Odd Numbers. Ford Sewell

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СКАЧАТЬ her?” says Spotty, turnin’ languid to see who he meant. “That’s Mareena. Her father runs the shop.”

      “Armenian?” says I.

      “No, Syrian,” says he.

      “Quite some of a looker, eh?” says I, tryin’ to sound him.

      “Not so bad,” says Spotty, hunchin’ his shoulders.

      “But – er – do I understand,” says Pinckney, “that there is – ah – some attachment between you and – er – the young lady?”

      “Blamed if I know,” says Spotty. “Better ask her.”

      Course, we couldn’t very well do that, and as Spotty don’t seem bubblin’ over with information he has to chop it off there. Pinckney, though, is more or less int’rested in the situation. He wonders if he’s done just right, handin’ over all that money to Spotty in a place like that.

      “It wa’n’t what you’d call a shrewd move,” says I. “Seems to me I’d bought his ticket, anyway.”

      “Yes; but I wanted to get it off my mind, you know,” says he. “Odd, though, his being there. I wonder what sort of persons those Syrians are!”

      “You never can tell,” says I.

      The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four o’clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin’ up, he begins to have furrows in his brow. “If he’s been done away with, it’s my fault,” says Pinckney.

      “Ah, don’t start worryin’ yet,” says I. “Give him time.”

      By five o’clock, though, Pinckney has imagined all sorts of things, – Spotty bein’ found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him called into court to testify as to where he saw him last. “And all because I gave him that money!” he groans.

      “Say, can it!” says I. “Them sensation pictures of yours are makin’ me nervous. Here, I’ll go down and see if they’ve finished wipin’ off the daggers, while you send Swifty out after something soothin’.”

      With that off I hikes as a rescue expedition. I finds the red flag still out, the sample rug still in place; but there’s no Spotty in evidence. Neither is there any sign of the girl. So I walks into the store, gazin’ around sharp for any stains on the floor.

      Out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wicked lookin’ old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like a pair of needles. He’s wearin’ a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers, and he carries a long pipe in one hand. If he didn’t look like he’d do extemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then I’m no judge. I’ve got in too far to look up a cop, so I takes a chance on a strong bluff.

      “Say, you!” I sings out. “What’s happened to Spotty?”

      “Spot-tee?” says he. “Spot-tee?” He shrugs his shoulders and pretends to look dazed.

      “Yes, Spotty,” says I, “red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. You know him.”

      “Ah!” says he, tappin’ his head. “The golden crowned! El Sareef Ka-heel?”

      “That’s the name, Cahill,” says I. “He’s a friend of a friend of mine, and you might as well get it through your nut right now that if anything’s happened to him – ”

      “You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?” he breaks in, eyin’ me suspicious.

      “Once removed,” says I; “but it amounts to the same thing. Now where is he?”

      “For a friend – well, I know not,” says the old boy, kind of hesitatin’. Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. “So it shall be. Come. You shall see the Sareef.”

      At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I went through one dark room, expectin’ to feel a knife in my ribs every minute, and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we’re out in a little back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clear space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back.

      “Here,” says the old gent, “your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!”

      Say, for a minute I thought it was a trap he’s springin’ on me; but after I’d looked long enough I see who he’s pointin’ at. The party inside is squattin’ cross-legged on a rug, holdin’ the business end of one of these water bottle pipes in his mouth. He’s wearin’ some kind of a long bath robe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white cloth twisted round his head; but it’s Spotty all right, alive, uncarved, and lookin’ happy and contented.

      “Well, for the love of soup!” says I. “What is it, a masquerade?”

      “That you, McCabe?” says he. “Come in and – and sit on the floor.”

      “Say,” says I, steppin’ inside, “this ain’t the costume you’re going to start for Canada in, is it?”

      “Ah, forget Canada!” says he. “I’ve got that proposition beat a mile. Hey, Hazzam,” and he calls to the old pirate outside, “tell Mrs. Cahill to come down and be introduced!”

      “What’s that?” says I. “You – you ain’t been gettin’ married, have you?”

      “Yep,” says Spotty, grinnin’ foolish. “Nine o’clock last night. We’re goin’ to start on our weddin’ trip Tuesday, me and Mareena.”

      “Mareena!” I gasps. “Not the – the one we saw out front? Where you going, Niagara?”

      “Nah! Syria, wherever that is,” says he. “Mareena knows. We’re goin’ to live over there and buy rugs. That two hundred was just what we needed to set us up in business.”

      “Think you’ll like it?” says I.

      “Sure!” says he. “She says it’s fine. There’s deserts over there, and you travel for days and days, ridin’ on bloomin’ camels. Here’s the tent we’re goin’ to live in. I’m practisin’ up. Gee! but this pipe is somethin’ fierce, though! Oh, here she is! Say, Mareena, this is Mr. McCabe, that I was tellin’ you about.”

      Well, honest, I wouldn’t have known her for the same girl. She’s changed that Grand-st. uniform for a native outfit, and while it’s a little gaudy in color, hanged if it ain’t becomin’! For a desert bride I should say she had some class.

      “Well,” says I, “so you and Spotty are goin’ to leave us, eh?”

      “Ah, yes!” says she, them big black eyes of hers lightin’ up. “We go where the sky is high and blue and the sun is big and hot. We go back to the wide white desert where I was born. All day we shall ride toward the purple hills, and sleep at night under the still stars. He knows. I have told him.”

      “That’s right,” says Spotty. “It’ll be all to the good, that. Mareena can cook too.”

      To prove it, she makes coffee and hands it around in little brass cups. Also there’s cakes, and the old man comes in, smilin’ and rubbin’ his hands, and we has a real sociable time.

      And СКАЧАТЬ