# The Fetish of Remorse

"In the grip of gold and the Tonkin jungle"
THE FETISH OF REMORSE
By ACHMED ABDULLAH
Author of "The Brother of Eagles," "The Tale of a Bluff," etc.
   A TENSE AND BREATHLESS STORY OF THE RUTHLESS POWER OF GOLD, STAGED IN THE REEKING TONKIN JUNGLE WHERE DEATH LURKED BEHIND EVERY TREE—A STORY WITH A SURPRISE—AND ONE THAT WILL LEAVE YOU GUESSING AS TO THE REAL SOURCE OF A BOB-TAILED HEART FLUSH
ANATOLE GAUTIER lost all idea of time and place. Twenty years of life were wiped clean from the slate of his memory. Once more he was in Tonkin. Once more he was young and very enthusiastic. Once more he faced Durand, good old Durand, the friend of his youth.
The moon, a bloated thing of copper swinging among the trees, threw down a single broad ray of orange which fell on Durand's face. Gautier recognized the familiar features, the round face, the black, silken beard, the crooked sabre cut across the forehead which he had received at fencing school when the leather tip had slipped from the blade.
They were both deep in thought. Something had to be done. The Tonkinese had given them until daylight to decide. Two more hours! A low wind stirred the dead leaves at their feet, a wind as hot as a breath of flame.
Somewhere in the distance a jackal howled.
They were both afraid. Of course. But there was something else, a nameless, brooding, sinister feeling which crept through their souls. A harshly discordant note was pealing through the recesses of their beings.
And so they looked into the spectre—pregnant, stygian darkness, and listened to the night-sounds of soft-winged things which flopped lazily overhead, and of slimy, swishing things which glided and crawled underfoot. Both were afraid to speak.
When on their way back to the coast to Saigon, from the interior of French Indo-China, their guides, bearers and interpreter had deserted them more than four days ago, here in the jungle, they had not taken it very much to heart. They were young and strong; they were fairly familiar with jungle-craft. They would make the Coast somehow. And then—just three minutes' talk with the agent of the Australian syndicate. They would pass over what they had brought from the interior, and in return they would receive a check of six figures. Even split in two, it would mean a comfortable income for life; more than that: it would mean riches and the chance to multiply them.
Then, a few hours ago, the Tonkinese had come from nowhere, out of the jungle, hundreds of them. Tonkinese rebels they were, and they called themselves les poings du patriotisme et de la paix—the fists of patriotism and peace—a gentle touch of Mongol humor which did not appeal to either Gautier or Durand.
Suddenly the two Frenchmen had understood why the guides and the interpreter had deserted them. It was evident that they had been watched every step of the way; that even at the Coast, in the very office of the Australian agent, there had been spies in the pay of the Peacock Banner.
They were two against a small army. There would be no arguing, no bargaining whatsoever. These yellow devils had the whip-hand.
The leader of the Tonkinese, a tall, courtly, well-bred man, had left them two hours ago. Durand, who had a smattering of the local dialect, had given greetings in it; florid, flattering greetings. The Tonkinese had bowed to the ground and had replied in the same language.
"By applying oil or flattery most things are softened. But these three never soften: a sword, a leather receptacle for clarified butter, and a Tonkinese."
Then he had continued in French, perfectly correct French, though with the peculiar stiff wording and the gentle sing-song of the Mongolian.
"Do not break your tongue over our barbaric patois, my friend. I speak French. I have lived in your country. I have studied in Paris. I have learned there that dealings with Christians are uncertain. Either three times the principal is obtained—or nothing at all. Thus shall I make sure to obtain from you three times the principal."
There had been nothing intimidating in his voice. His accents had been rich and gentle; with a bronze tone to them like the echoed murmurings of an ancient temple gong.
"Look," he had continued, and his face had been as stony and as passionless as that of the Buddha who meditates in the shade of the cobra's hood. "I am an open book before you, and I bid you read. I am Vasanda."
