Rick Brant - The Lost City Part 5

"Why did you chase the truck?" Scotty demanded.

The boy shrugged expressively. "I think maybe the 'Merican Sahibs they will give me many rupees."

"You'll get many rupees, all right," Rick promised. "Just lead us to this truck driver."

Chahda hesitated. "It is far, and it is not a good place for Sahibs to go when it is dark."

Rick glanced at the sky. The sun had gone down and dusk was falling rapidly. "Where is this place?"

"You know Crawford Market? Foras Road?"

Rick shook his head. "No. Where are they?"

"Far. Better we go 'morrow."

"We go tonight," Rick insisted. "Or no rupees."

Chahda shrugged. He hailed a gharry and spoke volubly in Hindustani, then he bowed as a signal for the boys to get in. They sat in the back, and Chahda climbed to die little seat at the front and sat facing them. The gharry moved off.

They left the business section of the city and drove down into a quarter where white men were few. This was the crowded Crawford Market section, the native markets that housed the shops of the silversmiths, the coppersmiths, the vendors of birds and monkeys and wicked-looking knives, and strange foodstuffs and exotic fabrics.

As they progressed deeper into the quarter, the number of people seemed to increase. Men and boys ran alongside the carriage, holding up their wares, or shouting "Alms, for the love of Allah!"

Chahda called out to them in a curt manner, then explained to the boys, "I tell them go away, or maybe I call the cops."

Rick and Scotty grinned at his use of American slang. Chahda was an amazing little fellow. They were further amazed, when Rick exclaimed at the numbers of people, for the Hindu boy announced: "This population Bombay, he is one million four hun'red thousan'. Same like Conn-eck-tee-kut in 'Merica."

He continued with studied nonchalance, just as though the two white boys were not staring at him popeyed.

"Maybeso these Conn-eck-tee-kut have more peoples now. When they count noses in nineteen-twenty, it has one million three hun'red eighty thousan', almost like Bombay, I think."

Rick's jaw was hanging slack. "Did you get that, Scotty? The population of Connecticut, according to the 1920 census! Chahda, where did you get that information?"

Chahda looked pleased. "Oh, I know many things about this 'Merica. I have readed a book."

"I believe it," Scotty said. "Where did you learn English?"

"For many years, maybe two, maybe three, I am houseboy for a missionary man in Nepal. He is teach me. I speak good, yes?"

"Yes," Rick agreed. "What book did you read?"

Chahda smiled comfortably. "It is a very val ... val ..."

"Valuable?"

"Yes. My father has it for a long time. He is find it when a train is wreck. Some things I do not understan', but the missionary he is help me. I read some more, and I remember all these things."

"But what was this book?"

Chahda said proudly, "It is call 'The Worrold Aim-in-ack.

"The World Almanac!" Rick choked back a laugh, not wanting to hurt Chahda's feelings. He had a vision of the boy sitting by the hour, memorizing the facts in the Almanac.

"Why did you try to remember the facts, Chahda?" he asked.

"Someday I will go to 'Merica," the Hindu boy answered. "It will be so good to know these thing. Yes?"

"Yes," Rick agreed. There seemed to be no other answer.

The gharry rolled on through the market district into a quarter where the houses were of flimsy wooden construction, and close together. It was a place of dim light and foul odors, and misery beyond anything Rick had ever imagined. Chahda had certainly brought them to the worst quarter of Bombay.

"I think I know now why Van Groot carries menthol in his pocket," Rick commented wryly.

"Check," Scotty said. "Rick, I don't like this part of town. Notice the way the people look at us?"

"We go back?" Chahda asked hopefully.

"No. We're here; we may as well see about this truck driver." Rick didn't like the looks of the quarter, either, but he was determined to find the driver who had gone off with the equipment.

Chahda called up to their driver and the gharry stopped. "We here," the native boy told them.

They paid the gharry driver, then Chahda led the way up a dismal-looking alley and stopped before a crude door. "More better we not go in," he said.

"Let's go," Rick answered quietly, though he was feeling far from calm. Anything could happen in this part of town.

Chahda pushed open the door.

They went into a low-ceilinged room in which many tables were set. The foul air made Rick choke. Guttering candles were the only illumination. They cast a wavering light on the face of the sole occupant, who was seated at one of the tables, his head bowed over a cup.

As they entered, he looked up and Scotty clutched Rick's arm. The pock-marked face and the red turban were those of the truck driver!

"Chahda," Rick said tensely, "ask him where he took the stuff?"

Chahda spouted voluble syllables.

The driver looked up warily, then deliberately swung his chair around and turned his back on them.

"He no talk. We go, yes?" Chahda urged.

A door in the back of the room opened and a second man came in. He had a pointed face, half hidden by a sloppily tied turban. Scotty recognized him.

Rick heard his friend's voice rise angrily. "That's the one who pushed me off the truck!"

He saw the newcomer and the truck driver reach into the folds of their clothes, saw the flicker of candlelight on gleaming steel, and he saw Scotty jump forward!

With a yell, he grabbed Scotty's right arm and held on while Chahda leaped forward and grabbed the other arm. Together they rushed him out into the alley.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Fight in the Warehouse

"WHAT did you do that for?" Scotty demanded furiously.

