Читать книгу The Road to Bagdad - George Fort Gibbs - Страница 6

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The conversation with Mr. Disston, the Purser, who examined the list of passengers for them, revealed little. The people who had come aboard at Marseilles were a party of three American tourists, a Spanish Assyriologist bound for Beirut, and an Armenian rug dealer of Paris and Damascus. The latter, the Purser said, was an old man named Temoyan, utterly respectable, who traveled on the Orizaba back and forth twice a year.

“We’ll have a talk with Monsieur Temoyan,” Barker said.

“Won’t you let me in on the secret if you find anything in the wireless room?”

He laughed. “I’ve always said that the only requirements for a good detective or secret-service operator were a devouring curiosity and a considerable amount of impudence.”

“Which do you think I have the most of?”

“It’s difficult to say. You meet a man, a perfect stranger to you, who happens to possess important secrets that might amuse you, and succeed in getting him to tell you, almost at once, his life history and purposes.”

“Now, of course, you’re making fun of me. If you think I’m impudent, all you have to do is to send me about my business.”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the sort. You see, I’m so used to the deceptions of diplomacy and the wiles of Eastern potentates that it’s quite delightful to meet some one who says just what comes into her mind.”

“Even though it’s just the idle inquisitiveness of an American tourist.”

Curiously enough, though half-American born, Ronald Barker had not been back to the United States since winning his Rhodes Scholarship and he had nearly forgotten the refreshing frankness of his American cousins. He had been too busy in England to do much more than attend a few stodgy dinners where he met only Englishwomen, most of them the wives or sisters of elderly diplomats, who were not in the least exciting in the sense that Camilla Dean was.

He wanted to be polite to her, for the sheer force of her magnetic interest had made him say a lot of things he had had no intention of saying about himself. She had been a great help to him, put him on his guard against men who were bent on mischief, and he was very grateful to her. What sort of a girl was the real Camilla Dean? How little was she to be trusted? And how much? She had already done him a service. If she was disposed to be friendly she might help him again. On his way down from the wireless room he decided to take her still further into his confidence.

And so, when he joined her again on deck, he brought out the wireless messages.

“The East has taught me fatalism, Camilla Dean. I’m almost willing to believe you’re Kismet for me.”

“That’s very flattering. You haven’t been in England so long that you’ve forgotten how to say nice things. But you look rather puzzled, like a bloodhound on a wrong scent. They do look puzzled, don’t they?”

“Not more than I am. It seems as though I’d gone into a blind alley. I wonder if you’d care to look at these wireless codes I’ve picked out.”

“Thrilled!”

“This one is to the Spanish Assyriologist José Serrano and bears the London mark.” He handed her a typed message and she moved to the light of the smoking-room window.

Dog. Orizaba. Saguache.

Three words, that was all.

“Can’t make a thing out of it,” he said. “Can you?”

Camilla puzzled. “Rather clever, if it means anything. Have you any ideas?”

“None. It’s too short unless it’s in twisting the letters.”

She squinted at it up and down and sideways.

“No good. Do you know who Serrano is?”

“Yes. He was pointed out to me by my steward. Small man, stubby brown beard and bald head—walks with a stick.”

“And the other message?”

“It’s in French.”

“To whom was it addressed?”

“A man named Mohammed Ali. But the queer thing about it is that there is no such person as Mohammed Ali aboard the Orizaba.”

“That’s a swell idea. Didn’t the wireless man know to whom it was delivered?”

“That’s the second queer thing about it. He tried one or two people but he didn’t succeed in delivering it. He showed it to me just because it was queer.”

He handed the message to her and she read, “Koran embrassez royale antique khorassan. What on earth can that mean? I can’t make head nor tail of it. I can understand the words but put together they don’t make sense, unless.... but what has kissing a Royal Antique rug to do with it?”

“Plagued if I know.”

“Did you read it backward? No, that doesn’t make sense. The first letters? K-E-R-A-K. That spells Kerak. That doesn’t mean a thing to me either. Kerak. What’s Kerak? It might be Arabic.”

He tried to keep the look of interest out of his eyes but she did not miss it.

