The Cruise of the 'Scandal' and other stories by Victor Bridges - HTML preview

 

The Nadir Bandar

I had known Bruce for about fifteen years before this amazing thing happened.

He was a nephew of Mervyn Bruce, the famous traveller, and we had turned up the same day at Haileybury—two forlorn new boys. I can see him now with his shock of red hair, his friendly grin, and that funny little habit of scratching the back of his right ear which has never left him.

He came up and spoke to me in the quad. Some big fellow had just asked me my name, and when in all innocence I had said, "Bridges—what's yours?" I had been answered with a clip over the head that had sent me sprawling on the asphalt.

"Why did he hit you?" asked Bruce.

I explained, trying not to blubber.

"You'll know him again, won't you?" said Bruce.

I nodded.

"That's all right," he said cheerfully. "Then you can poison his food."

I remember this struck me as being a very comforting reflection, and from that moment Bruce and I have always been the best of friends.

Later on we shared a study together, the corner study next "the big school," and one summer holiday I went and stayed with his people in that big, ivy-covered house near Goring that you can see from the railway line.

When we left school our paths separated for a time. I started at journalism in London, while Bruce was sent to France "to learn the language." I think his father had some idea that he would make a good Prime Minister.

When the old man died, Bruce came home and settled in London. He had come into about £800 a year, and had no intention at all of going into politics.

Since then we have always seen a good deal of each other. He is just the same cheery, irresponsible, adventurous, good-natured chap that he was at school. I don't think we ever had anything approaching a quarrel in our lives.

I have told you all this so that you can see exactly what sort of people we are. It's really quite unnecessary, because you won't believe my story in any case. Still, unless Bruce and I are insane, the thing really happened; and as there is absolutely no reason to suppose we are, I intend to tell it and get it off my chest.

I will begin right at the beginning. It was on the 9th of February that I first learned of Mervyn Bruce's death. I saw it in the Daily Mail while I was having breakfast. There was a portrait of him in rough shooting clothes and a cork helmet—it must have been taken many years before—and a full column about his life and adventures. He had died at Etretat, where the paper said he had been living for some time.

I didn't bother myself about it, because I knew that he and Bruce had not been on speaking terms for years. There had been some silly family squabble somewhere back in the dark ages, and the old explorer was one of those fatuous people who think it a point of honour to keep a thing like that up for ever. So, after making an ineffectual attempt at a reconciliation when he was in France, Bruce had simply let matters slide.

I was therefore a little surprised to get a line from him on the 11th, saying that he was just off to Etretat, to see about his uncle's funeral. "The fact is," he wrote, "the old chap had quarrelled with everyone by the time he died, and as I'm his nearest relation I suppose I ought to see him through. I shall be back by the end of the week."

It was six days before I heard anything more. Then, late on Tuesday evening, I received a wire from him at the office:

"Please come Hampstead to-morrow—lunch. Important."

Bruce lives in one of those old-fashioned three-storey houses away to the right off the top of Haverstock Hill. I expect you know them if you have ever been up in that direction. Standing back from the road, with balconies, long windows, and creeper-covered fronts, they seem to shrink in a kind of desolate dismay from the new red-brick splendour which has gradually hemmed them in.

Heath View, the end one, is where Bruce hangs out. It belongs to an ex-police sergeant and his wife, called Jones, and Bruce has the whole of the two top floors. They make him very comfortable, but I have often wondered why he doesn't take a flat. He says it is because Mrs. Jones is the only woman in London who can cook a mushroom omelette.

When I rang the bell the possessor of this unique talent opened the door herself. She is a tall, good-looking woman of about forty, with that sort of grave, respectful manner you don't often meet nowadays.

Yes, Mr. Bruce was in, she said, and expecting me. Would I go straight up?

Bruce heard me coming, and flung open the door. He had just jumped up from his desk, which was littered with papers and bundles of deeds tied up by red tape. He looked flushed and a little excited.

"Come along in," he said. "I was just beginning to be afraid you couldn't turn up."

I discarded my coat, and followed him into the room.

"I couldn't neglect such a poignant wire," I said. "What's the matter? Have you come into a fortune?"

He laughed in a curious jerky sort of way, and just then Mrs. Jones came in and began to lay the table for lunch.

