E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Page 7

  “Captain Kellam will identify me.”

  “The commanding officer isn’t in.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That’s his business.”

  Then one of the men exclaimed, “Say, that is a major! I heard the captain call him that.”

  The guns were lowered. The sergeant reddened and stood at attention to pop his buttons. Slade chuckled, acknowledged the salute. “Carry on, you’re doing well. Since you tell me Captain Kellam is not here, I don’t want to come in to check up on you or on him.”

  “Sir, I’m not covering for the captain.”

  “Very well, Sergeant. You’d be dead wrong to cover for him, but you’d be a poor excuse of a soldier if you didn’t go the limit. How come you’re standing such a strict guard? I’d heard you fellows were a bit slack.”

  “Captain Kellam gave us a bucking up, sir.”

  “Sergeant, is there anything beyond that fence that would hurt your commanding officer if I saw it? Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”

  “No, sir,” the noncom answered, without hesitation. “I’m just standing a strict guard.”

  “Then take me to Warehouse No. 12. I’ll put it in writing if you want.”

  “Does the major think it’s necessary?”

  “It might be, it depends entirely on your orders. I’ll write it anyway.”

  Slade followed Sergeant Warren to the orderly room, and wrote a few lines. Then they went to Warehouse No. 12. Yasmini’s treasure hoard was gone. Slade gestured to a chest. “Sit down. Red tape and regulations are putting us both on the spot. Whatever your private thoughts are or used to be, you’re making a good show of loyalty and respect for the skipper. Don’t spoil it. I’m trying to play square with you, with Captain Kellam, and with myself. My hunch is that something has happened to Captain Kellam, something connected with a couple of chests that were here this morning and aren’t here now.”

  The sergeant plucked at his stripes and gave a yank. Slade shook his head. “It’s the man, not the insignia, you can’t dodge that way. If Captain Kellam has taken a couple too many, I don’t want to hear of it from you, either man to man, or otherwise. If he is in real danger, it’s up to you to sound off. Use your judgment and don’t waste time.”

  “The captain drove off with a light truck, sir. Alone. He wore civvies. That was about four o’clock. He was expecting a message, and he said he’d be back in an hour.”

  “Anything about Malakand Pass?”

  “No, sir. I cooked that one up. He’d given us a jerking up like I’d never heard before. Said we were a disgrace to the uniform. That the same applied to him. That’d he’d set the wrong example, so he didn’t blame us. But that the next man caught off base would find out in a hurry that this post was a military establishment, as of even date. He was sober and not hopped up.”

  “So you fellows tightened up?”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t know how long it’d lasted, but he sold us something. Forgetting rank, and being honest about things.”

  “Did you think he was going south with government property?”

  “No, sir. He brought a lot of native stuff in one day, and I detailed a man to box it up.”

  “Why did you take it so much as a matter of fact when I said Captain Kellam might be in serious danger?”

  “Last night when he came in, he was cut up a bit, I helped him use a first aid kit.”

  Slade got up. “That’s all, sergeant.”

  “Sir, there’s one thing more.”

  “You mean you have an idea where he took those chests, and you think I ought to know where to look for him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, sergeant. But I know already. Oh, one more point. When was the last time he did drive to Malakand?”

  “About a month ago, with—uh—”

  “With a native lady name Yasmini, and I’m not interested in how you happen to know. How’d you like the Wali of Swat?” The sergeant’s mouth clamped tight. Slade nodded, smiled a little, and said, “That’s right, don’t answer. Until your commanding officer is accounted for or another officer ordered to take his place, you’ll continue in command.”

  The sergeant’s face showed that being left in command was an old story. Slade, as he put the depot behind him to rejoin Shir Dil, wondered whether the strictness of the guard had been the noncom’s reaction to responsibility, or whether it had come from Kellam’s pep-talk.

  Shir Dil made short work of the distance to Yasmini’s house. Like most of those facing the court, hers had window openings at the second floor level. These were hidden by screened balconies, whose carved and fretted panels gave the occupants perfect cover and an equally perfect view of the street. When Slade stepped up to hammer at the door, Shir Dil glanced toward the inner panels, which often were moveable. But nothing was thrown down at the visitors; and no one answered.

