Woodring looked at the cheque. It was for five thousand rupees. Not that the money made much difference to him. He had decided to undertaken the mission in any case. The very danger of it appealed to his nature. But he had a sudden unusual desire to test his shrewdness against the well-known guile of Alexander Blenn. He knew he was a pretty good poker player, but he was anxious to try his bluffing abilities in a game with really important stakes. He had an idea that he would be forced to match wits with shrewd men more than once during the ensuing days, and he wanted practice. He tossed the cheque back across the desk.

  “Sorry, Mr. Blenn,” he said. “You’re not showing enough confidence.”

  “What do you mean?” Blenn’s expression did not change.

  “You’re not playing me to win,” Woodring said. “When a gambler thinks he’s got a good thing, he puts his bankroll on the horse’s nose. I’m gambling in this business, apparently; I’m gambling my life, according to you. But you haven’t covered the stakes. I want better odds.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five thousand rupees.”

  Blenn said nothing. His eyes did not leave Woodring’s face as his fingers slowly tore up the cheque into small bits. He moistened his lips. Then he reached into a drawer for his cheque book, started writing another cheque.

  “This is highway robbery, Woodring,” he said at last, “because I think you’re going to get through to cash this cheque. You’ve got the proper spirit.”

  He handed over the new cheque, and roared: “Chokra!”

  When a frightened, barefoot office-boy appeared, Blenn said: “Tell Stiller Sahib and Hubertson Sahib to come in here.”

  Basil Stiller made a stiff, precise entrance followed by a man as thin as he was.

  “Woodring,” said Blenn, “I suppose you know Stanley Hubertson, our engineering superintendent.”

  “I met Mr. Hubertson in Bombay two years ago.” Woodring extended his hand.

  “Yes, I remember,” murmured Hubertson. He had snow-white hair, yet his face was young. Part of his face, at least; the keen, black eyes which glittered behind his pince-nez, for instance. And yet the lines around his mouth were old. So were his thin, almost transparent hands; the lines in his high, broad forehead, the stoop of his narrow shoulders. His general appearance was not that of a working engineer. Woodring could not picture him in the field, flinging steel bridges across the shifting rivers of India. His mien was rather that of a scholar, a mathematician who might compute to the last erg the kinetic energy of a waterfall.

  “Gentlemen,” Blenn announced, “Woodring will go to Darjeeling.”

  Hubertson gave a noncommittal nod.

  “He’s a fool!” snapped Stiller.

  “Let’s not have that all over again, Stiller!”

  “This whole project is foolhardy!” Stiller insisted. “We can’t afford the risk. I don’t care about the personal risk to young Woodring. That’s his own affair. But we’re an industrial concern with no business meddling in international intrigue. We’ll be driven out of India if we antagonise the Government!”

  Stiller’s pasty face was grey with rage. He was leaning across Blenn’s desk, pounding his fist on the blotter. Blenn stood up to face him, his heavy jaw advancing half an inch, his already florid complexion deepening.

  “I haven’t seen the man big enough to drive Alexander Blenn out of India!” he fumed. “Not in the Viceregal Lodge, nor in the India Office, nor in Downing Street.”

  “We’ve no business …”

  “We? This is my business, Stiller!” Blenn screamed. “You may be general manager, but I’m paying your salary. Don’t be premature in acting like the heir-apparent to the Blenn dynasty. You’re not marrying Ruth until after the Monsoons. And perhaps not then, if I change my mind.”

  Blenn sat down, breathing heavily.

  Stiller, too, subsided. And he remained for a moment leaning over the desk, the flaming anger in his bulging eyes dimmed to smouldering spite. For several seconds there was no sound but the whirr of the ceiling punka and the drip of water from the window mats. Then Stiller shrugged, backed away, and dropped into a chair.

  “How about you, Hubertson?” Blenn challenged.

  The engineering superintendent seemed preoccupied with wiping the moisture from his eyeglasses with a handkerchief. He squinted up at Blenn.

  “In all these years I’ve been with you, Mr. Blenn,” he said timidly, “I’ve found that you really don’t want my opinion on matters of general policy. I’m always at your orders.”

