The Empress of India by Michael Kurland

amiss.”
    “Certainly,” Moriarty said, and passed the request on to Mr. Maws when he opened the door. “Now, Colonel, what can I do for you?”
    Moran leaned back in his chair. A wolfish grin flickered across his face and disappeared. “You have called upon me for assistance on occasion in the past, Professor, as I have called upon you. I believe our relationship has always been mutually profitable in the past. I have a tale to tell that will excite your imagination. After you have heard my story, then we can discuss how we can help each other on this occasion, you and I.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a hand-tooled leather cigar case. “May I offer you a cigar, sir? An Indian Lunkah cheroot in style, but not as vile as the native product. Made especially for the officers of the Penwali Scouts.”
    “No, thank you,” Moriarty said, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “I don’t indulge.”
    “Do you mind if I—”
    “No, go right ahead.”
    Moran took a silver cigar tool from his pocket and clipped off the ends of his cigar. Thrusting the cheroot firmly between his teeth, he held a tubular cigar lighter with an oversized windscreen to the far end and puffed it alight. The process had the air of an oft-repeated ritual. “Ahh!” he said.
    He capped the lighter and held it speculatively in his hand. “Used to be a time,” he commented, taking the cheroot from his mouth and blowing a stream of acrid-smelling smoke into the room, “when youcould impress the natives almost anywhere by producing fire from your fist. Now they ain’t so easy. It takes a repeating rifle to have any impression on most of them.” He pocketed the lighter.
    The maid came in with Colonel Moran’s drink in a tall glass, and a cup of black coffee for Professor Moriarty. She set the tray down on the small table between them.
    “That will be all, Teresa,” Moriarty said. “Thank you.” He noticed that Moran’s eyes followed the young girl as she left the room.
    “Chin-chin!” Moran said, his eyes flicking back toward Moriarty and focusing on the knot in his cravat. He set his cigar carefully on the ashtray to his right, and lifted the glass to salute Moriarty before bringing it to his lips.
    “Now, Professor, with your permission, I’ll tell you my story. I think you’ll find it worth your time.”
    “Go on,” Moriarty said.
    Moran retrieved his cigar from the ashtray. “I shall begin, then, with the maharaja of Lamapoor, which as you may know is the second largest of the independent principalities. Not his present majesty, but his—let’s see—great-great-great-grandfather. The events I am about to relate occurred, or at least began, in, as close as I can figure, about the year 1734.
    “The maharaja of Lamapoor was a drastically obese young man. In the year in question his weight exceeded thirty stone. This, he and his advisors were convinced, was most pleasing to his subjects, since they believed that their ruler should be a man of substance.” Moran paused and coughed.
    “Once every seven years, in addition to the annual taxes, levies, assessments, fees, fines, tolls, special charges, and bribes that gladdened the hearts of the citizens of Lamapoor, there was a special ceremony where the subjects of the maharaja matched his weight in gold. There is a much-reproduced drawing of the ceremony showing a giant balance beam with a pan at each end. On one pan sits the rotund maharaja onhis special throne, and his subjects are dumping gold coins onto the other.”
    “I’ve seen the illustration, or one like it,” Moriarty commented.
    “Yes, well. It’s inaccurate in one respect, I’m given to understand,” Moran told him. “They actually used small gold ingots especially minted for the purpose, which they had to buy from the state mint—at a small premium, of course. In effect, they had to pay the maharaja for the privilege of paying the maharaja.”
    “Many governments seem to work on a similar