As soon as she had gone down again, Bruce walked across to the fire-place, and threw down his cigarette in the grate.

"I didn't get any money," he said abruptly. "The old chap left every cent he had to Reardon, the man who published his book of travels."

"I should dispute the will," I said. "An author who leaves money to a publisher is obviously mad."

Bruce scratched his ear for a moment in silence.

"I've got something else, though," he said at last. Then he stepped to his desk, pulled open the drawer, and took out a small, dark green object.

"What do you make of it?" he said, handing it to me.

I took it, and crossed to the window so as to get it in a better light.

I am not a particularly impressionable person, but when I saw it at close quarters I as nearly as possible dropped it.

"Good heavens," I said, "what a loathsome thing! What is it? A monkey or a devil?"

Bruce laughed uneasily. "It's the Nadir Bandar," he said.

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Jones came in again with a mushroom omelette. I stuffed the infernal piece of jade away in my pocket, and we sat down at the table. It was not until she had shut the door behind her that I took it out.

"And what the devil is the Nadir Bandar when it's at home?" I asked, setting the horrible thing up on the tablecloth in front of me.

Bruce laid down his fork, and, putting his hand in his pocket, pulled out a couple of sheets of dirty folded foolscap.

"You'd better read that," he said'.

I took them with no little curiosity. They were written in a very fine sloping hand, and were headed: "An Account of the Finding of the Nadir Bandar. Not to be published until after my death.—MERVYN BRUCE."

Here is the whole thing as it was written:

"I first heard of the Nadir Bandar when I was at Nikh in '73. I was told of it by the Sheikh Al-Abbas, who claimed himself to be descended from Nadir Shah.

"Al-Abbas had been wounded in the rebellion against Nasr-ed-Din, and had fled to Nikh, where I found him dying and in disguise. I took him into my house and looked after him as well as I could, for the man was a great man of noble blood, and not an accursed Turkish dog like Nasr-ed-Din.

"On the night before he died he spoke to me of the Nadir Bandar.

"'If I had it,' he said, 'I would wish to be well, and I would also wish that Nasr-ed-Din should be eaten of worms.'

"Myself: 'What is the Nadir Bandar, Sheikh Al-Abbas? I have not heard of it.’

"The Sheikh: 'There is but one who has heard of it, and he will die with the coming of the sun.'

"Myself: 'It is a great power if it can grant such wishes as you name.'

"The Sheikh: 'There is no wish that it cannot grant. Four times may a man call upon it and four times will it answer. With its aid my ancestor, Nadir Shah, conquered the entire world.'

"Myself: 'If he possessed such a power, Sheikh Al-Abbas, why did he allow himself to be slain?'

"The Sheikh: 'Four times had he called on it and four times had it answered.'

"Myself: 'You mean that its power had passed away?'

"The Sheikh: 'He had buried it at the meeting of the waters. His last wish had been that he might win the world and gain the mountain of light. When this was granted he buried it beneath the great sun stone at the meeting of the waters. After that he was slain.'

"Myself: 'And where is the meeting of the waters, Sheikh Al-Abbas?'

"The Sheikh: 'I cannot say. All that I know I was told by my father, who had had it from his father before him.'

"When I rose next morning the Sheikh Al-Abbas was dead. I buried him, pondering greatly over his story. Some would have dismissed it from their minds as the babbling of a dying man, but I have seen many strange things in this world, and I knew well that the Sheikh Al-Abbas had spoken what he believed to be true.

"So soon as I could get away from Nikh in safety I travelled through to Quetta, and, there procuring a map, I traced out the marches of Nadir Shah, as he came back from the ravishing of Delhi. So far as I could see there was but one place to which the phrase used by the Sheikh Al-Abbas could be applied. That was a few miles to the east of Jelalabad, where the Chitral and Kabul rivers mingle together and flow down to the great lakes.

"I made my way up to Peshawar, and in the disguise of an Afghan hillman crossed the border. At Lalpura I fell in with a travelling merchant, who was in much fear of being waylaid by robbers. 'Two,' said he, 'are better company than one.' And together we set out on the road to Jelalabad.

"We passed through Kila Akhund before the sun was high in the sky, and halted for our midday rest on the bank of the Kabul river. It was there that I learned of the Temple of the Sun Stone.

