Guns of the Gods Part 41

"I guess so. If I think of anything else I'll talk it over with you when I bring the contract round this afternoon."

"Good. Then I will give you the map."

"Better give it me now, so I can study it."

"The--eh--risk of that is too great, Mr. Blaine!"

"Seems to me your risk is pretty heavy as it is," d.i.c.k retorted. "If I was going to spill your secret, I could do it now, map or no map!"

Three times again Gungadhura paced the tunnel, torn between mistrust, impatience and anxiety. At last he thrust his bandaged face very close to d.i.c.k's and spoke in a level hard voice, smiling thinly.

"Very well, Mr. Blaine. I will entrust the map to you. But let me first tell you certain things--certain quite true things. Every attempt to steal that treasure has ended in ill-luck! There have been many. All the conspirators have died--by poison--by dagger--by the sword--by snake-bite--by bullets-- they have all died--always! Do you understand?"

d.i.c.k shuddered in spite of himself.

"Then take the map!"

Gungadhura turned his back and fumbled in the folds of his semi-European clothing. He produced the silver tube after a minute, removed the cap from one end, and shook out a piece of parchment. There was a dull crimson stain on it.

"The blood of a man who tried to betray the secret!" said Gungadhura.

"See-the knife of an a.s.sa.s.sin pierced the tube, and blood entered through the hole. It happened long ago."

But he did not pa.s.s the tube to d.i.c.k that he might examine the knife mark.

"These notes on the edge of the map are probably in the hand of Jengal Singh, who stole it. He died of snake-bite more than a year ago. They are in Persian; he notes that four of the trees are dead and only their roots remain; therefore that measurements must allow for that. You must find the roots of the last tree, Mr. Blaine, and measure carefully from both ends, digging afterward in a straight line from inside the palace wall by compa.s.s. Is it clear?"

"I guess so. Leave it with me and I'll study it."

The maharajah kept the tube and left the parchment in d.i.c.k's hands.

"This afternoon, then?"

"This afternoon," said d.i.c.k.

When he had gone, d.i.c.k resumed the very careful building of the masonry, placing the last stones with his own hands. Then he went out into the sunlight, to sit on a rock and examine the parchment with a little pocket magnifying-gla.s.s that he always carried for business purposes. He studied it for ten minutes.

"It's clever," he said at last. "Dashed clever. It 'ud fool the Prince of Wales!" (d.i.c.k had astonis.h.i.+ng delusions as to the supposed omniscience of the heir to the throne of England.) "The ink looks old, and it's not metallic ink. The parchment's as old as Methuselah--I'll take my oath on that. There's even different ink been used for the map and the margin notes. But that's new blood or my name's Mike! That blood's not a week old! Phew! I bet it's that poor devil Mukhum Da.s.s! Now-- let's figure on this: Mukhum Da.s.s burgled my house, and was murdered about an hour afterward. I think--I can't swear, because he didn't let me hold it, but I think that tube in Gungadhura's hand was the very identical one that I hid under the cellar floor--that Mukhum Da.s.s stole--and that the maharajah now carries in his pocket. This map has blood on it.

What's the inference?"

He filled his pipe and smoked reflectively.

"The inference is, that I'm accessory after the fact to the money-lender's murder, unless" -

He finished the pipe, and knocked the ashes out.

"--unless I break my promise, and hand this piece of evidence over to Norwood. I guess he's arch-high-policeman here."

As if the guardian angel of d.i.c.k's conscience was at work that very minute to torment him, there came the sound of an approaching horse, and Samson turned the corner into view.

"Oh, hullo, Blaine! How's the gold developing?"

"So-so. Have they found the murderer of Mukhum Da.s.s yet?"

Samson dropped his reins to light a cigar, and took his time about it.

"Not exactly."

"Hum! You either exactly find the murderer, or you don't!"

"We've our suspicions."

"Leading anywhere?"

"Too soon to say."

"If I was to offer to put you next to a piece of pretty evidence, how'd that suit you?"

Samson had to relight the cigar, in order to get opportunity to read d.i.c.k's face before he answered.

"I don't think so, Blaine, thank you--at least not at present. If you've direct evidence of an eye-witness, of course--"

"Nothing like that," said d.i.c.k.

"Well, I'll be candid with you, Blaine. We know quite well who the murderer is. At the right moment we shall land on him hammer and tongs.

But you see--we need to choose the right moment, for political reasons.

Now--technically speaking--all evidence in criminal cases ought to go to the police, and the police might act too hastily--you understand me?"

"If you know who the man is, of course," said d.i.c.k, "there's nothing more I need do."

"Except to be discreet, Blaine! Please be discreet! We shall get the man. Don't doubt it! You and your wife have set us all an example here of minding n.o.body's business except your own. I'd be awfully obliged if you'd keep yourself as far as possible out of this mess.

Should we need any further evidence than we've got already, I'd ask you for it, of course."

"Suits me all right," said d.i.c.k. "I'm mum."

"Thanks awfully, Blaine. Can I offer you a cigar? I'm on my way to take a look at the fort. Seems like an anachronism, doesn't it, for us to keep an old-fas.h.i.+oned fort like this so near our own border in native territory.

Care to come with me? Well, so long then--see you at the club again, I suppose?"

Samson rode on.

"A narrow squeak that!" said d.i.c.k to himself, stowing away the map that he had held the whole time in his right hand in full view of the commissioner.

Chapter Nineteen