by Sax Rohmer
It looked like the end of the laughing Buddha, but it was not. Every man on board had been safely transferred, with full kit and equipment, to an auxiliary cruiser. From a West Country port the battalion was drafted to Lychgate and accommodated in billets.
“SO now you see, Martin,” the bimbashi concluded, “what I am doing here.”
“I don't,” said Martin Brown, refilling two glasses from the beer jug. “1 would say, without much hesitation, that you are wasting valuable time. I would add that you are making Brown, Madder & Co., the laughing stock of Lychgate— not that that bothers me. What powers have you?”
“Full powers. But what are you thinking?”
“Of the simple, direct way.”
“Parade the battalion and fall-out all men home from Libya; then question them one by one?”
“Why not? We may wait weeks for the fellow who has this thing to see, or hear, that its twin brother is marked 'Price £100.' When that occurs, I grant you we shall hear from him—but think of all that could happen in the interval. He might give it to his mother-in-law. Why not go ahead and tell him it's wanted?”
Bimbashi Baruk abstractedly filled his briar. When he spoke he did not look up.
“Have you ever tried to catch a runaway camel?” he asked.
“My experience of camels I acquired in your company in Egypt. I have said it before, and I say it again: They frighten me.”
“The best way to catch a camel is to pretend you don't want him.”
“I shall recommend any unhappy lover to buy a camel.”
“You have noted, apparently with disfavor, that I haunt the local pubs. I converse with the troops and invariably ask them if they have glanced in your window.”
“Nice of you.”
“I had no difficulty in getting a duplicate. These figures are mass-produced, it seems, something like ginger jars. The gilt on Runmede's had evidently been added, however, perhaps by Runmede himself. So I reproduced it from memory and also the appearance of the broken hand. You see, I have given this problem close consideration, Martin, and the success or failure of a direct attack would depend upon the type of man one had to deal with. The right type would come forward at once; but the wrong type would conclude that he had got hold of something valuable and would hide it—as Jean Caron did. No—I shall stick to my plan, for the present at any rate.”
“Please accept my grateful thanks,” said Martin Brown. “What would you do if someone really bought the blasted thing?”
“I should know that he was an Axis agent, and I should count on you to hold him pending arrival of reinforcements.”
And just such a contingency actually arose. News of it came to the bimbashi in this way. He was seated two days later, a morning destined to be memorable, on Lychgate Heath, patiently endeavoring to immortalize the ancient windmill in water colors, when a sound of running footsteps interrupted his concentration. He turned, looking back, as a spectacularly small boy, salmon pink and having large Cambridge-blue eyes, came sprinting toward him. Not the least uncommon feature of this breathless little person was his hair, ash blond, and growing straight up.
“Major, Major!”
“Hullo, Bungo.”
“He's phoned!” The sprinter halted beside the painter. “Mr. Brown! He says please dash!”
Bimbashi Baruk frowned regretfully at his work, then made the best of stowing it away, forgot to wash his brushes, and packed the whole outfit onto a bicycle which lay beside him. Bungo, only son of the bimbashi's landlady, panted, watching with wide-open eyes; his excitement was a form of worship.
“Good man, Bungo. I'll tell you a story tonight.”
“Honest?”
“Honest to goodness, Bungo, a long one.
“Something that really happened—toyou?
“It's a promise.”
Ten minutes later the bimbashi was propping an art-laden bike against the outjutting window of Messrs. Brown, Madder & Co An important car in charge of an important chauffeur stood near—and the laughing Buddha was absent, Bimbashi Baruk made a mental note of the car number and pushed the shop door open. Martin Brown came in as the bell jangled, making cabalistic signs.
“Where is he, Martin?”
“In the studio.” Brown's whisper was like distant gunfire. “And he is ashe. Nice time I've had hanging onto her until you came. Began by bargaining and finally agreed to pay the full price! Phew! The temptations that assail artists—a hundred quid for nothing!” He removed his wide-brimmed hat and used it as a fan. “Surreptitiously, B.B., she's been trying to find out if it opens.”
“Who is she?”
“I've no idea. Let me introduce you.”
He led the way through, and as they entered, a tall, slim woman from whose shoulders a sable wrap had slipped so that it lay across the chair behind her, stood up, slowly, and faced them. She was dressed expensively and well, a small hat of such ridiculous shape poised on gleaming black curls that the bimbashi knew it must be smart. Although too elegant for wartime, her presence exhaled a delicate and intriguing perfume.
“My dear Mrs. Vivian! What a delightful surprise!”
Her change of expression was so slight, so instantly effaced by a welcoming smile and that flame of glad surrender in her dark eyes, that the bimbashi saluted a worthy antagonist.
“It is really too wonderful!” She extended both hands; her hands were beautiful. “Let me think. Is it two years, Major?”
“Rather more—but so much has happened.” She forced him to hold those slender hands longer than formal courtesy demanded, and as he looked into unfathomable eyes he wished that he might have had even two minutes to prepare for this encounter. He anticipated a keen contest. As they sat down facing one another, Mrs. Vivian, her lips slightly apart, was registering with perfect artistry the emotions of a woman unexpectedly thrown into the company of a man with whom she is hopelessly infatuated. Martin Brown withdrew, on some mumbled pretext, and listened behind the screen.
