Part 26 (1/2)

”You must stay with me,” he said at once. ”The spare room is ready,” he added, leading me to the door. Then he clapped his hands to call the servant, before I could prevent him.

”But I have already been to the hotel,” I protested.

”Go to Missiri's with a hamal, and bring the Effendi's luggage,” he said to the servant, who instantly disappeared.

”Caught,” he exclaimed, laughing, as he opened the door and showed me my little room. I had slept there many a night in former times, and I loved his simple hospitality.

”You are the same as ever,” I said. ”A man cannot put his nose inside your door without being caught, as you call it.”

”Many a man may,” he answered. ”But not you, my dear fellow. Now--you will have coffee and a cigarette. We will dine at home. There is pilaff and kebabi and a bottle of champagne. How are you? I forgot to ask.”

”Very well, thanks,” said I, as we came back to the sitting-room. ”I am always well, you know. You look pale, but that is nothing new. You have been on duty at the palace?”

”Friday,” he answered laconically, which meant that he had been at the Selamlek, attending the Sultan to the weekly service at the mosque.

”You used to get back early in the day. Have the hours changed?”

”Man of Belial,” he replied, ”with us nothing changes. I was detained at the palace. So you have come all the way from England to see me?”

”Yes,--and to ask you a question and a favor.”

”You shall have the answer and my services.”

”Do not promise before you have heard. 'Two acrobats cannot always dance on the same rope,' as your proverb says.”

”And 'Every sheep hangs by its own heels,'” said he. ”I will take my chance with you. First, the question, please.”

”Did you ever hear of Alexander Patoff?”

Balsamides looked at me a moment, with the air of a man who is asked an exceedingly foolish question.

”Hear of him? I have heard of nothing else for the last eighteen months.

I have an indigestion brought on by too much Alexander Patoff. Is that your errand, Griggs? How in the world did you come to take up that question?”

”You have been asked about him before?” I inquired.

”I tell you there is not a dog in Constantinople that has not been kicked for not knowing where that fellow is. I am sick of him, alive or dead. What do I care about your Patoffs? The fool could not take care of himself when he was alive, and now the universe is turned upside down to find his silly body. Where is he? At the bottom of the Bosphorus. How did he get there? By the kind exertions of his brother, who then played the comedy of tearing his hair so cleverly that his amba.s.sador believed him. Very simple: if you want to find his body, I can tell you how to do it.”

”How?” I asked eagerly.

”Drain the Bosphorus,” he answered, with a sneer. ”You will find plenty of skulls at the bottom of it. The smallest will be his, to a dead certainty.”

”My dear fellow,” I protested, ”his brother did not kill him. The proof is that Paul Patoff has come hack swearing that he will find some trace of Alexander. He came with me, and I believe his story.”

”He is only renewing the comedy,--tearing his hair on the anniversary of the death, like a well-paid mourner. Of course, somebody has accused him again of the murder. He will have to tear his hair every time he is accused, in order to keep up appearances. He knows, and he alone knows, where the dead man is.”

”But if he killed him the kava.s.s must have known it--must have helped him. You remember the story?”

”I should think so. What does the kava.s.s prove? Nothing. He was probably told to go off for a moment, and now will not confess it. Money will do anything.”

”There remains the driver of the carriage,” I objected. ”He saw Alexander go into Agia Sophia, but he never saw him come out.”