The Maharajah's Monkey (11 page)

Champlon scarcely seemed to notice the king taking his hand. His bony fingers limply in the Maharajah's plump palm and now the boy king did something very strange. He began to stroke the Frenchman's hand, pudgy fingers flickering.

“This is fakir's work. I have seen it in the village,” the Maharajah declared. He began to gabble excitedly to his dewan and the adviser translated:

“The Maharajah says that this man has been hypnotized. He has been put into a trance. The Maharajah believes he is doing another man's bidding.

“The man is like a puppet on a string. Dancing to his master's tune. The Maharajah saw this as a boy, a man driven out of his wits by a fakir.”

Aunt Hilda exclaimed angrily but the Dewan held up his hand to silence her.

“Do not despair. The Maharajah, he has learned it from his parents. How to bring someone out of a trance.”

The word “trance” gave me a jolt. Indeed there was something trance-like, about the Frenchman's strange behavior. His lolling, vacant eyes, his drooping mouth. Not at all the energetic and impatient explorer, the
Gaston Champlon we knew so well.

“It is a very powerful fakir who has done this,” the Dewan continued.

In the tangle of creepers above us I had a fleeting glimpse of a pair of yellow eyes. A wrinkled face. Almost human, but so old and ugly it couldn't be. A powerful smell of evil surged down to me and the tiger scratch on my face throbbed, with a sudden fierce pang.
The monkey
, I gasped. I looked up into the screaming maroon and green of the wild almond but the thing was gone. Only the caw of the racket-tailed drongo, the whir of lizard and shrike. How could I spot one evil creature here in the midst of this flurry of animal life? I wasn't sure if, after all, it was only an illusion.

All the while, the Maharajah held Champlon's hand. The Frenchman drooped, his body limp, his eyes blank. Then he dropped the hand and the Frenchman gave a great cough. His head moved from side to side, his eyes darting wildly. In a heartbeat Champlon changed. Animated and anxious, he pulled away from the startled guards and trotted over to Aunt Hilda and blurted, “Madame, we must hurry. The Randolph Hotel. It is a bad business to be zo late.”

“Gaston,” Aunt Hilda gasped and the word struck him like a whiplash. He stopped short, gazing around in astonishment.

“Where am I?”

“Hyde Park?” my aunt replied tartly. “In the jungle, of course.”

“
Ze monkey
,” Champlon murmured. “Where is ze monkey gone?”

I waited till the next morning to visit Champlon, wishing to give him a little time to recover from his ordeal. Kidnap, hypnotism, an assassination attempt on a king—quite a lot to cope with even for a seasoned explorer. His bedroom was guarded by two fierce-looking soldiers. When I entered, despite the gravity of his situation, I had to suppress a smile. I had never seen anyone look
quite
so ill. His wrinkled face was just visible under the towel wound about his head and tied, like a lady's bonnet, under his jaw. How could he bear to be muffled in blankets in this heat? The room was stifling with only a breeze now and then from the steady movement of the palm-leaf punkah wafting across the ceiling.

“My 'ed. is ache,” he moaned.

“Not your 'ed., monsieur,” I snapped, for I was angry and frustrated with our French friend. “Your head.”

“Is what I says, my 'ed.,” Champlon replied.

A small boy—the punkah wallah—was pulling the
punkah. In a moment another boy—the pani-wallah—would replenish the jug of ice-cold water by the Frenchman's bed. There was a boy for every job in this palace, servants everywhere. Giving up on the impossible task of correcting Champlon's English, I dropped my voice. What I had to say was sensitive, and I did not want to be overheard.

“'Ed or head,” I said sternly, “you're lucky that mustachioed lump of flesh is still attached to your body.”

Unconsciously, Champlon's hands fluttered to his neck.

“Most rulers would have it off,” I made a chopping motion with my hand. “Listen, monsieur, you're in a very tight spot. Aunt Hilda is pleading for your life, right now. Most of the Maharajah's advisers are begging him to squash your head under the feet of his favorite elephant.”

“Mon Dieu!” Champlon moaned. “I have ze memories not at all.” He gave me an odd look. “What is zat on your face?”

My hand flew to my scar, the vicious scratch the tiger had left on my cheek. It throbbed day and night; I was horribly self-conscious about it.

