Caravans By Night Part 30

He found himself in a vast court where the smoke from joss-sticks hung in clearly defined layers upon the atmosphere. The walls were lacquered with red and gold; and black-enameled pillars, inscribed with ideographs, were joined to the beams by filagree dragons. Orange-colored scrolls, red and gold paper-prayers and blue pottery reflected bizarre splashes upon glazed floors. The draperies were crimson; great red lanterns, hanging from the ceiling like captive moons, added to the scarlet effect. Wors.h.i.+ppers of all races and colors knelt before the altar and numerous small shrines, and the murmur of many voices in twice as many tongues hummed in the great red temple.

Trent's interest was instantly claimed by the blue pottery--tall vases, thin of neck and bellying out as they curved toward rounded bases and black pedestals. Red walls reflected upon their s.h.i.+ny surfaces. These vases were relics of China's Imperialists, Trent knew, brought from Honan or Chili--and his collector's soul flamed. Nor did he fail to observe the porcelain dragons or the intricate filigree work that adorned the beams. From these treasures he tore himself and gave his attention to the people. Mongoloid features, Aryan and Malay. No familiar face among them.

He pursued a corridor that led from the main court and completely circled the building--a dim pa.s.sageway with many curtained recesses off from it. At one corner was a restaurant. He could imagine from the smells the sort of food served within, and he hurried on, returning to the temple where incense banished the less enticing odors.

At a light touch on his arm he turned. A gray-clad priest stood at his side--an emaciated Buddhist.

"Your name is Tavernake, _thakin_?" he asked in English; then, as Trent nodded, added: "Come with me."

Trent was led back along the dim corridor, past the restaurant with its pungent smells, to a curtained room in the rear. It was evidently a bedroom, for there was the customary _charpoy_, or bed. Its walls were vermilion; vermilion portieres hung in the doorway, and a heavy vermilion curtain defied any air to enter through the one window. It was close, stifling. The lantern swinging from the ceiling seemed a fiery ball that radiated heat.

"His Excellency Hsien Sgam will be here presently," announced the monk; and Trent did not fail to notice the t.i.tle. "He begs you to accept the humble comforts of our hospitality until he arrives."

Trent's eyes followed the priest. As the vermilion portieres fell together behind him, rippling gently, like red heat-waves, the last draught of air seemed banished; the room became oppressive, as though the lid of hades had been shut, and the odors from the nearby restaurant did not improve the atmosphere.

Trent dropped on the edge of the _charpoy_, fanning himself with his hat and inspecting the room with mild curiosity. He leaned over and drew aside the window-curtain. A warm current of air breathed upon his face.

Beyond the rectangle was darkness--the back of the flagged enclosure, he surmised. A faint drone of voices was borne through the quiet--wors.h.i.+ppers in the temple-court. Footsteps padded softly in the corridor; drew nearer; pa.s.sed.... Five minutes....

Why the devil was Hsien Sgam keeping him waiting, and in this infernally hot room, he wondered?

Growing impatient, he rose and paced the floor, not ceasing to fan himself. Sweat streamed into his eyes, rolled down his body and moistened his undergarments. His scalp burned and needled with heat.

After a moment he resumed his seat, staring at the motionless vermilion portieres. Still the hum of voices from the temple; it went on with maddening persistence.

"Good G.o.d!" he thought, as he mopped his face. "Such heat!"

He glanced at his wrist-watch. He had been waiting ten minutes. Confound Hsien Sgam and his revolution!

Suddenly his eyes were invaded by an alert gleam. That was the only change in his expression. He let his gaze rove about the room and continued the restless fanning. But there was something in his att.i.tude, in the poise of his head, that likened him to a stag suddenly aware of an alien presence.

He had seen the vermilion portieres move--very slightly.

Casually, he lowered his eyes to the bottom of the curtain. Two inches of gloom separated the hem from the floor, but that was sufficient to show him the toes of a pair of shoes. As he looked, they drew back--but not too far for him to still see them.

He continued to fan himself. Perspiration ran into his eyes and stung them, and he wiped away the moisture with a damp handkerchief. The heat seemed to press down, like a burning cus.h.i.+on, and quench his breath.

The pair of shoes moved closer. Another ripple of the curtains. Then, above the murmur from the temple, he heard a sound in the corridor--a _thwack_. Came a quick gasp, a low, sobbing intake of breath.

Trent got to his feet, swiftly. As he stood erect, the portieres parted suddenly and a body slued into the room. It swung about drunkenly; went to its knees; stretched upon the floor. A revolver clattered beside it.

