Читать книгу Caravans By Night - Harry Hervey - Страница 16

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A native servant in a white cotton chuddah and turban switched on the light in the living-room as Trent entered.

"Has Manlove Sahib come in, Ganeesh?" asked the Englishman.

"No, Dakktar Sahib."

Trent placed his helmet upon the table and sank into a chair.

"I sha'n't want anything to eat, so you may as well go. If Manlove Sahib hasn't eaten, he can go to the barracks."

As the native quitted the room, Trent, at a sudden thought, called after him.

"Ganeesh," he said, as his servant reappeared, "has anyone been here this afternoon?"

"No, Dakktar Sahib."

"Didn't a lady call a few minutes ago?"

The man answered in the negative.

"Hmm. Very well. That's all."

Still puzzling over the strange woman, he removed a pipe and a sack of tobacco from his shirt pocket, and when he had filled the bowl he lighted it. For several minutes he drew upon the amber stem, looking abstractedly into the whorls of smoke; then he picked up a brown volume from the table and opened it at a leaf that was turned under.

Here was another trait that Gaya had not discovered. Frequently when he was tired he turned to poetry—sometimes to books on the art-treasures and ancient lore of India, Indo-China and China—for relaxation.

His eyes followed these lines:

Star of the South that now through orient mist,

At nightfall off Tampico or Belize,

Greetest the sailor, rising from those seas

Where first in me, a fond romanticist,

The tropic sunset's bloom on cloudy piles

Cast out industrious cares with dreams of fabulous isles.

He rather fancied that passage. Fabulous isles. His brain toyed with the thought. For, although he walked down among mortals, sheathing himself in indifference and impassivity, he kept, in secret, a ladder to the stars—a concession to return at will to a guarded kingdom of his youth, the dominion of Romance and Adventure. He would have dwelt in this kingdom, secluded from earth, but for a thorn that was fastened deep within him. This thorn had pricked him since that period of adolescence when first visions and aspirations stirred in his boyish brain and set him to dreaming of the future. It had goaded him relentlessly into achievement, against the will of his adventurous spirit.

Strive as he might, he could not draw it out.

It was Ambition.

Because of it he had buried a dream that at odd moments returned and haunted him, like the poignantly sweet odor of lavender rising from packed-away treasures. Reckless, this dream, dangerous. To forsake the dull earth; drink freedom from the winds. A passion for the open spaces—to explore the fabulous isles. But the lure of uncharted seas and archipelagoes beyond the sunset, sheer and calling as they were, could not entice him to trample tradition. Ambition had won. And he beheld himself now, at thirty-three, a romantic soul armored in realism; at heart a boy who had never broken away from the age when flapping canvas and groaning timbers cause a queer clutching in the throat. His reckless impulses and desires were bitted and diverted into accomplishment. He was a success. But there were times, often in the dead of the night, with the jungle solitude challenging speech, when he realized that, in his own eyes, he was a failure.

He sighed unconsciously, almost inaudibly, and his sea-green eyes softened to gray as he fashioned, extravagantly, a blue dragon in the tobacco smoke that coiled sinuously toward the ceiling; sighed, as he often did in the quiet of his own quarters where only the walls might hear.

His thoughts switched involuntarily to the present (and his eyes lost some of their grayness, for their color seemed to change with his moods) and focused upon the communication he had received that morning. Under the precise military wording he sensed another element. Mystery. After all these prosaic years was he to be drawn out of his cocoon of medicines and gauze bandages and have his adventure? In all probability the affair would prove drab enough. Adventure? Well, hardly. Things of the sort set forth in the dispatch were usually rather unpleasant. Yet it intrigued him. Blindfolded. And was not that it?

"... temporarily attached to ... Euan Kerth ... a woman called the Swaying Cobra...."

Fragments of the communication filtered through his brain. Strange. From pills and antiseptics to that! It was leaving a cocoon! What a joke to tell Manlove. Dear old Manlove—this with warmth.

The sounds of walking in the compound announced the object of his thoughts. The footsteps drew nearer, crossed the veranda, and Manlove, uniformed and helmeted, entered.

"Rum day," he said. "Hot as Tophet; everything wrong."

Trent made no comment; only nodded.

"There's a big shindy up at the Sacred Bo-tree," the other added. "Some Tibetan lamas are there. I stopped by with Herrick."

He took off his helmet, the removal revealing to the light a tanned, boyish face and a healthy thatch of hair; mopped his forehead and flung his headgear carelessly across the room. That was his way, to appear careless. But at heart he was not; he liked small boundaries (while Trent craved larger ranges), homely things. He looked forward to the time when he would come into possession of "Gray Towers," ancestral abiding-place of the Manloves. Of course, he didn't want his grandfather, more familiarly known as the Old Fellow, to die or anything like that; he was simply prepared for the inevitable: The Right Honorable Richard Auckland Manlove, sitting in the House of Lords and presenting Colonial improvement measures, for India in particular; no longer "Dicky" Manlove, irresponsible adventurer, but carrying the ponderous dignity of the name.... It was all very impressive....

