the drums of jeopardy-第2章
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The mouth was pleasure…loving； but the nose and the jaw neutralized
this。
After he had towelled himself he reached down for a brown leather
pouch which lay on the three…legged bathroom stool。 It was patently
a tobacco pouch； but there was evidently something inside more
precious than Saloniki。 He held the pouch on his palm and stared at
it as if it contained some jinn clamouring to be let out。 Presently
he broke away from this fascination and rocked his body； eyes closed
… like a man suffering unremitting pain。
〃God's curse on them！〃 he whispered； opening his eyes。 He raised
the pouch swiftly； as though he intended dashing it to the tiled
floor； but his arm sank gently。 After all； he would be a fool to
destroy them。 They were future bread and butter。
He would soon have their equivalent in money … money that would bring
back no terrible recollections。
Strange that every so often； despite the horror； he had to take them
out and gaze at them。 He sat down upon the stool； spread a towel
across his knees； and opened the pouch。 He drew out a roll of cotton
wool； which he unrolled across the towel。 Flames！ Blue flames； red；
yellow； violet； and green … precious stones； many of them with
histories that reached back into the dim centuries； histories of
murder and loot and envy。 The young man had imagination … perhaps
too much of it。 He saw the stones palpitating upon lovely white and
brown bosoms； he saw bloody and greedy hands； the red sack of towns；
he heard the screams of women and the raucous laughter of drunken
men。 Murder and loot。
At the end of the cotton wool lay two emeralds about the size of
half dollars and half an inch in thickness； polished； and as vividly
green as a dragonfly in the sun； fit for the turban of Schariar；
spouse of Scheherazade。
Rodin would have seized upon the young man's attitude … the limp
body； the haggard face … hewn it out of marble and called it
Conscience。 The possessor of the stones held this attitude for
three or four minutes。 Then he rolled up the cotton wool； jammed
it into the pouch； which he hung to his neck by a thong； and sprang
to his feet。 No more of this brooding； it was sapping his vitality；
and he was not yet at his journey's end。
He proceeded to the bedroom； emptied the battered kitbag； and began
to dress。 He put on heavy tan walking shoes； gray woollen stockings；
gray knickerbockers； gray flannel shirt； and a Norfolk jacket minus
the third button。
Ah； that button！ He fingered the loose threads which had aforetime
snugged the button to the wool。 The carelessness of a tailor had
saved his life。 Had that button held； his bones at this moment
would be reposing on the hillside in far…away Hong…Kong。 Evidently
Fate had some definite plans regarding his future； else he would not
be in this room； alive。 But what plans？ Why should Fate bother
about him further？ She had strained the orange to the last drop。
Why protect the pulp？ Perhaps she was only making sport of him；
lulling him into the belief that eventually he might win through。
One thing； she would never be able to twist his heart again。 You
cannot fill a cup with water beyond the brim。 And God knew that
his cup had been full and bitter and red。
His hand swept across his eyes as if to brush away the pictures
suddenly conjured up。 He must keep his thoughts off those things。
There was a taint of madness in his blood； and several times he
had sensed the brink at his feet。 But God had been kind to him
in one respect： The blood of his glorious mother predominated。
How many were after him； and who？ He had not been able to recognize
the man that night in Hong…Kong。 That was the fate of the pursued：
one never dared pause to look back； while the pursuers had their man
before them always。 If only he could have broken through into Greece；
England would have been easy。 The only door open had been in the
East。 It seemed incredible that he should be standing in this room；
but three hours from his goal。
America！ The land of the free and the brave！ And the irony of it
was that he must seek in America the only friends he had in the
world。 All the Englishmen he had known and loved were dead。 He
had never made friends with the French； though he loved France。 In
this country alone he might successfully lose himself and begin life
anew。 The British were British and the French were French； but in
this magnificent America they possessed the tenacity of the one and
the gayety of the other … these joyous； unconquered； speed…loving
Americans。
He took up the overcoat。 Under the light it was no longer black but
a very deep green。 On both sleeves there were narrow bands of a
still deeper green； indicating that gold or silver braid had once
befrogged the cuffs。 Inside； soft silky Persian lamb； and he ran
his fingers over the fur thoughtfully。 The coat was still
impregnated with the strong odour of horse。 He cast it aside； never
to touch it again。 From the discarded small coat he extracted a
black wallet and opened it。 That passport！ He wondered if there
existed another more cleverly forged。 It would not have served
an hour west of the Hindenburg Line； but in the East and here in
America no one had questioned it。 In San Francisco they had
scarcely glanced at it； peace having come。 Besides this passport
the wallet contained a will； ten bonds； a custom appraiser's receipt
and a sheaf of gold bills。 The will； however； was perhaps one of
the most astonishing documents conceivable。 It left unreservedly
to Capt。 John Hawksley the contents of the wallet！
Within three hours of his ultimate destination！ He knew all about
great cities。 An hour after he left the train； if he so willed；
he could lose himself for all time。
》From the bottom of the kitbag he dug up a blue velours case； which
after a moment's hesitation he opened。 Medals incrusted with
precious stones； but on the top was the photograph of a charming
girl。 blonde as ripe wheat； and arrayed for the tennis court。
It was this photograph he wanted。 Indifferently he tossed the case
upon the centre table； and it upset； sending the medals about with
a ring and a tinkle。
The man in the next room heard this sound； and his eye roved
desperately。 Some way to peer into yonder room！ But there was no
transom； and he would not yet dare risk the fire escape。 The young
man raised the photograph to his lips and kissed it passionately。
Then he hid it in the lining of his coat； there being a convenient
rent in the inside pocket。
〃I must not think！〃 he murmured。 〃I must not！〃
He became the hunted man again。 He turned a chair upend and placed
it under the window。 He tipped another in front of the door。 On
the threshold of the bathroom door he deposited the water carafe
and the glasses。 His bed was against the connecting door。 No man
would be able to enter unannounced。 He had no intention of letting
himself fall asleep。 He would stretch out and rest。 So he lit his
pipe； banked the two pillows； switched out the light； and lay down。
Only the intermittent glow of his pipe coal could be seen。 Near
the journey's end； and no more tight…rope walking； with death at
both ends； and death staring up from below。 Queer how the human
being clung to life。 What had he to live for？ Nothing。 So far as
he was concerned； the world had come to an end。 Sporting instinct；
probably that was it； couldn't make up his mind to shuffle off this
mortal coil until he had beaten his enemies。 English university
education had dulled the bite of his natural fatalism。 To carry on
for the sport of it； not to accept fate but to fight it。
By chance his hand touched his spiky chin。 Nevertheless； he would
have to enter New York just as he was。 He had left his razor in a
Pullman washroom hurriedly one morning。 He dared not risk a barber's
chair； especially these American chairs； that stretched one out in
a most helpless manner。
Slowly his pipe sank toward his breast。 The weary body was
overcoming the will。 A sound broke the pleasant spell。 He sat up；
tense。 Someone had entered through the window and stumbled over the
chair！ Hawksley threw