He had paused. They had shuddered at the name; and the Tonkinese had smiled gently, very gently.
"Yes. I am Vasanda. I am the man who makes war on you French; according to the way we make war."
Again he had smiled; and again the two Frenchmen had shuddered. For they had heard at the Coast about the way Vasanda, the Tonkinese outlaw—"patriot" he styled himself—made war.
The Tonkinese had bowed to the two Frenchmen.
"With your permission." He had squatted easily on his heels, and had lit a cigarette, first courteously offering his case to the two. Then he had continued. "I and my young men have again stepped on the path of strife. We have performed the proper ceremonies before the many shrines. We have laid naked blades on our shaven heads, thus symbolizing our voluntary renunciation of this life's vanities. We have offered rice and drink to the shades of the departed heroes who died for our land in the ancient days. We have consecrated our souls and our bodies to our people." Again he had smiled, a boyish, impish smile. "But it appears that prayers and the laying of blades on shaven heads do not purchase the rifles and ammunition the French are using. Yet there is a shipment of such weapons waiting for me somewhere"—he had made a vague, circular gesture—"but the payment demanded for these so necessary weapons is exorbitant. Also the foreigner who has the weapons demands gold. A cursed swine he, who will be born again in the bodies of noisome, crawling insects for many lives to come. But gold he demands, and gold he shall get. It is an easy matter. You may consider it as done."
He, Gautier, had then regained part of his wits.
He had spoken with a suspicion of arrogance.
"What have we got to do with it all, Vassanda?"
"Everything, my master, everything. Because, look you: you will supply the gold. You do not believe me? Behold. I will show you."
He had lit another cigarette, swaying gently from side to side, to ease the strain on his heels.
He had proceeded to explain that he knew all about their little expedition. How they had visited the court of Bah-ngoh, the great king of the interior, who, short of cash because of his latest fantastic harem extravagancies, had been forced to part with his famed one hundred-carat pink diamond "The Star of the Middle Kingdom"; how even before leaving the Coast they had made arrangements with the Australian agent to sell the stone to him for five million francs—ten times the sum which they'd pay for the stone; how they had completed their transaction in the interior and were now returning to the Coast with the stone. Gautier had looked wild-eyed. He had stammered.
"You—you want—the stone—the stone——"
He had taken the diamond from an inner pocket, clutching it madly to his breast as a mother clutches her first-born when fever stalks through the land. The light of the camp fire had mirrored a thousandfold in the facetings of the diamond, like countless, intersecting rainbows; endless, zigzag flashings of electric blue and deep rose and keen, arrogant emerald-green; like the shooting of dragon-flies and purple-winged tropical moths.
But Vasanda had only smiled and waved the stone away.
"No, no. By the lives of the many Bodhisats! I do not wish your plaything."
They had felt relieved at such altruism. But a moment later their relief had changed into impotent hatred and rage.
Vasanda had risen to his full height. There was a look in his oblique eyes as sharp and clear as edges of splintered glass. His voice had lost its gentle, soothing quality. He was now speaking with harsh-riveting emphasis.
"What good is the stone to me? I cannot eat it. I cannot drink it. I cannot kill with it. I am not a woman of the inner bazaars to long for scented hair oil and jewels. Neither could I sell it. For behold: the stone is known. Also is it known who bought it. The Australian agent waits for it now, there, at the Coast." He had pointed to the East, into the silent, brooding jungle. "He is waiting; and he is waiting to pay—five million francs. He will pay it to the one of you two who brings the stone. Such was your agreement. For, careful men, you considered the possibility of one of you dying of fever. An unhealthy land this!" He had smiled. "And so it will be. One of you will go to the Coast with the stone. He will go unharmed, peaceful. I myself shall show him the right way. He will give the stone to the Australian and receive the money—in gold. Then he will return to a place which I shall appoint, with the gold. The other—I shall hold him as hostage. He shall be honorably treated. For thirty days I shall hold him. For thirty days I shall wait for the return of the first—with the gold. And then, if he does not return with the gold, also if he should play false and talk to the French—and remember that I have many spies—I shall kill the hostage." His voice had again been very soft and gentle. "I shall kill him slowly. Oh, so very slowly. There shall be no hurry. The first day I cut off an ear and the next day his tongue. Perhaps. A matter of choice, my friends, of the moment's inspiration. A little bit of his throbbing body cut off to-day, another to-morrow. Thus for two weeks. Perhaps three. It depends upon the vitality of the man who is being killed. You both look strong and healthy. You would last a long time under the little knives. Raw wounds, my friends, remember that. Also there will be insects, the flying cockroaches and the bramras which follow the smell of blood and festering flesh. Also there will be ants, many ants, and a thin river of honey to show them the trail."
