The Pointing Man | Page 7

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 all of what you were doing on the evening of July the twenty-ninth?"
The Rev. Francis Heath dropped his paper, and stooped to pick it up; certainly he found the evening hot, for his face ran with trickles of perspiration.
"July the twenty-ninth?"
"Yes, that's the date. I am particularly anxious to know if you remember it."
Mr. Heath wiped his neck with his handkerchief.
"I held service as usual at five o'clock."
Hartley looked at him; there was something undeniably strained in the clergyman's eyes and voice.
"Ah, but what I am after took place later."
The Rev. Francis Heath moistened his lips and stood up.
"My memory is constantly at fault," he said, avoiding Hartley's eyes and looking at the ground. "I would not like to make any specific statement without--without--reference to my