too, have prospered. There has been no trouble here, despite riots and disturbances in other parts of Calcutta, in fact, throughout India.”
Mr. Chand picked up the squarish jewel case and started to place it in a chamois bag, as he added:
“And now good fortune goes with you. They say that even the power of invisibility is granted to those who hold this gem. Perhaps that is why danger has passed me by.”
“But in that case,” Biff asked frankly, “why are you giving it to me? Shouldn’t you keep it for yourself?”
“It is my duty to pass it along,” replied Mr. Chand solemnly, “and besides, I have noticed that the Light is losing some of its fire, which is a bad sign. See for yourself!”
He moved the ruby closer to Biff, who saw now that the gem was in a simple golden setting; but more important, just as Mr. Chand said, its sparkle had dwindled. Then, as Biff himself held the jewel, its wine-red depth kindled with new flame, so suddenly that Biff caught his breath.
“A good sign!” exclaimed Mr. Chand, closing the little case and thrusting it into the bag. “That proves it is in the hands where it belongs!” He pressed it into Biff’s hands as he spoke. “So guard it well” – he paused and his fixed smile became whimsical for once – “or I should say, it will guard you well. We have just seen proof of that.”
Evidently, Mr. Chand referred to the ruby’s sudden glow, which was quite puzzling to Biff. But something else puzzled him still more.
“Why must I take this ruby to my father?”
“He will tell you when you see him,” replied Mr. Chand. “The less I say, the better, now that I no longer have the ruby to protect me.”
“And where will I find my father now?”
“In New Delhi. Go there, but do not contact his company except to ask for him by telephone. If he is not there, go to the United States Embassy, but be careful even then, as spies are watching everywhere. Trust only your father’s voice as you did when you received the taped message that I sent you.”
Biff nodded, recognizing the wisdom of all that. Then, thoughtfully, he remarked:
“In that message, my father said I would meet a man that he and I could both trust. I am sure he meant you, Mr. Chand.”
If the merchant had beamed at the compliment, Biff might have been suspicious, for he still felt the odd sensation of some impending danger. But Mr. Chand was modest.
“You can trust me,” he said simply, “but your father meant another man, Barma Shah. He was the contact who brought us together. I had hoped that he would be here to meet you and go with you now, but he is probably being watched.”
“By the same spies you mentioned, Mr. Chand?” Biff inquired.
“Yes. Barma Shah told me he would stay away if danger threatened here. That was a month ago and shortly afterward, new riots broke out in Calcutta. Some were rather close by, the nearest that they have been. Naturally, Barma Shah did not come that day. He has stayed away since – and wisely – so I sent word to you myself, as was arranged for such a situation.”
Above Mr. Chand’s quiet voice, Biff thought he heard a rising murmur, much like the approach of the tidal bore along the Hooghly. Whether or not it was his imagination, he felt more closed in than ever.
“The day of the riots,” Mr. Chand went on, “I looked at the Light of the Lama and saw it had clouded. I was afraid, not for myself, but for Barma Shah. I was glad when he did not come here – ”
The murmur was louder now, no longer like wave beats, but more a human babble, with occasional muffled shouts. Mr. Chand heard them, too, for he raised his hand and exclaimed: “Listen!” Timed to the action came a sudden pounding at the office door and the excited voice of Nathu, the watchman:
“Master! There is danger! Another riot has started, outside our very gate!”
As Chand unlocked the office door and opened it, the babble rose to a bedlam of howls, shrieks, and the clang of metal as the mob battered at the big gate. At Chand’s mention of the ruby, Biff had thrust his hand into his pocket to see if he still had the chamois bag that he had placed there. It was safe, and as Biff clenched it tensely, his palm seemed to burn as though the gem were actually glowing through its wrappings.
There was a huge crash as the metal gate collapsed and now, through the barred windows of the counting room, Biff could see the milling figures of the native rioters as they flooded the courtyard, swinging clubs, slashing with knives, and hurling rocks at one another. Some of those missiles smashed the glass in the barred windows, adding to the crowd’s glee, for they were eager to destroy property along with lives.
Mr. Chand showed surprising speed as he whisked Biff back into the little office and through a door in the opposite wall, at the same time saying excitedly, “Go through the godown! It is your only way!”
Biff thought “godown” meant some steps, but instead, Mr. Chand was referring to the storeroom. As Biff started off among the crates, there was another clang from the courtyard, where the rioters were smashing at the inner gate leading into the storage room itself.
“Not that way!” called Mr. Chand. “At the back, you will find another darwaza– another gate! Turn left on the back street until you reach the chowk– the market place! You will be safe there.”
Mr. Chand turned back into his office to help Nathu try to stem the attack, and Biff shoved his way among the crates, clambering over boxes, until he reached the rear exit that Mr. Chand had mentioned, but too late. Already, the back street teemed with rioters. Leering faces turned Biff’s way, and eager fingers pointed at him through the bars of the rear gate.
Then hands were bashing the gate itself as others threw stones through the grillwork. Biff dodged back among the crates, realizing hopelessly that he was caught between two fires. A great crash told that the gate from the courtyard had given way; and an echoing clang from the other direction signified that the rear gate had met the same fate.
What Biff’s own fate would be, the next few moments would tell. Grimly, he found himself gripping the chamois bag in his pocket, wondering if the Light of the Lama could save him now. As if in answer, something plucked his shoulder and Biff turned quickly, bringing both fists up to fight off the first of a hundred enemies.
Instead, he found himself looking into the face of Chandra, the Indian boy who had vanished from the basket back at the New India Bazaar. Above the babble of the rioters came Chandra’s words:
“Quick! Come with me – this way!”
IV
Biff Vanishes
Escape from the frenzied mob seemed impossible, but at least Chandra was making a try as he pushed Biff toward a deep corner of the big storeroom, the only direction in which the invaders had not yet spread. But there was no door, no outlet, nothing except a solid stone wall beyond the last lot of crates.
Those offered no good hiding place, because the rioters already were overturning or yanking open chests and boxes which blocked them, while they kept up an excited shout, “Farangi! Farangi!”
That was one word that Biff knew. It meant “European” – which in his case could be translated as “American” – and it signified that they were definitely after Biff, though probably they would attack any Farangi that they encountered. And now, Biff and Chandra were practically in the corner, with no way to turn, except one, which looked like the worst trap of all.
Just ahead stood a tall, rather bulky cabinet shaped in the form of a pagoda, with half a dozen sides and a pair of front doors that were partly open. Quickly, Chandra thrust Biff inside and pushed him to the back, saying, “In there – keep quiet – do not move!” Then he pressed an inner door shut, and Biff found himself alone in pitch darkness, clamped in a space so tight that Chandra’s admonition not to move was quite unnecessary.
Chandra was gone by then, dodging off among the crates, perhaps to save his own sleek hide at the expense of Biff’s.