THEFORBIDDENGARDEN Read online

  "Pardon me, Sir," a humble voice suggested from behind the stately delphinium, "but would you and your friend care for after lunch cigars? Mr. Brassey suggests that you try these. They are made from specially selected leaf grown on the firm's Sumatra seed plantation."

  In grim silence Shane selected one of the almost blood red cigars, and motioned Vartan to help himself. With something like a leer of triumph on his long, equine features, the pest faded from the room.

  "There you are," Shane exclaimed. "He arrived with these infernal cigars just in time to hear me say I am going to steal the safe. I beg that old plug's pardon. He's no ex-butler. Scotland Yard is his home stable. No man who isn't a born porch climber can enter a room as that pest does. Well, do you want to take it on, now that you've seen what they think of us?"

  "All the more," Vartan asserted firmly. "If Brassey's choose to suspect us, it's their privilege, as they are putting up the money. Personally, I think they are within their rights. Wouldn't you make sure of your men before you hired them?"

  "But they have hired us," Shane pointed out. "Practically, that is. They've taken me on, and Brassey all but got down on his knees to you. I don't like this being spied on."

  "That's just your Irish again," Vartan laughed. "As for me, I enjoy it. Doesn't it prove that this shovelful of dirt we are after must be worth its weight in big diamonds?"

  "If it actually is dirt they want," Shane retorted gloomily. "How do you know it is?"

  "Brassey said so. He looks like a man who knows his own mind. I honestly believe that he craves that dirt, although for the life of me I can't guess why. If he wants something else, why doesn't he say so?"

  "Ever hear of sealed orders?" Shane hinted significantly.

  "Sure. So have you."

  "In Ecuador, wasn't it?" Shane went on. "When we left Guayaquil we thought we were going to look for oil only. Then the boss of our party opened his orders. Incidentally, I found out why an oil company hired me, a paleobotanist, to go on an oil survey.

  "But it was all innocent enough," Vartan protested. "Our sealed orders were simply to make a thorough geological survey of certain sectors of the Andes. Oil shales and the rest were to be merely incidental."

  "Exactly," Shane cut in. "Ever hear of uranium deposits? More valuable than oil. That's what our astute friends in Washington really wanted to find out about. They took me on as a blind to the rest of you."

  "Why not?" Vartan objected. "They paid us well, and no harm has come of what we reported."

  "You wait," Shane replied darkly. "Well, we can't stop it now. About our own business. Brassey will spring the trap on us when we're hopelessly bogged somewhere in the Himalayas, with no earthly chance of getting back to civilization until we do his job for him."

  "Perhaps so," Vartan agreed. His jaw set, and his red hair seemed to grow a shade redder. "If that is Brassey's game," he declared, "I'm in it stronger than ever. He can spring all the traps he likes, for anything I care. As for sealed orders, I've already got mine."

  "Where?" Shane demanded.

  "Here," Vartan tapped his forehead. "And nothing short of a bullet will break the seal till I've carried out my orders."

  He stopped abruptly, aware of the acute distaste on Shane's mobile features. Glancing behind him, he saw the cause. The factotum head reappeared, this time with a rich silver coffee service.

  "Mr. Brassey," be almost neighed, "thought you would appreciate a demitasse from the firm's own coffee. He asked me to inform you that this was grown on our own experimental seed farms in Brazil. It is much superior to the commercial product."

  They accepted the miraculous coffee in dumb disgust. The factotum's hand was already on the doorknob when Shane called him back.

  "Would you mind explaining how you got into the room this time?"

  A mask of resigned obstinacy settled on the pest's meek features.

  "Through the service door, sir," he replied in an injured tone. "If you will look behind the delphinium by Mr. Brassey's desk, you will see it. The kitchenette is through that door." With mulish effrontery he now addressed an obsequious inquiry to Vartan. "Kitchenette is the correct American term for pantry, is it not?"

  "No," Vartan answered shortly. "We shan't need finger bowls. Please don't bring us anything more."

  "Not even if it were grown in the Garden of Eden," Shane added.

  "Very well sir. Will you please ring the bell when you wish to see Mr. Brassey?"

