Читать книгу Caravans By Night - Harry Hervey - Страница 10

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Night settled over Delhi. From the River Jumna to the Ridge, and beyond, tiny lights blinked at the shadows, and like a huge spirit-eye in the dusk the moon looked down upon the domes and minarets of the old Mogul capital. At the clubs electric punkahs fanned the air, ice clinked in frosted glasses and home-sick young officers read news-sheets from Britain. The network of narrow, constricted highways between Burra Bazaar and the Delhi Gate steamed and stewed, and heat and stench crawled beneath dirty eaves and balconies. South of the modern city, on the dead plain of Firozabad, thornbush and acacia rustled mournfully and ruined ramparts yielded up their nightly squadron of bats.

In his residence beyond the Civil Lines, Colonel Sir Francis Duncraigie, Director of Central Intelligence, C. S. I., and probably one of the most important men in the empire, sat alone in his writing-room beneath a mildly whirring fan, and sweltered and swore.

As a house-boy appeared like a white wraith from the dusk of the hall, he looked up.

"Well?"

"Did you call, O Presence?"

Sir Francis glared. "No!" Then, "But wait!"

A pattering noise sounded from the driveway, and he rose and strode to the window, parting the draperies. What he saw, fantastic in the hazy moonlight, was a palanquin with drawn curtains, borne on the shoulders of four coolies.

"What 'n Tophet!" he exclaimed, for palanquins are rare in the present-day Delhi of cabs and motorcars, nor is it the custom of Mohammedan ladies, who ride in these picturesque conveyances, to call upon officers of the empire.

"If it's anybody to see me, tell 'em I have an appointment and they'll have to wait," he instructed briefly, turning back.

The house-boy disappeared, and Sir Francis resumed his seat. After a moment the boy returned.

"She says you have an appointment with her, O Presence!"

The colonel stared. "What!" Pause. "By George! Perhaps you'd better show her in!"

He watched the doorway, and presently a white figure materialized. He rose. The woman wore a bhourka—the long cotton garment that Mohammedan ladies affect in public, and which leaves only the eyes visible.

"You wish to see me?" asked the Director of Central Intelligence.

The hood of the bhourka was thrown back ... and the colonel, who while on duty hibernated under the armor of official dignity, came out of his shell. No man would question her beauty, many her type. The features were long and narrow, and a warm gold, suggesting an Aryan strain, underlay her clear skin. The eyes, rather heavy-lidded, were baffling, and of a deep violet shade—like the peaks of the Khyber after the sunset gun at Jamrud Fort. Black hair clouded her face.

"You are surprised to see me—like this?" she enquired, indicating the bhourka.

Her voice was low and rich, and marked by a huskiness that was rare in that it was musical. Her English was flawless.

"Well, rather!" confessed the colonel.

"Am I late?"—as he drew up a chair for her.

"On the minute," he lied.

She smiled tolerantly. "Will you close the door, please?"

With a speed that would have made his subalterns gasp, he hastened to obey.

"Since I received your telephone call," he told her, settling himself behind the desk, "I have been all interest. What is it this time—more plots against the Sirkar?"

She made a grimace. "Plots spring up and die overnight! If I concerned myself with such minor occurrences, I should be eternally occupied. I told you I wished to see you regarding a matter of importance."

She paused and he said: "Well?"

"What happened on the night of June fourteenth?"

He stared at her. "You don't mean—"

"But I do."

He drummed upon the desk.

"You have not answered me," she reminded, after a moment. "What did happen on that night? Why not read me your files?"

He unlocked a drawer of his desk and removed a file cabinet. From the latter he took a sheaf of papers.

"The Treasure House at Alwar was robbed," he said, his eyes upon the papers in his hand. "The diamonds alone are worth ten thousand pounds, and—but you don't want me to go into detail, do you? Well, gems valued at three hundred thousand pounds, sterling, were spirited away from the Nazarbagh Palace at Baroda. Tukaji Rao of Indore lost his Pearl Scarf and the Peacock Turban. The treasury at Jodpur was looted. Scindia of Gwalior's pearls were stolen. Others who were robbed are: your cousin, the Nawab of Jehelumpore, the Nawab of Bahawalpur, the Rajah of Mysore and the Rajah of Tanjore." He halted, raising his eyes. "In other words, on the night of June fourteenth jewels worth millions of pounds were snatched away under the very nose of the Government, without leaving one single thread to grasp! If anyone had even suggested such a preposterous thing before, I'd have laughed!"

"Then the 'Delhi Post' did not tell the truth this morning," ventured the woman, "when it said, 'the Intelligence Department has a valuable clue'?"

"Well, so we have," he admitted.

"Chavigny?"

He gave her a swift glance. "How did you know?"

She dismissed the question with a shrug and said:

"You agree with me, I am sure, Sir Francis, that these robberies are connected; that it is highly improbable to think for an instant that in nine cities thefts of famous jewels merely occurred simultaneously. As for this Chavigny—judging from his reputation he is clever enough to have done it. However, reflect upon the difficulties he would encounter. India is not like Europe. There is caste to consider. He is a white man. Furthermore, the jewels were stolen from state treasuries; from buildings, in some instances vaults, that are not easily accessible."

"Then you think it the work of some sort of organized band?"

"I think exactly as you do," she replied cryptically, "only I have foundation for my belief, while you are—rather, your department, is—well, romancing."

Silence fell. The man was the first to speak.