“You’ve discovered something. What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She peered at him keenly. “Better tell me what it’s all about or I’ll begin guessing all over again.”

“Don’t. You might tell me things I don’t want to know.”

She waited but he would not speak again.

“You’re talking in riddles now.”

“Yes, I’m obliged to.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“I can’t ask any more of you.”

“If you’re in danger—”

“Not more than usual. When a man begins to think of his own safety he’s useless in this business.”

“Kerak,” she said again, frowning. “Kerak. It’s a name that sticks in your mind. Something I’ve read recently. I remember now—here on the ship an article about Syria in a magazine. In the ship’s library. El Kerak! I have it! A bandit who roams east and south of the Lebanon Mountains, terrorizing the natives. Isn’t it curious that the name of this bandit should appear in this code wireless on the Orizaba?”

“Yes, rather,” said Barker carelessly.

“Have you ever met El Kerak, Mr. Barker?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“But you’ve heard of him, of course.”

“Oh, yes.”

“This article said he was a kind of oriental Robin Hood, little better than a thief and an assassin, but with moments of great generosity.”

“Did it say that?”

“It’s curious,” she gasped. “Wait a moment!” And before he had time for a word in reply she had darted into the companionway.

In the corner of the saloon were the bookcases and magazines. In a few moments she had found what she had come for, a copy of the Geographic Magazine for the month of July of the previous year. An article by an American newspaper man. She skimmed the pages rapidly. Pictures of the Lebanon Mountains, views of Damascus, camps of Bedouins ... and then—here it was—El Kerak, a photograph of the Syrian bandit at the flap of his tent; another one, a better one, a candid shot in the full blaze of sunlight as he was mounting his horse, possibly taken without his knowledge. He wore the conventional flowing white robes and kaffiyeh, a small mustache and an incipient beard. She gave a gasp of surprise and rose, aware that Barker had followed her from the deck outside and now stood beside her chair.

“Mr. Barker, I’ve made a discovery. Please look. Pictures of Ronald Barker in masquerade. Excellent pictures and the likeness unmistakable—”

He took the magazine from her hand, turned over the pages and then, “Astonishing resemblance, isn’t it?” he said, almost too carelessly this time.

“Very. So astonishing that it has given me a new claim to your confidence.”

It was genteel blackmail but she was sure he could not evade her. He found it difficult to hide his discomfiture and looked more like a puzzled bloodhound than ever.

“What’s the use?” she said with a laugh. “You’ve remarked that I was just impudent enough to be a successful sleuth. But it took more than impudence to help me. Luck solves more problems than skill. The mask is off. Admit it, Ronald Barker.”

He seemed really disturbed and she had a good deal of quiet pleasure from her triumph. He took the magazine from her fingers again, looked at the pictures, then, putting it under his arm, turned toward the door of the gangway.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let’s go out on deck again. Do you mind?”

They reached the rail where they could continue their conversation beyond the reach of listeners.

“I suppose I might attempt to carry on but I’m afraid you’ve got the goods on me as we say in the U.S.A. The one on the horse, the close-up profile, is extraordinary.”

“You can’t blame the author for using good copy. People are always meddling, aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry you’ve found me out. You see, I’ve moved about in Syria and Palestine with the utmost freedom and now, possibly, I’ll have to find a new personality, a new identity.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” she said quietly. “We’ll end that story now.” She took the magazine from his fingers and dropped it into the sea. He glanced at her and then muttered the one word, “Thanks.”

“But you’ve got the story; I might as well tell you. They know more about El Kerak in Syria or Trans-Jordania. There’s a price set on his head by the French and by the British—”

“—which they will never have a chance to pay.”

“Exactly,” he finished.

There was a silence made more definite by the swish of foam and the rising wind.

“Well,” he said at last, “what are you going to do about it?”

“What can be done about it? Nothing. And what’s the answer to the mystery of the wireless about Kerak? It’s just a huge joke. Who is Mohammed Ali?”

“He might be any one. It’s a name as common in Mohammedan countries as John Smith is in the United States.”

“And the wireless operator could tell you nothing?”

