What madman killed that girl? Mad, I say!"
Dirk twisted. He wiped his brown forehead, on which sweat glistened in little beads like scales. "Too hot a night to talk about such things, Hammer. Let's talk of something else. Tell me about this Bimi Tal."
"You'll see her soon enough," I said, watching him. "A girl of about your own age; you're not more than twenty-four, are you?"
"Born first of January, '99."
"And famous already!"
"Yes," said Tain Dirk. I guess you've heard of me."
"Oh. I've heard lots of you," I said; and saw he didn't like it.
"You've heard I'm fast with women, eh?" asked Dirk, after a pause.
"But Ynecita—"
"Why do you talk of her?" asked Dirk, irritably. "I never knew her."
"Those marks of teeth on Ynecita's arm—two sharp canines, sharp and hooked; barely scratching the skin—like fangs of a snake, Dirk—"
Tain Dirk's hand crept to his lips, which were thin, red and dry. The light in his eyes darkened from yellow to purple. Softly his blunt fingers began to drum his lips. Tat! tat! tat! But silent as a snake in grass.
"A curious thing about teeth, Dirk—you're a sculptor; maybe you've observed it—a curious thing that no two are quite alike. We took prints, Dirk, of those marks in the arm of Ynecita—"
Dirk's thin lips opened. His coarsely-formed, but marvelously sensitive, fingers felt the hardness of his teeth. That gesture was sly. At once he knew I'd seen him. He crouched back in his chair, his strong, broad head drawn in between his shoulders.
"Who are you?" he hissed.
Again the klirring of his fingertips—a dusty drumming.
"Why, I am only Jerry Hammer—a wanderer, and a soldier of bad fortune."
"Who are you!"
"Brother of Stella Hammer, who was known as Ynecita, the dancer."
Upon the Palm Grove Roof, beneath those gigantic stars the orchestra began to play. A brass and cymbal tune. The air was hot. From far in the pit of streets rose up the noises of the city. Loud! Discord shot with flames. I trembled.
Tain Dirk's fingers drummed. His head commenced to sway.
Bimi Tal danced barefooted on the glazed umber tiles of the Roof.
Her dark red hair was free on her naked shoulders. Stamp! stamp! stamp! her feet struck flatly on the tiles. Her head was bent back almost to the level of her waist. Bracelets jangled on her wrists and ankles.
- "I am the daughter of the morning! I shout, I dance, I laugh away…."
Shaking her clump of read hair; her strong muscled limbs weaving; laughing at me with all her eyes. How like she looked to a man dead long years before! How like her glances to the glances of Red Roane! On her breasts two glittering shields of spangles. About her waist a kirtle seemingly woven of long strands of marsh grass, rustling, shivering with whispers. The sinews of her trunk and limbs rippled beneath her clear brown skin.
The head of Tain Dirk swayed sideways, slowly. The drumming of his fingers on the table was a reiterative rattle. His eyes—liquid, subtle—dulled with a look near to stupidity, then blazed to golden fire. Thin and wide were his unsmiling lips. His tongue flicked them. Tat! tat! tat!
"She's a beauty!" whispered Dirk.
His terrible eyes seemed to call Bimi Tal as they had called other women. Mesmerism—what was it? Singing, she pranced toward the den of potted palms where we were sitting. Her skirt rustled like the marshes. Wind of summer.
Little searchlights, playing colored lights on Bimi Tal, grew darker. Red and violet deepened to brown and green. Still the hot stars above us. In that artificial paper Palm Grove, with the silky puffy women and the beefsteak-guzzling men looking stupidly, was born the mystery of the great savannahs.
Dirk's head nodding. Dirk's thin lips slowly opening. Dirk's golden eyes
