“Was Van Berg armed?”
“No. His revolver—a heavy service type—was on a table beside his bed. His flash lamp was still under his pillow.”
“Was he a heavy drinker?”
I stared uncomprehendingly.
“On the contrary.”
Nayland Smith gave me a steely glance.
“H’m!” he snapped—”amazing! A man, already apprehensive of attack, a man of some experience, wakes to the certain knowledge that there’s an intruder in his room—and what does he do? He springs out of bed, unarmed, in semi-darkness—although a flash lamp and a revolver lie under his hand—and throws himself across the iron box. Really, Greville! Reconstruct the scene for yourself. Was Van Berg’s behaviour, as you indicate it, normal?”
“No, sir Denis,” I admitted. “Now that you draw my attention to the curious points, it wasn’t. But—good heavens!” I raised my hand to my forehead. “Ah!” said he— “forgotten something else?” “Yes—I had. The perfume.” “Perfume?”
“There was a strange perfume in the room. It resembled mimosa....”
“Mimosa?” “Extraordinarily like it.”
“Where was this smell most noticeable?” “About the bed.”
He snapped his fingers and began to walk up and down again.
“Naturally,” he murmured. “One small point cleared up...but—mimosa...”
I watched him in silence, overcome by unhappy recollections.
“Where is the iron box now?” he suddenly demanded.
“It’s in my room!” roared a great voice—”and I’m waiting for the swine who murdered Van Berg to come and fetch it!”
Sir Denis, in his restless promenade, had reached the window—had been staring out of it, as if considering my statement that it was thirty feet above street level. He turned in a flash—so did I....
Sir Lionel Barton stood in the doorway, and Rima was beside him, a neat, delightful figure in her drill riding kit and tan boots.
If Rima was surprised to leam the identity of the tall man in shabby gray flannels who now turned and confronted her, I can only describe the chief’s reaction as that of one half stunned. He fell back a pace—his deep-set eyes positively glaring; then:
“Smith!” he said huskily—Nayland Smith! Am I dreaming?”
The grim face of Sir Denis relaxed in that ingenous smile which stripped him of twenty years.
“By God!” roared the chief, and literally pounced upon him. “If I were anything like a decent Christian I should say that my prayers had been answered!”
CHAPTER SEVENTH
RIMA AND I
Down in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Rima. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.
The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom— and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.
“I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Rima. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room to-day and found him there.”
“I know,” I replied, squeezing her reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, darling, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”
“Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here for?”
“I know no more than you do, Rima. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”
“I’m nearly as bad,” she confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know— the funny old jeweller?”
“Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”
“I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”
“And what became of the photographs?”
“He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”
“That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”
Rima nodded.
“The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”
Rima slipped a slender bare arm about my neck and snuggled her head down against my shoulder.
“Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”
I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:
“Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one half-hidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”
She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.
“If the chief still insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But...”
Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.
“Next time you ask me, I’m going to say. Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”
“Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”
“No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”
I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.
And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:
“Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”
I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:
“The old ruffian!” she whispered.
“Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”
CHAPTER EIGHTH
“EL
MOKANNA!”
A conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.
The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.
There was a long, high window on the right through which I could see sunshine on the yellow wall of the Ghost Mosque. Alow, shallow cupboard occupied the space below this window. Set left of this cupboard was a big table on which lay piled an indescribable litter. There were manuscripts, firearms, pipes, a hat box, a pair of shoes, a large case containing flasks of wine ofShiraz, a big scale map, a beautifully embroidered silk robe, and a fossilised skull.