Full Moon (2 page)

“I don’t know what it is. The microscope reveals no joint, welding or
anything like that.” He was no longer looking at Blair. He got up, stared at
the servant near the door, walked over to him and spoke in English.

“You’re a patient rogue. Come and look at it. Let me see you take it in
your hands.”

The servant’s ivory-yellow face revealed no other emotion than a slight
and hardly visible alertness. He was a big, upstanding man with heavy neck
and shoulders, handsomely ugly, broad-nosed, intelligent looking, and
probably almost strong enough to fell an ox with his fist. But the humid heat
of Bombay had rather slackened his stance. He was sweating.

“What is it? Look at it. Hold it. Speak!” the commissioner ordered.

The man’s face grinned with sudden wrinkles, and each wrinkle seemed to
hide a secret. He turned the block over and over in his hands. It appeared to
excite him but to make him cautious. He conquered the excitement, let the
wrinkles die, and shook his head.

“Not knowing—knowing nothing about this,” he said, in English that
appeared intentionally mispronounced. Then he shut up—eyes, mouth,
attitude. The commissioner seized his wrist and felt his pulse; then he
ordered him out of the room. When he had gone he chose a fresh cigar, sat
down and said:

“Pulse normal. Calls himself Taron Ling—came to me from a place
called Naga Kulu in the Northern Punjab. He had one of the most beautifully
forged testimonials I have ever seen. I took him on to find out what his game
is.”

“Do you know now?”

“No more than I know how Frensham vanished. But I know Taron Ling is a
crook, a hypnotist and a spy, for or against Wu Tu, I don’t know which. I
know he wants, but I don’t know why he wants, this gold brick, He knows now
that I know he wants it. So perhaps he’ll chuck trying to steal it, and bolt.
If he doesn’t, I’ll scare him properly. I want him to bolt. I want him
followed.” Blair Warrender nodded doubtfully. He knew the odds in favor of a
fugitive through Indian crowds, with most men and—worse yet,
women—aiding or benevolently neutral. Nobody aids the pursuing police
except from the thoroughly unreliable motives of fear or revenge. But it was
no use discussing that; the commissioner would do as he pleased; he always
did.

The commissioner put the gold block back into the steel box and locked it.
“It’s Frensham’s, I think. It was found in the possession of a Punjabi
Moslem, who was badly savaged in the riot last Thursday afternoon. He died
the same night without giving his name or saying anything. But he was
identified the following morning as the man who murdered Henrietta Frensham’s
ex-chauffeur, who had left her, rather more than two months ago, without
giving notice. She reported the loss of this
thing—woman-fashion—vaguely. She described it as a hollow block
made of yellow metal, gave approximate dimensions and said it had been stolen
from a suitcase in her bedroom. I have thought of opening it.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Several reasons. It may belong to Frensham, and Frensham may still be
alive. If it’s Henrietta’s, it should be opened in her presence; but she
would then know we have it, and I don’t want her to know, not just yet. It
would be simple, of course, to pretend it was open when found, but—I’ve
a notion the contents have nothing to do with the case, although the thing
itself may be immensely important.”

“No idea what’s in it?”

“Not an idea. But I’ve taken two really expert opinions—E.O. Tate
and Grish Mukerji. For a wonder they agree. It may be older than the hills.
I’m not exaggerating. Unofficially—meaning I’m not to be quoted—
I’m one of the naive few who agree with the Theosophists and David Frensham
and some other cranks that our chronology is all wrong. Hindu chronology may
be nearer right by millions of years. This gold block may be antediluvian, to
use a convenient phrase. It was put together as mysteriously as a hen puts
the shell on an egg.

“It may be of enormous scientific interest, and my theory is that David
Frensham found it and went looking for more. Whoever opens it should shave
off one end by fractions of a millimeter at a time and examine each slice
microscopically. That would take a long time, and there are very few who
could do it. But let me tell you about the man I sent out of the room.”

He walked to the door, opened it suddenly, strode into the passage,
returned and locked the door behind him. Then the phone rang, and for a few
minutes he sat at his desk in conversation with the office at headquarters.
Blair sat uncomfortably, smoked irritably, knocking the ash from his
cigarette with jerks that sent it flying two or three feet accurately into
the brass tray on the desk. The commissioner prolonged the phone
conversation, watching him, judging him while he talked.