  Shir Dil took a turn, beating with the haft of his dagger, and shouting, “O thou father of pigs! Thou brother of lewd sisters! Open, O thou Black-of-Face!” Finally, breathless, he turned to Slade: “Nobody home, no porter or he answers back, not so?”

  “He’d’ve at least told you you’re another.”

  “You wait, one second, I fix something quick.”

  Slade studied the ground. The headlights revealed the prints and the impression of hard soled shoes, and of native style shoes. Someone had helped Kellam unload heavy cargo. Ahead were tracks showing that the truck had left the court.

  “Don’t prove that Kellam was in it,” he told himself, uneasily.

  Shir Dil quickly came back. Two soot-smeared men followed him. He explained, “What you call him, smith-locks, they fix keys et cetera.”

  The two set to work, but neither with probe nor pick. Instead of wasting time to outwit the massive lock, they used a sledge. No one peeped from the panel openings across the way; if at all interested or occupied, the other residents of the vicinity were tending to their own defenses. Also, none of Peshawar’s Sikh policemen appeared. The invisible neighbors knew something was wrong, and the law wanted to know nothing.

  With the lock shattered, it was easy to slide the bolt. Shir Dil paid the smiths, who went away happy from a day’s wages earned in a few minutes. Slade followed the old Pathan to the end of the shadowed passageway, and into the court.

  The dark splashes on the flagstones were from blood spilled the previous night. In the trampled foliage, Slade saw a “hand of Fat’ma,” in blue enamel. A bit of dirty string which had hung the good luck charm about the wearer’s neck was nearby. The Five Holy Persons of Islam, symbolized by the fingers, had apparently justified the faith of the wearer, since he had escaped the kick-back of the raid which might have finished Kellam.

  “O thou without-a-nose, thou sister of Satan, thou mother of little pigs!” Shir Dil bawled, and added further insults to meet the echoes of his opening remarks. “Come out before we come in and get you!”

  “Someone laughed,” Slade said, cocking his head.

  Shir Dil spat. “Is across the court. You know what, I bet she is flew the coop, is not so?”

  As the search progressed, Slade began to fear that he would find Kellam. Stairs led to the second floor. Others descended from there to the ground floor rooms in the rear. Some, just for variety, were directly connected. But long before he had gone through the characteristic hodge-podge of additions and extensions, he had to admit that Yasmini was not using her hide-and-seek facilities.

  The walls were bare. Nothing remained but the sooty hearth, several cracked pots, two string cots, a quilted pallet, and a cosmetic odor considerably modified by the smell of ginger, garlic, sesame oil, mustard oil, and cloves.

  Shir Dil’s nostrils flared. “Also brandy—” He kicked a litter of bottles. “Hashish, and American cigarette. Lipstick, but not on the smoke.”

  Slade played hi
s flashlight almost parallel to the floor. He noted a man’s heel prints, and those of a woman’s bare feet, and others of a woman’s small feet shod with soft shoes.

  “She’s gone—he’s gone—no new signs of a fight—”

  Slade’s face lengthened. There was one conclusion to draw, and he hated to draw it. Instead, he said to himself, “They could have conked him or covered him with a gun, to steal the truck. Last night’s riot scared her, and she wouldn’t stay here.”

  Then Shir Dil spoiled it with bitter realism. The old man twisted his wrinkles into an evil and knowing mask and said, “You know something, that captain is a smart man, he don’t want to get kick out of the army, so he runs away with Yasmini. Like my cousin, Gul Mast, he takes Ahmad Khan’s wife, Ahmad Khan’s money, everything—only, they don’t live happy ever after. Ahmed Khan ride like hell, he shoots Gul Mast and then he cuts off the lady’s nose.”

  “That’s nothing to what I’ll cut off of Yasmini if I ever get hold of her,” Slade growled. “That damn dizzy blockhead—good God, what’ll I tell Diane!”