"I'm to infer, then, that in your opinion Chavigny had nothing whatever to do with the robberies?"

She smiled. "Did I say that?"

"At least, you hinted that there is something rather big behind the thefts."

She continued to smile and leaned upon the desk, facing him.

"To come to the purpose of this call, Sir Francis. If you will give me four months—and a free rein—you have my word that I will recover every jewel that was stolen on the night of June fourteenth."

It was with difficulty that the Director of Central Intelligence smothered an impulse to smile and suggested soberly:

"Won't you be more explicit? This is—well, from my viewpoint, it seems rather incredible."

"I mean, with the aid of one of your men I will do what your Department could never accomplish. May I have him?"

"The whole of the Secret Service is at your disposal!"—magnanimously.

She gestured impatiently. "Woodenheads, all of them!"

Sir Francis almost gasped. "Even Euan Kerth?" he managed to ask calmly.

"I do not know Euan Kerth, but he is reputed to be the lion of your Department. He would more than likely prove unmanageable. No, Euan Kerth does not qualify."

He chewed his lip. "Really, won't you throw a little more light on the subject?"

"No," she replied in mellifluous tones, with her most distracting smile. "You recall what happened in the affair of Amar Singh, when your men investigated? I shall handle this after my own manner—or wash my hands of it."

Sir Francis' forehead wrinkled in an official frown.

"This is most extraordinary! Is that a—er—threat?"

"Dare one threaten the Intelligence Department?" she purred.

He drummed upon the surface of his desk again. His thoughts at that moment were none too pleasant.

"Well, what are your terms?" came at length from him.

She was aware that she was mistress of the situation, and she enjoyed the position.

"I wish to choose the man with whom I am to work," she began. "I am not to be spied upon by your agents; in fact, the first indication of any sort of surveillance will end our contract. The man I choose will not be permitted to communicate with you, or with anyone, until we have finished. He must obey me implicitly. If you agree to my terms, I shall name a meeting-place, and from the instant this man enters the house he is mine; he disappears from your observation completely until I give him back to the Raj. Meanwhile, you will follow up the clues you have; you will forget me, you will forget the man who is to help me—and at the end of four months I will keep my pledge."

Sir Francis concealed his thoughts under a smile, and well he did.

"You ask the impossible. Why, that's preposterous!"

"You question my loyalty?"

A spark showed in the violet eyes—steel under the velvet.

"Your loyalty is not involved in this discussion; it is simply that you ask things that are unprecedented in the service."

"The happenings of June fourteenth are without precedent," she returned swiftly. "Come, Sir Francis, what are you losing in this venture? On the contrary, you gain much. I want no credit; when I have finished I vanish from the affair, completely. One of the stipulations is that my name must not be mentioned in connection with the work. Simply, your curiosity is piqued. And your masculine vanity suffers at the thought that a woman can do what you, with your hundreds of eyes, can not. Be reasonable. I give my word, a word that you have reason to know is always kept, that your man shall come to no harm. You do not question my loyalty, you say; then what reason for refusal have you? Simply that in the stale, musty annals of your Department such a thing has never been done!"

The Director of Central Intelligence leaned back in his chair.

"Do you know"—and he smiled as he said it—"I could have you—er—detained as a suspicious person, if I felt so disposed."

Her musical laughter rippled out. "But you do not feel so disposed, for what would it gain you?"

Their eyes met and there followed a quick duel.... The man's smile was a sign of defeat.

"If you don't want a Secret Service man, whom do you want?"

"A man who has brains and imagination—and, besides those, honor."

"Name him."

"Major Arnold Trent of Gaya."

Sir Francis lifted his eyebrows. "He is a doctor."

"That is the way with you military men"—with a sigh. "If one is a physician, you think he knows nothing but what is taught in schools of medicine! I want some one whose brain is free of tiresome Secret Service rules."

The Colonel smiled. "You are a very resourceful woman," he declared.

"That means you accept?"

"It means I recognize your ability, and that I shall communicate with the Viceroy to-morrow and give you my decision as soon as possible."

She smiled her approval and rose.

"Then I shall not prolong this interview. Good night, Sir Francis."

She gave him her hand and moved to the door, where she halted, turning back.

"I nearly forgot," she said. "There is one other clause in the agreement. Major Trent must be kept in ignorance of the party with whom he is to work. To him you may call me—well, the Swaying Cobra." She smiled again. "By that name I was known when I danced on the Continent."

Then she departed, melting into the dusky hallway.

After a moment Sir Francis moved to the window and parted the draperies slightly. The palanquin was passing, swimming in yellow moonlight. He watched it until it lost itself in shadows.

"Now what the deuce!" he muttered.

He resumed his seat and searched several drawers until he found a black book; then he ran through the pages, halting at: "Trent, Arnold Ralph, Major, R. A. M. C...." He read the lines following the name; took the receiver from a telephone on his desk; called for a number.

"Kane?" he asked when he was connected. "Duncraigie. You might come out this way to-night. Important matter. Sarojini Nanjee just called. What! Surely you remember her! Connection of the Nawab of Jehelumpore; danced in London and Paris for a while. Half white, fourth Rajput, and the rest devil." He chuckled. "Thought you'd recall her. I'll be waiting for you."

He placed the receiver upon the hook and sat staring reflectively at the doorway where the woman of the bhourka disappeared.

"Hell-cat!" he said aloud.

Which may or may not have been the impression she intended to give.