Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [7]
He shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got to understand. It’s damned risky.”
Ali Yusuf looked distressed.
“If anything happened to you, Bob—”
“Don’t worry about me, Ali. That’s not what I meant. I’m not important. And anyway, I’m the sort of chap that’s sure to get killed sooner or later. I’m always doing crazy things. No—it’s you—I don’t want to persuade you one way or the other. If a portion of the Army is loyal—”
“I don’t like the idea of running away,” said Ali simply. “But I do not in the least want to be a martyr, and be cut to pieces by a mob.”
He was silent for a moment or two.
“Very well then,” he said at last with a sigh. “We will make the attempt. When?”
Bob shrugged his shoulders.
“Sooner the better. We’ve got to get you to the airstrip in some natural way … How about saying you’re going to inspect the new road construction out at Al Jasar? Sudden whim. Go this afternoon. Then, as your car passes the airstrip, stop there—I’ll have the bus all ready and tuned up. The idea will be to go up to inspect the road construction from the air, see? We take off and go! We can’t take any baggage, of course. It’s got to be all quite impromptu.”
“There is nothing I wish to take with me—except one thing—”
He smiled, and suddenly the smile altered his face and made a different person of him. He was no longer the modern conscientious Westernized young man—the smile held all the racial guile and craft which had enabled a long line of his ancestors to survive.
“You are my friend, Bob, you shall see.”
His hand went inside his shirt and fumbled. Then he held out a little chamois leather bag.
“This?” Bob frowned and looked puzzled.
Ali took it from him, untied the neck, and poured the contents on the table.
Bob held his breath for a moment and then expelled it in a soft whistle.
“Good lord. Are they real?”
Ali looked amused.
“Of course they are real. Most of them belonged to my father. He acquired new ones every year. I, too. They have come from many places, bought for our family by men we can trust—from London, from Calcutta, from South Africa. It is a tradition of our family. To have these in case of need.” He added in a matter-of-fact voice: “They are worth, at today’s prices, about three-quarters of a million.”
“Three-quarters of a million pounds.” Bob let out a whistle, picked up the stones, let them run through his fingers. “It’s fantastic. Like a fairy tale. It does things to you.”
“Yes.” The dark young man nodded. Again that age-long weary look was on his face. “Men are not the same when it comes to jewels. There is always a trail of violence to follow such things. Deaths, bloodshed, murder. And women are the worst. For with women it will not only be the value. It is something to do with the jewels themselves. Beautiful jewels drive women mad. They want to own them. To wear them round their throats, on their bosoms. I would not trust any woman with these. But I shall trust you.”
“Me?” Bob stared.
“Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.”
“But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?”
“Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.”
Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.
“You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?”
“You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.”
“But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.”
Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.
“You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea … I will give you the name and address of a man who deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you