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 ox 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.