Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 4

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Lincoln Hayes drew back into the shadows of the box.

The house lights had been lowered. The curtain rose on the last act of False Gods. John Barrymore’s performance as the renegade priest had held the audience. But it was the character of the play and its Ancient Egyptian setting which had urged Hayes to accept this invitation to a first night.

Norman Bel Geddes’ temple scene was weirdly impressive; it met with an ovation. But Hayes, after one glance at the stage, turned his regard in the direction of the opposite box. An interest deeper than Brieux’s strange play or Barrymore’s acting could induce had claimed him.

Yes, she was back again, leaning over the edge of the box, the man standing in the shadows behind her.

Even in the dim light her hair was like a subdued flame. Hayes had feared that they had left; he was glad it was not so. She was watching the stage intently. Hayes was watching the eyes of the man who stood behind her.

Could it be merely some trick of reflected light? No, this time he was all but satisfied that it could not be. It was, then, phenomenal. Who was this man and who was the woman?

He watched intently. Not even the entrance of a famous English actor in the rôle of the High Priest distracted his watching. The man standing motionless at the back of the opposite box did not move.

But in the darkness his eyes shone greenly, like the eyes of a cat....

Then, either he took a seat or moved further back. The glittering eyes became invisible. Hayes wondered if others had noticed this phenomenon. The women of his party had not failed to discuss the dark man’s companion, but the eerie quality of those eyes seemed to have escaped them. Even now, he might be mistaken. Some queer arrangement of the stage lights might be responsible. It was possible.

He watched the bent head of the woman, trying in the dimness to distinguish that flower-like face. Except for gleaming shoulders and the fire of her hair, he could get only misty outlines. He thought of flame on an ivory altar.

“Still intrigued, Lincoln?” his hostess whispered.

Lincoln Hayes looked down at her (he was standing) with his slow, thin-lipped smile. But he did not speak.

Mrs. Mornington Dobbs, one of the prettiest and smartest widows in New York society, turned around yet further and touched his arm.

“Have you really seen your ideal at last?” she went on, still in a whisper, which, however, was unpleasantly audible in a house hushed by the quiet action of the play. “Perhaps she’ll come around to see Jack Barrymore. They must be somebodies, or they wouldn’t be here tonight.”

Hayes was embarrassed, but he did not regret having come. He was always embarrassed by women who called men by their abbreviated Christian names, however slightly they might know them. He had never forgiven Mrs. Mornington Dobbs for exclaiming to him at a gathering in Rome: “Why, there’s Ben, and looking so pensive. Of course you know dear Mussolini——?”

Nevertheless, he hoped that these mysterious “somebodies” would join the party behind stage, and for that reason, although he had intended not to go, he now determined that he would.

On their way to the reception:

“All New York would quiver, Lincoln,” said his hostess, “if you presented them to a barbaric girl friend.” She hugged his arm very tightly. “You have had every kind of adventure—except adventures with women; or so everybody says. Don’t miss that thrill, Lincoln.”

Every once in a while Mrs. Mornington Dobbs hit the nail on the head. It was not a rumor but a fact that Lincoln Hayes, president of Western States Electric and one of the wealthiest men in New York, had never loved any woman since the death of his mother. At the age of thirty-five, with millions at his call, the dignified old Hayes mansion with its historic treasures still lacked a hostess. Tall, lean, grim, taciturn Lincoln Hayes, whose disconcertingly frank gray eyes had fluttered many a feminine heart, remained unmarried.

He smiled at the pretty widow but made no reply.

Except for this slow smile, anything identifiable as an expression rarely disturbed the sun-browned mask which was the face Lincoln Hayes showed to the world. As he entered with his party the room where first-night guests were being entertained, no one would have supposed that he was excited. As a matter of fact, the cold eyes did not miss a person present, and somewhere in Hayes’ brain a quiet voice kept asking: Is she here? Is she here?

Then, on the opposite side of the room, he saw the man.

Impossible to mistake him, although now he wore slightly tinted spectacles. He was tall, as tall as Hayes, and as lean, but yet, in some subtle way, of a totally different leanness. He was notable for profuse coal-black hair brushed straight back from a high yellow brow, for his classically regular features, for the unruffled perfection of his evening dress. He wore a large scarab ring upon the second finger of his left hand.

But the woman—his companion? A glance told Lincoln Hayes that she was not present. Yet no one would have known that he was disappointed.