  Hubertson spoke humbly, but with a dry ill-humour, as though he resented his own meekness.

  “Then that’s settled,” announced Blenn, regaining his composure. “Woodring leaves for Darjeeling tonight or to-morrow. I’ll be going up myself in a day or two and Stiller will be in charge of the Calcutta offices. Hubertson, I’ll want you in Darjeeling, too. You’ll travel separately, of course, and you’ll stay away from Woodring until the new Concession is negotiated. Then you’ll go into Shimalghar immediately and start your surveys for the aerodrome.

  “All right, gentlemen. That’s all. Woodring, come to my house at seven to-night for final instructions.”

  With an imperious wave of his hand, Blenn dismissed the three men.

  On his way back to his hotel, Paul Woodring stepped in at Newman’s bookshop in Old Court House Street. He purchased a railway time-table, a set of topographical maps of the Himalayan region, and a guide to Darjeeling.

  At seven o’clock he rang the bell at Blenn’s house in Camac Street. He rang four times before the khansama finally opened the door.

  “Sahib ghar-me nai hai?” Woodring asked:

  The khansama looked at him blankly. Woodring pushed the door open and walked in.

  “Jao, jeldi!” he said. “Blenn Sahib bulao,”

  The khansama hesitated a moment, then shuffled off down the hall. Woodring stepped into a small sitting-room in which lights were burning. He lit a cigarette, sat down. He noticed a tennis racket standing in a corner and a blue silk sport jacket thrown over the arm of a chair, and conjectured that they belonged to the curly-haired girl named Ruth.

  Basil Stiller! Woodring blew out an indignant cloud of smoke. Stiller must be at least twenty years older than Ruth Ingram. Well, it was her funeral. Woodring lit another cigarette. He looked at his watch. He had been waiting nearly half an hour. What was the matter with that khansama? He stepped into the hall, called. The servant’s bare feet shuffled reluctantly from somewhere in the rear.

  “Yih kam zaruri hai!” said Woodring. “Sahib bulao.”

  The servant protested he did not know where his master was. He was not home. Woodring lost his temper. Of course, the Sahib was at home. He must be. He was expecting him … Then Ruth Ingram came downstairs.

  “I’m afraid Uncle Alex can’t see you, Mr. Woodring,” she said. “He left word he wasn’t to be disturbed. That’s why the khansama wouldn’t announce you.”

  “But he’s expecting me.”

  “He’s ill. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. It took him suddenly, about an hour ago …”

  “I’ll go up,” said Woodring. “I know he wants to see me.”

  He climbed the stairs ahead of the girl. He paused outside the door to Blenn’s apartments. He could hear heavy footsteps pacing the floor inside. He knocked, announced himself. The door flew open.

  Paul Woodring’s jaw dropped.

  “Well, what are you staring at?” roared Blenn.

  “N-nothing, sir,” stammered Woodring. He was annoyed with himself for having thus patently displayed his shock at Blenn’s appearance. He had never seen a man change so in a few hours. The Blenn he had met that morning, the pompous, redfaced, cock-sure burra sahib, was gone. The man standing in the doorway was ashen, haggard, old. His posture was almost cringing, and in his eyes there was a haunted hopeless light that Woodring recognised instantly, although he had seen it but once before: In the eyes of a young subaltern at Sialkot who was being sent home to die. Alexander Blenn was afraid!

  “Well, come in! What do you want?”

  Blenn still roared, but the booming bluster was gone from his voice.

  “You told me to come for final instructions,” said Woodring as he closed the door behind him.

  “Yes, of course,” said Blenn. “I’ve been terribly busy. Something’s come up …”

  Woodring glanced at the sandalwood desk. An ashtray was stacked high with half-smoked cigars. Beside it was an empty glass and a half-empty decanter of whisky.

  Blenn went into the next room, returned shortly with a large bulky envelope which he handed to Woodring. The flap was anchored with three blobs of green sealing wax bearing the monogram “A.B.”