  CHAPTER V

  Slade got Diane on the house phone. “Can’t give you any details, from here,” he said. “I’ll be up soon as you’re dressed for a huddle.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “From the way you sound, darling. Pull yourself together and—hold it! I’m being paged—it’s official. Can’t see you till this is settled—top official, the Commissioner. Yes, Mr. Bowley’s orderly. With orders.” He followed the bearded Sikh to the official car which was waiting at the curb. But for the crisp salute of the driver, who held the door open, Slade would have felt that he was under arrest. And during the short drive, he was wondering what new atrocity Kellam’s recently bucked-up soldiers had committed.

  Slade found Mr. Bowley in dinner clothes, which made him all the more severe; and the presence of the sharp-faced native was an added omen of evil.

  “Good evening, Major Slade. Thank you for coming.” A bow so formal that it was insulting; and then, indicating the dark man, “May I present Colonel Sir Pratap Singh Bahadur?”

  Sir Pratap’s boots had the gleam of onyx. His knee length white tunic was gathered at the waist by a gilt sash with golden tassels. As he bowed, he made courteous pretense of offering the pommel of the curved tulwar, whose scabbard was of gold inlaid ivory. The medals which made a solid bank on his chest tinkled; the aiguillettes of the jouragere draped from right shoulder to cross-belt made a golden tinkling.

  “Mr. Bowley exaggerates,” the Rajput said, pleasantly. “I am only an honorary colonel.”

  Black brows shadowed his deep set eyes, which were falcon sharp; a lean cheeked man, with deep lines setting off the curved nose and straight mouth. His wiry hand found a natural stance on the tulwar’s hilt. Though he had measured Slade, there was no guessing his appraisal. Mr. Bowley’s opinion, on the other hand, was all too clear. “You’re from Rajputana, Sir Pratap?”

  “Yes, Major Slade. On urgent business. Unhappily, it concerns you.”

  Mr. Bowley took over. “It concerns you all too much, Major Slade! Put Captain Kellam under arrest at once or I shall go over your head and make demands on your superior!”

  “On what charge?”

  “Receiving stolen property. Accessory after the fact in the matter of the looting of Sir Pratap’s villa near Jaipur.”

  “Jaipur! Good God, sir! Do you mean to tell me—how far is Jaipur from Peshawar?”

  Mr. Bowley smiled frostily. “It is not alleged that Captain Kellam himself pillaged the villa. However, the loot has been traced to Peshawar. To a clique of budmashes, border ruffians. A lady named Yasmini is one of the group. Do you begin to understand?”

  “Aren’t you carrying birds-of-a-feather logic too far?”

  “Sir Pratap has uncovered the fact that Captain Kellam was storing the loot in an United States government depot.”

  “May I ask for a list of the articles Sir Pratap lost?”

  Mr. Bowley picked a paper from the desk, and offered it to Slade. At a glance, he recognized several items. “This is a carbon. May I keep it?”

  “I’m sure you’re quite welcome! Meanwhile, I demand immediate action.”

  “You’re welcome to search the depot.”

  Mr. Bowley’s fury subsided, only to surge anew when Sir Pratap’s glance shifted and caught his eye. “First, I demand that you bring Captain Kellam to this office.”

  “Pardon me, sir, you are not dealing with me, or with Captain Kellam, but with the United States Army.”

  From the corner of his eye, Slade noted a smile twitching the corners of the Rajput’s mouth, and the tips of his upturned black mustaches.

  Mr. Bowley retorted, “In a criminal matter, we have jurisdiction. You will either oblige me, or else I shall immediately and forthwith communicate with your superior, who’ll not thank you for making an incident.”

  Sir Pratap’s hidden smile showed now in his hawk-eyes, and in the sharpening curvature of his nose.

  As Slade figured it out, his defense of Kellam, at the first meeting with the commissioner, had made him an accomplice in Mr. Bowley’s eyes. Also, Sir Pratap Singh Bahadur, whoever and whatever he might be, must know or suspect a good deal more than had come into the open. Ten to one, he had been behind the raid of the previous night; and, failing at direct action, he was using the commissioner as a stooge while he, Sir Pratap, used the old, infallible methods of his people.

  Kellam, that is, must be alive, and for the moment beyond the Rajput’s reach.