"It stood before us at the meeting of the waters, a low stone building set on an island in mid-stream.

"When my companion spoke of it by its name my heart leaped suddenly within me, for I recalled the words of the Sheikh Al-Abbas.

"'It is very sacred,' said my companion. 'No one but the priests of the Sun are allowed to enter or even to land on the island.'

"I made no reply to him, and later on we continued our journey to Jelalabad, where we parted.

"That night I rode out from the city, and tied up my horse in a thicket on the bank of the river opposite to the temple. Then, stripping myself of my clothes, I entered the water and swam to the island, having some matches and a loaded pistol in my turban. These I took out on landing, and advanced very carefully towards the gate of the temple.

"It was shut, and I could find no means of opening it save by breaking it in with a stone. This I did, waiting in some anxiety to see what might happen. There was no sound or movement, and I entered. The temple was quite dark inside; so, halting and striking a match, I held it up above my head and looked about me.

"The floor was of beaten earth, and at the further end I beheld a large red stone, as red as blood, and guarded by golden rails. There were two candles, one each side, set in brass candlesticks.

"These I lighted, and then without more ado set to work, digging out the earth under the stone with the aid of my knife. I must have laboured for the best part of an hour before the steel struck upon something hard, and the blade snapped in my hand. In another minute I had dragged to light an ancient iron box, which had rusted fully as red as the stone above. The cover fell off as I lifted it, and inside I beheld the Nadir Bandar.

"Scarcely had I taken it in my hand, when the door of the temple opened. I looked up quickly. In the gloom I could see three figures, tall men robed in white, and carrying swords.

"I raised my pistol, but as I did so the words of the Sheikh Al-Abbas came flooding into my mind. 'I wish,' said I clearly and without hesitation, 'that I was in Peshawar.'

"For a moment my eyes closed. When I opened them I was standing outside the house in Peshawar where I had lately lodged."

At this point I laid down the manuscript and burst into a shout of laughter.

Bruce leaned across and picked it up. "You think it's all nonsense?" he said.

"I think," said I, "that as an explorer your uncle can give points to Louis de Rougemont and Dr. Cook. The picture of him suddenly appearing naked in the main street of Peshawar, with a pistol in one hand and the Nadir Bandar in the other, is about the richest touch of imagination I've ever struck."

"You think it's all a lie?" persisted Bruce.

I stared at him.

"My dear chap," I said, "it's either a lie or else the old boy was as mad as a March hare. Considering he left his money to a publisher, I personally incline to the latter theory."

Bruce sat silent for a minute, scratching his ear. Then he laughed in a rather apologetic sort of fashion.

"You'll think I'm dotty, too," he said, "but do you know, upon my soul, I believe there's something in it."

"Oh, get out!" I said; "and pass me the whisky."

Bruce handed over the bottle.

"I'm not joking," he went on obstinately. "I've got a funny sort of feeling that the old chap was speaking the truth."

"You ought to take something for it," I said. "Mother Seigel or Dr. William's Pink Pills for Neurotic Nephews."

Bruce got up, and, crossing to the mantelpiece, began to fill a pipe. For some moments we both remained silent.

"Well, look here," he broke out at last rather awkwardly, "I'm going to have a wish and see what happens."

I shook my head with a kind of mock disapproval.

"You're sure to be sorry," I said. "These things always turn out badly. Think of 'Uncle Peter's Fairy Story.'"

"What's that?" asked Bruce.

"It's a book," I replied, "a book that delighted my early childhood. As far as I can recollect, everyone in it was allowed to have one wish, and the results were—well, not quite what they expected. I remember one kind-hearted lady wishing that the blacksmith's baby, who was dying of consumption, should be as well and strong as its father. In about three minutes the baby was decimating the village with a sledge-hammer."

"I shall be very careful," remarked Bruce, a little uncomfortably. "I——"

"By the way," I interrupted, "what happened to your uncle? You took away his manuscript before I'd finished it."

"He never had any more wishes," said Bruce. "That first shot seems to have frightened him off it."

I laughed.

"I don't wonder," I said. "One experience like that would be enough to make me sign the pledge for ever."

