CHAPTER II
"TO PARADISE--OR HELL"
For a time the Master sat in the thickening gloom, eating the datesand _temmin_ wafers, drinking the coffee, pondering in deep silence.When the simple meal was ended, he plucked a little sprig of leavesfrom the khat plant in the bowl, and thrust them into his mouth.
This khat, gathered in the mountains back of Hodeida, on the Red Seanot far from Bab el Mandeb, had been preserved by a process knownto only a few Coast Arabs. The plant now in the bowl was part of ashipment that had been more than three months on the way; yet stillthe fresh aroma of it, as the Master crushed the thick-set, dark-greenleaves, scented the darkening room with perfumes of Araby.
Slowly, with the contemplative appreciation of the connoisseur, theMaster absorbed the flavor and the wondrous stimulation of the "flowerof paradise." The use of khat, his once-a-day joy and comfort, he hadlearned more than fifteen years before, on one of his exploring toursin Yemen. He could hardly remember just when and where he had firstcome to know the extraordinary mental and physical stimulus of thisstrange plant, dear to all Arabs, any more than he definitely recalledhaving learned the complex, poetical language of that Oriental landof mystery. Both language and the use of khat had come to him fromcontact with only the fringes of the country; and both had contributedto his vast, unsatisfied longing to know what lay beyond the forbiddenzones that walled this land away from all the world.
Wherever he had gone, whatever perils, hardships, and adventures hadbeen his in many years of wandering up and down the world, khat,the wondrous, had always gone with him. The fortune he had spenton keeping up the supply had many times over been repaid to him instrength and comfort.
The use of this plant, containing obscure alkaloids of thekatinacetate class, constituted his only vice--if you can call a habitsuch as this vice, that works great well-being and that leaves noappreciable aftermaths of evil such as are produced by alcohol ordrugs.
For a few minutes the Master sat quite motionless, pondering. Thensuddenly he got up again, and strode to one of the westward-lookingwindows. The light was almost wholly gone, now. The man's figure,big-shouldered, compact, well-knit, appeared only as a dim silhouetteagainst the faded blur in the west; a blur smoky and streaked withdull smudges as of old, dried blood.
Far below, stretching away, away, shimmered the city's millioninconsequential lights. Above, stars were peeping out--were spyingdown at all this feverish mystery of human life. Some of the low-hungstars seemed to blend with the far lights along the Palisades. TheMaster's lips tightened with impatience, with longing.
"There's where it is," he muttered. "Not five miles from here! It'sthere, and I've got to have it. There--a thing that can't be bought!There--a thing that must be mine!"
Among the stars, cutting down diagonally from the north-west, crept atiny, red gleam. The Master looked very grim, as his eyes followed itsswift flight.
"The Chicago mail-plane, just getting in," he commented. "In half anhour, the Paris plane starts from the Cortlandt Street aero-tower. Andbeyond Paris lies Constantinople; and beyond that, Arabia--the East!Men are going out that way, tonight! And I--stick here like an old,done relic, cooped in _Niss'rosh_--imprisoned in this steel and glasscage of my own making!"
Suddenly he wheeled, flung himself into the big chair by the table anddragged the faun's head over to him. He pressed a button at the baseof it, waited a moment and as the question came, "Number, please?"spoke the desired number into the cupped hand and ear of the bronze.Then, as he waited again, with the singular telephone in hand, hegrowled savagely:
"By Allah! This sort of thing's not going to go on any longer! Not ifI die stopping it!"
A familiar voice, issuing from the lips of the faun--a voice madenatural and audible as the living human tones, by means of a delicatemicrophone attachment inside the bronze head--tautened his nerves.
"Hello, hello!" called he. "That you, Bohannan?"
"Yes," sounded the answer. "Of course I know who _you_ are. There'sonly one voice like yours in New York. Where are you?"
"In prison."
"No! Prison? For the Lord's sake!"
"No; for conventionality's sake. Not legally, you understand. Noteven an adventure as exciting as that has happened to me. Butconstructively in jail. _De facto_, as it were. It's all the samething."
"Up there in that observatory thing of yours, are you?" askedBohannan.
"Yes; and I want to see you."
"When?"
"At once! As soon as you can get over here in a taxi, from thatincredibly stupid club of yours. You can get to _Niss'rosh_ eventhough it's after seven. Take the regular elevator to the forty-firstfloor, and I'll have Rrisa meet you and bring you up here in thespecial.
"That's a concession, isn't it? The sealed gates that no one else everpasses, at night, are opened to you. It's very important. Be here infifteen minutes you say? First-rate! Don't fail me. Good-bye!"
He was smiling a little now as he pressed the button again and rangoff. He put the faun's head back on the table, got up and stretchedhis vigorous arms.
"By Allah!" he exclaimed, new notes in his voice. "What if--what if it_could_ be, after all?"
He turned to the wall, laid his hand on an ivory plate flush with thesurface and pressed slightly. In silent unison, heavy gold-embroidereddraperies slid across every window. As these draperies closed theapertures, light gushed from every angle and cornice. No specificsource of illumination seemed visible; but the room bathed itself insoft, clear radiance with a certain restful greenish tinge, throwingno shadows, pure as the day itself.
The man pulled open a drawer in the table and silently gazed down atseveral little boxes within. He opened some. From one, on a bed ofpurple satin, the Croix de Guerre, with a palm, gleamed up at him.Another disclosed an "M.M.," a Medaille Militaire. A third showed himthe "D.F.C.," or Distinguished Flying Cross. Still another containedaviator's insignia in the form of a double pair of wings. The Mastersmiled, and closed the boxes, then the drawer.