He had lit another cigarette. He had yawned. Then he had continued.
"Consider. One goes to the Coast. The other remains as my guest. It has been told me that you two love each other with the love of twin brothers. Thus I believe that he who goes to the Coast will return—with the gold. It is a safe gamble. I give you two hours to decide which one of you two shall go, and which one shall stay behind. Remember the little knives—and the little ants which follow the trail of the honey——"
The Tonkinese had bowed and stepped back into the black jungle.
And now the two hours were nearly over.
Vasanda had said that they loved each other with the love of twin brothers. It was true.
They had visited the same school in Paris. They had been copains de lycée; room-mates, class-mates, bench-mates during the long plastic years of childhood and youth. They had served in the same regiment, at Tours. They had sown their wild oats along parallel lines. No woman had even come between them. They had been apprentices, then clerks in the same office. Finally they had established themselves in business as partners. They bought and sold precious stones.
They were the best of friends. They knew that their mutual liking and friendship, their trust in each other, their combined honest, square-souled decency and strength was a solid edifice which sheltered them against petty jealousy and envy.
When they had gone to Tonkin to buy jewels, they had done so eagerly, expectantly. A little adventure, they thought; a ray of vivid tropical light to break into the complacence of their home business. And they had done mighty well in the Far East during the two years of their stay.
Finally had come their chance to buy and sell "The Star of the Middle Kingdom," the famed pink diamond which had been the dream of every jeweler for three generations. It had been a big, promising chance; and they had gone after it with the enthusiasm of youth.
Yes. They knew each other well. And they knew that each knew the other as well as he knew himself, and that their characters, their virtues and their shortcomings, were exactly the same. And so, when Vasanda had come to them out of the jungle they felt suddenly as choked in mephitic air. The thought of the unspoken, half-formed desires in their hearts stretched before them as a boundless bog.
For, knowing each other so well, they also knew that the foul tropics had bred in each the sordid love of gain, the cruel ruthlessness of desire. They knew that, though enigmatic and close-hidden, there was yet in both their hearts that grim craving after money—hard and merciless as a bitter-cored stone fruit.
Friends? Why of course they were friends. But then they had lived in the tropics for two years, breathing, thinking, eating, drinking the poison of the yellow lands. There was the chance to reach the coast—with the stone—and then the Australian agent—the gold—and over there, across the way, was Paris.
Friendship? Duty of friendship?
If friendship it was, it was a friendship of their own making—of their own unmaking, if they wished. So they thought, and each could read the other as an open book. For they were friends who loved and knew each other as twin brothers rocked in the same cradle.
One would go to the coast—to bring the gold. The other would stay behind as a hostage—and there were the little knives and the ants which always follow the honey trail.
And suddenly they knew, both knew, that the one who would go to the coast would never, never come back. For there were five million francs in gold—and back yonder was France, Paris, home—and the chance, the lovable, damnable chance!
Suddenly Durand laughed—that dry, harsh laugh of his—and he threw a greasy pack of playing cards into the circle of meager light which came from the little camp fire.
"Let the cards decide, old friend," he shouted. "The loser stays; the winner goes to the Coast. And he returns here with the gold—inside of thirty days. It is understood, is it not, mon vieux?"