"They had knives," Rick explained. He held on to Scotty's arm. "Getting yourself cut up wouldn't solve anything."

"They use knives," Chahda supplied. "They kill quick, those men. I know!"

"Let's get out of here," Rick said. "We can find a cop and bring him back."

Scotty followed as he led the way out of the alley. The ex-marine was grumbling, but he realized the senselessness of getting into a brawl.

Far down the road they found one of the youthful-looking policemen. He listened to Chahda's story, then went back with them. He took a firm grip on his club and pushed open the door, Rick and Scotty crowding in after him.

The room was empty.

"Back here," Scotty said, and made his way through the tables to the door through which the second man had entered.

"It's no use, Scotty. They're gone," Rick said.

The policeman shrugged. Chahda interpreted. "He is sorry, but if them men are gone, there is no thing he can do."

"I guess not," Rick agreed. "Thank him anyway, Chahda."

The policeman bowed and went back to his post. Rick looked helplessly at Scotty and Chahda. "What do we do now?"

"Nothing," Scotty replied gloomily. "We can go back to the hotel and tell the professors what happened. They can notify the consul in the morning. Maybe Chahda can lead a police squad back again, but I don't think they'll find anything."

Outside the alley, it was almost fully night. Here and there street lights penetrated the falling gloom, but most places were dark. Rick looked around for a gharry, but there was none in sight. Their own driver, foolishly had been paid and told to go. Gharries didn't haunt this section where no one had money enough for fare.

"We may as well walk back," he suggested.

Chahda spoke up. "It is not far. And we walk in middle of street, yes? Then no one jump from doorways with knife."

"A nice, cheerful little kid," Scotty remarked. "How old are you, Chahda?"

"Maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. Not know for sure."

"That's pretty young to know so much about thieving truck drivers," Rick said jokingly.

Chahda considered. "Maybe so. But same in India as in 'Merica. Most peoples is young before they grow up."

"That's the wisdom of the Orient we've heard about." Scotty grinned.

"In 'Merica, when count noses in 1920, is thirt'-three million six hun'red thousan's little kids under fo'teen years age. That is what says the Alm-Li-ack," Chahda announced.

Both boys burst out laughing.

"You're going to be handy to have around," Scotty laughed. "You know more about America than we do."

"This one is a smart cookie," Chahda agreed, showing his white teeth in a pleased grin.

They had reached Crawford Market again. Here, in the narrow, shop-lined streets, vendors plied their wares. Torches flared, augmenting the feeble glow of the few electric lights. The flickering light, the dust-choked air, and the teeming, turbaned or fezzed mob in their gay rags reminded Rick once more of a scene from the Arabian Nights.

"Look at the crowd over there," Scotty said. "Buying food, I guess."

Rick looked where his friend pointed and saw a dozen men haranguing an elderly man in a black fez behind a stand. There was much waving of hands and much loud language as they bartered. He grinned at the scene, so different from any that might be found in America. Then the grin froze. Beyond the vendor's stand a man was standing in a doorway ... a man in a s.h.i.+ny black hat and a s.h.i.+ny frock coat. He wore tight white trousers, and his feet were bare.

The man turned and Rick got a good look at his face. He clutched Scotty's arm. "Over there in the doorway!" Rick whispered. "The Pa.r.s.ee who took our equipment!"

Scotty's eyes sought the doorway. "You're right!" He started to push his way through the crowd.

"Easy," Rick pleaded. "Don't let him see you." loo late! The Pa.r.s.ee stopped in the act of wiping his face and stared right at them, then he melted into the crowd.

"He saw us," Rick groaned. "We can't follow him in this mob."

Chahda tugged at his sleeve. "If I follow, you give me job?"

"Yes," Rick agreed. "Yes, but hurry, will you?"

"Wait at hotel," Chahda instructed, and was gone into the throng.

"There's a lad who's right on the ball. He waits until he gets you into a corner, then he holds you up," Scotty remarked.

"I guess it's natural," Rick said. "He's never had anything, so when he sees a chance to get ahead, he grabs at it in the only way he knows."

"He's a likable little cuss," Scotty commented. "Isn't it funny the way he pops up with all that strange dope out of The World Almanac?"

"It is," Rick agreed, "but it's kind of touching, too. Imagine living in a land where the only book you can get is a copy of The World Almanac!"

They pa.s.sed out of Carnac Road into Mahatma Ghandi Road, and found a gharry at the curb. In a few moments they were rolling down the wide streets of modern Bombay to the hotel.

As they entered the creaky elevator, Scotty asked, "Do you think we ought to tell the professors?"

Rick thought it over, then shook his head. "They're upset enough. No point in getting them excited until we have something definite to report."

There was no light on in the professors' room, but as they tiptoed past, the door opened and Zircon came out.

"Oh, there you are, boys," he said. He looked and sounded tired, his big shoulders slumping. "Julius and I went to the Geographical Union. They were most sympathetic, but there was nothing they could do. Then we went to the jail with Captain Marks and tried to get Meekin to talk."

He rubbed his forehead as though his head ached painfully. "Poor Julius became quite hysterical. I think he would have tried to beat information out of Meekin if I hadn't restrained him. It's obvious the man knows nothing of value. I finally brought Julius home and gave him a sedative. He's sleeping quietly now."