Bruce came to the table and picked up the Nadir Bandar.

"What are you going to wish?" I asked mischievously. "For goodness' sake be careful."

"It's all right," he answered. "I've got four wishes, so I can always unwish one if it goes wrong."

Then he paused.

"I wish," he said, very slowly and distinctly, "that I may be irresistible to all women."

I burst out laughing.

"Good heavens," I said, "you've done it now! Think what will happen if you run up against a girls' school! What on earth made you wish that?"

An obstinate look came into Bruce's face.

"It's Cynthia," he said. "Cynthia West, you know. I want to marry her, and she won't give up the stage."

"Well, you needn't have indulged in quite such a sweeping demand," I protested.

Bruce looked a little ashamed.

"I thought I'd be on the safe side," he explained. "You see, I might get tired of Cynthia one day, and then it would save wasting a second wish."

"Well, I'm blessed!" I said. "For a lover I think you're about the most cold-blooded cynic I ever struck. What are you going to wish next?"

"I must have some money," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"You must," I agreed, "plenty! Eight hundred a year won't go far with Cynthia, to say nothing of the others."

"What about a billion in Consols?" suggested Bruce.

I shook my head.

"Too much," I said. "Think what The Clarion and Reynolds's would say about it! You'd have no peace."

"I know," exclaimed Bruce suddenly. "I'll wish that I had as much money as John P. Fox, the American Rubber King."

"That ought to see you through all right," I remarked approvingly. "The papers say he is worth six millions."

Bruce again held up the Nadir Bandar.

"I wish," said he, "that I had as much money as John P. Fox, the American Rubber King."

"Two up and one to play," I said, laughing. "You may as well have a third while you're about it; that will still leave you one to hedge with."

Bruce thought a moment.

"I wish that I may live for ever," he said.

"Good!" I cried. "You'll be able to read Hall Caine's next novel right through."

With this hopeful reflection I got up from my chair and walked to the window.

"Now this tomfoolery's over," I observed, with a yawn, "what are we going to do?"

Bruce scratched his ear.

"I shall go and call on Cynthia, I think," he said in a rather apologetic voice. "After all, you know," he added lamely, "there might be something in it."

"Superstition," I began, "when coupled with—" Then I stopped abruptly. The excellent aphorism that I was about to utter was never completed.

"What's up?" asked Bruce, turning to me in surprise.

I pointed to the door of the room.

"Look at that," I said.

It was opening, slowly and stealthily, without a sound.

We stared at it in amazement.

"Who's there?" called out Bruce sharply.

There was a moment's pause, and then, very quietly, Mrs. Jones slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. She was breathing quickly, and her face was curiously flushed.

For several seconds we all three stood facing each other. Then Bruce spoke.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Jones? Are you ill?" he asked.

The woman made no reply. With her eyes half closed, she rocked slowly from side to side as if about to fall.

"Look out!" I cried. "She's going to faint!"

We both sprang forward together, but Bruce got there first and caught her by the shoulders. In a flash she had clutched him, winding her arms round his waist, and burying her face in his coat with a little cry, half-way between a laugh and a sob.

For a moment Bruce was too dumbfounded to resist. Then, with frantic energy, he made a vain attempt to disentangle himself from her embrace.

"Here, let me go!" he stammered. "What are you doing? What's the matter? Pull her off, Bridges—pull her off!"

I hastened to his assistance, feeling as if I was taking part in some exceptionally spirited nightmare.

To and fro we swayed, pulling, struggling, and banging against the table. At last, with a mighty heave, I managed to unfasten one of her hands, and, ducking down, Bruce tore himself free.

"She's mad!" he gasped. "Shove her outside, and lock the door, quick!"

"Well, give us a hand, then!" I panted, for the woman was twisting and writhing in a manner that made it almost impossible to hold her.

Watching his opportunity, Bruce leaped in and seized her disengaged wrist. She fought furiously but together we half pushed, half carried her into the passage, and then, wrenching ourselves loose, leaped back into the room and slammed and locked the door.

I sank down on the sofa and gazed at Bruce, who leaned against a table, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

Presently he found his voice.

"Lord!" he muttered in an awestruck whisper. "I never thought the darn thing would work like this!"

That revived me.