  "Yes!" Shane snapped. "Now go to the devil."

  "Yes, sir; thank you sir."

  "If that man's a fool," Shane remarked when the door was really closed, "I'm a cretin imbecile. Do you grasp what he overheard on this raid?"

  "The tail end of a perfectly innocent remark."

  "Innocent? If you call 'sealed orders' innocent talk for an employee who is only half hired, I don't. Wait till old Horse Face tells Brassey."

  "Perhaps we had better not," Vartan suggested. "Press the button, will you?"

  In answer to the bell, Miss West appeared with surprising alacrity. From the scowl on Shane's face be evidently suspected her of listening at the keyhole. As she entered by the kitchenette door, the suspicion may not have been wholly groundless. For the first time Vartan had an uneasy feeling that all was not so open and aboveboard as Brassey had tried to make it appear.

  Vartan's method in dealing with a delicate situation was redheaded. It was simple and extremely direct. As a matter of principle he invariably kicked over the pan and spilled all the fat into the fire at once. Ignoring the too efficient Miss West for a moment, he rather insultingly turned his back on her and addressed Shane.

  "We had better watch our step here," he admonished sharply. "This young lady evidently does her typing on the kitchen sink – if there is one behind that door." Miss West gasped, and went pale. Vartan wheeled about and faced her. "Is there?" he demanded.

  Miss West kept her head. She was highly paid for that very faculty.

  "Did you wish to see Mr. Brassey?" she inquired in a businesslike tone.

  "Presently," Vartan retorted evenly. "First, Mr. Shane and I would like to know whether the kitchenette or pantry is behind that door?"

  For a fraction of a second she hesitated, and was lost. Before she could either reply or retreat, Vartan had beaten her to the suspected door. Miss West was unused to direct methods. Those of her employer were peaceable and diplomatic. Under the stress of a totally new stimulus, she temporarily lost her wits and foolishly attempted to cut off Vartan's assault on the door. They collided in the immediate vicinity of the priceless delphinium. Miss West, being the lighter body, was hurled with considerable violence against the low table on which the superb plant stood. There was a faint metallic tinkle.

  "Ah!" Vartan exclaimed. "You don't want us in your kitchenette. Give up bridge, Miss West, and learn poker. Then you won't show the whole world your hand when you have only a pair of deuces. Well, Shane, what about it? Shall we do a little exploring here before we start for the Himalayas?"

  "I'm on," Shane snapped. "Open that door."

  Vartan turned the handle. The door was locked. Miss West permitted herself the luxury of a slight smile, not unlike her employer's.

  "I shall stick to bridge," she remarked to the delphinium.

  Shane let the blushing Vartan fight it out. For a moment Vartan was nonplussed. Then he calmly let his scientific training assert itself, and critically reconstructed the entire incident, from Miss West's entrance to his own apparently futile assault on the locked door. For fully a minute there was an intense silence in the room. Miss West stood indifferently regarding the peerless delphinium. Shane furtively studied the secretary's face, striving to find some clue to what she was thinking. Vartan coldly analysed himself in the light of what had happened.

  Why had he bolted for the door? To beat the secretary to it. Therefore she must have shown an impulse to prevent him from opening it. He had acted instinctively, with his muscles. But muscles, in a crisis, are mind. So far
he must be right. She had tried to keep him away from the door. But, if it was locked, probably by a night latch that would permit entrance from the supposed kitchenette, but not exit into it, Miss West must have known the fact before she tried to intercept him. Her action therefore was a decoy, unless she had indeed lost her head in the stress of a sudden and new fear. Dismissing the possibility of a decoy, as he could find no rational grounds for it, Vartan decided that Miss West's panicky impulse to protect her employer had momentarily betrayed her. The cool unconcern with which she now studied the azure flower before her was merely a natural expression of relief.

  "Why did you try to prevent me from opening this door if you knew it was locked from the inside?"

  Miss West stifled a yawn.

  "Because you nearly blundered into this plant," she elucidated briefly. "It is worth a hundred thousand pounds."

