Chapter 12

"'On his person he carries the sacred pickaxe of Bowani, which makes him our leader when thugs come together. And hidden in one of his bales of silk you will find a case of jewelled rings that actually belonged to another Delhi merchant, who was of the party of travellers that recently perished, on his way home from a visit to Baroda. You will but have to inquire as to this same merchant's disappearance, and get his relatives to identify the casket as the dead man's property.'

"'That, indeed, will be proof,' I assented. 'Come, let us go to the Chota Bazaar.'

"As we passed out of the courthouse, I signalled to two sepoys on guard there to follow us.

"Keeping close to the denouncer, I allowed him to lead me through the narrow crowded streets. Soon we were at the corner where was the shop of Kubar Bux, and there amidst his bales of merchandise the man himself was seated, a venerable and dignified figure. Yet at sight of me and my companion I thought an ashen pallor stole into the nut-brown of his complexion.

"As I stood with the informer in front of the tiny shop, which was too small for all of us to enter, the two soldiers closed up behind us. Then unmistakably did Kubar Bux turn grey from trepidation.

"'Kubar Bux,' I began, without ceremony, for I saw that a crowd would soon be gathering, 'open the bale of silk among your merchandise in which a casket of jewels is hidden, or I shall order your shop to be searched by the sepoys I have brought here with me.'

"The merchant rose to his feet. I noticed now, further back in the shop, another figure seated--that of a man who, on our entry, had drawn his garments around him so as to conceal his face. But to him at the moment I gave no particular attention. My eyes were on Kubar Bux. He moved toward a pile of fabrics, silks and embroidered cloths, as if to comply with my demand. He pressed against the bales, and then all of a sudden sank down upon the floor in a huddled heap. Then I saw the crimson stain of blood upon the merchandise.

"I sprang forward. Driven up to the very hilt, in the breast of Kubar Bux was a dagger. He was not quite dead, and I heard him with his last breath murmur the words: 'Bowani, great goddess, all hail!' Then with a rattle in his throat he died.

"I had gathered the dying man in my arms, and now beneath the flowing garments, laid flat against the breast, I could feel the shape of something fashioned like a small pickaxe.

"When I saw that Kubar Bux was indeed dead, I drew forth this implement. It was carefully swathed in white cloths, a pickaxe bright from the hammer of the smith who had forged it, unsullied by earthy stain but curiously marked from the head to the point by seven discs of red paint, showing it to be an object of worship at an altar rather than for actual use in the ground. But at this stage I did not pause further to investigate, and hastily replaced the wrappings.

"'Keep close guard on this man,' I said to the sepoys, pointing to the informer. But he whom I would thus hold safe remained standing impassively, making no attempt to escape.

"Then with a push of my hands I tumbled down the pile of bales. In the one next to the bottom was a protuberance, and from this I drew forth a casket of silver, delicately chased and inlaid with ivory.

"By this time a throng of passers-by had stopped outside the shop, and some had even crowded into the little place. But these I now ordered out. Then I turned to seek the man who had been Kubar Bux's companion at the moment of our coming. He was no longer there. The shop was tenantless--except for myself and the dead man.

"I need tell but little more. The silver box was identified by several people as the property of Govind Chung, a jewel-seller in the Bara Bazaar, who had made a recent journey to the court of the Rajah of Baroda, but had not yet returned home, although for some time expected.

"That night the paint-bedaubed pickaxe, sacred emblem of Kali's worship, lay on the table in my sleeping chamber. But in the morning it had disappeared--gone how and where no one has ever discovered. The informer had been confined in the public prison, guarded by two sepoys. Thither, on discovering my loss, I straightway repaired.

"The soldiers were still on guard in the corridor; nothing had happened during the night to disturb their watch.

"But within his cell the informer was found dead--strangled, eyes and tongue protruding from blackened face, the twisted knot under his ear tied in the very manner I had seen him himself tie it over his upraised knee on the afternoon of his confession.

"That is the end of my story."

* * * * *

The narrator of the grim tale folded his hands across his breast, bowed his head, and thus remained in an attitude of meditation. There was an interval of silence.