At last he clicked the receiver in place and began:

“Taron Ling is a Tai from somewhere near the Salween country, but he
doesn’t know I know that. His testimonial was forged, in the name of the
Rajah of Kulu’s chief minister, by Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu. He is one
of Wu Tu’s intimates, another spy. It’s always important to watch the bank
accounts of such people. Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, Wu Tu of Bombay, and
Zaman Ali the horse-dealer have been banking too much money.

“It’s usual at this time of year for Wu Tu to send money to Paris,
Brussels, London and Shanghai; she is very wealthy, and she understands
foreign exchange. But she has been dealing secretly in bullion. So has Zaman
Ali. So has Dur-i-Duran Singh, who has.had the colossal impudence to send
this fellow Taron Ling into my household to spy on me.

“Taron Ling, mind you, is a hypnotist of more than ordinary skill.”

Blair grinned. “Did he hypnotise you?”

“No. I’m putting you on guard against him. Wu Tu is another hypnotist.
Dur-i-Duran Singh is a third. I warn you: if you’re drunk, or drugged, or
tired out, or if conditions are in other ways suitable, such people can make
you imagine anything whatever that you ever saw, that made a deep impression
on you. That’s the secret of most of the ghosts people see; they’re freaks of
memory, exaggerated by emotion. Men like Taron Ling can make you see
‘em.”

“But why me, sir?”

“Intuition is usually lazy thinking, eyewashed up to look like brain-work.
However, intuition tells me you’re the best man for this job, and I’m being
guided by it. Weren’t you once engaged to Henrietta Frensham?”

“No, sir.” Blair’s eyes came as close to an explosive oath as eyes
can.

“Thought of it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not?”

“Private reasons.”

“Tell ‘em.”

There was a pause. In Blair Warrender’s eyes there was no surrender. His
personal views and his personal conduct were not subjects for discussion
unless they qualified or limited his behavior in the course of duty. Did
they? The commissioner—observing, smiling, chewed an unlighted
cigar—met him halfway.

“I suspect her of being concerned in this. Now then. Go on. Tell me.”

“I wasn’t in love.”

“Oh?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t.”

“Pretty close to it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not?”

“Don’t like mystery, for one thing. For another, I took exception to her
warning me against Wu Tu. I don’t know how it came to Henrietta’s knowledge
that I had to see Wu Tu in the course of duty. But she asked me about it. I
showed her a sketch I’d made of Wu Tu, who posed for it, two or three hours.
As a matter of general interest I told Henrietta about Wu Tu being a British
subject, of mixed Chinese-Sikh-Portuguese-French parentage. I probably also
told her that Wu Tu is one of the most intelligent and fascinating women in
the world.”

The commissioner nodded. “That was no exaggeration. Go on. What
happened?”

“Nothing definite. But Henrietta warned me I was under Wu Tu’s influence.
I resented it, but that probably wouldn’t have mattered. However, when I
denied it, she didn’t believe me, and that did matter.”

“Yes, yes. You’ve a temper. Go on.”

“That’s all. I’m very fond of Henrietta. But I don’t like mystery, and
she’s mysterious. I don’t like being disbelieved. And I don’t care to make
love to a woman unless I love her. Possibly I funked it. Anyhow, I put in for
leave, as you know.”

“And instead of getting it, you were sent to track Zaman Ali. Did it
skilfully, too. Good God, if I’d given you leave you’d have moped and caught
the plague or something! Tracking Zaman Ali from Peshawar kept your mind off
love, I’ll warrant! Did I ever mention to you that she’s my god-child?”

“No, sir. What does that amount to?”

The commissioner threw away his cigar and chose another. “Damned if I
know. Ask the bishop. But I always believe what she tells me, especially when
she doesn’t tell, if you get my meaning. We had some conversation about
you.”

“What did she say?” Blair’s eyes were smoldering fires of governed
anger.

“She’s in love with you.” The commissioner struck a match and carefully
applied it to the end of his cigar. He took his time about it. Then, “The
last time David Frensham dined with me, he mentioned it. He said he’d like
you for a son-in-law.”

“None of his damned business!”

“So I told him. I volunteered the opinion that Henrietta should marry her
equal, if there is one. I said you’re not nearly good enough, and I’m still
of the same opinion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m sending you to spy on Henrietta Frensham.”