Trent barely had time to see that the body was that of a gray-robed man--a priest, who had fallen face downward and lay still, with an ugly blotch between his shoulders--before another figure slipped through the division of the curtains and thrust forward the muzzle of a revolver.

Trent halted. A flicker of recollection crossed his brain. The man who stood outlined against the vermilion hangings was a native clad in dirty garments; his turban was soiled, his feet bare. As Trent saw the scar running across one cheek and the drooping eyelid, he recognized the snake-charmer who crossed the Bay in the steerage of the _Manchester_.

The fellow grinned impudently, and the expression was reminiscent of another smile.

"Turn about!" he ordered softly, in English--excellent English for a street juggler, as Trent did not fail to notice. "Don't say a word; don't make a sound!"

Trent's eyes dropped to the body; lifted questioningly.

Again the snake-charmer grinned--that impudent, strangely reminiscent expression.

"Never mind that now!" he said, and his voice, too, slow and quiet, seemed vaguely familiar. "If you want to get out of this place whole, do as I say!"

Trent turned, facing the window. (And the native did not see the smile that traced itself upon his face.) Instantly the Englishman felt a pressure between his shoulders.

"Now, drop out of the window!" came the whispered command from behind.

Trent moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. As he swung over the sill he caught a glimpse of the juggler's grinning face. The sash was not more than four feet from the ground, and he discovered that he was behind the joss-house, in the shadow of a lofty wall. Above were stars; at one side, further along the wall, a gateway where the glow from a lighted street fell within.

"Walk to the gate," was the native's quiet order, as he lowered himself from the window. "Hail a carriage and get in. I'll be directly behind you. Don't look around or say a word; if you do...."

Trent obeyed. He moved slowly, almost carelessly, through the gate and into the street, where a thin stream of Burmans and Chinese flowed toward the joss-house.

It was half a square before he saw a cab; then, in a matter-of-fact way, he motioned to the _wallah_. As the gharry drew up, the slow, familiar voice at his side spoke to the driver--in Burmese, Trent imagined.

The Englishman stepped into the conveyance, showing no surprise when the juggler got in and sank upon the seat beside him. Nor did he look in the least amazed, as he should have done, when the native's drooping eyelid lifted and winked at him in an outrageously familiar manner. He only smiled--a smile that grew as he commented:

"You're a downy bird, Kerth."

Which was not indiscreet, for one may safely a.s.sume, in Rangoon, that his _gharry-wallah_ cannot understand him when he speaks English.

2

"I've instructed the _wallah_ to drive to your hotel by a longer route,"

Euan Kerth drawled, and Trent wondered how he was ever baffled by such a simple make-up; it was the drooping eyelid, he decided, and the absence of the waxed mustache.

"I want time to talk," Kerth explained. "Also, I'll take this opportunity to return a piece of your property."

One slender hand emerged from under his clothing and extended an object that gleamed softly in the semi-dark, an object that caused the blood to leap into Trent's temples and throb there for a moment of sheer excitement.

For it was the silver-chased piece of coral that had twice been stolen from him.

"Too, I want to tell you," Kerth went on, "that your pretty cobra friend lied to you."

"Sarojini?"

Kerth nodded. "Most gloriously," he emphasized. "Look inside the locket--or whatever it is--and you'll see."

Again Trent felt the blood in his temples. But his hand was calm as he pressed a fingernail under the rim and opened the pendant. He bent low; peered intently. He made no exclamation as he saw the name that was engraved within--but his breathing quickened. He snapped the oval shut and sat with it gripped in his hand. The blood was still beating in his temples.

"As I told you," resumed Kerth, "_Gilbert Leroux_, the name that's written there, was Chavigny's last alias. Therefore, when Sarojini said he had nothing to do with the Order, she lied. And if she lied once, she's likely to do it again. Fact is, I don't trust her. I have a reason to believe she isn't playing the game just right."

"Yes?" Trent encouraged, while the name in the pendant sang itself in his ears with the roll of the carriage wheels.

"I'll have to be rather personal," was the slow statement; "embarra.s.singly so, I fear. Nevertheless, it's better that you know I know. Before I left Benares I sent a telegram to a friend, the Commissioner at Jehelumpore--you see, I knew you were stationed there at one time--asking if he knew whether--whether you and Sarojini Nanjee--well--"

He paused. Trent, smiling to himself, said: "Go on."

"When I reached Calcutta I received a letter from him by special post,"