From the other side came the pound of swift steps, and Murasingh shot around the corner of the shed, saw the two men, and came to an abrupt stop.
His face was cold with rage. His eyes were as two pools of red, uncontrolled fire. His lips drew back from white teeth that were as menacing as the fangs of a beast.
For a moment he stood so, apparently meditating attack, then he took a deep breath, regained control of his manner and features. But his eyes still glowed with red rage.
“Really, gentlemen, this is rather unusual.”
The native with the knife slipped beneath the wing.
Murasingh sharply clapped his hands, rattled out a few swift words of a tongue Phil Nickers did not understand. The man instantly became motionless, waiting. But there was a tense menace about his pose.
Nickers squirmed. After all, his invasion of Murasingh’s property had been unwarranted. He felt suddenly ill at ease, not sure of himself.
Forbes took charge of the situation.
“Heard a devil of a commotion in here, old man, and thought something had gone wrong. Sorry. Pet or something? You don’t object?”
The eyes lost their reddish glare, became as expressionless as twin chunks of polished ebony. Murasingh was once more charmingly suave, politely hostile.
“Yes, he’s a pet. Take him for a ride with me sometimes. But I didn’t know he was in there this trip.”
He held out his arms to the monkey.
As though steel springs had exploded inside the animal, he went into such swift action that the eye could see only a blur of black fur. The monkey shot from the cockpit to Nickers’s shoulder, from Nickers to Forbes, and fetched up in Murasingh’s arms, his tail wrapped firmly about a forearm, his hairy arms clasped about the swarthy neck, his face flattened against the white lapel of the coat, eyes turning to survey the two white men.
Elaborately casual, Forbes took his leave. Nickers followed, keenly aware of the eyes that burned behind, following their every motion.
Forbes lowered his voice, making his words inaudible to any save his companion, and spoke without turning his head.
“Easy. Don’t look back. Act as though we hadn’t seen a thing out of the ordinary. But keep walking. Keep moving.”
“Why all the fuss over a monkey?” asked Phil.
“Easy, old chap, easy. We’ll have a chance to talk later. Just act as though you were interested in the scenery now.”
And Phil stopped, extended a pointing forefinger as though indicating some interesting bit of scenery.
It was not until they were safely ensconced in Phil’s room that Forbes let down the bars, showed himself as he was, keenly excited, thoughtful.
“I’d suspected something of the sort all along,” the Englishman said. “And, even now, I’m not sure of it. But did you see the collar on that monkey? It was solid gold, hand-carved, set with rubies of the finest pigeon blood. And Murasingh didn’t know the brute was in there. You see he’d changed planes somewhere last night.”
“But, surely, a man has a right to a pet monkey,” expostulated Phil Nickers. “I’ve even seen ’em in the States. And here, where they’re plentiful—”
Forbes, who had been pacing the room as a penned tiger might pace his cage, whirled upon Nickers.
“You’ve got photographs of Audrey Kent!”
Phil was the cautious detective again, reluctant to admit definitely the confidential mission which had taken him to this strange land.
“Well, supposing I had, what then?”
“Did you notice the eyes? They were more round than the average eyes. You’ll notice that Jean Cray son has the same sort of eyes.”
“Well?”
“Monkey eyes, old chap, monkey eyes! Not very pronounced, but different from the ordinary run of eyes. Did you notice how Jean’s eyes glisten? They’re moist, shiny, and deep. You see them once in a while, eyes like that. I tried to think what it was they reminded me of. Now I know. They’re monkey eyes.”
Nickers lit a cigarette. “Personally, I think you’re just a bit off,” he said, coldly, suddenly regretting that he had allowed this man to discuss his confidential mission with him.
Forbes shook his head, without rancor.
“You just don’t know the country,” he said, good-naturedly.
Nickers remained coldly formal as the Englishman proceeded:
“And the collar had Sanskrit words on it! Lord, I’d have given a good deal to have had that confounded monkey hold off his jabbering for just thirty seconds. If I could have stolen that collar!”
“You’d have stolen the collar?”
“Sure!”
“Might I ask why you’re so confoundedly interested?”
Arthur Forbes turned a face, suddenly gray with pain, upon his questioner.
“I was engaged to Audrey Kent,” he said.
Nickers started. “Why, in that event — I was instructed to get in touch with you. You were the one who wrote to—”
Forbes nodded.
“Precisely. But I didn’t want to disclose my identity until after I was sure. That was why I gave another name in the letter. Then when you showed up last night, and I had Murasingh at the table at the same time — it was too good an opportunity to overlook. I just kept gabbing, leading the conversation around to where I wanted it. I wanted to see if Murasingh was suspicious. He was.”
Nickers drummed on the table. “Look here, Forbes. I don’t want to go off half cocked on this thing, but I wonder if you couldn’t scare up a plane, a fast two-seater. It might come in handy.”
Forbes nodded.
“Now you’re talking. There’s a big cabin job I might be able to get. It’s got a Pratt & Whitney Wasp, and will fly circles around anything hereabouts.”
Nickers nodded slowly.
“I can’t help thinking that that monkey — well, that the monkey will go back to where he came from. If you think the monkey’s connected with the case in any way, it might be worth while to tag along.”
Forbes interrupted.
“Look here, old chap. I’m not making any foolish statements. That monkey may not have a blamed thing to do with what we’re working on. But I’ve been watching Murasingh ever since — ever since Audrey disappeared. And I’ll swear Murasingh has a finger in the pie somewhere.”
“All right,” Nickers nodded. “Anything that connects up with Murasingh is our meat. Right now the monkey seems to be a big factor in the situation as far as he’s concerned. Therefore, I’m willing to do anything we can to get the straight of it. But I still don’t see why a man can’t have a pet monkey.”
Forbes sat down, extended a long, bony forefinger. His features twitched with enthusiasm and anxiety. His eyes glowed with a fire of inner emotion.
“Look here, Nickers, this is India. Don’t ever forget that fact. Now let me tell you something: One of the sacred legends of this country is the Ramayana, a long, rambling account of the early doings of the Gods and Goddesses. And Hanuman is one of the main figures in the Ramayana. He’s supposed to be the child of a nymph, by the God of the Wind — and he’s a monkey god. The god Rama, who is an incarnation of Vishnu, had his wife kidnaped by a demon. The woman was taken to the demon’s cave in Ceylon. Rama would have been powerless had it not been for his ally, the monkey god, Hanuman. Hanuman started a horde of monkeys bringing bowlders clean from the slopes of the Himalayas. They fetched the bowlders by the millions, over a vast expanse of country, and they threw them into the sea, bridging over to Ceylon.
“Now, all that sounds to your Western ears like any ordinary bit of folklore, an old myth that’s something a bit more personal than a fairy tale. But this is India. Don’t forget it. Right now there exists a powerful caste that considers itself bound to the god Hanuman as priests. And they worship the monkeys as being symbolic of their god. It’s all rather a complicated mess, but it simmers down to the fact that the priests of Hanuman either worship the monkeys or else consider that they owe a service to the monkeys to get them started on a higher spiral of evolution.