Читать книгу Stolen Idols - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

Table of Contents

“Perkins,” Gregory demanded, as he struggled into his dinner coat a few nights later, “what should you think if I told you to drop that grinning piece of wooden monstrosity there into the sea?”

The steward glanced doubtfully over his shoulder at the Image.

“It’s a damned ugly piece of goods, sir,” he admitted, “but I shouldn’t make away with it like that. It’s very likely valuable. They give no end of money sometimes for genuine bits of stuff from China way.”

Gregory straightened his tie and looked at his treasure fixedly.

“Perkins,” he confided, “that Image is either worth a few hundred, or perhaps a thousand pounds as an antique, or it may be worth—listen to me—a million.” The steward coughed. He was inclined to think that this passenger of his, on whom the slackness of the season had enabled him to bestow more than his normal share of attention, was a trifle cracked.

“If it is worth as much money as that, sir,” he remarked, “it would be a sin to think of getting rid of it.”

“You’re quite right,” Gregory assented, “it would be a sin. We’ll let it stay where it is.”

At his table in the dining saloon he trifled with his dinner and covertly watched the girl seated by the captain’s side, who, on his entrance, had sent him a little wave of welcome. He had worshipped more or less casually at the shrine of girls and women of all ages, but never with quite the same restless and fitful confusion of feeling as had swept over him occasionally during the last few days in her near presence, or at the thought of her in his sleepless hours. She was, he tried to tell himself, as he studied her with eyes that attempted to be critical, an ordinary, pleasant-looking, good-looking, attractive girl, like hundreds of others of her age, too young and too lacking in experience to justify a great passion. Her yellow hair, her one real beauty, was brushed backwards with a touch almost of severity; a fashion, however, which the vivacity of her face justified. Her eyes, he had to admit, were unusual; grave and tender sometimes, full of the sparkle of humour when, as now, she was engaged in light-hearted conversation. Her mouth was perhaps almost too sensitive, but it was beautifully shaped, and not over-small. He watched her rise and walk out of the saloon; a girl’s figure still, but with just a suggestion of coming power in her easy, flowing movements.

He had known more beautiful women. There were more beautiful women to be seen every day in Bond Street, he told himself, with an almost fierce desire to deny her attractiveness, but she possessed a gift which baffled him. He only knew that the idea of that message, which without a doubt she must at some time or other receive from her uncle, was like a nightmare to him. He felt instinctively how meanness of any sort, dishonour and falsehood, would appeal to her, with her youthful, uncompromising standards, her lack of experience. She would belie that sensitive mouth and the kindliness of her eyes. Where an older woman might have sympathised she would have no pity. And with it all his mind was in a state of turmoil about her. Unaccustomed sensations tortured him. The flash of her welcoming glance had set his pulses tingling.

He finished his wine, leaving most of his dinner untasted, and, instead of going on deck, returned to his stateroom, thrust aside the curtain, and looked fiercely, almost challengingly, at his treasure. As he looked he felt once more a certain change in himself and his impulses, suddenly felt the torture of a sacrilegious thought, an instinct, horrible at one moment, alluring the next. He suddenly threw the cigarette case which he was holding at the face which mocked him.

“Blast you!” he cried.

The case, truly enough thrown, recoiled from the unchanging hardness of that lowering forehead, and fell, spilling its contents upon the bunk. He recovered it with trembling fingers, listening all the time to the music of the distant orchestra. He had a sudden impulse to lock the door and stay where he was; an impulse swept away a moment later by an unconquerable desire to be moving to the music with Claire in his arms. From the door he ventured upon one last unwilling glance upwards. He could have sworn that for the fiftieth time that expression had changed. There was a light almost of suggestion in those sightless orbs, a curl of sardonic contempt in the thick lips. He hurried up on to the deck and leaned for a moment over the rail, his eyes looking across the sea.

“Nerves!” he told himself slowly. “Nerves!”

The doctor passed him with a cheery good evening. Gregory called out to him.

“Just a moment, Doctor.”

“You’ll be in disgrace,” the latter remarked. “They’re dancing already. Come and have a liqueur in my room first.”

“Thank you,” Gregory replied.

They made their way to the lower deck and into the doctor’s quarters. The latter excused himself for a moment whilst he prepared some medicine. Afterwards he opened his cupboard, produced a bottle of brandy and two liqueur glasses and pushed a box of cigarettes across the table.

“What’s wrong with you, young fellow?” he asked a little abruptly.

“Nerves,” Gregory answered. “Do you believe in them?”

“To some extent,” was the cautious reply. “How are they getting at you?”