  “This is a copy of the old Concession,” Blenn said. “It will establish your identity and empower you to receive the extension from the Nawab’s envoy in Darjeeling. And this”—he handed Woodring a small leather wallet—“is the photographic negative which the Nawab is so anxious to get. You’ll turn it over, of course, when you’re satisfied that the document for the renewed Concession is in order—and in your hands. You may check the signature against the one on the old papers.”

  “How am I to make contact with the Nawab’s representative?” Woodring asked.

  Blenn looked at his watch. “You’ve missed tonight’s Mail,” he replied in a hollow voice. “You’ll have to go up to Darjeeling to-morrow. Go directly to the Himalayan Grand Hotel and register under the name of John Mapleleaf. Can you remember the name?”

  “John Mapleleaf. Yes, sir.”

  “The Nawab’s envoy has instructions to call on John Mapleleaf at the Himalayan Grand. Wait for him. I was expecting to go up myself, but I shall probably be detained here in Calcutta indefinitely. If an emergency should arise, consult Basil Stiller by wire. However, if he should give you any orders that conflict with mine, ignore them. Is that clear?”

  Blenn was making an obvious effort to pull himself together. He poured himself another drink of whisky.

  “Quite clear,” said Woodring. “And what about Mr. Hubertson?”

  “Hubertson knows how to get in touch with you. Don’t worry about him. There are only two things you must remember. Guard this document and this film with your very life—because men won’t stop at murder in order to get them. And don’t go to the police for any reason until after you have the extended concession safe in your possession. That’s all, Woodring.”

  “You can count on me, Mr. Blenn. Good-night. And I hope you’re feeling better …”

  “Feeling better? Who said I was ill?” For an instant Blenn was the old burra sahib. Then the fire flickered out of his eyes, the dull, haunting fear came back.

  “Why, your niece …”

  “Ruth? She’s insane. Never listen to a woman, Woodring. Any woman. Have you a gun?”

  “Not with me, sir.”

  “Then take this.” Blenn opened a drawer, slid a small automatic across the desk top. “From the moment you leave this house you’re likely to be fair game—for certain parties.”

  “You couldn’t tell me who the certain parties are, Mr. Blenn?” Woodring asked as he pocketed the pistol.

  “Sorry, Woodring, I’m not clairvoyant. Good-bye—and good luck.”

  Outside at the gate, Woodring saw a cruising taxi coming down Camac Street, slowing down as it approached. He was about to hail it, when he noticed a passenger in the back seat. The taxi pulled over to the curb in front of Woodring, who instantly thrust his hands into his coat pocket for the comforting metallic touch of the automatic Blenn had just given him. He peered through the darkness, trying to make out the features of the man in the taxi. The man leaned forward, called, “Woodring?”

  Woodring recognised the rasping voice of Basil Stiller.

  “Get in, Woodring,” Stiller said.

  “Thanks,” said Woodring, recoiling a step. “But I think I’ll walk. It’s such a lovely night. Cool. The temperature must be down to 90.”

  “Did Blenn give you the—the data?” Stiller asked.

  “It is a lovely evening,” Woodring said.

  “Don’t be an ass, Woodring. You’d better turn the data over to me. There’s a great deal about this matter that you don’t know, and—”

  “What, for instance?”

  “You’re a young man, Woodring. There’s a future for you in our organisation if you play your cards right. Blenn isn’t going to live for ever, you know, and you’d best not be short-sighted.”

  “You’re not married to Ruth Ingram yet,” said Woodring.

  Stiller drew a deep breath. “Then you won’t pull an oar in my boat, Woodring?”

  “Suppose we go up and discuss the matter with Mr. Blenn,” said Woodring. He turned, walked quickly up the steps of Blenn’s house, rang the bell.

  He heard Stiller give an order to the taxi-walla. The motor roared as the car sped away from the curb.

  Woodring jumped down the steps, started in the opposite direction. He saw a closed ticca ghari jogging slowly across Camac Street from Theatre Road. He sprinted to catch it.

  It was nine o’clock when Woodring returned to the Great Eastern Hotel. He went directly to his room, locked the door. He took the bulky envelope from his pocket, burned matches to heat the blade of a penknife, slipped the hot blade under the green blobs of sealing wax. He felt he had a right to learn the details of the document he was carrying.