Blair stiffened, but the furious light in his eyes grew suddenly subdued.
He looked calm, as almost always when he sensed a crisis. He could govern
himself with a will of iron.

“For God’s sake, why me, sir?”

“Because she’s in love with you.”

“I call that a good reason for putting another man on the case. I can’t in
common decency—”

The commissioner interrupted; “It’s the nearest thing to decency at my
disposal in the circumstances. She is my godchild and Frensham’s daughter,
under more than suspicion of knowing something which she is more likely to
tell you than anyone else. David Frensham was a strange chap, and in some
ways simpleminded. I don’t entirely exclude the possibility of his having
been tricked into some sort of criminal escapade. Henrietta may know that.
Find out.”

“Damn!” Blair muttered.

“All the same, go and do it. But I’ve another reason. I believe in
offering fish the bait they fancy, and my information is that Wu Tu wants to
see you.”

“Who said so?”

“Chetusingh. I have had him on this case ever since Frensham vanished. For
some reason that I can’t guess, Wu Tu has a trap set ready for you; I’m
almost as sure of that as that you’re sitting here. I propose you shall walk
straight into it. She’s rather desperate, but I don’t think
dangerous—to you—at the moment.”

“In what way desperate?”

The commissioner loved to parade a worldly wisdom cloaked in unexpected
phrases. He smiled, knocked the ash from his cigar and sat back in his chair.
“Did you ever hear of the law of diminishing returns? Wu Tu’s profits have
been prodigious. I don’t mean merely cash, although she’s very wealthy; she’s
a money-lender and a very skilful mistress of intrigue. She has used her
money to get influence, and the influence to get more money.

“She’s an, artist at blackmail, and loves it. But the law of diminishing
returns takes care of everything that overreaches itself, and Wu Tu sees the
writing on the wall. Her kind of fortune crumbles very rapidly when rot sets
in, and. she’s wise enough to know it. But she’s fool enough to squander her
money on yogis, mediums, alchemists, astrologers—charlatans of all
sorts. She is afraid of age, afraid to die; even more afraid of what her
enemies will do to her when the reins of her intrigues get out of hand and
the luck begins to flow backward. She can see that coming—knows she’s
losing her grip. She’s a long way from being the first to scour the world for
a.philosopher’s stone, but she has carried it to greater extremes than most
people can afford. That’s how she first came to know Dur-i-Duran Singh of
Naga Kulu, who claims to have studied alchemy in Tibet. She has sometimes as
many as twenty agents scouring the Himalayas at her expense for occult
secrets.”

“Suppose she knows any?”

“Yes, for what they’re worth. Most of them are not worth much. But I
suspect that this time she is after something big, which Frensham may have
discovered. And she may have murdered Frensham or, more likely, caused him to
be murdered. There are rumors; I’m sick of hearing them. That gold block,
that you saw just now, in some way is connected with it.

“Henrietta, I think, must have had it from David Frensham. Taron Ling,
instructed by Dur-i-Duran Singh, and in touch with Wu Tu and Zaman Ali,
traced it into my possession and tried to steal it. That ties them all up
together, but we won’t bother about Dur-i-Duran Singh for the moment. Let’s
catch Wu Tu first, and a whole house of cards may come tumbling.”

Blair objected. “Henrietta might have had that gold block in her suitcase,
and known nothing about it. The way she reported its loss suggests that.”

The commissioner laid his cigar down, set both clenched fists on the desk
and leaned forward. “Henrietta,” he said grimly, “knows more than she’ll
tell. To my certain knowledge she has talked with Wu Tu. That may sound
unlikely, but I know it happened. Now she’s in Rajputana, staying with the
Graynes, in camp near Gaglajung. Do you know the Graynes?”

“Yes.” Blair looked noncommittal. The commissioner continued:

“Grayne’s a decent fellow, but a bit slack. Writes ridiculous plays in his
spare time. Has a Christian Science aunt in the United States, who sends him
checks and pamphlets. His wife cashes the checks and burns the pamphlets.
Between the two of them I’d say they’d let a brass band go by without knowing
which way it went. Grayne being on long leave, is probably composing poetry
and noticing less than usual. I’m sending you there to find out why Henrietta
invited herself to stay in the Graynes’ camp. Visit Wu Tu first.”