  Vartan made no reply. Shane, still watching the secretary narrowly, caught the question in Vartan's eyes, and nodded. There was a splintering crash as Vartan lunged with his full weight against the door and tumbled into the room beyond. Shane was after him in a flash, leaving the unfortunate Miss West to shriek or faint as she saw fit.

  CHAPTER 2

  OFF

  At first glance the room in which Shane and Vartan found themselves was precisely what old Horseface had asserted it to be, a kitchenette and nothing more. The meal they had just enjoyed had not been cooked there; it had been carried in from the nearest cook shop. Only the used plates and cutlery, with the extensive remains of the steak and kidney pudding, reposed untidily on the tiny gas stove. It was clear that nothing more substantial than tea had ever been prepared in the alleged kitchenette.

  Vartan began to wish he had believed Miss West. Shane, more experienced in the underground life of the Brasseys' great establishment, used his eyes. His intuition of double dealing was too strong to be all fantasy. Presently his eyes fixed on the service table. An unfinished game of solitaire decorated the white oilcloth. Half a dozen cards, scattered roughly in the general shape of an open fan, but in loose disorder, told their own story. The player had abandoned his game in a hurry.

  "Look at those," Shane directed, calling Vartan's attention to the scattered cards.

  "I saw them," Vartan answered quietly. "Go and see what has happened to Miss West. Don't let her get away. You know the layout better than I do."

  Shane darted into the other room, only to find that the secretary had departed.

  "She's gone!" he called back.

  "Follow her, and bring her here. If you see Brassey, send him in. Call the police. These people may be double crossing Brassey. Take a chance on it, anyway."

  If Shane had used his eyes, Vartan had used his ears. The metallic tinkle when Miss West all but capsized the priceless delphinium had not escaped his sharp attention. The instant he heard it, he suspected the cause. Otherwise he would not have burst open the door so blithely. The unfinished game of solitaire confirmed his suspicions of an unauthorized listener all but caught in the act.

  The rest was a mere matter of easy, systematic searching. The speaking end of the rather crudely concealed dictaphone was discovered in the drawer of the table; the receiving end in the dense lower foliage of the delphinium in Brassey's office. As Brassey could have no reason for having his own conversations overheard, one of two things must be true. Either the dictaphone had been installed on Brassey's orders to record what took place between Shane and Vartan, or certain of his employees had been bribed to spy on him. It remained to be seen which solution was correct. In any event, Vartan felt, he was justified in getting to the bottom of things at once. If Brassey's employees were betraying him, the police would be welcome; if Brassey was playing a double game with a couple of prospective employees for a highly dangerous mission, then the police would be doubly welcome – to Shane and Vartan.

  Shane must have worked fast. Brassey arrived in the wrecked kitchenette within forty seconds, the police within eighty. If actions count as evidence, Brassey's acquitted him. At a glance he took in the dictaphone and evaluated Vartan's questioning glance. He turned to one of the three bobbies who had answered Shane's summons.

  "Telephone these names and descriptions at once to Scotland Yard: William Arbold, Annetta West." He proceeded to give brief, accurate descriptions, which the officer jotted down on his pad, of the factotum and of the secretary. "The names," he concluded, "are probably fictitious. It will be useless to look for either of these persons at their lodgings. Advise the police to watch all air and steamship lines to the Continent. I do not believe it will be necessary to watch the transatlantic steamers or airliners. The police must use their own judgment about that."

  "What is the charge, sir?" the officer inquired.

  "Leave it open."

  "You will have to swear out a warrant, sir, before we can arrest the parties."

  "I know." Brassey produced a card. "Hand that to Inspector Ransome. He will understand. And here is something for yourselves."

  "Thank you, sir."

  They left, impressed but not crushed by the five pound tip.

  "How did you discover it?" Brassey demanded of Vartan when they were alone.

  Vartan explained. I must apologize," he concluded, "for taking liberties with your door."

  "The apology is all the other way," Brassey protested. "What will you and Mr. Shane think of us now?"

  "I can't answer for Shane. As for myself, I shall continue to think exactly as I did when you told me this morning what you want. A shovelful of dirt, wasn't it?"

