Читать книгу The Amir's Ruby - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3
ОглавлениеWhere Fate Leads
"Morning, Standish!"
"Good morning, sir. You sent for me?"
"I did," rejoined Mr. Truscott, Resident Managing Director of Far Eastern Airways, Limited. "You've put in for fifteen days' leave, I understand."
"Yes, sir."
"Urgent?"
"To a certain point—yes," replied Colin Standish. "As a matter of fact I have entered for the Middleweight Championship at the Londesboro' Hall, and I want to do a bit of training."
Mr. Truscott gave a quick, appraising glance at the athletic-looking youth. What he saw was good. Outwardly at least Colin Standish was as physically fit a fellow as anyone could wish to see. Above middle height, with clean-cut features, sparely built, and with an alert bearing, he had all the bodily qualifications for a successful air-pilot. Already he had a reputation for being not only a skilful airman, but one who did not hesitate to take risks of which many of his confreres would have fought shy.
"Didn't know you were a bit of a bruiser, Standish," continued Mr. Truscott. "However, my reason for bringing you here is a very different matter. I've just received a very important and undoubtedly hazardous commission—one in which grit and absolute secrecy are essentials. I had you in view for the business, but if you decide to take the leave that is due to you then there's no more to be said. I'll put Santley on to the job, or rather, I'll give him a chance to volunteer."
"I'll take it, sir," decided Standish, without a moment's hesitation. "When do I start?"
"But the championship?"
"That's a side issue, sir. I was rather keen at having a shot at it, but it really doesn't matter."
"I'm glad that I'm able to count upon you, Standish. You'll probably be required to set out for a flight to Bakhistan before the end of the week. Do you know where Bakhistan is, by the by?"
Standish knew the place well—by repute. And it had not an enviable reputation. It was a small, independent state situated between Persia and the frontiers of Afghanistan and Baluchistan. Only a few hundred square miles in area, almost every part of it was mountainous. The tribesmen were—well—to say the least, troublesome, and had been a thorn in the flesh of the Indian Government for the last seventy years.
There was no record of an airman ever making a landing, forced or otherwise, in Bakhistan, for the simple reason that it was well away from the recognized aerial routes; but there had been instances of Royal Air Force machines making flights over the district when the tribesmen were more troublesome than usual.
No wonder Colin Standish looked just a little surprised at the Resident Managing Director's announcement.
"I've heard of Bakhistan by repute, sir; but I haven't been within three hundred miles of it."
"It's those three hundred miles that count," rejoined Mr. Truscott grimly. "Mind you, this is a volunteer's job. I'm not ordering you to go, as if it were in the ordinary course of your duty. It's a pretty steep proposition, I give you my word, and the risks you'll run won't end if and when you leave Bakhistan on your return flight. In fact you'll be downright lucky if you come through with a whole skin. And secrecy, absolute secrecy is even more essential to success than mere skill and daring in airmanship. I know you possess the two latter qualifications. I hope for your own sake and for others' that you are able to keep a still tongue when necessary. Perhaps you'd like time to consider the proposition? I cannot give further details, but the few hints I have thrown out ought to help you to come to a decision, one way or another. Mind you, I reiterate there's no compulsion, and, honestly, knowing what little I do concerning the actual nature of the task, I would not take it amiss if you declined."
"I've already said I'll take it on, sir," declared Standish quietly.
"Then jolly good luck to you!" exclaimed Mr. Truscott heartily. "If you win through it will be a feather in your cap and a priceless slap on the back for Far Eastern Airways. One minute. I'll ring up our client and get him to fix an appointment with you."
He picked up an instrument from the desk.
"Trunk call, please: I want Malton four double-nine seven. Eh? Through to Malton exchange, am I? ... What's that? No such number? Sorry to have to contradict you.... What? No, no! I don't want Maldon, I want Malton."
He rang off.
"These trunk calls are a confounded nuisance, Standish," he remarked. "Apart from the fact that one's conversation is apt to be overheard. Now I'll try again. Exchange, please!"
The second attempt was successful.
"Is Sir Rugglestone at home?" pursued Mr. Truscott at the telephone. "Good! Will you kindly ask him to speak to Mr. Truscott? ... Yes, Truscott, Far Eastern Airways.... Ah, is that Sir Rugglestone? This is Truscott speaking from Bere Regis Aerodrome. We received your letter this morning, sir. I've arranged for one of our pilots.... Oh, yes, absolutely dependable.... I would suggest I send him to you for your instructions.... At seven? Would not that interfere with your—— Quite! Quite so! ... Yes, sir! I have already done so. You may expect Mr. Standish.... S for Sam, T for Thomas.... Sorry, Sir Rugglestone, I didn't think you'd caught the name. At seven, then.... Confound it! I'm cut off!"
During these fragmentary scraps of conversation, Standish literally sat up and took notice. Without a doubt, Mr. Truscott's client was Sir Rugglestone Gorton who a few years previously had been much in the public eye in connexion with Indian affairs. His firm action—one that no soldier could fail to take in the circumstances—had nipped an insurrection in the bud. Had he not acted promptly and drastically the result would have been far-reaching and disastrous to the British Raj. But unfortunately there was an outcry at home on the part of an ill-informed section of the community. The Cabinet, fearful for its own stability, gave way to the clamour of its supporters, and Sir Rugglestone Gorton was relieved of his command and recalled home. Since then he had lived in retirement—fortunately for him he was a very wealthy man—at his country seat at Haxthorpe in Yorkshire; but amongst those familiar with Indian affairs he was still spoken of as one of the shining lights in the history of the Indian Empire.
Standish's surmises proved to be correct.
"I've fixed up an appointment with Sir Rugglestone Gorton at seven this evening. Incidentally that includes an invitation to dinner—informal, of course. His place is Haxthorpe Hall, a few miles from Malton in Yorkshire. Here it is on this map—two hundred and forty miles as the crow flies. It is now eleven-thirty. Make your own arrangements provided you arrive at Haxthorpe not later than six-thirty. And remember: absolute discretion or, although you may reach Bakhistan, you'll never see England again!"