And again he laughed his cracked, high-pitched laugh.
"Of course," Gautier replied. "The winner comes back with the gold—inside of thirty days."
But he could not look into Durand's eyes, nor could Durand look into his.
"One hand of poker! Draw to your cards and show-down!" cried Durand.
Anatole Gautier picked up the deck. He shuffled, slowly, mechanically, his thoughts far away, at the Coast. Suddenly it seemed to him that his brain was frantically telegraphing to his fingers. A fit of nerves? No, no. He looked at his hands. They were shuffling; shuffling in a perfectly normal, perfectly steady manner. It wasn't nerves. Still his brain kept telegraphing, and he kept watching the motions of his fingers—and then he saw that his second finger and thumb had shuffled the ace of clubs to the bottom of the deck.
Had he done it on purpose? He wondered. All his life he had amused his friends with card tricks. He reflected. There was the Coast. There was the stone. There was the gold. There was Paris. And here was the stinking, festering jungle—the Tonkinese—Vasanda—the little knives—and the ants—the ants.
Another ace joined the first at the bottom of the deck—the third—the fourth.
Then the harsh, jarring, arrogant voice of Jean Durand.
"Deal! Damn you, deal! You'll shuffle all the spots from the cards." Gautier was about to shuffle again. But the other stopped him with a savage gesture. "No, no, no. Don't you dare shuffle them again."
Gautier cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe. The dead leaves stirred with a dry, rasping sound. Something slimy and phosphorous-green was rapidly squirming away.
"Cut, Durand."
He put the cards down between them, on the ground. The other was calmly lighting a cigarette, making no attempt to cut the deck. Gautier spoke again. There was entreaty, supplication, despair in his tense, strained voice.
"Cut, Jean! Cut, for the love of God!"
The sweat was pouring from his face. Little luminous blue spots were dancing in front of his eyes. Something like a gigantic sledgehammer was striking at the base of his skull. His blood throbbed thickly in his veins. His hands seemed swollen out of proportion.
"Cut!" he cried again.
Durand laughed at him with a mad, demoniac light in his beady eyes. He laughed.
"No! Deal them as they lay. I shan't cut. You are too anxious for me to cut. Too anxious. No, no. Deal, and be damned to you!"
Gautier dealt. And mechanically, even as he was watching them, his fingers gave to himself five cards from the bottom of the deck. Four of them were aces. The fifth was the queen of hearts.
Durand picked up his hand. He looked at it. He laughed again.
"Give me two cards, Anatole. I'm going to take a chance. I have a hunch that I'll win."
Gautier studied his own hand. Four aces—and the queen of hearts. The queen of hearts! He would never forget that red queen. She seemed to smile at him. A sardonic grin was on her silly, painted lips.
The queen of hearts! Of course he would discard her. Might as well make the other believe that he had bought one of the aces. So he discarded the queen. She fell face upward. The wind carried her a little to one side—a little away from the circle of light—over to where Durand was sitting. But still Gautier could see the mocking smile on her painted lips.
Then he dealt. Two cards to Durand, one to himself.
There was a short, tense silence. Durand was studying his hand. He looked up and stared at Gautier. Gautier felt embarrassed Did the other suspect him? Now was the time to act, to act well, to simulate surprise. He looked away from the other. He studied his hand; he studied it again and again as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
Then he gave a mad shriek of joy.
"I win! I win! Four aces! By the Madonna, four aces!"
And he threw his hand on the ground, face up.
Durand picked it up. He examined the cards one by one.
"One—two—three—four—four aces." His voice was thick, choked.
Then he studied his own cards. Again and again. Beyond the feathery tops of the trees a haggard morning sun was rising. A flickering, pale-yellow ray fell on Durand's face. It looked drawn and green.
Suddenly a change came over him. He straightened himself up. He rose.
At the same moment, Vasanda stepped out of the jungle. He bowed deeply, courteously.
"You have decided?" he asked in his gentle sing-song.
