"
The man rose sleepily and preceded him into the house. He made the
announcement, salaamed and retired. Desmond went in.
In a little room on the ground floor Coja Solomon reclined on a divan,
smoking his hubblebubble. A small oil lamp burnt on a bracket above his
head. He looked up as Desmond entered; if he thought that his visitor was
somewhat better set-up than the average khitmatgar, he did not suspect
any disguise. The light was dim, and Coja Solomon was old.
"Good evening, Khwaja," said Desmond quietly.
The man jumped as if shot.
"No, don't get up, and don't make a noise. My business with you will not
take long. I will ask you to hand over Mr. Merriman's dastaks. I know
that they are in your possession. I have come to get them, and to take
away the goods--Mr. Merriman's goods."
The Armenian had meanwhile removed the mouthpiece of his hubblebubble,
and was bending over as if to replace it by one of several that lay on a
shelf at his right hand. But Desmond noticed that beneath the shelf stood
a small gong. He whipped out a pistol, and pointed it full at the
merchant.
"Don't touch that," he said curtly. "I have not come unprepared, as you
see. Your plans are known to me. If you value your life you will do as I
wish, without delay or disturbance. My men are outside; a word from me
will bring them swarming in. Now, the dastaks!"
Coja Solomon was an Armenian and a merchant; in neither capacity a
fighting man. In a contest of wits he could be as cool and as ready as
any man in Bengal; but he had no skill in arms and no physical courage.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340