THE COMPLETE JIM MAITLAND SERIES. H. C. McNeile / Sapper

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СКАЧАТЬ Chief will probably want to kiss you. But diplomatically, old man, it is unfortunate."

      Peddleton's good-natured face was looking quite worried, and suddenly Jim leant across to him with his wonderful, understanding smile.

      "Pumpkin, old boy," he said quietly, "I shall make it absolutely clear to the Chief that it was nothing whatever to do with you. But you wouldn't have had me not hit the blighter?"

      "Heaven forbid!" answered the Pumpkin fervently. "I very nearly gave three cheers as you laid him out." He got to his feet. "Look here, Jim, come along and see the Chief, now. Leyton—you won't mind waiting here, will you? Shout for anything you want."

      "Of course," I answered. "Don't worry about me. I shall probably stroll over to Ghezireh."

      But though I went over to the Sporting Club, and tried to concentrate on a game of polo, I could not get the extraordinary scene at Shepheard's out of my mind. At the time it had all been so quick, had all seemed so naturally continuous, that one had had no time to wonder. But now, looking back on it at my leisure, the whole thing seemed like a dream—like one of those sudden desert sand storms which rise out of nothing, pass by and are gone.

      In an instant murder—raging, hot-blooded murder—had been let loose in an hotel full of the most commonplace tourists. There had been murder in Baron Stock-mar's eyes as his hands went out towards Jim; the difference between the blow that stunned him and a bullet through his heart had been small in motive. And the original cause—a push in the back. Intentional—true: a deliberate insult by a foul-mouthed bully. But knowing Jim, as I did, I couldn't disguise from myself the fact that even had it been an accident, the result would have been the same. He was not a man who took kindly to accidents, especially those for which no apology was rendered. And it was just before the last chukka finished, while I still felt as mentally confused as ever, that I saw Jim coming towards me.

      "Can you leave for Khartoum with me tonight?" he remarked, as he came up.

      "I can," I answered. Then my curiosity got the better of me. "What's happened?"

      "The Pumpkin was right," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Unofficially the Chief kissed me on both cheeks—so to speak; officially he cursed me into fourteen different heaps. There are certain things I can't tell you, old man—but our friend the gorilla is the accredited agent of a certain government. He has arrived, apparently, on some question of trade concessions in the Sudan, and he is not welcome even officially.

      "Unofficially, I believe special prayers are now being offered that his jaw is broken in two places, and that he'll never eat again. He has not endeared himself to anyone in Cairo. But the funny thing is that the job the Pumpkin was actually speaking to me about before the swine came in this morning is concerned directly with the brute. It is to frustrate—this between ourselves—the very thing he has come out to do. And it must be done—unofficially. Hence—me. I have been told unofficially exactly what the Chief wants officially—and I leave tonight." A lazy grin spread over his face. "I gather Baron Carl Stockmar proposes to visit Khartoum in the near future."

      "Things become clearer," I murmured. "Jim—the man's mad."

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      "From quiet inquiries made, Dick—since our little episode in the bar, we have found out that the beggar had been drinking before he came in. And when he gets into the condition of 'drink-taken'—I gather he never gets drunk—he is a very ugly customer. He man-handled a sailor who annoyed him on his dahabeah the other night and nearly killed him. And his principal hatred is for the English. I trust most fervently that we shall renew our friendship in Khartoum."

      And the grin had faded from his face.

      * * * * *

      And now I come to the second and final act of the drama. It is the first time that the facts have been put on paper, though many shrewd guesses as to what occurred were made by officers of the Royal South Sussex who were quartered at Khartoum. They were interested in the matter—very interested, since it was in their mess that the insult took place. And I can still see that ring of brown-skinned alert men in mess-kit standing motionless in the ante-room, with blazing eyes and clenched fists: I can still hear the C.O.'s quiet word of warning—"Gentlemen."

      But one thing I would say at the beginning, if by any chance these words should meet the eye of anyone who was present that night: there can't be many, for the battalion ceased to be a battalion at Festubert in '15. Von Tarnim of the 3rd Regiment of the Prussian Guard was a sahib. He was forced into an invidious position against his will, simply because he was a Prussian officer, and there was no one else to take his place.

      But I am jumping ahead. Four weeks after we left Cairo—Jim and I—we returned to Khartoum. On the way through we had dined with the South Sussex, and at dinner Jim had hinted to the Colonel the nature of his business.

      The next day we went into the wilds, and of the next three weeks there is nothing to tell. Jim talked to many strange, dignified men in their own lingo—and every one of them seemed to know him as an old friend. They suggested sport; they promised us wonderful shooting; but Jim smiled and refused, and pushed on deeper into the desert.

      And then came the day when we turned and retraced our steps. The job he had been sent to do was done; the results were locked in Jim's brain. He wasn't communicative, and I didn't ask questions—but there was a pleased twinkle in his eye, and I knew he was satisfied with his work. Only once did he allude to it, and that was the night before we reached Khartoum. "I think, old son," he remarked, "that we have euchred the dear Baron."

      Next evening we arrived, and dined quietly at the hotel. And after dinner we strolled over to the South Sussex mess. That the Baron was dining there as an official guest we had no idea; that the Baron had interviewed a tall, stately Prince of the desert during the course of the day, and had met with a suave but perfectly firm refusal to certain propositions he had advanced, we had even less idea. It was the first fruits of Jim's mission, and the immediate result had been to throw the Baron into a white heat of rage. The concessions had not gone a month ago, he roared furiously; how did it happen they had gone now? And the grave Bedouin had shrugged his shoulders and stalked from the room.

      The immediate result also was that Baron Stockmar arrived at the South Sussex mess for dinner still in the same mood. From certain non-committal remarks made by the Arab during their interview, he had gathered that the same refusal would meet him from every quarter, and the Baron was not the type of man to take such a thing lying down.

      To have failed absolutely in what he had specially decided to do was an unusual experience for him, and his mood at dinner was one of smouldering passion. It was an official invitation, but he made no attempt at even ordinary politeness, and a general desire to sling the swine out of the mess became prevalent before the soup was finished. But one thing the Baron did do with gusto, he punished the excellent South Sussex champagne till even the Colonel—hospitable sportsman though he was—began to look uneasy.

      Then came the first unpleasant episode. The cloths were removed; the wine had been passed round, and officers with their glasses untouched were waiting for the toast of "The King."

      The Colonel rose and addressed the Vice-President. "Mr. Vice— the King."

      "Gentlemen—the King."

      Every officer rose—but not so the Baron. I was told all this after by one of the subalterns. There were a few moments of icy silence, while the band-sergeant, his honest face the colour of a beetroot with rage, glared at the offender and kept his band silent. Then the Colonel spoke quietly, and the second-in-command, an officer of choleric temper, СКАЧАТЬ