Full Moon (4 page)

The Pathans swaggered through a clattering curtain of metallic beads into
a room part Indian, part Chinese, richly carpeted. There was a long, deep
divan. On the floor were heaped cushions of gorgeous colors. Opposite the
door a gilded dragon-screen concealed one corner: and beside that, on a
mandarin’s throne, sat the woman who owned the place. Her age might not be
guessed. Good humor and the full flood of physical health obeyed
intelligence, concealing all but what she chose should seem: and she was
lovelier to the eye than any cream-and-honey quadroon who ever maddened
Paris. Forbidden knowledge, that had not wearied her, laughed forth from dark
eyes and carmined lips. Eurasian, slim, so marvelously formed and subtly
strong that the ease of her poise suggested motion, she was dressed in
jet-black silk. The jacket, open at the throat, revealed a daffodil-yellow
lining and a throat that Rodin might have thumbed from creamy meerschaum.

A big diamond flashed in her dark hair. Pearls on the lobes of her ears
stole glow and color from her skin. She had jade bracelets that clashed when
she moved, but no other jewelry: there were no rings on her strong hands, and
her hands looked young. But even younger and more graceful were the naked
feet that lazed below the black silk, which suggested rather than revealed
impudently shapely legs. A hint, but no more than a hint of Chinese hovered
near her eyes: they were the eyes of the devil, beautiful with love of
dangerous living.

“Hello. Warrender,” she said.

“Evening, Wu Tu,” he retorted. He seemed undisturbed by being recognized,
but her eyes darkened.

“Don’t you call me that—you!”

“Very well, don’t call me Warrender.”

“Blair—eh?”

“I am Ismail ben Alif Khan.”

“But why the masquerade? Why don’t you come alone to see me? Why bring
Chetusingh? Why do you choose to dress like Orakzai Pathans? They fight like
dogs and love like pigs, except when they are drunk with hasheesh; then they
sleep like stuffed pythons.”

“Let me see behind that screen,” said Blair.

But Chetusingh forestalled him—too late by a stride; as he reached
it, a low door hidden by the screen thumped shut and a bolt clicked. She
seemed indifferent. “You have at least the manners of Pathans.”

Chetusingh moved one wing of the screen away from the wall, so that he
could watch the low door. Then he and Blair sat on the divan, drawing their
feet up under them. Blair said something in a low voice and Chetusingh went
to the curtained door, glancing into the passage both ways, returned and sat
down again.

“You are as stupid as Pathans,” said Wu Tu. “You know well, Chetusingh,
that men are not murdered in my house. I don’t permit it. Otherwise, why do
you think that a Rajput Chr-r-ristian” (she filled the words with venom) “was
here night after night—and no knife in his liver? Tell me.”

There was no impatience in her voice—no anger in her eyes, even when
Chetusingh smiled without answering. She was only making conversation while
she eyed Blair Warrender. It was his smoldering gaze that amused her. She
mocked him:

“Take care! Beware of my merry widows!”

Weirdly half-heard chords of eastern music from another room
counter-pointed the inflection of her voice. “Ismail ben Alif Khan the
Orakzai” (her voice and her smile were almost a caress) “is no concern of
mine. But Blair—”

She lingered on the word. Her sinuous ease, giving scented heat and mellow
light wove and again rewove imagined calm; but its weft and its woof were
danger, beyond guessing.

“My merry widows shed humility and meekness and all those vices when they
left home. Do they care for a Pathan’s dignity? What if one of them should
pull that turban off and laugh at an Englishman’s clipped head?”

“There are nine men here to whom I wish to speak,” said Blair
abruptly.

“Set a new spy at the outer door! There are ten men. I would not describe
them as your bodyguard!” Then she added in the vernacular,
“Diwaza bund
hai.”

The news that the outer door was locked made Chetusingh stir
uncomfortably. Wu Tu drew some paper money from her bosom and without
glancing at it tossed it into Chetusingh’s lap.

“Go and play with the little widows!”

Chetusingh was well taught. He examined the money before he tossed it back
to her. Then he glanced at Blair, who nodded. Chetusingh walked out into the
corridor and turned left. The Chinese girl parted the curtains, making the
beads jingle to attract attention; at the hardly noticeable movement of Wu
Tu’s hand she withdrew and followed Chetusingh.

