The Drums of Jeopardy | Page 5

away.
But there, in the next room, assured that he had escaped - it would be
easy. The squat man tiptoed to the window. Luck of luck, there was a
fire-escape platform! He would let half an hour pass, then he would act.
The ape, with his British mannerisms! Death to the breed, root and
branch! He sat down to wait.
On the other side of the wall the bather finished his ablutions. His body
was graceful, vigorous, and youthful, tinted a golden bronze. His nose
was hawky; his eyes a Latin brown, alert and roving, though there was
a hint of weariness in them, the pressure of long, racking hours of
ceaseless vigilance. His top hair was a glossy black inclined to curl; but
the four days' growth of beard was as blond as a ripe chestnut burr. In

spite of this mark of vagabondage there were elements of beauty in the
face. The expanse of the brow and the shape of the head were
intellectual. 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