The man, then, was an Arab, or possibly an Egyptian. He was talking with a sort of aloof, dignified courtesy to the actress who had shared honors with John Barrymore.

“What a shame, Lincoln!” The voice was that of Mrs. Mornington Dobbs. Hayes forced himself to listen. “I have found out who the man is. The Pattersons know him well: he’s a diplomat. Come and be introduced. He is a romantic person from Egypt with the delightful name of Mohammed Ahmes Bey. The girl is his niece.” She emphasized the word spitefully. “These uncles and nieces who travel together are so old-fashioned. She has gone back to the hotel to finish packing. They are leaving in the morning. Isn’t it disappointing?”

The words were barbed, for assiduous gossip mongers had failed to discover any trace of a woman in Hayes’ life. He was a most annoying man. Following in the footsteps of Lincoln Hayes senior, his father recently deceased, he had excavated in Egypt, adding to the treasures of the Hayes Bequest in the Metropolitan Museum. He had shot big game in Nairobi. He had taken the team to Europe which had won the world’s fencing championship. He was a magnificent horseman. He piloted his own planes, of which he had a fleet of four. And only a month earlier, driving an American car, he had narrowly missed a first prize at Monte Carlo.

But Lincoln Hayes’ subconscious mind had assumed control again. He heard Mrs. Mornington Dobbs’ words as through a mist. Mentally he had removed the spectacles from the hawk-like face, had set a crown above those majestic features. The result was an Ancient Egyptian god. But, in spite of his knowledge of the subject, he could not determine with which of the many headdresses to crown this god.

She had gone, and they were leaving in the morning.

He was introduced to Mohammed Ahmes Bey.

“Dear Lincoln is so disappointed.” (Mrs. Mornington Dobbs again.) “He had so hoped to meet your niece. She is very beautiful, isn’t she? And such a delightful name!”

Mohammed Ahmes Bey slightly inclined his head.

“I accept the compliment on behalf of my niece, Mrs. Mornington Dobbs.” He spoke perfect English. His voice had a quality rarely heard in those untrained in elocution. “As you say, she is beautiful.” He turned to Hayes. “We know you well in Egypt, Mr. Hayes, and respect you because you love our ancient past. My niece, who bears a strange name, or one strange to modern ears——”

“Oh, yes! Ahmes Bey,” Mrs. Mornington Dobbs interpolated, “please do tell him her name. It’s so fantastically adorable.”

“The name,” Mohammed Ahmes Bey continued, “of Hatasu, was so-called because her family, of which I am a member, traces its pedigree back to the real or so-called Ancient Egyptians.”

“Isn’t that too sweet?” said the leading lady.

“I am doubly disappointed,” continued Mohammed Ahmes Bey, contriving with a courtesy which would have graced a king to ignore the remark, “first, that you could not meet my niece, who will be disappointed; and second, that an urgent telegram which awaited me when I arrived this morning in New York demands that I shall leave tomorrow for Washington. I had counted, Mr. Hayes, upon seeing the treasures of my country which are contained in your home. And also those others which your father and yourself have given to the nation in the Hayes Bequest.”

Lincoln Hayes was watching the speaker’s eyes. Except that they were very large and held a compelling regard, they seemed, otherwise, behind the tinted glasses, to be normal.

“The Hayes Bequest—” he replied, in his slow, somewhat monotonous voice; “difficult. Don’t think even personal influence could open Metropolitan Museum tonight. But the private collection, Mohammed Bey, more than happy to show you, if you have time to come back now.”

“It is very kind of you, Mr. Hayes. I shall be delighted.”

“You may wonder how some things got here,” Lincoln Hayes’ slow smile rippled for a moment over his stoic features, “but don’t ask me—ask my agent, Captain Rorke.”

“Captain Rorke? But of course, I know of Captain Rorke. He acted for your father.”

“He did.”

“He is a brilliant Egyptologist. If my government has failed to take toll of his discoveries, then my government is at fault.”

There was a dry humor in the words which Hayes immediately detected and appreciated. He wanted to like Mohammed Ahmes Bey, but perhaps, for the first time in his adventurous life, he was conscious in this man’s presence of something unpleasantly resembling fear.

Mohammed Ahmes Bey had a dominating personality which his gently courteous manner could not mask. Many eyes were turned upon him. The presence of the famous Lincoln Hayes usually was a lodestone, but even when John Barrymore came in, there were many visitors, male and female, who continued to watch Mohammed Ahmes Bey.