“Now you are not afraid to talk to me,” said Wu Tu.

“No,” he answered.

She drew her legs up under her and arranged a cushion so that she could
loll back comfortably.

“Would you like a drink? Smoke? No? Let us be frank with each other.”

He smiled. “Jenny, are you ever frank with anybody?”

“Always! But don’t you call me Jenny. I am that to the fools whom I
entertain in my house, and who borrow money from me secretly, and who
slip—slip—slip into my power—it would surprise you to
know—”

“It wouldn’t. You needn’t brag about it. I could give you a partial list
of your creditors.”

“To the Sikhs and the men from the North I am Soonia.”

He nodded. “Soonia Singh in Berlin, Paris, New York, Brussels?”

“You know too much. I am Wu Tu to my enemies. To you, Blair—”

“Suit yourself. If you prefer it, I will call you Marie.”

“That is my true name—Marie d’Alençon. It is on my passport. Let us
talk truth to each other. Why have you stayed away? And, why send Chetusingh?
Do you think that nine-and-eighty nights ago I let you sketch me— sat
to be stared at by your eyes, that torture because they see so much, and
burn, and tell me little—do you think I did that for Chetusingh’s
sake?”

“Do you suppose I came here to make love to you?” he retorted. “Chetusingh
was spying on you. You know that.”

“Why him? That convert-puritan so careful of his soul that he draws in his
breath when he tells unavoidable lies! I tortured him. He would have bored me
to death if I had not made trouble for him. I let his bishop know that he has
been dealing in unchristian plans.”

“Why?”

“Because ‘I know how he feels toward that bishop—as a
chela
toward his guru. Yet he might not explain to the bishop, who feels toward him
as guru to his
chela
. Are there hotter hooks than that on which to
draw a convert?”

“Probably not. What I asked you is, why did you do it?”

“To bring you here. Why else? I could have had him beaten to death in the
streets, and none the wiser, but I wanted you here. It wasn’t easy” (her eyes
smiled reminiscently) “to reach the bishop’s ear and make him think he
thought of that. But why didn’t you come alone? I want you!” She leaned back
on the cushion, put her arms behind her head, smiled —and her smile
seemed all surrender. “Don’t I look good? Don’t you like me?”

“Yes. I can like without smashing and grabbing. There are ten men here.
What are they doing?”

“People come here for amusement.”

“Murder amuse them?”

“Not in my house, if they murder one another,
sometimes—elsewhere—that is not strange. When was murder anything
but a natural consequence of”—she spoke slowly, almost
purring—“intruding—unwisely—amid emotions not
understood?”

He got up. “You may as well come with me,” he said. “I am going to
interview those men.”

“Wait!” Her dark eyes suddenly grew liquid with excitement. There was a
change in her voice. Beyond, or beneath, or around its luring, lazy
sensuousness there was an unguarded overtone of danger, like a wolf’s yelp
very far off, coming nearer. “Three months ago, when you sketched me, I
said—”

“Yes, I know what you said.”

“You savage! Blair, your cruel heart glows through your eyes! You love
strength. You love nothing else. You are on the side of the law by accident.
You have no morals—none, I tell you! You are only loyal. And to what
are you loyal? England? You would dread to live in England. You would leave
India unless it were a battle-ground for all your talents. You love battle,
because it makes you feel your strength, and you are drunk with strength! So
to what are you loyal?”

“To the job,” he answered.

“Not you! You are loyal to your hunger, just like any other savage! Duty?
That is nothing to you except that it means to be
strong—stronger—strongest—and then stronger again beyond
the dream of devils! That is why you love danger.”

“Do I? Well, what of it?”

“Love me! I am danger!”

“You love strength in order to corrupt it, Wu Tu.”

“Call me Marie! Are you incorruptible? You dare me? Think a minute! I can
snap my fingers, Blair, and ruin you.”

“Try it,” he answered.

“You policeman!” She stood up and faced him, laughing. With a naked toot
she kicked his shin, triumphant, daring him. She wasn’t afraid of his
strength; she craved it. “Love me, you savage! I will give you the keys of
India—of Asia! You devil, love me!”

