The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes - Jamyang Norbu [48]
But what was he doing? If he was a robber, he should be packing away whatever articles of value he could lay his hands on, and not poring through other people's correspondence — which he certainly could not read in any case. There was a mystery here, and I would not solve it by dithering in the parlour.
Cocking the hammer of the revolver, I entered the room. 'Khabardar!' I said in a brave voice. He turned towards me slowly. The blighter looked even more villainous than I had previously supposed. His greasy lips curled into a sneer and he placed his hands akimbo on his hips. 'Take heed, budmaash,' I expostulated firmly. 'Thou hast only to touch the hilt of thy sword and I will most surely blow thee to Jehannum on a lead ball.'
He must have been impressed by my stern demeanour for he suddenly fell on his knees and babbled apologies and excuses in a queer mixture of bad Hindustani and Thibetan. 'Forgive thy slave, Lord and Master. I only came to take back what is rightfully mine. What was stolen from me by the tall English sahib. My sacred ghau, my charm-box. Even now it hangs there on the wall of this unbeliever's house.'
Mr Holmes stealing his charm-box? What tommy-rot did this smooth-tongued villain expect me to believe. I moved my head to look at the wall where he was pointing but there was no charm-box there. When I turned back to the rascal to give him a piece of my mind, Sherlock Holmes stood smiling at me by the fireplace.
'I do wish you wouldn't grip the revolver so tightly, Huree,' said he in his dry, unemotional way. 'After all, the thing may have a hair trigger, you know.'
'Good Heavens, Mr Holmes!' I cried in amazement. 'This takes the bally biscuit. How the deuce an' all ...'
'Confess that you were absolutely taken in,' said he, chuckling to himself and throwing his cap, wig, and false moustache on the armchair.
'Why, certainly, Sir. It was a most extraordinary thespian performance. But you should not pull my leg like that, Mr Holmes. I was very worried about your safety.'
'I owe you an apology for that. I certainly did not intend this disguise to be some kind of practical joke on you. This is my passport to Thibet.'
'But surely it is too dan...'
'You were fooled by it, were you not? You thought I was a Bhotia trader.'
'A Bhotia bandit, Sir. Not a trader.'
'But a Bhotia, nonetheless.'
'Well, I cannot deny that, Mr Holmes ... By Jove, you were, if I may say so, a Bhotia to the boot heels; a Bhotia ad vivium, if you will pardon the expression. But I must still beg you not to be rash, Sir. After all I am responsible for your welfare — and a trip to Thibet demands much more than an adequate disguise. You will require pack animals, provisions, medicines, tents, tin-openers, etcetera, etcetera — and at least the services of an experienced and faithful guide.'
'Someone like yourself, perhaps?'
'Me, Sir? Ah ... ahem. Well. I was really not implying that at all. But for the sake of argument — why not?'
'Why not, indeed. So why don't you come with me?'
'Mr Holmes, it is a deuced attractive proposition. After all I am a scientific man, and what is a littie danger and discomfort to the insignificant self, when weighed against the opportunities to extend the frontiers of human knowledge — which we will, no doubt, be doing on this proposed venture.'
'No doubt.'
'But alas, Sir. I unfortunately happen to be in official harness, and can only proceed on such voyages on receipt of authorised instructions, ex cathedra!
'Which would be Colonel Creighton's?'
'Most unfortunately, yes, Mr Holmes.'
'Well, I shall have to speak to the Colonel about it, won't I?'
'But the Colonel will surely object. He may even blame me ...'
'Spare me your anxieties, I beg you,' he said, raising his hand in an imperious manner. 'Leave it to me.' He took off his