “Let’s see you get out of these.”
VII. ITARSI
(Arrive 9:20 p.m. Friday)
Chapter Twenty: BARRIER OF FLAME
A lurid moon hung low over the Mahadeo hills as the Bombay Mail chuffed out of Itarsi on time. It was nearly ten o’clock and the mercury of the little thermometer in the dining-saloon of the. Governor’s private car had dropped to eighty one, indicating that the cool of the evening was at hand.
William Luke-Patson was finishing his recheck of the Bengal Government Secret Files D and E at the request of Inspector Prike.
“Same result, Inspector,” said Luke-Patson. “Everything is in order.”
“No papers missing, Luke-Patson?”
“None that I can discover, Inspector.”
“You don’t know anything of any documents pertaining to espionage charges against Captain Worthing?”
“It is possible that Sir Anthony had such documents,” said Luke-Patson. “I wasn’t aware that such charges had been made. Have they?”
“I don’t know,” said Inspector Prike. “What about Madame Smeganoff?”
Luke-Patson smiled. “The Governor wouldn’t be likely to have the dossier on a person of that sort,” he said. “Isn’t that the province of your own C.I.D.?”
Prike nodded.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “there is no record of a Madame Smeganoff ever having entered India by regular channels.”
“And Beatrice Jones?”
“I have a telegram from the Calcutta police,” replied Prike, “confirming the fact that they had received the anonymous letter Lady Daniels mentioned. Investigation failed to reveal a Beatrice Jones in Karaiya Road—or anywhere else, for that matter, the police say.”
“Mysterious, isn’t it?”
“Rather. You’d better get some sleep, Luke-Patson.”
“How about you, Inspector?”
“I may catch a few winks on the couch here. As a rule, though, I don’t like to sleep at this stage of an investigation. When I’ve put my finger on the murderer of Sir Anthony and the Maharajah, I’ll sleep for twenty-four hours at a stretch.”
