CHAPTER IX
ABBAS ARRANGES
In the roadway without Monsey gritted his teeth and spat heartily.
"Idiot! Donkey with ears a yard long! Cochon! Canaille! Oh, what a fool. By all the saints and the ninety-nine holy names of Allah: his brain is transparent as the monocle in his eye!"
Thus muttering he strode to the canal bank and hailed a passing gondola. Making sure, without appearing to do so, that he was not followed, he directed the paddler to the bazaar quarter.
Monsey did not go to the house where Abbas sold his poisons, but landed at the silk shop of a Bokharan Jew. Pushing impatiently through a splendid rug hung as a curtain, he confronted the squatting proprietor who was deep in talk with Abbas Abad. The Alaman had buttoned the open flaps of his dirty drill suit and boasted a new pair of English boots, but he lolled over the spluttering water pipe, very much at his ease. Like the Turkish dignitaries he sought to ape, he was solidly fleshed and eager to gratify his senses; unlike the average Turk, he was active in the brain cells, energetic when it was necessary, and possessed of unusual strength in his massive figure.
Monsey dismissed the Bokharan with a jerk of the head, and took the precaution to stand near the curtain until he was satisfied that no one lingered on the other side.
"What luck?" he demanded of Abbas.
The Alaman grinned, picking at yellow teeth.
"Patience, my Excellency. Am I not a splendid man-of-business? By Allah, I am!" He slapped his girdle until it chinked. "Gold, silver. I would take no paper bank notes. We have enough"
"For a good outfit—good horses, guides, and followers?"
Abbas nodded complacently.
"Am I not Abbas Abad, who once made a fortune out of nothing in Khokand and Baku? Nay, my own men will guide us."
"How many? Are they well armed?"
"Is a beetle ever without his shell? Eh? They are as many as the fingers of two hands, less one—Sarts, godless thieves—one or two Tartars, dogs without wit but hardy—a cousin of mine who would, rip up his grandfather for a silver ring. These will suffice until we reach Kashgar."
"And this Bokharan advanced funds?" Monsey nodded toward the curtain behind which their host had disappeared.
Again Abbas patted his girdle.
"Khosh! I persuaded him, and he gave a letter to his uncle in Kashgar who will aid us—with more money. There we will have many friends, of other days."
"All this without security, Abbas?"
"Aye, Timan is generous."
"Look here!" Monsey scowled at his companion. "If you are lying, I'll stretch your hide over the doorpost of Yakka Arik."
"Excellency mine, would I embark upon a journey where I did not smell a profit at the end? Would I have slain the rat of a Garhwali if I were not in earnest?"
"That was a blunder!"
"Now, by the prophet's beard," growled the Alaman, "how was I to know that the woman would be whisked away from under my eyes while I was attending to the affair of the dog of a Rawul Singh? Eh? I have not the eyes of a cat, so I did not see the cart drive up.
Monsey shrugged his shoulders.
"You blundered. I brought you to the palace in my carriage, so that you might seize this woman. You saw the girl and the soldier outside, in the roadway; you were a fool to slay the man before seeking Miss Rand."
"Ah-h-h." Abbas Abad grinned. "Shall I, who am no man's fool, take a wolf cub from under the teeth of a grown wolf before striking down the stronger one? The Garhwali was active and swift as a snake."
"But you saw the woman put into the cart?"
"Aye."
"And the cart was that hired by Iskander ibn Tahir in the relay station?"
"Aye. likewise—for my ears are keen—I heard the Arab shout to his men." Abbas Abad paused to spit, then nodded with great self-approval. "Monsey, my friend, verily your luck is good. For lo—the woman is taken, and not by us. Now we have but to take her from those who hold her"—he laughed gleefully—"and Iskander, that dog of a desertman, he is a fox that I can trail. Maili barlik! (Everything is prosperous!)"
He leaned forward to slap the leg of his companion.
"Monsey, effendi, in your carriage I followed the ekka without the gate, through the lanes of this accursed city, and up into the northern road to the first relay of horses. By the winged horse of Afrasiab, they went swiftly. Come, in the name of Allah, we must lose no time. All is ready. Oh, I have not been idle. I and you, also, know whither that fox of an Iskander will run to earth. By riding certain sheep paths, we can overtake them."
"And then"
"The Arab will have but one or two men and the woman will encumber them. O Most Generous and Most Wise, have you forgotten that in the uplands we have a mighty following who will come at our summons? That, and a little gold, of course. When I sent the firman to the effendi, I sent also a little whisper to these, our allies of the uplands, where there is no law save that of strength. Now they await our coming. They know where the fairest women of the Sayak village or the Kirghiz hamlets are to be found, and where they may be sold at the highest price. Aye, with the Americain khanum
"My wife. I tell you, I will marry her, and then sell her back to her father, who will be fool enough to take her."
Abbas nodded readily.
"The wisdom of Iskander was no greater than that of the effendi. Aye, by pretending to seek for the woman on behalf of the British pig—for a little price, to lull his suspicions—we will cause him to wait here idly."
Attentively, Monsey had followed the complacent words of the Alaman. Now he checked Abbas.
"Will you take Alai Bala?"
"Nay." The Alaman took up the stem of his hubble-bubble. "She abides here."
"I could make a place for her in our party—she rides well."
"Nay," said Abbas sullenly, "those sons of many jackals, my men, would not respect her." He fancied that Monsey found the Georgian attractive.
"Well, then, where will you leave her?"
"With Timan, the Bokharan. He will keep her."