Barker shook his head. “He received the message and tried to deliver it, thinking it was a mistake. But Mahmoud Daoud, the only person with a similar Egyptian or Arabic name refused to receive it.”

“And the sender?”

“A certain James Robinson; address, Harwich Crescent, London, England. That ended the investigation.”

“Well, what’s the answer?”

“The answer is that you’re not the only one who knows my secret. The answer is that some one in London, perhaps some one aboard the Orizaba, knows who the bandit El Kerak is and who I am.”

At the moment he looked less like a distinguished member of the Foreign Staff than like a somewhat bewildered young man who had been told on out of school.

She had known this man scarcely more than two days but her absorption in his problem and in him had made her forget everything else. He was the most interesting man she had ever met in Europe or America and she had every desire to be of service to him. Asad, Slim, Michael already seemed immaterial. She wanted to do what she could to help him, to save him from the danger of discovery that he seemed to fear, more even than the threat against his life. She wanted to help him, to make herself of some value.

Was this the magic of the Mediterranean moon or something new and unusual that had come suddenly into her life?

The moon was shining with a greater intensity, cutting a clear white line around his profile, and he looked, she thought, very little like El Kerak now.

He turned inboard slowly and faced her with a gravity she had not been aware of before. There was something about this man that confronted her like an ordeal for good or bad that she must pass through. She realized that by opportunity and mischievous prying she had placed him in an awkward position, a situation that left him in her power. And yet as he faced her it seemed that it was she and not Ronald Barker who was at a disadvantage. He took her by the elbows and held her firmly. She did not resist him. Indeed, she could not. For there was both strength and gentleness in his grasp. He was, for the moment, no less the gentleman whose life she was trying to save than the bandit El Kerak whose secret she had discovered. She knew now that he regretted their conversations, regretted even meeting her in spite of the service she had done him. But she felt herself drawn closer to him—closer to him because of the service she had done him—irresistibly, while his voice sank a note deeper.

“I have been a fool,” he said. “I have talked to you as I have never talked before to a woman, letting you guess secrets that are a part of my work in Syria. Why have I done this? Tell me ...”

“I—I don’t know ...” she said.

“Why did you make me talk? Don’t you realize that if you tell what you have heard you may ruin me?”

“I—I’ll never tell—”

“Do you care enough? Possibly your silence may mean saving my life?”

“Haven’t I proved it?”

“Not yet. I know nothing about you.”

“Nor I about you, but I will never betray you,” she whispered.

“You mean that?”

“I do. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“If you mean what you say, give me a pledge of your loyalty. Kiss me on the lips. It is the only thing that will do.”

His grasp seemed to grow gentler as well as firmer and she slowly yielded. It was a kiss that seemed to have a more poignant meaning than the mere spirit of a pledge or a threat, and she forgot for the moment in that dim corner of the deck where they stood that it was only the day before yesterday that she had met him. Slowly she drew back, her head bent in a sudden realization of what had happened to her. He made no effort to take her again, just stood, his arms at his sides.

She turned away for a moment to regain her composure and found that she was more shaken than she had thought.

“I—I—” she gasped, and then, as words failed her, thrust forth a hand—the hand of friendship. “I—I won’t betray you,” she said.

He had taken her hand quickly, but she broke away from him and moved, smiling, into the moonlight which seemed suddenly to make things clear to them both. It was the assurance of her smile that restored him to sanity. And her level brows and calm gaze seemed to convince him that she was not of those who kiss and tell.

“Don’t you understand,” she asked, “that I couldn’t betray you now?”

He was silent, aware of a fine moment.

“Thanks,” he said.

And that was all of the incident. Extraordinary for Camilla—a mixture of the madness of the East of which he was a part and a kiss of earnest assurance that made the affair and its results inevitable.

“And now,” she said, “it is time to turn in—”

“Until to-morrow.”

They walked aft just as the figure of Nicholas Stephanov, the friend of Joseph Asad, emerged from the shadow where he was pacing the deck and smoking a last cigarette.

At the companionway to her stateroom Ronald Barker left her. “Good night,” he said gently.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He laughed lightly and disappeared in the shadows.