"Don't be an idiot!" I cried sharply. "You don't suppose it's got anything to do with your beastly green monkey? The wretched woman's gone clean off her head. Something must be done at once."

At that moment there came a savage hammering on the panels of the door.

"I know what I'm going to do!" exclaimed Bruce hastily, "and that's get out of the window. She'll have Jones up in a moment if she goes on like that, and the man's as jealous as Satan. He'd kill me for a certainty before I had time to explain."

"Well, I'm not going to be left here with a couple of gibbering lunatics!" I protested, jumping up from the sofa.

He caught me by the sleeve.

"Come on then; we can get out on the balcony and climb down by the ivy. Anything's better than waiting for Jones."

By this time I was so bewildered that I think I should have fallen in with any suggestion, however ludicrous. I remember some vague wonder passing through my mind as to what the next-door people would think if they saw us swarming down the front of the house; but with the door threatening to yield every instant before Mrs. Jones's frantic assault, there was no opportunity for detached reflection. Grabbing my hat from the table, I followed Bruce out on to the balcony, shutting the window behind me. One glance up and down showed us that the road was empty.

"You go first," I said unselfishly; "you're in most danger."

He climbed the rail, and, clutching the stems of the ivy with both hands, slid off into space. Leaning over, I watched him swaying downwards in short, spasmodic jerks.

Suddenly from within the room came the crash of a splintering panel.

"Look out!" I yelled hurriedly. "I'm coming!" And, scrambling over the rail, I, too, committed myself to that inadequate creeper.

I know that in books of adventure people swarm up and down an ivy-clad house without the faintest inconvenience, but as one who has tried it, I can only say that it's about the most poisonously impossible feat ever attempted.

Bruce was luckier than I. He was within four feet of the ground when the stuff gave way; I must have fallen at least twelve. And I landed in a rose bush.

Bruce, who had scrambled to his feet, rushed up and pulled me out of the wreckage.

"Hurt?" he inquired eagerly.

"Oh, no," I replied with some bitterness, "not in the least! I love to come down sitting on a rose bush. It's a kind of hobby of mine."

We had no time to squabble, however. Before Bruce could answer, we heard the window above flung violently open, and the furious panting of Mrs. Jones, as she climbed out on to the balcony.

That was enough. With incredible celerity we dashed for the garden gate, and nearly killed ourselves trying to get out at the same moment. Then, turning to the right, we raced down the road towards Haverstock Hill.

We must have covered at least half the distance before I regained sufficient sanity to realize what we were doing. Then I clutched Bruce by the arm.

"Steady on!" I gasped. "If there's any one looking they'll think we're mad!"

Even as I spoke there came a sharp "teuf teuf!" and instinctively we pulled up. Round the corner of Fitz-John Villas bowled a solitary taxi, the driver leaning back comfortably in his seat and smoking a big cigar.

"Hi!" we yelled in unison.

Some note of unusual urgency in our summons must have attracted him, for he at once applied his brakes. Having done this, however, he recollected himself, and, removing his cigar, spat pleasantly in the roadway.

"Nothin' doin', guv'nor!" he said, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. "Just orf to the garrige."

"You must!" I said desperately. "We're in a hurry, we can't wait! I'll give you a sovereign!"

"A suvrin!" he repeated dully. "Where d'yer want to go to?"

"Piccadilly Circus," I blurted out. It was the first place that came into my head.

He stared at me, and then something like a look of sympathy crept into his face.

"Ar!" he said. "Git in."

For about three minutes after the taxi started neither of us spoke. Then Bruce broke the silence.

"Well," he said, "d'you believe it now?"

I turned on him angrily.

"Look here," I cried, "don't talk blithering rot! The thing's impossible! You know it as well as I do!"

He shook his head.

"Well, what about Mrs. Jones?" he said obstinately.

"Mrs. Jones," I repeated, "is the victim of the same disease that you're suffering from—common or garden hysteria. No doubt she was listening at the door, and overheard your tomfool nonsense with that ridiculous monkey. Being a highly strung, passionate sort of woman——"

Bruce cut me short.

"Jones," he said, "is always complaining that she's too cold."

"Cold!" I groaned. "Oh, Lord!"

"So it couldn't be that," he added.