  The typewritten paragraphs on the yellowing pages confirmed substantially what Blenn had told him about the mineral and transportation development rights in Shimalghar. There was a version of the Concession in vernacular characters, with the seal of Shimalghar affixed to every page. On the last page was the signature of His Highness the Nawab, carefully and laboriously written in English script. For the party of the second part, there were two signatures: Alexander Blenn and Christopher Jericho. Woodring wondered who Jericho was. There was no one by that name connected with the Blenn organisation at present.

  Next he examined the photographic negative in the leather wallet. It was a small rectangle of celluloid, about one-third the size of a rupee note. Holding it up to the light he observed it was a fine-grain film, of the type used in candid cameras. Therefore the print which Blenn had shown him that morning was obviously an enlargement. Woodring replaced the film in the wallet, sat down at a table, and began writing a letter. He was addressing an envelope when there was a knock at his door.

  Woodring finished writing the address, then covered the papers on the table with the topographical map of the Darjeeling district, tossed a few books on top of the map. The knock was repeated. He opened the door.

  A plump red-headed young man in evening clothes stood on the threshold, swaying slightly.

  “Hope I’m not intruding, old bean,” said the redhead. “I’ve come to see the lady.”

  “You’ve got the wrong room,” said Woodring. There’s no lady here.”

  “No lady?” The visitor pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then what the dickens do you suppose that chap was looking at.”

  “What chap?”

  “The chap who’s been rubbering through your keyhole for the past five minutes. I was certain he was watching something worth while, and I approached to have a dekko myself. The chap thereupon took flight, and I, not being given to keyhole-peeping, made so bold as to knock—”

  “What did the man look like?” Woodring demanded.

  “I’m sorry I had only a rear view,” said the redhead. “He had large pink ears and the back of his head was rather clipped and Prussian-looking.” He took an unsteady step backward.

  “You aren’t by any chance a bit tight, are you?” asked Woodring.

  “A bit tight?” echoed the red-head. “My dear fellow, you do me an injustice. I’m positively stinko.”

  He swayed again, then lurched into the room. Woodring caught him by the arm, started easing him towards the door.

  “I say, you aren’t putting me out yet, are you?” The red-head’s voice was plaintive. “I’ve ordered drinks.”

  “Drinks?”

  “Yes. I sent my bearer down to the bar for three chota pegs. One for you, one for me, and one for the lady. Since there’s no lady, I suppose I shall have to drink the third myself.”

  He sighed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Woodring looked at him suspiciously. His black trousers and white mess jacket were exceedingly well tailored.

  “Where was my bearer during this Peeping Tom incident?” Woodring asked.

  “You mean the beggar with whiskers and the yellow turban?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t see him about. He’s probably down the hall singing Punjabi love songs to the ayah of the Mem-sahib in No. 213 … By the way, it’s awfully rude of me barging in here like this without introducing myself. My name’s Emmet-Tansley.”

  “I’m sorry, Tansley, but—”

  “Emmet-Tansley,” the red-head corrected. “Henry Emmet-Tansley. My family’s been suffering from congenital hyphenation for six generations. But I’m not sensitive about it, Woodring.”

  “Who told you my name was Woodring?”

  “Your bearer,” said Emmet-Tansley simply. His inquisitive glance seemed to be exploring the room. “When are you leaving?”

  “Leaving? I’ve just come,” said Woodring.

  “Yes, I know, but you’re not staying on in Calcutta for the hot weather, surely?”

  “Why not?”

  Emmet-Tansley gestured toward the maps and books on the table.

  “I thought you were planning a trip to Darjeeling,” he said.

  “That’s just escape literature,” said Woodring. “Reading about the cool hill stations keeps my mind off the thermometer.”

  “Beautiful spot, Darjeeling,” said Emmet-Tansley. “You’ll like it.”

  A peculiar look came into the stranger’s eyes, a fleeting suggestion of complete sobriety in an otherwise drunken face.

 

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