The Pointing Man

by Marjorie Douie

  XI

  SHOWS HOW THE "WHISPER FROM THE DAWN OF LIFE" ENABLES CORYNDON TO TAKETHE DRIFTING THREADS BETWEEN HIS FINGERS

  Very probably Hartley believed that he knew "all about" Coryndon; heknew at least, that the Government of India looked upon him as the bestman they had to unravel the most intricate case that murder or forgery,coining or fraud of any sort, could tangle into mysterious knots.Coryndon had intuition and patience, and once he undertook a case hefollowed it through to the ultimate conclusion; and so it was thatCoryndon stood alone, a department in himself, possibly aided by thepolice and the shadower, but capable of discovering anything, once hebent his mind to the business of elucidation.

  Beyond the fact that he had been born somewhere in a jungle clearing inUpper Burma, and that at ten years old he had gone to India to a schoolin the Hills, then had vanished for years to reappear in the service ofthe Government, his story was not known to anyone except himself. No onedoubted that he had "a touch of the country" in his blood. It displayeditself in unmistakable physical traits, and his knowledge of its manytongues and languages was the knowledge that first made him realizethat his future career lay in India.

  Colonel Coryndon, his father, died just as the boy was leaving school,and left him a little money; just enough to keep him from the iron yokeof clerkship, and to allow of his waiting for what he wanted. Behind hisdark eyes lived a brain that could concentrate with the grip of a viseupon any subject that interested him, and he puzzled his masters at hisschool. Coryndon was a curious mixture of imagination and strong commonsense; few realize that it is only the imaginative mind that can seebehind the curtain that divides life from life, and discern motives.

  He saw everything with an almost terrible clearness. Every detail of aroom, every line in a face, every shop in a street he walked through,every man he spoke with, was registered in his indelible book of facts.This, in itself, is not much. Men can learn the habit of observation asthey can train their minds to remember dates or historical facts, but,in the case of Coryndon, this art was inherent and his by birth. Hestarted with it, and his later training of practising his odd capacityfor recalling the smallest detail of every day that passed onlyintensified his power in this direction. With this qualification alonehe could have been immensely useful as a secret agent, but in additionto this he had also his other gift, his intuition and power of alteringhis own point of view for that of another man, and seeing his subjectthrough the eyes of everyone concerned in a question.

  His nervous vitality was great, and there were plenty of well-educatednative subordinates who believed him gifted with occult forces, sincehis ways of getting at his astonishing conclusions were never explainedto any living soul, because Coryndon could not have explained them tohimself.

  His identity was well known at Headquarters, but beyond that limit itwas carefully hidden from the lower branches of the executive, as toowide and too public recognition would have narrowed his sphere ofaction. As Wesley declared the whole world to be his parish, so thewhole of Asia was Coryndon's sphere of action, and only at Headquarterswas it ever known where he actually might be found, or what employmentoccupied his brain. He came like a rain-cloud blown up soundlessly onthe east wind, and vanished like morning mists, and no one knew what hehad learnt during his silent passing.

  Men with voices like brass trumpets praised and encouraged him, and menwho knew the dark byways of criminal investigation were hardly jealousof him. Coryndon was a freak, an exception, a man who stood beyondcompetition, and was as sure as he was mysterious. He was "explained" ina dozen ways. His face, to begin with, made disguise easy, and the touchof the country did much for him in this respect. He had played behindhis father's up-country bungalow with little Burmese boys and talked intheir speech before he knew any English; the Bazaar was an open book tohim, and the mind of the native, so some men said with a shade ofcontempt, not too far from his own to make understanding impossible.

  Besides all this, there were those other years, after he left the schoolunder the high snow ranges, when Coryndon had vanished entirely, and ofthese years he never spoke. And yet, with all this, Coryndon wasunmistakably a "Sahib," a man of unusual culture and brilliant ability.He had complete powers of self-control, and his one passion was his loveof music, and though he never played for anyone else, men who had comeupon him unawares had heard him playing to himself in a way that was assurprising as everything else about Coryndon surprised and astonished.

  He had dreamed as a boy, and he still dreamed as a man. The subtlebeauty of a line of verse led him into visionary habitations as fair asany ever disclosed to poet or artist. He could lose himself utterly inthe lights and shadows of a passing day, while he watched for a doomedman at the entrance of a temple, or brooded over painted sores and criedto the rich for alms by a dusty roadside; a very different Coryndon tothe Coryndon who looked at Hartley across the white cloth of the rounddinner-table.