"Well, if it isn't that," I said, "what the blazes is it? You don't seriously expect me to believe in black magic and Mumbo Jumbo and all that sort of bunkum, do you?"

Bruce scratched his ear.

"I don't know," he said unhappily.

We sat in silence as the cab ran on, each of us staring out of the window on our respective sides. It was not until we were halfway up Tottenham Court Road that I suddenly noticed the time. There was a big clock outside one of the furniture shops, and the hands were pointing to half-past two. I called Bruce's attention to the fact.

"Cynthia won't have finished her lunch yet," I said. "We had better get out at Piccadilly Circus and walk up. Or perhaps you'd rather go alone?"

"No," he answered eagerly; "I want you to come. You needn't stay, you know, but I'd like you just to come and see what happens."

"All right," I said, with a laugh. "I may as well see you through now I've begun. If Cynthia starts embracing you, I'll leave the room."

"Oh, don't joke about it!" said Bruce nervously.

The cab swerved its way through the traffic in Piccadilly Circus, and drew up with a jerk opposite Swan and Edgar's. We got out, and I handed the man a sovereign which I had ready.

He took it with a friendly smile.

"Thank ye, sir," he said, "an' good luck."

"It's my cab," said Bruce, as we turned into Regent Street.

"Very well," I answered, "we won't fight about it. You can pay me as soon as your green monkey pushes along those six millions."

By this time we were just opposite the entrance to the Piccadilly Hotel. As we passed, the door swung open, and a handsome woman, dressed in a long sable cloak, stepped out on to the pavement. In the roadway opposite, a liveried manservant was holding open the door of a smart electric brougham.

At the sight of us she paused, and her lips parted in one of the sweetest smiles I have ever seen. We both took off our hats, but as Bruce made no attempt to stop I walked on with him.

"Who is she?" I whispered.

He stared at me.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought she was a friend of yours."

"Never seen her in my life," I answered. "I wonder who she took us for?"

I looked round, and then touched his arm.

"Bruce," I said, "she's following us."

He glanced bade over his shoulder, and I saw him start as though something had stung him.

"Come on!" he muttered, suddenly quickening his pace.

"Why, what does it matter?" I protested.

"Others, too," he whispered, "just behind her! Three or four of 'em! It's that infernal charm!"

"Bosh!" I said incredulously, and then turned round to take another look. For a moment I felt as if someone had suddenly placed a large piece of ice inside my waistcoat. At least five women were following us along the pavement, headed by the lady in sables. There could be no possible doubt about it. Even as I looked two girls who had been walking in the other direction suddenly pulled up, and then, turning round, came hurriedly in pursuit of the rest. We seemed to be clearing Regent Street.

"This is awful!" I gasped. "What are we to do?"

"We must t-take a taxi!" stammered Bruce, looking wildly about him.

Of course, as luck would have it, there was not a cab of any kind passing. We couldn't wait, for every moment things were growing worse. Women were appearing suddenly out of shops, and hurrying over from the other side of the street in twos and threes, recklessly indifferent to the traffic. In less than a minute a jostling crowd of about fifty or sixty were sweeping after us up the pavement.

"Run!" gasped Bruce. "Run!"

It was, of course, about as mad a thing as we could have done; but panic, stark, blind panic, had gripped hold of us, and our only feeling was a frantic desire to escape. Without another word we took to our heels.

Of what followed I have a somewhat confused recollection. I remember a terrific uproar all round us, yells of "Suffragettes!" "Stop 'em!" "Police!" And then two helmeted figures in dark blue suddenly leaped across our path. I suppose they must have taken us for Cabinet Ministers, for they opened out to let us go through, and without hesitation hurled themselves into the wild avalanche of pursuing women.

The check was only a momentary, one, but it saved us. Before the shattered column could reform we had reached the corner of Vigo Street, where a taxi—a thrice-blessed taxi with an excited, beckoning driver at the wheel—was standing in readiness.

"Jump in!" he roared, as we hurled ourselves panting at the door.

Willing hands banged it behind us, someone raised a cheer as we sank back on the seat, and there we were spinning past the Bodley Head, with the tumult and shouting dying away behind us.

There are some emotions which words are quite inadequate to express. At that moment Bruce and I were suffering from about si