Monsey frowned irritably. It was significant of the relations between the two that the Alaman was obdurate in trifles, whereas he recognized the superior leadership of the Russian in weightier matters.
"So long as you are certain you can overtake Iskander at Kashgar—well and good. We will leave before sunset."
"Effendi mine, my men can trail a marmot through hell. They know the hills yonder as a Tartar knows his sheep."
"But first," murmured Monsey, "I shall visit the American father. Abbas, these American fathers have nothing but their children in their hearts and their purse strings are open to the touch. Be ready with the horses in an hour and take heed that the British major sees you not."
"Nay, the eyes of the man are closed, now that Rawul Singh is dead"
But Monsey had stridden from the curtained chamber. Abbas Abad yawned and stretched, binding his girdle more tightly about his stout body.
"Sa'at," he murmured, "it is the hour of commencement. Eh, but that Russian milor' has wits—little else he has, but wit—yess! He is not one to sleep when the dogs are a-prowl, by Allah, no. He is useful. Ohé—Alai Bala! My parrakeet, my soft pigeon. Have you forgotten the voice of your friend and father?"
He stepped into an arched hallway leading into the rear of the shop. At a curtained recess he paused prudently. Timan was a Bokharan, and the rooms beyond were those of his women: Even though the two were firm friends-which was the case—it would have been a mortal offense for the visitor to enter the space beyond the curtain where the women lived. To speak as he did was daring enough. Abbas heard Timan curse in his beard, and grinned softly.
"Alai Bala," he called, "be kind to your new master. He is a righteous man. Verily, an honorable man. Abide here and think not of the hills and pathways of the uplands."
Leaning forward, he listened shrewdly. He heard a half-sob, then the growl of a man's voice in an angry whisper. The whimper of Alai Bala came to him faintly.
"… you swore … we were mounting to ride to the hills … I would ride to the hills and the valleys of Khorassan …"
"Kaba-dar" (have care), grumbled the heavy voice of Timan.
"Dance lightly for Timan, my delightful pigeon," added Abbas. "Bathe in musk for his pleasure and scorn not the kohl. O weep not, for I said to Timan that you were a rose of beauty. But now we go—the effendi and I—to take another rose." He muttered to himself as he slipped away from the curtain: "May you cost the Bokharan a pretty penny for your opium—that he suspects not. However, a bargain is a bargain." Whereupon he slapped his girdle and listened to the chink of coins, well pleased with himself and the world.
He had been paid a good price for the woman. That price he would double in his claim upon Monsey for the money spent on their journey, and he would get a half of the profit from the blackmail received from Rand.
So Abbas Abad was well content. Not so very often had he been able to kill two birds with one stone and pluck the feathers of both in this fashion.
"Maili barlik," he repeated.
"Missing?" Arthur Rand was in bed with a high fever in his room at Fraser-Carnie's bungalow, but he rose on an unsteady elbow. "Edith is missing from Srinagar and I wasn't told?"
Monsey glanced around warily. He had taken some pains to find the American alone; he feared that the other's high voice might attract attention.
"Your daughter was carried off by some natives at the Maharaja's ball last night. Fraser-Carnie's orderly was supposed to be with her. I have had some dealings with a—trader of the bazaar, Mr. Rand. I believe he can trace Edith"
Abruptly the American sat up, his face flushed and his mouth drawn into a hard line.
"Mr. Monsey, I have heard you call yourself a friend of my daughter. Yet you sit here and talk, while natives no better than negroes—negroes—make away with Edith! Damnation!"
At this Monsey stiffened in disagreeable surprise. He had not counted on the hot anger of the Southerner.
"Indeed, sir," he hesitated and then smiled, "to organize pursuit of these bandits it is necessary to bribe and bribe well, also to get together horses and men. Unfortunately, I have no ready funds. So I was forced to come to you."
"Money," the American repeated slowly. "How—how much will you need?"
"Perhaps four hundred pounds. Better, six hundred." Monsey was weighing his man in the balance, shrewdly.
"Three thousand dollars. Confound this fever! Mr. Monsey, if I could straddle a ho'se I'd light out after those scoundrels with my gun in my hand. Why, I've paid three thousand dollars for a single race ho'se in my time."
He stretched out a trembling hand. "You don't know, Monsey. I—I've had news from home. I am bankrupt."
Lying back on the pillow he pressed his hand against his eyes. "A year ago I could have borrowed ten times three thousand dollars on my word alone. But—I reckon they'd want security now, and I have none. Fraser-Carnie—no, if he has not sent after Edith, I cannot ask it from him."
Monsey's eyes hardened. The cards were not falling as he supposed. Rand could not pay blackmail or ransom. "I wouldn't go to Fraser-Carnie," he suggested quickly. "But perhaps I can manage"
To be sure, he reasoned, blackmail was not to be thought of now. But—there was Edith. Was it not his luck that had taken the girl beyond the borders of civilization, where a man could keep what he could take?
"Perhaps I can borrow among my—my friends here, Mr. Rand. Of course in time you will be able to foot the bills. Your assurance"
"Anything, anything!" cried the Southerner, a new eagerness in his feverish voice. "Pay a ransom if you must. I will make it good."
Monsey smiled fleetingly. Good! He would have this to hold over Rand. Meanwhile he would find Edith. She would be his.
Monsey's memory dwelt hotly on the girl's delicate, friendly face, on her warm charm of manner—little tricks of personality that carried intimate fascination—and, most of all, her pride. After all, fate had been kind to him.