“Savages don’t love,” he answered. “Give me a cigarette and don’t be
silly.”

He returned to the divan. She followed and sat beside him, curling up at
one end with her naked feet toward him. She tossed him her platinum cigarette
case.

Abide thou the time and the tide of events, lest strength go
wasted and thy skill, in vain exerted, fall in to the scales against thee.
Silence is the arsenal of Wisdom.

—From the First of the Nine Books of Noor Ali.

BLAIR examined the cigarette case, pressed the diamond
catch, sniffed the cigarettes, selected one and gave the case back. He did
not take the first, nor the last, nor the middle one; and before he touched
it to his lips he tapped it on the little lacquered table, on which there
were a jade vase and a small but monstrous figurine that looked like molded
gold.

Wu Tu promptly chose a cigarette at random, lighted it, blew a smoke-ring,
laughed and leaned toward him, proffering the lighter. Their eyes met above
it. The scent of her reached his nostrils. For a moment she looked older than
he did, but that look vanished.

“It is fear of me that poisons you.” she murmured. “Not to trust me is as
dangerous as not to trust yourself. Blair?”

“Who was behind that screen?” he asked her.

She shrugged indifference. “Probably someone. I have many servants.”

“Why did you call me Warrender so promptly when I came in?”

“I was so glad to see you. I should have said Blair, shouldn’t I?”

“Somebody behind that screen was listening and passed the news to someone
else,” he answered.

“Why were you scared when I started for the next room?”

“Love me—and be safe,” she said, smiling. “Don’t I look good? I am
even better than I look. Seize the nettle—strongly—”

“And the cobra by the throat!” he added.

“Blair, I warn you—you strong, leopard-eyed devil! India isn’t safe
for one whom—”

He finished the sentence for her: “—Zaman Ali fears! Zaman Ali
suspected me as Ismail ben Alif Khan. But now he knows I am Blair Warrender.
He knows I am here, and the is outer door locked. He knows now who has been
watching him. Nine of his accomplices are here to-night, and he knows that
Chetusingh, and consequently I, know all their names. He is probably not such
a fool as to murder me here, supposing he could do that. But—”

“You don’t even know why he is in Bombay,” she retorted calmly. “I could
tell you. How else can you find out? I can give you Zaman Ali! That
pig—” Her eyes flashed.

“Blair, you may have for the taking what he craves but is too much of a
sot to imagine! Power! You understand me?”

He nodded.

“There isn’t a guilty secret worth knowing in all India that I can’t tell
you.”

He nodded again. His eyes did not reveal that he doubted her, if he
did.

“Do you understand, too, that you are alive because I wished it? Any crazy
failure of a student with a cheap revolver could have shot you and not known
who directed him or why he did it. Isn’t life good?” She leaned toward him.
“You don’t guess how good it can be!”

Her hand touched his. He let his lie still.

“What can you do to Zaman Ali? Arrest him? What would that accomplish? You
have no proofs against him that a court would look at.. He would soon be at
liberty. But you? Death’s arm is longer than life’s desires! Nobody but I can
save you now from Zaman Ali and his gang. But what if I give them to
you?”

“When?”

“Love me.”

He knocked the ash from his cigarette into the jade vase on the lacquer
table, using his left hand. She was fingering his right hand; on the divan.
He stared at the golden figurine, whose monstrous, sub-human face seemed wise
beyond all emotion; whoever had made it, knew neither love nor hate but only
irony.

“Look at me, not at that! You catch sprats, you policemen, but the sharks
escape you, because of the laws of evidence, and because you seek peace, not
power. I don’t seek power. I already have it!”

“And you’re wealthy,” he suggested, not withdrawing his hand when she
raised it to her lap with both hers.

Triumph stole into her eyes. “Blair, have you ever, even for a moment,
felt the strength of money—the thrill of the strength of money that
obeys you? I have money! Men and women—some of them so important that
they dare not risk discovery—owe me more money than you have ever
dreamed of having. It is secret, unpayable debts that crack the whips of
power. But to you I would not lend. To you I give!”

“Blair, why do you look at me in that way? Tell me.”

Suddenly his right hand that she fondled seized her wrist and she checked
a scream, half terrified but half believing what she hoped. She tried to
break his grip, but could not.