"Mrs. Dalhousie is giving a lawn party to-night," he announced, taking a chair. "Impromptu. She told me to drag you along, if you'd come."

"Sorry," returned Trent. "I'm leaving for Benares early in the morning. I'll be occupied to-night. Orders from Delhi."

Manlove withdrew a cigarette case from under his tunic, opened it, took out a smoke and placed it between his lips before he spoke.

"Deuce you say! Not transferred?"

"Temporarily detached; special service. You and Conningsby will have to take charge while I'm away." He smiled. "Been reading the papers lately?"

Manlove lighted his cigarette, glancing furtively at Trent. The latter was staring into the blue haze of smoke, half humorously, as though he found something amusing in the vaporous clouds.

"Certainly"—thus Manlove.

"Anything new about the jewels?"

Manlove smiled to himself. He hadn't lived in the same house with Arnold Trent for fourteen months without learning something about him. The old sphinx, he thought good-humoredly.

"Nothing important"—briefly. "However, I understand, from Granville, that the Department believes an international thief—Chavigny's his name—mixed up in it."

"Wonder where Granville got that?"

"Oh, rumors are plentiful, especially at stations like this where everybody's chief occupation is talk."

"That all?"

Manlove nodded and said nothing, for he knew Trent.

"Have you approximated the value of the stolen gems?" queried the latter, then went on: "Millions of pounds! And have you wondered how the devil they're going to hide the loot, or get it out of India? Such well known jewels can't be sold—"

"Unless they're re-cut," put in Manlove. He smiled wisely. "By Kali and all the other deities, you don't mean that you, expert in cholera and dysentery, are about to—" He chuckled. "Well, I'm damned!"

Trent moved to a desk in a corner of the room, unlocked it and took out a long, official-looking document. This he handed to Manlove, then resumed his seat. The latter unfolded it and let his eyes travel down the sheet.

"Has the heat gone to their heads at Delhi?" he demanded when he had finished. "Almighty God, why detach a perfectly good doctor, when they have a whole list of Secret Service men?"

Trent only smiled. The younger man waved his hand toward the paper.

"Surely this isn't all?"

"You know as much as I do. I leave in the morning for Benares. At the hotel I'm to meet a fellow called Kerth—"

"Euan Kerth," Manlove interrupted, his eyes upon the document. "You've heard of him, haven't you? He's the best of his sort in India. He's been in Tibet; was one of Younghusband's interpreters in nineteen-four. Speaks Hindustani, Burmese, mandarin Chinese, Tibetan, and God knows what else! You and he ought to hit it off fairly well together. But go on."

"I'm to meet him at the hotel," Trent resumed. "Just what part he plays, I don't know yet. There I'm also to find a message from this Swaying Cobra woman, and meet her at a place named in the message. And—well, that's all." He smiled. "Enlightening, isn't it?"

As he finished, Manlove strode to the door and tossed away his cigarette. There he paused, peering out.

"Where's Ganeesh?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"I let him go for the evening. Why?"

"Just saw some one leave the compound; must have been he." Manlove returned to his chair. "Trent, I envy you—even if they are balmy at Delhi. This doctoring heathens isn't all it's colored up to be. It's getting on my nerves. I even dream about fever and stinking fakirs."

Trent consulted his wrist-watch. "I have to ride up to Colonel Urqhart's and make a report. Remember the chap at Meera, Chatterjee? Some hakim burned his child's stomach with an iron. Of course she died. I'm going to make an example of him." He rose. "I have to wash up a bit. I suppose you're going to the lawn party?"

"Think not," decided Manlove. "I'll be here when you return."

"Care to ride up with me?"

"No. I'm rather tired."

Trent went to his bedroom and Manlove lighted another cigarette. He'd miss the old sphinx, he told himself. Good old Trent! Why hadn't he married? Frequently he asked himself that question; never Trent. There must be a reason, he mused, flicking the ashes from his cigarette. Maybe there had been a woman—a typhoon. The typhoon sort could raise the deuce with a chap like Trent. Perhaps.... He stifled a yawn. Damn India; damn its climate. He hadn't taken his leave this season; it was about due now. A jolly trip home; see the Old Fellow; see "Gray Towers."

He heard Trent moving about in the rear. He couldn't picture him sleuthing it. Queer world anyhow. And Benares. What was afoot?

Another yawn. He flung his half-smoked cigarette through the doorway, and it fell upon the veranda in a mild shower of sparks, and lay there, its red tip glowing like a malevolent little eye.