Читать книгу The Mask of Fu Manchu - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 10
Оглавление“El Mokanna!”
A Conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.
The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.
There was a long, high window on the right through which I could see sunshine on the yellow wall of the Ghost Mosque. A low, shallow cupboard occupied the space below this window. Set left of this cupboard was a big table on which lay piled an indescribable litter. There were manuscripts, firearms, pipes, a hat box, a pair of shoes, a large case containing flasks of wine of Shiraz, a big scale map, a beautifully embroidered silk robe, and a fossilized skull.
On a low stool at the foot of the bed stood the grim green iron box.
Sir Denis Nayland Smith was standing staring at the box. The chief had thrown himself into an armchair.
“Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “have you ever explored the mosque over the way?”
“Yes,” I replied, to his evident surprise. “But I didn’t find that it possessed any features of interest. Does it, Sir Lionel?”
“According to Smith,” was the reply, “it does!”
“Had you any special reason for exploring the place?” Sir Denis asked.
“I had,” I admitted. “I made my way in this morning through a window on the north side. You see, I imagined—it was probably no more than imagination—that I saw someone watching us from there on one occasion——”
“What occasion?”
“The inquiry into Van Berg’s death—when Mr. Jean and Captain Woodville were here——”
“Never mentioned this to me!” the chief began, when:
“All I wanted to know,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “Be quiet, Barton.” And now he turned. His face had grown very stern. “I want to make it perfectly clear to you both, that we three, and Rima, and Ali Mahmoud, stand in greater peril of our lives, at this present moment, than any of us has ever been before.”
“That’s putting it pretty strongly, Sir Denis,” I said, for I recalled other experiences which I had shared with him.
“Not too strongly,” he replied. “I rarely say what I don’t mean, Greville. But apart from Rima—I sincerely wish she were a thousand miles from Ispahan—there’s a further and a graver consideration. Sir Lionel here—inadvertently, I admit—has stirred up a thing which at this particular stage of world politics is calculated to sway the balance in the wrong direction.
“I know all the facts, Greville”—he threw a quick glance in my direction—“and I assure you that what I say is true. The blowing up of the tomb of El Mokanna revived the tradition of that minor prophet and brought into unexpected prominence certain living believers in his doctrine, of which accident they were not slow to take advantage. I have the names of several men in Afghanistan, Khorassan, and Persia whom I know to be associated with this movement, whether as legitimate fanatics or seekers after power remains to be seen. But the spread of the thing is phenomenal.”
The chief had begun to walk up and down the room in that caged-bear fashion of his; and since Nayland Smith was also addicted to promenading in moments of intense thought, the latter checked his own restless movements at the first stride and dropped into an armchair which Sir Lionel had vacated, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
His words had chilled me. All my fears, which throughout had centered around Rima, came to a head now. I had known for more than a week past that our little party was the focus of malignant forces. Now, chance, or divine Providence, had sent us the man best equipped to deal with such a situation. But his words held no comfort.
“The way in which this cry of ‘El Mokanna’ has swept through the East,” he continued, speaking in his rapid staccato fashion, “points to organization. Someone has seized this mighty opportunity. Don’t glare at me, Barton. You, and you alone, are responsible for the position in which we find ourselves. Captain Woodville has already told you so, I believe.”
I don’t think the chief would have remained silent under such treatment from any but Sir Denis. He was certainly glaring, and he continued to glare. But the steely gray eyes met his unfalteringly; and Sir Lionel merely grunted and continued his promenade.
“Our chief enemy,” Nayland Smith went on, “recognizes the importance of possessing the New Creed, the Sword of God, and the gold mask. This was why poor Van Berg died.”
I heard Sir Lionel groan. He halted, and stood with his back to us for some moments.
“The first attempt failed,” that cool, even voice went on. “It was attended by very peculiar features; they were not insignificant. But—” he paused for a moment, impressively—“the attempt will be repeated. Our enemy knows that the method by which he obtained access to Van Berg’s room has so far defied all investigation. He knows that the green box is no longer in that room—but is here.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because Barton has advertised the fact,” Nayland Smith returned savagely. “Two Persian officials were present at the inquiry, here, in this house. And they know that the box now rests in Sir Lionel’s room. Don’t answer, Barton—just listen. And you, too, Greville.”
It was hard going for Sir Lionel to swallow his words, but he succeeded in doing so. And with the brief clarity which was one of his peculiar gifts Nayland Smith outlined his plan of defense.
That he seemed to take it for granted that there would be an attack positively terrified me, since Rima was in the house. But what I did not understand at the time was an underlying anger which appeared to be directed against the chief....
“I hope that my presence may be unknown to the enemy,” he concluded. “But, frankly, in spite of all the precautions I have taken, I doubt this. I am almost certain that I was covered. The man Amir Khan, originally your guide, has deserted to the other side. This, to me, is particularly, in fact dreadfully, significant. My object, Greville—” evidently he detected bewilderment in my expression—“is this: I mean to bring things to a head.”
“What d’you mean?” Sir Lionel demanded, with a sudden angry outburst—“Bring things to a head! Haven’t they come to a head already?”
“Listen, Barton,” Nayland Smith spoke unusually slowly. “You have taken some risks in your time. But this time you have stirred up something too big for you. Forget that I’m here, but go to work without delay and instruct Ali Mahmoud accordingly, to prepare for departure in the morning. Do everything that occurs to you to make it known that to-night is the last night you will spend under this roof. Upon your success, Barton—I include you, Greville—my plan for discovering the murderer of poor Van Berg will depend....”