“Nothing,” I barked. “Look, Monsieur Champlon, what were you thinking of? We have all been so worried. Trying to shoot the king!”

“The 'ed. explodes.”

I shot him a suspicious look. I'd never heard him speak such broken English. He sounded like a pantomime Frenchman.

“Anyway, one thing is clear,” I said.

“What is zat?” Champlon stuttered.

“I thought you were meant to be a brilliant shot but even
Waldo
took you out.”

He glared at me. “This was not ze true Champlon.”

“I'll say!” I knelt down by the bed and stared the Frenchman in the eye. “Monsieur Champlon,” I said, softening my tone, “you must try to remember. It's very important. Let's start with the monkey. And the boat.”

He turned a troubled face toward me, his mustaches trembling. “What boat?”

“I know you were on the boat with us, monsieur. The steamship
Himalaya
. In the sick bay.”

“It is all so strange in my 'ed. Like I am walking through ze dream. Everything is cloudy and I floats. I see a man who I know. It is myself but I am not myself. I am looking at zis man and I am thinking who is he?”

“Monsieur.” I took his hand. “Pull yourself together.”

“Questions, questions, questions … First your auntie and now you. But I do not know what zat man did. He, or I should say me, was sick, on the boat. He was sick all days and the other men, ze brozzers, were sick too.”

“Brothers?”

“Wheezing men. Ghosts.”

Instantly my mind flew to those villains, the Baker Brothers. I had suspected their hand behind the vanishing Maharajah. The uncanny way that Malharrao escaped from Walton Jail was so like the Brothers. They floated behind the scenes, pulling strings, paying the bills, furthering their own evil schemes. They preferred to operate through henchmen. From Champlon's words—“brothers,” “ghosts”—it sounded very much like our old enemies. Something big must be afoot, if they were in India. However, Champlon knew these men. Wouldn't he have told me if it was indeed the Baker Brothers? I stole a glance at my sick friend, while he continued to speak. Everything about him was hazy; like a pencil sketch that was half erased. In this state, I was surprised he even recognized me.

“One of zees men, he 'ad 'orrible skin, like ze burned rubber. He was sick. We were all sick. The monkey, the Indian, me. I don't remember a thing—have pity, Kit.”

Champlon was so wan I was loath to press him further. He was sick, for sure. I was cruel to come here and press him for answers. But then, I had to find a way to save him from execution. Awkwardly standing there, my fingers pressed against the scrap of lace which I'd found with Amelia Edward's lapis lazuli cross. I'd carried it all
the way from Oxford with me, out of some odd superstition.

“I found the ankh!” I murmured, absentmindedly.

My words had the oddest effect on Champlon. His fuddled manner vanished. He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Just a fleeting impression, but so crafty. The very hair on my scalp began to prickle. All my instincts warned me to be very, very careful.

Something was not right
.

I could not mistake the cunning in that glance. So, was he merely
acting
sick? I knew I had to pounce.

“It was very precious,” I said, quietly.

“Lapis lazuli is only a semi-precious stone … Not so—” he began and halted.

“But so old, that's what made it so valuable.”

“Please. Spare me, I beg you. Do not tell your aunt,” he blurted, in perfect English.

Champlon was sitting bolt upright, the towel had fallen off his head and what little color there was in his face had drained away. He was very frightened.

“So old … and …” I said, feeling my way. Then suddenly, savagely I
knew.
“But it is not just the money, it is a matter of trust.”

He fell back, his face ghastly against the white pillows.

“You betrayed Aunt Hilda, didn't you? Why?” I had no mercy. “Was it greed? Treachery?” I moved closer to him
and he flinched away. “This is all an act, isn't it? The whole hypnotized bit.
You were never hypnotized. You were no more in a trance than I was
.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. When he spoke his voice was cracked. “You're a child. You don't understand.”

“I am going to tell: Aunt Hilda, the Maharajah, the police. Public scandal.”

“Please.”

“I will tell all,” I said firmly.

“You wouldn't do that to me. Your own dear Champlon. Why I 'ave always looked out for—”

“Monsieur,” I cut his bleating off. “There is only one way. Tell me everything.
Everything
, mind. I will see what I can do for you.”

“You're a cruel girl, Kit.”

“Everything,” I said coldly.