“It seems like fate that we should meet again, Major. Whatever brought you to this place—at this very moment?”
Bimbashi Baruk had decided upon his opening tactics, and he simply pointed to the laughing Buddha which stood upon a small table between them.
“Then you are a sentimentalist, too,” murmured Mrs. Vivian.
“But I cannot afford to pay for it.”
“Ah, that beastly money! Yet how helpless we are without it.” She paused, meeting the gaze of dreamy eyes. “Have you ever wondered what became of me?”
“Often.”
“Let me tell you. On that night we met”—she infused into the words a universe of meaning— “I was nearly at the end of things. I had been compelled to give up my room at the hotel and to move my very few belongings to a cheap pension at Mentone. I did not wish to confess my— destitution. I hired the old motor boat of a man called Jean Caron to bring me to Cap d'Ail and to take me back. A frightful storm”—she shuddered, and it was not acting—“swept the boat out to sea. The motor failed. Jean Caron gave me a life jacket. Great waves were sweeping over us. Hours there were of this agony, and then the boat sank.... I am uncertain about what happened after that. I remember, next, finding myself on board a Corsican fishing vessel. They carried me ashore at a place near Ajaccio. I was ill, desperately ill, for weeks. When I recovered—France was no more. What could I do?”
She leaned forward and rested both her hands on one of the bimbashi's which lay on the arm of his chair. He smiled sympathetically. He had not overestimated his adversary.
“What, indeed, could you do, Mrs. Vivian?”
Mrs. Vivian withdrew the caressing hands and opened a bag. She took out a case and offered a card to Bimbashi Baruk. He read:
LADY TREVELLIS
Abbotsway, Surrey.
“I was fond of Janson Runmede,” the soft voice continued. “He was the only friend I had in those days of misfortune. This morning, driving past, I saw—that figure. Now I have plenty of money. Although I kn
ow little of such things, I think the price is ridiculous. But I truly believe it is the figure which used to stand in the lobby of his villa at Cap d' Ail—and we had shared many happy hours. I am a fool, perhaps; but, you see, I am a woman.”
Bimbashi Baruk was keenly conscious of the fact that Lady Trevellis was a woman, but nothing told him that she was a fool. During part of the time that she had spoken he had become aware of a disturbance in the shop—muted by the sudden closing of a door. Now, heralded by peremptory taps, entered Bungo, still breathless. Blue eyes fixed gravely upon the bimbashi, he offered a scrap of paper, nodded significantly, and retired.
“Please excuse me, Lady Trevellis.”
Unfolding the note, he read, in Brown's sprawling script: “Have got the real Buddha.” There was no expression whatever upon his face when he looked up—but he had completed his plan of campaign.
“My landlady's son,” he explained. “An urgent caller. Please don't think me impertinent, but is your husband”—he invented a name at random— “Sir Edward Trevellis?”
She shook her head. “Sir George. He was on holiday in Corsica, and became marooned by the new turn of affairs. I was a fellow maroon. When at last we managed to get away, we found that there was—mutual understanding. Life is very insecure for a lonely woman, and so—”
“I quite understand. May I call?”
“No one would be—so welcome. But—” she indicated the laughing Buddha.
“I withdraw my offer, Lady Trevellis. It is yours.”
A check for a hundred pounds was made out in favor of Brown, Madder & Co., and signed “Estelle Trevellis.” Bimbashi Baruk conducted Lady Trevellis to her waiting car, handed her wrapped-up purchase to the important chauffeur and returned to the shop. Martin Brown was executing a Highland reel. Without missing a beat, he opened a drawer and produced a laughing Buddha. Then, he paused.
“The man who had it was doing fourteen days C.B. The moment he got out he came in. He said if the thing we'd had in the window was worth a hundred pounds, 'wot about this 'ere?' I told him to leave it and come back in half an hour.”
The secret of the Buddha was ingenious but simple. One hand had been removed and made to screw on and off. A small rod fixed to it ran down and clamped into the base. This locked it firmly. The figure had been sawed in two and a cylindrical space cut out. Metal threads were attached to the two parts so that they could be fastened together again. Gold paint had been used to hide the join.
Bimbashi Baruk drew out a roll of thin paper.
“Make your own terms with the owner, Martin. What's left of the hundred is yours—and you have earned it.”
Lady Trevellis dined alone that night—Sir George was away—and had just retired to a restful and daintily feminine room, half library, half boudoir, for her coffee and a cigarette, when Bimbashi Baruk was announced. The shabby suit of the morning had vanished; he was in correct evening dress, and experienced eyes appraised him as a distinguished figure.
“Please try the armchair, Major Baruk. I was expecting you.”
“I thought you might be, Lady Trevellis, and my first duty must be to offer my apologies—”
“For what?”
“For swindling you.”
She laughed—a low-pitched, pleasant laugh. “Surely you realized that I was a consenting party? I bought the figure as the best way of getting out. I wanted time to think.”
