The Pointing Man | Page 7

sharp
edges, and then--"
"For God's sake stop talking like that," said Hartley, abruptly. "There
isn't a fragment of evidence to prove that the boy is murdered. I am
sorry for you, Mhtoon Pah, but I warn you that if you let yourself think

of things like that you will be in a lunatic asylum in a week."
He took out a sheet of paper and made careful notes. The boy had been
gone four to five days, and beyond the fact that the Rev. Francis Heath
had seen and spoken to him, no one else was named as having passed
along Paradise Street. The clergyman's evidence was worth nothing at
all, except to prove that the boy had left Mhtoon Pah's shop at the time
mentioned, and Mhtoon Pah explained that the "private business" was
to buy a gold lacquer bowl desired by Mrs. Wilder, who had come to
the shop a day or two before and given the order. Gold lacquer bowls
were difficult to procure, and he had charged the boy to search for it in
the morning and to buy it, if possible, from the opium dealer Leh Shin,
who could be securely trusted to be half-drugged at an early hour.
"It was the morning I spoke of, Thakin," said the curio dealer, who had
grown calmer. "But Absalom did not return to his home that night. He
may have gone to Leh Shin; he was a diligent boy, a good boy, always
eager in the pursuit of his duty and advantage."
"I am very sorry for you, Mhtoon Pah," said Hartley again, "and I shall
investigate the matter. I know Leh Shin, and I consider it quite unlikely
that he has had anything to do with it."
When Mhtoon Pah rattled away in the yellow gharry, Hartley put the
notes on one side. It was a police matter, and he could trust his staff to
work the subject up carefully under his supervision, and going to the
telephone, he communicated the principal facts to the head office,
mentioning the name of Leh Shin and the story of the gold lacquer
bowl, and giving instructions that Leh Shin was to be tactfully
interrogated.
When Hartley hung up the receiver he took his hat and waterproof and
went out into the warm, damp dusk of the evening. There was
something that he did not like about the weather. It was heavy,
oppressive, stifling, and though there was air in plenty, it was the stale
air of a day that seemed never to have got out of bed, but to have lain in
a close room behind the shut windows of Heaven.

He remembered the boy Absalom well, and could recall his dark, eager
face, bulging eyes and protuberant under-lip, and the idea of his having
been decoyed off unto some place of horror haunted him. It was still on
his mind when he walked into the Club veranda and joined a group of
men in the bar. Joicey, the banker, was with them, silent, morose, and
moody according to his wont, taking no particular notice of anything or
anybody. Fitzgibbon, a young Irish barrister-at-law, was talking, and
laughing and doing his best to keep the company amused, but he could
get no response out of Joicey. Hartley was received with acclamations
suited to his general reputation for popularity, and he stood talking for
a little, glad to shake off his feeling of depression. When he saw Mr.
Heath come in and go up the staircase to an upstairs room, he followed
him with his eyes and decided to take the opportunity to speak to him.
"What's the matter, Joicey?" he asked, speaking to the banker. "You
look as if you had fever."
"I'm all right," Joicey spoke absently. "It's this infernally stuffy weather,
and the evenings."
"I'm glad it's that," laughed Fitzgibbon, "I thought that it might be me.
I'm so broke that even my tea at Chota haziri is getting badly
overdrawn."
"Dine with me on Saturday," suggested Hartley, "I've seen very little of
you just lately."
Joicey looked up and nodded.
"I'll come," he said, laconically, and Hartley, finishing his drink, went
up the staircase.
The reading-room of the Club was usually empty at that hour, and the
great tables littered with papers, free to any studious reader. When
Hartley came in, the Rev. Francis Heath had the place entirely to
himself, and was sitting with a copy of the Saturday Review in his
hands. He did not hear Hartley come in, and he started as his name was
spoken, and putting down the Review, looked at the Head of the Police

with questioning eyes.
"I've come to talk over something with you, Heath," Hartley began,
drawing a chair close to the table. "Can you remember anything at