"Who murdered the informer?" at last asked the astrologer.

"We never learned," replied the magistrate.

"Was he strangled with his own silken scarf?"

"No. A plain cotton loin-cloth had been used for the deed. It had never been worn or washed. It must thus have come straight from some shop in the bazaars. But scores of the same kind are bought and sold every day. We could discover nothing from this, the only clue the murderer had left behind him."

"The assassin must have been the mysterious individual you saw in the rear of the shop of Kubar Bux," commented the Afghan general. "Himself a member of the thug fraternity, he no doubt took swift vengeance on the informer for having betrayed its secrets."

"As I believed then, and believe now. But the whole affair remained a puzzle. For how was access gained to the locked and guarded prison cell, and to my sleeping chamber as well whence the sacred pickaxe was stolen?"

"Well, who can be certain even of his associates or followers? According to the miscreant's own story, there are thugs all around, knowing each other but not known to us."

"Can such things be?" asked the merchant, his eyes showing the fear and horror that had smitten him. "Many times have I travelled in company with just such a promiscuously gathered crowd as the strangler described."

"You have been in luck," laughed the Afghan.

"Doubtless on those occasions the omens proved unpropitious for the final deed. A jackal crossing the road or the hoot of an owl at midnight may have spared your life, my friend."

With a shudder, the trader drew his white garments more closely around him.

"Well," remarked the magistrate, "for my own part, ever from that day when I heard the story of thugs and thuggee I have exercised the precaution of never travelling a single mile on the road with strangers, however fair-spoken. Although I have never again met anyone whom I could positively accuse of such practices, that the evil exists in our midst, and is widely spread, I am convinced. For a religion that provides a rich livelihood, while at the same time exalting the attendant crime into positive virtue is at least convenient enough to have many ardent devotees." The words were accompanied by a glance around the listening group, and a disdainful half-smile that expressed distrust of all humanity.

"But of a truth," he went on, "I know no more than my story has told. And hark! There is the trumpet call that heralds the coming of the sun."

Saying this, the kotwal uncrossed his legs and rose erect.

The long winding note of a horn was floating from the camp of the soldiery near the city gateway, and in a moment there came from the same direction the confused sound of men's voices afar off, calling the one to the other.

"I must away," exclaimed the Afghan, springing alertly to his feet, and buckling his sword belt. Three or four servants of the Rajput chief had approached, and were gathering together the cushions and rugs on which he had been reclining. One of them placed in his master's hand the bejewelled hilt of his scimitar.

"This for my enemies and the enemies of Akbar," cried the Rajput, drawing the curved blade half way from its scabbard. "But I would not soil it with the heart's blood of a thug. For him the gibbet, and the crows to pick out his eyes."

Just then the first lance-tips of the dawn flashed above the horizon, gilding the domes and minarets of the marble city. Away in the distance could be heard the wailing cry of a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.

Other members of the party had now arisen, each intent on his own affairs, one arranging his garments, another settling his turban straight on his head, the hakeem adjusting the little box of instruments and simples he carried at his girdle, the Moslem astrologer spreading his prayer carpet at the end of the veranda and prostrating himself in the direction of Mecca.

Only the fakir had remained motionless; but now he gathered up in his hands his wooden begging-bowl, and held it forth, crying, "Ram, Ram," in the plaintive whine of his profession. But there was none to pay heed to his untimely importunity. Indeed, the Bombay merchant, when the cry smote his ears, started uneasily, and in descending the steps gave the lean, ash-bedaubed figure of the ascetic the widest berth possible.

"Who can tell a thug from a honest man?" he asked of the magistrate in passing.

"Who indeed can tell?" came the reply, in measured tone and with an enigmatic smile.

* * * * *

And a minute later all had gone their several ways.

THE END.

Transcriber's Notes: Normalized punctuation and quotes Left one instance of fore-ordained and one of foreordained Page 26: Changed access to excess (Printer's error) Page 30: Changed four-and twenty to four-and-twenty (Printer's error)