"Yes." It was Durand who spoke. "I stay with you. Gautier goes to the Coast. He returns here with the gold—inside of thirty days." He broke into his dry, harsh, high-pitched cackle. "He returns here with the gold—with the gold—with the gold! Au revoir, mon ami."
He did not offer to shake hands. He bowed mockingly. He was about to go. Suddenly he noticed that the cards were still clasped in his hand—the cards were losing cards which had cost him fortune and life.
He threw them on the ground, in front of Gautier, face up. A second later, he was gone.
Anatole Gautier looked dazed. It seemed to him that he had lived through all this before. In a former life? Yes. It must have been in a former life, a former incarnation.
He remembered the whole scene, every single detail.
But wait, wait! There had been a difference. What was it? He thought and thought and thought.
Then doubt came into his soul. Had it really all happened in a former incarnation? Had it not been in this life; twenty years ago? Old memories flashed up in red streaks.
Yes. Twenty years ago. He remembered the whole scene. But there was a difference, a little difference.
Suddenly he knew. He knew where the difference was. There, in that scene of his dead life, Durand had gone into the jungle. Of course. He had lost. He had seen the four aces; a nearly unbeatable hand. And then he had laughed. But he had torn the cards into small pieces; he had thrown the pieces into the dying camp fire!
And here—here were the cards, whole, face up. He looked at them. He studied them. It was a heart flush—up to the queen.
The queen of hearts.
But he remembered that he himself had discarded that same identical queen of hearts. A gust of wind had carried the bit of pasteboard a little to one side, to where Durand was sitting. Had then Durand cheated? Had he picked up the card to make his flush?
Gautier trembled in every limb. He called after the other.
"Durand! Oh, Durand!"
The other turned and looked at him, questioningly.
Gautier stared. He rubbed his eyes. But this was not Durand at all. This was Jenkinson, the American, his friend. And the other, the Tonkinese by his side. Why it was Lee Mon Kau, the Chinaman with the long, gold-encased fingernails, and the heavy-lidded purple-black eyes.
Suddenly the whole scene flashed up. He remembered. Why, yes—this was Paris—his home; and he had arranged it all; he and his two friends: Thomas Jenkinson, the big, good-natured, slightly sarcastic American, and Lee Mon Kau, the Chinaman. Yes. Together they had arranged it all. He, Anatole Gautier himself, had coached the American in the sound of Durand's voice … he himself; because he wanted to get an actual picture, an actual moment of his dead life, visualized once again, lived once again. Of course it sounded real. Jenkinson did remarkably well. Jenkinson should have been an actor.…
And of course the atmosphere, the carefully staged, carefully prepared atmosphere of the room made the whole cursed impression more real than ever. Florist and painter and decorator had joined hands to change the large living room of his house into a bit of Tonkinese jungle. Even the moist heat had been faithfully reproduced. Also there was the incense; that mad, blue-clouded Indian incense in the jeweled silver censer, breath-clogging, mind-choking. And the acting—the acting! Yes, yes—he remembered it all!
He turned on Jenkinson. He spoke with a thick, angry voice.
"You—why didn't you do as I told you? Why didn't you tear up the cards as Durand did? As he did twenty years ago? Look—look—you picked up the queen of hearts from the discard. You cheated. And Durand did not cheat. It was I who cheated. I who killed my friend. Durand did not cheat."
He broke into a paroxysm of tears.
Lee Mon Kau smiled. He opened the windows. A gust of fresh clean air came from the garden.
Jenkinson put his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder.
"Yes. Durand tore up the cards. So you told me. But then, my friend, how do you know? You did not see his hand. He might have cheated. Eh? He might have cheated."
Gautier looked up. He spoke mechanically, stupidly.
"He might have cheated." Again and again he said it. "He might have cheated. He might have cheated."
And suddenly, with a great throaty cry of relief, he fell on his knees. He raised his hands above his head.
"Thank God, thank God!" he shouted. "He might have cheated!"
And he dropped on the ground in a swoon.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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