  The truth about Coryndon was that he read the souls of men. Mhtoon Pahhad boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at,but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outwardthings, whilst the Boy and the _Khitmutghar_ flitted in and out behindthem, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with aquiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind. He knew just how farHartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him. Hartley was tiedinto the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and workedinward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before heleft his school.

  When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer toCoryndon and leaned forward.

  "One moment." Coryndon's voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled tothe door.

  "Boy," he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley's servant appeared.

  "Tell my servant," he said, speaking in English, "that I want the cigartin."

  "Do you believe he was listening?"

  "I am sure of it."

  Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon's mancame into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.

  "Would you like a little stroll in the garden?" said Coryndon. "It wouldbe pleasant before we sit down," and Hartley followed him out.

  "Did you bring any cigars down?"

  Hartley spoke for the sake of saying something, more than for anyreasonable desire to know whether Coryndon had done so or not, and hisreply was a low, amused laugh.

  "In ten minutes Shiraz will do a little juggling for your servants," hesaid placidly. "There are no cigars in the tin. I hope you didn't wantone, Hartley? He will probably tell them that I am a new arrival,picked up by him at Bombay. Whatever he tells them, they will find himamusing."

  A misty moonlight lighted the garden with a soft, yellow haze, and theharsh rattling of night beetles sounded unusually loud and noisy in thesilence.

  "You said that you had just finished a job?"

  "I have, and now I am on leave. The Powers have given me four months,and I am going to London to hear the Wagner Cycle. I promised myselfthat long ago, and unless something very special crops up to prevent me,I shall start in a week from now."

  They took another silent turn.

  "Did your last job work out?"

  "Yes. It took a long time, but I got back into touch with things I hadbegun to forget, and it was interesting. Shall we go back into thehouse?"

  "Come in here," said Hartley, taking his way into the sitting-room. "Ihave some notes in my safe that I want you to look at. The truth is,Coryndon, I'm tackling rather a nasty business, and if you can help me,I'll be eternally grateful to you. It has got on my nerves."

  Coryndon bowed his head silently and drew up a chair near the table. Allthe time that Hartley talked to him, he listened with close attention.The Head of the Police went into the whole subject at length, tellingthe story as it had happened, and leaving out, so far as he knew, nopoint that bore upon the question. First he told of the disappearance ofthe boy Absalom, the grief and frantic despa
ir of Mhtoon Pah, and hisvisit to Hartley in the very room where they sat.

  "He was away from the curio shop that night, you say?"

  "Yes, at the Pagoda. He is building a shrine there. His statement to mewas that he went away just after dark, and the boy had already left anhour before."

  Coryndon said nothing, but waited for the rest of the story, and, bit bybit, Hartley set it before him.

  "Heath saw Absalom, and admitted it to me," he said, pulling at hisshort, red moustache. "Even then he showed a very curious amount ofirritation, and refused to say anything further. Then he lied to me whenI went to the house, and there is Atkins' testimony to the fact that heis paying a man to keep quiet."

  "Has the man reappeared since?"

  "Not since I had the house watched."

  Coryndon's eyes narrowed and he moved his hands slightly.

  "Next there is the very trifling evidence of Mrs. Wilder. It doesn'tcount for much, but it goes to prove that she knows something of Heathwhich she won't give away. She knows something, or she wouldn't screenhim. That is simple deduction."

  "Quite simple."

  "Now, with reference to Joicey," went on Hartley, with a frown. "I don'tpersonally think that Joicey knows or remembers whether he did seeHeath. My Superintendent swears that he did go down Paradise Street onthe night of the twenty-ninth, but Joicey is ill, and he said he wasn'tin Mangadone then. He has been seedy for some time and may have mixed updates."

  "You attach no importance to him?"

  "Practically none." Hartley leaned back in his chair and lighted acheroot.

  Coryndon touched the piece of silk rag with his hand.

  "This rag business is out of place, taken in connection with Heath."

  "I don't accuse Heath, Coryndon, but I believe that he _knows_ where theboy went. The last thing that was told me by Mhtoon Pah was that thegold lacquer bowl that was ordered by Mrs. Wilder was found on the stepsof the shop. Though what that means, the devil only knows. Mhtoon Pahconsiders it likely that the Chinaman, Leh Shin, put it there, but Ihave absolutely nothing to connect Leh Shin with the disappearance, andI have withdrawn the men who were watching the shop."

  "Interesting," said Coryndon slowly.