"After these," he mused, "dead inaction? Not for me!"
His dark eyes were shining with eagerness as he walked to a doorbeside that through which the Arab had entered. He swung it wide,disclosing an ample closet, likewise inundated with light. Therehung a war-worn aviator's uniform of leather, gauntlets, a sheepskinjacket, a helmet, resistal goggles, a cartridge-belt still half fullof ammunition, a heavy service automatic.
For a moment the man looked in at these. A great yearning came uponhis face. Caressingly he touched the uniform, the helmet. He unhookedthe pistol from where it hung, and carried it back to the table.
There he laid it down, and drew up his chair in front of it. Fora moment, silence fell as he remained there studying theautomatic--silence save for the faint, far hum of the city, theoccasional melodious note of steamer-whistles on the river.
The Master's face, now that full light brought out its details, showeda white scar that led from his right ear down along jaw and throat,till the collar masked it. Gray hairs, beyond those of his age,sprinkled his temples. Strangely he smiled as he observed the nicksand deep excoriations in stock and barrel of the formidable weapon.He reached out, took up the gun once more, weighed it, got the feel ofit, patted it with affection.
"We've been through some wonderful times together, old pal, you andI," said he. "We thought it was all over, didn't we, for a while? Butit's not! Life's not done, yet. It's maybe just beginning! We're goingout on the long trek, _again_!"
For a while he sat there musing. Then he summoned Rrisa again, badehim remove the tray, and gave him instructions about the guest soonto arrive. When Rrisa had withdrawn, the Master pulled over one of thehuge atlases, opened it, turned to the map of Arabia, and fell intodeep study.
Rrisa's tapping at the door, minutes later, roused him. At his orderto advance, the door swung. The Arab ushered in a guest, then silentlydisappeared. Without a sound, the door closed.
The Master arose, advancing with outstretched hand.
Their hands met and clasped. The Master led Bohannan to the table andgestured toward a chair. Bohannan threw his hat on the table with alarge, sweeping gesture typical of his whole character, and sat down.And for a moment, they looked at each other in silence.
A very different type, this, from the dark, sinewed master of_Niss'rosh_. Bohannan was frankly red-haired, a bit stout, smiling,expansive. His blood was undoubtedly Celtic. An air of great genialitypervaded him. His hands were strong and energetic, with oddlyspatulate fingers; and the manner in which his nails had been gnaweddown and his mustache likewise chewed, bespoke a highly nervoustemperament belied by his ruddy, almost boyish face. His age mighthave been thirty-five, but he looked one of those men who never fullygrow up, who never can be old.
"Well, what's doing now?" demanded he, fixing blue eyes on his host.He produced a cigarette and lighted it, inhaled smoke deeply and blewa thin gray cloud toward the ceiling. "Something big, eh? by the wayyou routed me out of a poker-game where I was already forty-sevendollars and a half to the good. You don't usually call a fellow, thatway, unless there's something in the wind!"
"There is, now."
"Big?"
"Very."
"So?" The newcomer's eyes fell on the pistol. "Yes, that looks likeaction, all right. Hope to heaven it _is_! I've been boring myselfand everybody else to death, the past three months. What's up? Duel,maybe?"
"Yes. That's just it, Bohannan. A duel." And the Master fixed strangeeyes on his companion. His muscular fingers fell to tapping theprayer-rug on the table, drumming out an impatient little tattoo.
"Duel? Lord's sake, man! With whom?"
"With Fate. Now, listen!" The Master's tones became more animated.A little of the inward fires had begun to burn through hisself-restraint. "Listen to me, and not a word till I'm done! You'redryrotting for life, man. Dying for it, gasping for it, eating yourheart out for it! So am I. So are twenty-five or thirty men we know,between us, in this city. That's all true, eh?"
"Some!"
"Yes! We wouldn't have to go outside New York to find at leasttwenty-five or thirty in the same box we're in. All men who've beenthrough trench work, air work, life-and-death work on various fronts.Men of independent means. Men to whom office work and club lifeand all this petty stuff, here, is like dish-water after champagne!Dare-devils, all of them, that wouldn't stop at the gates of Hell!"
"The gates of Hell?" demanded Bohannan, his brow wrinkling with gladastonishment. "What d'you mean by that, now?"
"Just what I say! It's possible to gather together a kind ofunofficial, _sub rosa_, private little Foreign Legion of our own,Bohannan--all battle-scarred men, all men with at least one decorationand some with half a dozen. With that Legion, nothing would beimpossible!"
He warmed to his subject, leaned forward, fixed eager eyes onhis friend, laid a hand on Bohannan's knee. "We've all donethe conventional thing, long enough. Now we're going to do theunconventional thing. We've been all through the known. Now we'regoing after the unknown. And Hell is liable to be no name for it, Itell you that!"
The Celt's eyes were alight with swift, eager enthusiasm. He laid hishand on the other's, and gripped it hard in hot anticipation.
"Tell me more!" he commanded. "What are we going to do?"
"Going to see the stuff that's in us, and in twenty-five or thirtymore of our kind. The stuff, the backbone, the heart that's in you,Bohannan! That's in me! In all of us!"
"Great, great! That's me!" Bohannan's cigarette smoldered, unheeded,in his fingers. The soul of him was thrilling with great visions. "I'mwith you! Whither bound?"
The Master smiled oddly, as he answered in a low, even tone:
"To Paradise--or Hell!"
Flying Legion Page 2