  "From a certain locality. Or rather, from the soil in which that delphinium flourishes in its native state."

  "So I understood you to say. But what exactly do you mean?"

  "What I said, Mr. Vartan. Nothing more, nothing less. And, if you fail, we stand the loss."

  "Is that all you care to say?"

  "Until you agree to my terms unreservedly, it is."

  "Very well. I accept."

  "Without reservation?"

  "Yes, or with only one that won't amount to anything. Shane must accept too. Here he is now."

  Before Shane could speak, Brassey had put his question.

  "Will you accept my offer if Mr. Vartan does?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it is settled. You can take passage for Bombay tomorrow morning. The details of your outfit are all arranged as far as is possible in England. For the rest, our agents will attend to you in Bombay. I shall see that berths are reserved for you. Excuse me a moment, while I ask a clerk to take a message to the P and O office. Miss West, unfortunately, has deserted me."

  "Is she coming back?" Shane called after him.

  "I think not," Brassey replied. "And I doubt whether she will send for her luggage."

  "Well?" Shane queried. "What now?"

  "Same as ever," Vartan laughed. "Old Horse Face footed us properly. All that elaborate materializing and vanishing act of his was staged to make us suspect Brassey of spying on us. The old plug listened at his end till one of us was about to make some compromising remark, and then sneaked in with the dessert, or the cigars, or the coffee."

  "You really believe," Shane hinted darkly, "that he was trying to turn suspicion of himself onto Brassey? How do you know that Brassey didn't pay him to do it? The police won't find either him or Miss West, because Brassey has spirited them away. He has learned all he wanted to know. Luckily we said nothing. At least I said nothing; you said a lot. Brassey knows all about your 'sealed orders' now. And isn't it slick the way he has covered up his spying?"

  At first Vartan was inclined to pooh-pooh his imaginative friend's diabolical insinuations. But, the more he reflected on them, the uneasier he became.

  "As for my sealed orders," he protested, "they are perfectly innocent and won't do this firm a bit of harm. They are my personal affair only. And what is more, I shan't make a cent out of them, even if I succeed in carrying them through. I hear Brassey coming," he concluded hurriedly.

  "G
uilty, eh?" Shane grinned. "All right, I won't give you away.

  "You will take the boat train tomorrow morning at 10:45," Brassey announced. "You sail at three o'clock."

  The two adventurers exchanged glances. Brassey's manner had changed. They now were employees, and therefore under orders. Neither was used to excessive bossing, even while working for wages.

  "Has it occurred to you, Mr. Brassey," Shane drawled, "that you have not yet said a word about compensation?"

  "It has, Mr. Shane. The firm thinks that one hundred pounds a month each will be liberal compensation. We, of course, will pay all expenses."

  "How long do you expect us to be gone?" Shane pursued.

  "Twelve months at least. Not more than twenty four at the most."

  "It strikes me, Mr. Brassey," Shane remarked drily, "that you know a lot about this expedition that you haven't told us. You call four hundred dollars a month liberal?"

  "The firm considers it not only liberal, Mr. Shane, but generous.

  "Then I'm damned if I do!" Shane flashed. "If Northfields can pay you seventy five thousand pounds for the press, movie and radio rights, and you stand to lose only nineteen thousand dollars at the worst on Vartan and me, I call it pretty small."

  "The expenses," Brassey reminded him with a show of dignity, "will be high."

  "There s something in that, Bill," Vartan remarked ironically.

  "A lot, I admit. But not over three hundred thousand dollars worth. Now, Mr. Brassey, we are willing to meet you half way. Vartan," he snapped, "keep out of this. I'm business manager of our trip. We agree to go, and to work for you exactly two years, beginning tomorrow morning at 10:45, for the sum of one hundred thousand dollars–"

  Shane's audacity was the outcome of several weeks' close observation. He knew that the firm was at the end of its rope in its efforts to induce experienced plant explorers to take up its project. Why these men should have refused, as most probably they had, remained a mystery. To the intense surprise of both men, Brassey capitulated without a fight. Indeed, he went farther than either would have dared to suggest.