He sighed. “We were shopping, your aunt and I, in the old market in Cairo. At the same moment we both saw an ankh lying on a stall along with a pile of fakes.”

“Fakes?”

“Antiquities created for the stupid travelers. Not so valuable at all.”

My mind flew back to our visit to Egypt. My gang of friends, along with Champlon and my aunt, had become embroiled in an adventure revolving around a stolen
scarab. I recalled the day my aunt and Champlon had gone to the market together.

“Your auntie claims to be Egyptologist but she knows nothing. Not like Gaston. She wanted to buy ze ankh, but I told her it was worthless. I teased her. ‘Can't you tell a fake?' I asked. When I got it back to my hotel room and checked in my book I found ze ankh was a brilliant thing. A genuine Old Kingdom ankh. Worth 'undreds of pounds. Later, I sent out my servant to buy it. He got it very cheap.” The crafty smile was back.

“Your auntie would be hopping mad! She would never forgive me! But, of course, I had no intentions to tell her how I trick her.”

“You double-crosser!”

He shrugged. “Anyway, perhaps your auntie look in ze same book. Poor lady, she brooded on ze ankh. She told me next morning at the breakfast, she was going back to buy it—pah … it was gone. Luckily she never found out I trick her—for the market man tell her Egyptian boy buy it.”

“So it ended. I took my ankh everywhere. Then, disaster. I saw something in the newspaper about that terrible woman, Amelia Edwards. You know her?”

I nodded. Miss Edwards, as you will remember, is a great rival of my aunt, a famous lady traveler and Egyptologist. In fact, I believe she is better known than
Aunt Hilda, though of course my aunt will dispute this.

“Miss Edwards she 'ad a big collection of Egyptian antiquities in Cairo—waiting to be shipped to London. She 'ad given much to ze British Crown.

“But zen in Cairo, robbers 'ad struck and half the collection 'ad been stolen from the warehouse before the guards chased—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “I read about this in
The Times
.”

“Oh—I see. Well, when the remains finally arrived in England, Miss Edwards found that an ancient mummy and my ankh were among the stolen items. My ankh, Kit. I saw a drawing of it in
The Times
that terrible morning. Definitely my ankh!” He paused a moment, then went on, “Well, I had not stolen it. I 'ad bought it fairly—”

“If you say so—” I mumbled, thinking of how he'd cheated my aunt. But Champlon continued: “I paced around my college rooms, my mind shattered. What was I to do? There was only one way out. A few weeks ago I 'ad been bargaining with a well-known collector for some of my antiquities. He seemed to know about my ankh. But I refused to sell. Now I would have to sell ze ankh—on ze quiet. But I was not happy, no not at all.”

You could have reported it to the police rather than trying to make money out of stolen goods, I thought. But I held my tongue and listened to his tale.

“I was dressing that morning in my college rooms,
when suddenly a strange creature appeared. Gibbering, yabbering. A monkey. It pounced on my ankh which was lying on my chest. Grabbed it with dirty paws. I chase this monkey, down ze creeper, across ze college lawn, down to ze canal—and on to a barge. The owner is zere, an Indian. And two pale men. I know zem. 'Oo do you think it is, Kit?”

“The Baker Brothers,” I murmured.

He stopped a moment, reliving the moment. “A trap.” His voice trembled. “These brothers, zey kill me with zeir eyes.”

I nodded, recalling how Champlon's wizardry with his pistol had humbled the brothers and left them fleeing from the scene of the ruined temple in Siwa.

“So I fight zis monkey. It is a beast, most ferocious, spitting, hissing. I seize my ankh back. It breaks. I stop, my heart is break too. One brother, 'e grab the monkey, make it stop. He take ze ankh. Then 'e tell me they have evidence I steal zis ankh from Miss Edwards. ‘No, No,' I protest. ‘I buy this fairly from market.' But the one with ruined face he just smile. ‘No one will believe you,' 'e say in his wheezing voice. ‘After all, my brother and I are highly respectable, we are friends of the Prince of Wales. We will testify you are a contemptible thief. A lying, low-down, rotten, French thief stealing from treasures meant for ze Queen. Why, I have no doubt you
will be tried for treason.”

“‘With any luck,' say the other brother, ‘zey will hang you.'”