“And I was willing that you should have it—at a price. You see, I required the money for another purpose.”
She watched him collectedly. She wore a simple rest gown which left her arms bare, with an implication of ivory shoulders, but he had sensed at once her abandonment of Delilah tactics and wondered what new form of onslaught he must anticipate.
“You have secured the original figure, I suppose?”
He inclined his head. “Jean Caron has been traced,” he said quietly.
Lady Trevellis shrugged resignedly; and something about the gesture gave him a clue which had long eluded him.
“Am I right in believing you to be Italian?” he asked.
“I am a Frenchcitoyenne, born of Italian parents and educated in England. Is it sufficient? How did you know?”
“The way you shrugged—shrugs are so patriotic. Perhaps I begin to understand.”
Brilliant eyes flashed a challenge.
“Your words tell me that you don't, Major Baruk. Allow me to amplify my story a little. All that I told you today was true. A whole month elapsed before I heard of the tragedy at Cap d'Ail —and I was utterly, profoundly horrified. You see, during my brief friendship with Janson—Dr. Runmede—he told me all about his experiments. He was a strangely trustful man in certain respects. In return, I was able to tell him that a dangerous German spy was covering the villa. I moved in queer society at that time and had means of information. Janson laughed; and do you know what he said?”
“I am anxious to learn.”
“He said that his great experiment had failed. There would never be a Runmede bomb. One formula, an essential one, would not, in his own words, 'add up.' So that he was—murdered, for no purpose.”
Following a clash of glances, the bimbashi nodded. Lady Trevellis was speaking the truth.
“Your own behavior becomes all the more remarkable.”
“If you refer to my taking the Buddha, which I am not going to deny, I cannot agree with you. What you don't seem to understand is that I took it with me when I left with Ann Mertsham. I had slipped it inside my handbag before she joined me in the lobby. I must have been at sea when the tragedy occurred. This, Jean Caron can prove.”
“Pardon my stupidity,” said the bimbashi. “This simple possibility had escaped me. Jean Caron's testimony shall be obtained on the point—but I don't doubt your assurance. You had engaged him in order that you might get a start, if the—theft—should be discovered immediately?”
“Of course. I had come that night with the intention of taking it, and I did take it. I knew that what I wanted was hidden in the figure, because Janson once asked me, as we stood near it, if I had read 'The Purloined Letter.' I had not, but I made a point of doing so.”
“He asked me the same question,” murmured Bimbashi Baruk. “Am I to understand, then, that the remarkable document hidden in the figure— a document which I have in my pocket—was the one you sought?”
“If it is a roulette system, it is.”
“It is.”
Lady Trevellis betrayed momentary excitement, and then fell silent, hands clasped, but at last she said: “Janson Runmede met me in the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. I was a broken gambler. He told me that he would show me how to win enough to clear my immediate debts, but no more. He sat down beside me at a roulette table. I had a hundred and twenty francs—my last. He directed every stake. In less than an hour I had won a hundred thousand! That was the beginning of our friendship. Later, he explained to me that he had perfected a system against which no casino could play, and which he proposed to publish—in order that roulette might be abolished. He regarded it as a social evil. Well—the day came when I realized that he was—only amusing himself with me—”
“You were wasting your time?”
“I was sure I knew where Janson's secret was hidden—a secret which meant a fortune. It was Fate that sent someone else to murder him later that very night.”
“Presumably this same Kismet,” said Bimbashi Baruk, “sent me from Egypt to England in pursuit of a gambling system, which, since Dr. Runmede's wishes must be respected, I cannot even try out!”
5. Warning from Rose of the Desert
THE BIMBASHI, his mission accomplished, got back to Cairo just in time to be useful to Colonel Roden-Pyne. It will be remembered that two Nazi agents, Colonel Otto Gaudian, author ofGeschichte der Assassinen and an orientalist of international repute, and Dr. Rosener, formerly of the German Legation at Istanbul, were rounded up in Afghanistan and that one of them came to a slightly sticky end. But the parts played in this drama of espionag
e by Mr. Horace Lord of the U. S. Army Intelligence and by Omar Ali Shah are not so generally known. The facts, although sensational, judged by Western standards, are simple enough in themselves, and are best related from the point where the fugitive officers had their first glimpse of the Scorpion of Kashan.
A red pass through the foothills, its sloping escarpments striated with steel-gray rock, lay in shadow, for the morning sun had not reached it, so that Colonel Gaudian and his companion, mounted upon sturdy Afghan horses, made rapid going. Although the year was young, today it would be hot at noon; but they knew that very soon they would come to the end of this dreary pass, that any bend in the path now might bring them in sight of that fertile plateau of Zamara, a floral carpet spread before the gates of Situn.
Both men wore native dress. In the case of Colonel Gaudian it was effective. A big man, swarthy, who lately had grown a beard, he looked remarkably like a tribesman, but rode, his horse like an officer of Uhlans, which in fact he was. Dr. Rosener, compelled to dispense with his spectacles, created an impression of blindness but was good for any chance meeting in that he spoke most of the dialects of the district with a veracity of accent peculiar to Germans, who know how to employ gutturals.