“I’m haunted by an evil spirit,” Gregory declared, lighting a cigarette. “It’s there, a wooden Image behind a curtain, down in my stateroom. Now get ready to laugh. I assure you, Doctor, every moment I spend with that damned thing makes me feel more of a rotter.”

“Where did you get it?” the doctor enquired curiously.

Gregory glanced towards the closed door.

“I am not sure whether it is wise to tell you,” he replied, “but, as a matter of fact, it is a small statue of a famous Chinese god. It is meant to represent all the gross side of a man’s life. It is meant to depict every evil that can haunt the sinner.”

The doctor suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you were mixed up in the Nilkaya affair?” he exclaimed. “You’re not one of the Englishmen who looted the place?”

“I’ve got one of the Images here, anyway,” Gregory admitted.

“There was a report that you were both dead.”

“My pal is, although he was taking on what we thought the simplest part of the job. They got me, a dozen of those priests. Fought like furies, the fellows did! I was to have been food for the alligators but I was rescued on the river by a trader from the coast.”

The doctor looked at his companion with amazement.

“No wonder you’ve got nerves,” he observed. “You’ve been through something.”

“I’ve been through hell,” Gregory admitted. “The fight wasn’t so bad, but I was two days strapped up on that pirate ship with not a mouthful to eat, in a foul atmosphere, and expecting to be thrown overboard at any moment. I had a certain amount of luck. I got clear, as you see, and I’ve got one of the Images. It is supposed to be chock full of jewels, and yet I’m half inclined to chuck the damned thing overboard.”

The doctor smiled reassuringly.

“I won’t say anything of the morality of the enterprise,” he declared, “but you had a fine, plucky adventure, and when you talk about throwing the Image overboard, you’re talking like an ass. Set your heel upon all this superstitious nonsense, Ballaston, and go on as usual. Believe me, you’ll be none the worse for possessing that piece of wood. You create the evil in yourself when you allow yourself to believe that the thing’s likely to do you harm. The world’s old enough for us to realise the nature of most of its organic forces. The malice of nine hundred years ago may have been carved into that Image, but it can’t come out again.”

Gregory drew a little sigh of relief.

“Of course you’re right,” he acquiesced, “and yet——”

“Cut out the ‘and yets’,” the doctor interrupted. “Get up on deck now and dance. That’s what’s good for you. Be normal and don’t harbour any thought that hasn’t a definite and reasonable origin. See you later. I may come up and have a turn myself.”

Gregory hurried on deck to be greeted a little reproachfully by Claire.

“How dare you keep me waiting,” she complained. “The orchestra have never played better and I’ve been nearly crazy sitting here by myself. Don’t let’s waste a minute now you have come.”

They were out of the region of storms. The awning had been rolled away and they danced on the outside deck with the orchestra half concealed in a little lounge. The minutes passed by in a sort of enchantment. From fox trots they passed to waltzes, both utterly unconscious that sometimes they were the only two dancing. Suddenly Claire drew back and looked at her companion.

“Why, I believe you’re tired!” she exclaimed. “Do let’s stop.”

“No, we’ll go on,” he answered quickly.

The music seemed to have gained a new and more passionate throb. The starlit night seemed to be leaning down, to close them in. There was a breath of magic in the languid air, in the perfume from her hair and clothes, swimming out into the stillness. Her eyes for a moment had half closed in faint response to the joy of it all. His arm suddenly tightened around her—tightened!

“Stop!” she ordered quickly.

He obeyed at once. She looked at him with an expression of amazement, in which was almost a gleam of terror. Then she turned away.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to speak to Mrs. Hichens. Please don’t come.”

He knew better than to follow her, to protest, to attempt any explanation. He made his way to the smoking room and drank two whiskies and sodas. The steward looked at him curiously.

“Hot work dancing to-night, sir,” he observed.

“Hot as hell,” Gregory answered. “Give me another drink.”

He was served immediately. Afterwards he stepped back on to the deck. Claire had disappeared. He went up to a woman whom he had previously avoided with sedulous care—a grass widow, good-looking still in a way, but overanxious, overobvious, overperfumed. She rose to her feet with astonishing alacrity at his unexpected invitation. A moment later they danced off into the darkness.

The smoking-room steward took Gregory to his stateroom that night, and the faithful Perkins, summoned from his own repose, undressed him. He went to sleep with a chuckle upon his distorted lips.

“I’m with you, old fellow,” he muttered, waving his hand feebly to his unseen companion. “You’re the chap for us Ballastons. Glad I got you—and not the other.”