  Once more, Slade accepted Mr. Bowley’s challenge:

  “If you have a warrant, please serve it. Get in touch with my superior if you care to.” He bowed to both commissioner and Rajput. “Good evening, gentlemen. Call on me when I can serve you.”Mr. Bowley’s teeth clamped like a bear trap. Sir Pratap said, pleasantly, “Thank you for calling, Major Slade.”

  When he left, Slade knew that he had bitten off a big one; whether he could chew fast enough depended on keeping ahead of Sir Pratap. Worse yet, he sensed that he’d played squarely into the Rajput’s hand by defying Mr. Bowley.

  As the official car took him back to the hotel, Slade studied the inventory of loot. That hood sewed with pearls—that elephant driver’s ankhus, studded with gems—that Herati rug—there wasn’t a shred of doubt as to the origin of the hoard which Slade had seen.

  Before calling to give Diane the official score, Slade located Shir Dil and said to the old man, “We may have to get out of here faster than we came. And a lot more quietly.”

  “Toward the Malakand Pass and Bajaur?”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Yasmini, she can’t get out of India other way.”

  “Take a message to Sergeant Warren, at the depot. When we leave, I’ll have paint on my eyes and a rose behind each ear.”

  The old man grinned. “That will fool Sir Pratap.”

  Slade didn’t bother to ask how Shir Dil had got on the inside track. And if Shir Dil knew that the Rajput dignitary had come to town to turn things inside out, everyone else in native Peshawar must know.

  Some minutes later, Slade was explaining the situation to Diane, whose eyes were now dry and much too bright. He offered a story which left Yasmini out of the picture.

  “He’s either a prisoner—a hostage to check pursuit, though if Sir Pratap takes a hand, the answer would be, Cut his throat, we’re still grabbing our trinkets. Or else—”

  “If he’d been killed, you’d’ve found—”

  “Snap out of it!” Slade broke in, harshly. “He might’ve deserted.”

  “He’d never do that!” she exclaimed. “Foolish, rash, impatient—but not—Oh, don’t be ridiculous! Or nasty!”

  He came near telling her about Yasmini, but backed down. Slade liked Diane too well, and he also remembered that no one ever go
t thanks for bringing an unsavory story. She’d not believe him anyway.

  “The native friend whose plunder he’d stored might’ve murdered him to shut him up. Or else, he’d be on the loose. A native, I mean, would either go panicky or else, silly-reckless.”

  His conviction, rather than his logic, made Diane weaken. As though dazed by a blow, she said, “He might—in panic—”

  Then her voice went shrill, and she cried, “Panic! With you coming here, snooping and threatening! Making him so ashamed he couldn’t face me! Oh, you blundering fool, you drove him to desertion—get out of here—I’ll—”

  She snatched and hurled an ash tray. She followed with most of the tea service.

  Slade dodged, ducked, danced about till he caught her empty handed. Then he got a hold and squeezed her so tightly she could neither kick nor claw. “I’ll slap your ears till your head rings like a church bell! I’m so far out on a limb on account of that damned fool that if I don’t make the grade, I’ll have to do a bit of deserting myself!”

  She quit struggling. Her eyes widened. She clung to Slade, and sobbed against his shirt front. “M-m-maybe it’s my fault, coming here.”

  “You did your best. I’ll do mine.”

  “But I’ve got to help undo my mistake. Dad’s fixed it for me to go all the way to Kabul.”

  “You’re crazy! No military attaché ever had that much pull!”

  “Oh, but he could. I’m to be head nurse in the new woman’s hospital in Kabul. Not really, of course not. But I am qualified, and—well—I didn’t see any harm in applying, coming as far as Peshawar, then getting Steve straightened out—”

  “And then to hell with the ailing Afghan females?”

  “Well, of course! Steve’s lots more important, isn’t he?”

  “Get this: You’re not going to Kabul. I’m heading for the Malakand Pass and the Wali of Swat’s territory, to overhaul that idiot and get the loot from his buddies. Get it settled before Sir Pratap takes a hand. That Rajput hard-case would rather there weren’t survivors to tell what happened.”