Part 40 (1/2)
But that you become a person tolerated in ordinary English society is essential.”
”I am, in fact, to work laboriously for what is already in my grasp. You underrate my business capacity, my dear sir, you really do.”
The gray shoulders were shrugged.
”I might possibly allow a payment of a thousand--let us say--on account.
That would suffice to establish you in a decent and plausible position.
The work, as you call it, would not be difficult. I rather fancy you would find it amusing.”
”I think you want me badly,” said Landon. ”I think I must be unique for your purposes.”
”Don't a.s.sume that it is your intelligence which my employers wish to buy,” said Miller, coolly. ”It is your social standing, still something of an a.s.set in your caste-ridden land.”
”But I refuse to have my intelligence underrated,” protested Landon, gaily. ”I hug it; it tells me many things which you may not suspect.
One of them is that there is a lever which will displace your self-confidence. You are a very bad bearer of--physical pain.”
Very faint was the pulse of the emotion which throbbed through Miller's eyes as he turned them towards his companion, but distinct enough for Landon to discover and greet with another amiable little laugh.
”It's where blood tells,” he said. ”I discovered it accidentally; we spoke of what D'Amade's men had to undergo as prisoners at the hands of the Moors, did we not? I mentioned the eyes gouged out, the fettered wounded flung on slow fires, the impaled. You flinched, my dear sir, you flinched badly and--I tried you again. I harked back to like subjects more than once; the result satisfied me. And then I began to dwell upon your complexion. Is that olive tint from Spain, or was there a near forefather in the gorgeous East? Are you of Hindoo blood, my friend--are you?”
Miller's impa.s.sive eyes met his, looked deeply within them, and wandered vaguely towards the empty s.p.a.ces of the sea. Landon chuckled.
”By G.o.d, I wouldn't stop anywhere, with you, you renegade!” he swore with sudden, hot, irrational rancor. ”I'd deal with you. Will any one stop me? Ask those men--Mafiaists, every one. Stop me! They'd give me tips; they'd mutilate you as they'd mutilate their own domestic animals, for fun!”
Miller drew back a couple of paces, not with any show of disgust or fear, but with the air of an artist who wishes to regard a finished work from a more distant aspect. And he surveyed Landon keenly.
”So I am being threatened?” he said quietly.
Landon grinned wickedly.
”So you're being threatened,” he agreed. ”Deliberate the matter; give it your best attention; and all the while remember that there is nothing which will stop me, not a single solitary thing.”
”I think you are wrong,” said Miller, slowly, and then--the sound of it was bizarre to the last degree between his lips--he whistled a quaint little run, which thrilled and quavered up and down half a dozen bars to end upon a long-drawn note.
There was a queer silence. Landon looked at him with a frown which implied scarcely apprehension, but what is nearly akin to it--bewilderment. For there was no mistaking the intention with which the thing was done. Miller had whistled the tripping little air deliberately.
There was a stirring from below. The two hands appeared, and appeared with a suddenness which left no room for doubt that they had been summoned. The savor of burning spaghetti followed them; the summons had been one exacting instant obedience. They had left the frying-pan upon the fire. Together with their appearance came the sound from the companion of Captain Luigi stumbling to his feet.
”Fling this man overboard!” said Miller, in level, indifferent tones. He pointed to Landon.
Landon gave a shout which brimmed with incredulity as much as fear. His hand flew to his breast pocket fumblingly, but too late. Miller's grip was on his wrist; Miller's thrust flung him into the skipper's waiting arms. As Muhammed relinquished the helm and sprang forward, one of the deck hands ducked, tripped him, and rose between his legs--that deadly Mafiaist trick which never fails of its results. The other had closed in upon Landon as he struggled in the captain's grip. He a.s.sisted to drag him relentlessly towards the gunwale.
Landon yelled again. His eyes glared out of the struggle at Miller in a very fury of amazement. He bellowed oaths, blasphemies, obscenities even, the fruits of instinctive pa.s.sions and automatic to his wrath. And there was something almost devilish in the silence which his two a.s.sailants kept. They panted a little, by stress of effort, but they uttered no other sound. They merely edged their victim nearer and yet nearer to the side, forced him against the gunwale, stooped with concerted action for one last heave, and then--fell away from him with a little obsequious shrug. For Miller's voice had been heard again.
”_Basta_--enough!” he had said, his voice still unraised.
Landon lay where their relinquished efforts had left him, huddled against the gunwale, and staring up at his surroundings with fierce, incredulous eyes. Muhammed was stretched p.r.o.ne beneath his a.s.sailant who, as he tripped him, had deftly caught the Moor's right wrist and twisted it behind his back. He sat on his prisoner now, still holding the other's hand, but carelessly and without open concern, perfectly aware that the slightest movement from his human pedestal would break the delicate bone as pipe-clay breaks--in one clean snap.