King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of Adventure by Talbot Mundy (ink ebook reader .TXT) 📕

to wish it believed she has gone North. I can't stay here indefinitely. If she's here she's on the watch here, and there's no need of me. If she has gone North, then that is where the kites are wheeling! I'll take the early morning train. Where are the prisoners?”

“In the old Mir Khan Palace. We were short of jail room and had to improvise. The horse-stalls there have come in handy more than once before. Shall we take this gharry?”

With Ismail up beside the driver nursing King's bag and looking like a great grim vulture about to eat the horse, they drove back through swarming streets in the direction of the river. King seemed to have lost all interest in crowds. He scarcely even troubled to watch when they were held up at a cross-roads by a marching regiment that tramped as if it were herald of the Last Trump, with bayonets glistening in the street lights. He sat staring ahead in silence, although Saunders made more than one effort to engage him in conversation.

“No!” he said at last suddenly--so that Saunders jumped.

“No what?”

“No need to stay here. I've got what I came for!”

“What was that?” asked Saunders, but King was silent again. Conscious of the unaccustomed weight on his left wrist, he moved his arm so that the sleeve drew and he could see the edge of the great gold bracelet Rewa Gunga had given him in Yasmini's name.

“Know anything of Rewa Gunga?” he asked suddenly again.

“The Rangar?”

“Yes, the Rangar. Yasmini's man.”

“Not much. I've seen him. I've spoken with him, and I've had to stand impudence from him--twice. I've been tipped off more than once to let him alone because he's her man. He does ticklish errands for her, or so they say. He's what you might call 'known to the police' all right.”

They began to approach an age-old palace near the river, and Saunders whispered a pass-word when an armed guard halted them. They were halted again at a gloomy gateway where an officer came out to look them over; by his leave they left the gharry and followed him under the arch until their heels rang on stone paving in a big ill-lighted courtyard surrounded by high walls.

There, after a little talk, they left Ismail squatting beside King's bag, and Saunders led the way through a modern iron door, into what had once been a royal prince's stables.

In gloom that was only thrown into contrast by a wide-spaced row of electric lights, a long line of barred and locked converted horse-stalls ran down one side of a lean-to building. The upper half of each locked door was a grating of steel rods, so that there was some ventilation for the prisoners; but very little light filtered between the bars, and all that King could see of the men within was the whites of their eyes. And they did not look friendly.

He had to pass between them and the light, and they could see more of him than he could of them. At the first cell he raised his left hand and made the gold bracelet on his wrist clink against the steel bars.

A moment later be cursed himself, and felt the bracelet with his fingernail. He had made a deep nick in the soft gold. A second later yet he smiled.

“May God be with thee!” boomed a prisoner's voice in Pashtu.

“Didn't know that fellow was handcuffed,” said Saunders. “Did you hear the ring? They should have been taken off. Leaving his irons on has made him polite, though.”

He passed on, and King followed him, saying nothing. But at the next cell he repeated what he had done at the first, taking better care of the gold but letting his wrist stay longer in the light.

“May God be with thee!” said a voice within.

“Gettin' a shade less arrogant, what?” said Saunders.

“May God be with thee!” said a man in the third stall as King passed.

“They seem to be anxious for your morals!” laughed Saunders, keeping a pace or two ahead to do the honors of the place.

“May God be with thee!” said a fourth man, and King desisted for the present, because Saunders looked as if he were growing inquisitive.

“Where did you arrest them?” he asked when Saunders came to a stand under a light.

“All in one place. At Ali's.”

“Who and what is Ali?”

“Pimp--crimp--procurer--Prussian spy and any other evil thing that takes his fancy! Runs a combination gambling hell and boarding house. Lets 'em run into debt and blackmails 'em. Ali's in the kaiser's pay--that's known! 'Musing thing about it is he keeps a photo of Wilhelm in his pocket and tries to make himself believe the kaiser knows him by name. Suffers from swelled head, which is part of their plan, of course. We'll get him when we want him, but at present he's useful 'as is' for a decoy. Ali was very much upset at the arrest--asked in the name of Heaven--seems to be familiar with God, too, and all the angels!--how he shall collect all the money these men owe him!”

“You wouldn't call these men prosperous, then?”

“Not exactly! Ali is the only spy out of the North who prospers much at present, and even he gets most of his money out of his private business. Why, man, the real Germans we have pounced on are all as poor as church mice. That's another part of the plan, of course, which is sweet in all its workings. They're paid less than driven by threats of exposure to us--comes cheaper, and serves to ginger up the spies! The Germans pay Ali a little, and he traps the Hillmen when they come South--lets 'em gamble--gets 'em into debt--plays on their fear of jail and their ignorance of the Indian Penal Code, which altereth every afternoon--and spends a lot of time telling 'em stories to take back with 'em to the Hills when they can get away. They can get away when they've paid him what they owe. He makes that clear, and of course that's the fly in the amber. Yasmini sends and pays their board and gambling debts, and she's our man, so to speak. When they get back to the 'Hills'--”

“Thanks,” said King, “I know what happens in the 'Hills. Tell me about the Delhi end of it.”

“Well, when the wander-fever grabs 'em again they come down once more from their 'Hills' to drink and gamble,--and first they go to Yasmini's. But she won't let 'em drink at her place. Have to give her credit for that, y'know; her place has never been a stews. Sooner or later they grow tired of virtue, 'specially with so much intrigue goin' on under their noses, and back they all drift to Ali's and tell him tales to tell the Germans--and the round begins again. Yasmini coaxes all their stories out of 'em and primes 'em with a few extra good ones into the bargain. Everybody's fooled--'specially the Germans--and exceptin', of course, Yasmini and the Raj. Nobody ever fooled that woman, nor ever will if