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his face white as death; a mottled and
empurpled nose, still showing trace of its
original aggressive and haughty model,
alone made for colour. For his eyes were
even paler than the doctor's. In his hand
was a bottle half full of raw whisky, with
which he was seeking to restore his vitality.
"I brought you some whisky," said
Balloch, who knew the way to favour.
"Put it down, over there. You've got
some money."
Balloch did not dare to lie. S.R.M.D. had
spotted the fact without a word.
Only a cheque. You shall have half to-
morrow when I've cashed it."
"Come here at noon.
Despite the obvious degradation of his
whole being, S.R.M.D. was still somebody.
He was a wreck, but he was the wreck of
something indubitably big. He had not only
the habit of command, but the tone of fine
manners. In his palmy days he had
associated with some very highly placed
people. It was said that the Third Section of
the Russian Police Bureau had once found a
use for him.
"Is the Countess at home?" asked
Balloch, apparently in courtesy.
"She's on the Boulevard. Where else
should she be, at this time of night?"
It was the vilest thing charged against
that vile parody of a man, his treatment of
his wife, a young, beautiful, talented, and
charming girl, the sister of [123] a famous
Professor at the Sorbonne. He had
delighted to reduce her to the bedraggled
street-walker that she now was.
Nobody knew what Douglas did with his
money. The contributions of his Lodge were
large; blackmail and his wife's earnings
aided the exchequer; he had probably a
dozen other sources of income. Yet he
never extricated himself from his
sordidness; and he was always in need of
money. It was no feigned need, either; for
he was sometimes short of whisky.
The man's knowledge of the minds of
others was uncanny; he read Balloch at a
gesture.
"Grey never struck the Watcher," he
said; "it was not his style; who was it?"
"Simon Iff."
"I shall see to that."
Balloch understood that, though
S.R.M.D. feared Iff and loathed him, his
great preoccupation was with Cyril Grey.
He hated the young magician with a perfect
hatred; he would never forget his ruin at
those boyish hands. Also, he forgave
nothing, from a kindness to an insult; he
was malignant for the sake of malice.
"They will have gone over to their house
on Montmartre," continued Douglas, in a
voice of absolute certitude. "We must have
the exits watched by Abdul Bey and his
men. But I know what Grey will do as well
as if he had told me; he will bolt
somewhere warm for his damned
honeymoon. You and Akbar watch the Gare
de Lyon. Now, look here! with a bit of luck,
we'll finish off this game; I'm weary of it.
Mark me well!"
Douglas rose. The whisky he had drunk
was impotent to affect him, head or legs.
He went over to a small table on which
were painted certain curious figures. He
took a saucer, poured some [124] whisky
into it, and dropped a five-franc piece into
the middle. Then he began to make weird
gestures, and to utter a long conjuration,
harsh-sounding, and apparently in
gibberish. Lastly, he set fire to the whisky
in the saucer. When it was nearly burnt
through, he blew it out. He took the coin,
wrapped it in a piece of dark-red silk, and
gave it to his pupil.
"When Grey boards a traiin," he ordered,
"go up to the engine-driver, give him this,
and tell him to drive carefully. Let me
know what the fellow looks like; get his
name, if you can; say you want to drink his
health. Then come straight here in a cab."
Balloch nodded. The type of magic
proposed was familiar enough to him. He
took the coin and made off.
At the Sign of the Tranquil Father,
Akbar was awaiting him with his son Abdul
Bey. The latter was in charge of the Turkish
Secret Service in Paris, and he did not
hesitate to use the facilities thus at his
disposal to his own magical advancement.
All his resources were constantly at the
service of Balloch. Now that S.R.M.D.
himself was employing him, he was beside
himself with pride and pleasure.
Balloch gave his instructions. An hour
later the house where Lisa was even then
undergoing her ordeal would be surrounded
by spies; additional men would be placed at
all the big terminals of Paris; for Abdul Bey
meant to do the thing thoroughly. He would
not take a chance; for all his fanatical faith
in Douglas, he thought it prudent to provide
against the possibility of an error in the
chief's occult calculations. Also, his action
would prove his zeal. Besides, Cyril might
deliberately lay a false trail -- was almost
sure to play some trick of the sort.
Balloch and Akbar Pasha were stationed
in a [125] restaurant facing the Gare de
Lyon, ready to answer the telephone at any
moment." Now," said Abdul, "Have you
photographs of these people to show my
men?"
Balloch produced them.
"I've seen this man Grey somewhere,"
remarked the young Turk casually. And
then he gave a sudden and terrible cry. In
Lisa he recognized an unknown woman
whom he had admired the year before at a
dance -- and whom he had craved ever
since. "Tell S.R.M.D.," he roared, "that I'm
in this thing for life or death; but I ask the
girl for a trophy."
"You'll get that, or anything else," said
Balloch, "if you can put an end to the
activities of Mr. Cyril Grey."
Abdul Bey rushed off without another
word spoken; and Balloch and the Pasha
went to the rendezvous appointed. They
passed that night and the next day in
alternate bouts of drink and sleep. About
half-past eight on the following evening the
telephone rang. Douglas had judged rightly;
the lovers had arrived at the Gare de Lyon.
Balloch and his pupil sprang to life --
fresh and vigorous at the prick of the
summons to action.
It was easy to mark the tall figure of the
magician, with the lovely girl upon his arm;
at the barrier their distinction touched the
humanity of the collector. Tickets through
to Rome -- and no luggage! Most evidently
an elopement!
With romantic sympathy, the kind man
determined to oppose the passage of
Balloch, whom he supposed to he an angry
father or an outraged husband. But the
manner of the Englishman disarmed him;
besides, he had a ticket to Dijon.
Concealing himself as best he could, the
doctor walked rapidly to the head of the
train. There, assuming the character of a
timid old man, he [126] implored the
driver, with the gift of the bewitched "cart-
wheel," to be sure to drive carefully. He
would drink the good fellow's health, to be
sure -- what name? Oh! Marcel Dufour. "Of
the furnace -- that is appropriate!" laughed
the genial passenger, apparently reassured
as to his security.
But he did not enter the train. He
dashed out of the station, and into a motor-
cab, overjoyed to return to Douglas with so
clean a record of work accomplished.
He never gave the Turk another
thought.
But Akbar Pasha had had an idea.
Balloch had taken a ticket for Dijon -- he
would take one, too. And he would go -- he
would retrieve his error of yesterday. He
was not in the least afraid of that cub Grey,
when Simon Iff was not there to back him.
It would go hard, but he should get a drop [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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