Motion Picture Classic (May 1921 - Dec 1927)

Downing Street By DONALD CALHOUN “r I 1 HE only thing you can trust a Hindu to do is to betray you !” said Sir Edward Craig, bringing his fist crashing down with a force that made the pens leap on the desk. “But,” said Captain Kent with a faint smile, “because Hindus are traitorous does not necessarily mean that traitors are all Hindus. Your logic’s at fault, Chief! Perhaps the code messages are given to the Maharaja by one of our own men.” The Cabinet Member shook his head worriedly, “Impossible ! Wentworth, Commander of the Garrison, « Major Burnham and Captain Graves are all above suspicion — yet there’s a leak somewhere. The Maharaja gets the messages about proposed taxes and other measures an hour after they are sent, and the cunning brown fox is using his information to spread hatred of the English among the natives. If something isn't done quickly, we’ll have a nasty little revolt on our hands.” “And the Maharaja cant be touched personally,” Kent nodded, “that’s the devil of it in India. The rajahs will give you anything they possess even to their favorite and fattest wife, and all the while they’re smirking at you they’re plotting against you behind their oily smiles. Oh, I know !” “It’s because you know,” said Sir Edward, with the eagerness of Atlas asking someone else to shoulder the world a moment, “that I’m sending you down there. And the first thing you’d better do is to cherchez the femme in the case. Graves has a wife that’s dangerously pretty, and Burnham has a daughter — and well, you’re not the most repulsive man in the Service, you know ! Hang it all. there’s more trouble brewed over the tea-table, than there is tea I’ve found!” Kent blushed furiously. Where women were concerned he was still a schoolboy. “I can speak the lingo, you know,” he said thoughtfully, “and I know their ways, so far as a man with a white skin can know a man with a brown one.” He rose and stood before his chief, making a profound salaam with the supple ease of a native. Almost one could see the turban, the flowing robes and forehead jewel of the Indian rajah. “Excellency,” he murmured, “fat be to thy bones and sons to thy wives! The Rajah Rhonda Signh is thy servant, and all that he possesses, elephants, servants, wives, are thine to command !” Sir Edward stared, then elaborately rubbed his eyes. “Jove, Kent ! That’s one of the beggars to the life. I could almost smell the Delhi muck and the reek of the river and the spices in the bazaars — go to it, son. And for the sake of Saint George and Merrie England get at the bottom of this business as quickly as you can.” Which explains why, three weeks later the commander at Delhi was giving a dinner in honor of the Rajah Rhonda Signh, a visiting potentate of great splendor and an exceeding brownness of complexion, who sat beside the host, Colonel Wentworth, said little and saw a great deal. On the Colonel’s other hand, the Maharaja Jehan talked in suave and excellent English of world affairs ; the diamond set in his thumb nail flashing as he moved his slender, small hands. Under cover of the conversation, Captain Robert Kent, of the English Secret Service, looked out from behind his disguise and tabulated those about the table, with the swift grasping for salient signs that had made him famous. Wentworth, dominant, over-bearing; Major Burnham, morose and glum; Captain Graves, meek and weak chinned ; his wife Xorma wearing a sophisticated Paris gown and an ingenue manner; Doris Burnham, in her modest little dress with its high neck, brown hair done simply, brown eyes meeting his gravely and straight, as wholesome and honest as an English breeze blown across violet nooks and primroses. The Maharaja was what he had expected : polished, charming, with hooded eyes and an inscrutable smile. The last member of the party, Lieu ( Fifty-four)