  "Can you give me any opinion? I'm badly in need of help."

  Coryndon shook his head, his hand still touching the stained rag idly.

  "I could give you none at all, on these facts."

  Hartley looked at him with a fixed and imploring stare.

  "In a place like this, to be the chief mover, the actual incentive todisclosing God knows what, is simply horrible," he said in a rough,pained voice. "I've done my share of work, Coryndon, and I've taken myown risks, but any cases I've had against white men haven't been againstmen like the Padre."

  Coryndon gave a little short sigh that had weariness in its sound,weariness or impatience.

  "What you have told me involves three principals, and a score ofothers." He was counting as he spoke. "Any one of them may be the manyou are looking for, only circumstances indicate one in particular. Youare satisfied that you have got the line. I could not confidently saythat you have, unless I had been working the case myself, and hadfollowed up every clue throughout."

  Hartley got up and paced the room, his hands deep in the pockets of hisdinner jacket.

  "I am convinced that Heath will have to be forced to speak, and, I mayas well be honest with you--I don't like forcing him."

  Coryndon was not watching his host, he was leaning back in his chair,his eyes on a little spiral of smoke that circled up from his cigarette.

  "I wish that damned little Absalom had never been heard of, and that itwas anybody's business but mine to find him, if he is to be found."

  If Coryndon's finely-cut lips trembled into an instantaneous smile, itpassed almost at once, and he looked quietly round at Hartley, who stillpaced, looking like an overgrown schoolboy in a bad mood.

  "I wish I could help you, Hartley, but I have not enough to go on. Asyou say, the case is unusual, and it makes it impossible for me toadvise." He got up and stretched himself. "There is one thing I willdo, if you wish it, and, from what you said, you may wish it; I willtake over the whole thing--for my holiday, and the Wagner Cycle willhave to wait."

  Hartley came to a standstill before his guest.

  "You'll do that, Coryndon?"

  "The case interests me," said Coryndon, "otherwise, I should not suggestit." He paused for a moment and reflected. "I shall have to make yourbungalow my headquarters; that is the simplest plan. Any absences may beaccounted for by shooting trips and that sort of thing. That part of itis straightforward enough, and I can see the people I want to see."

  "You shall have a free hand to do anything you like," said Hartley. "Andany help that I can give you."

  Coryndon looked at him for a moment without replying.

  "Thank you, Hartley. Our methods are different, as you know, but when Iwant you, I will tell you how you can help me."

  He walked across the room to where two tumblers and a decanter of whiskystood on a tray, and, pouring himself out a glass of soda water, sippedit slowly.

  "Here are my notes," said Hartley, in a voice of great relief. "Theywill be useful for reference."

  Coryndon folded them up and put them in his pocket.

  "Most of what is there is also in my official report."

  Coryndon nodded his head, and, opening the piano, struck a light chord.After a moment he sat down and played softly, and the air he played camestraight from the high rocks that guard the Afghan frontier. Like abreeze that springs up at evening, the little love-song lilted andwhispered under his compelling fingers, and the "Song of the BrokenHeart" sang itself in the room of Hartley, Head of the Police. Where itcarried Coryndon no one could guess, but it carried Hartley into a veryrose-garden of sentimental fatuity, and when the music stopped he gave adeep grunting sigh of content.

  "I'll get some honest sleep to-night," he said as they parted, and tenminutes afterwards he was lying under his mosquito-curtains, obliviousto the world.

  Coryndon's servant, Shiraz, was squatting across the door that led intothe veranda when his master came in, and he waited for his orders. Hewould have sat anywhere for weeks, and had done so, to await thedoubtful coming of Coryndon, whose times and seasons no man knew.

  When he was gone, Coryndon took out the bulky packet of notes andextracted the piece of rag, which he locked carefully away in adispatch-box. He then cleared a little space on the floor, and put thepapers lightly over one another. Setting a match to them, he watchedthem light up and curl into brittle tinder, and dissolve from that stageinto a heap of charred ashes, which he gathered up with a careful handand put into the soft earth of a fern-box outside his veranda door. Thisbeing done, he sat down and began to think steadily, letting the namesdrift through his brain, one by one, until they sorted themselves, andhe felt for the most useful name to take first.

  "Joicey, the Banker, is a man of no importance," he murmured to himself,and again he said, "Joicey the Banker."

  It was nearly dawn when he got between the cool linen sheets, and wasasleep almost as his dark head lay back against the soft white pillow.