3
A film of dust wavered over the bazaar and introduced a drowsy golden effect into the mid-afternoon atmosphere. Few human beings ventured forth in the glare. A half-naked bhisti splashed water over the dusty roadway; at one corner a street-juggler sat with a torpid python coiled in his lap.
Muhafiz Ali, absorbed in utter languor, squatted upon a brocade of light and shadow woven by the sunlight that filtered through the dust-laden leaves of a tree outside his doorway and watched a green-bronze lizard drowsing upon the flagstones. The slumberous atmosphere of the bazaar, the mingled odors of fruit, fish and cologne, held no portent of the thunderbolt that very shortly was to jar Muhafiz Ali out of his peaceful sphere.
Five days had passed since he visited Leroux Sahib at the dâk bungalow. The copy of the Pearl Scarf was finished; it lay in a chest in the inner room. He had despatched the son of Khurrum Lal, the fruit vender, with a chit to the sahib telling him this, and the sahib had answered that he could call after nightfall.
Muhafiz Ali felt singularly relieved. For the past few days the Mohammedan equivalent of the sword of Damocles had hung over his head. The white man had called several times, and on each occasion the sight of him reassured Muhafiz Ali, but after his departure the native invariably relapsed into a state of nervous anticipation.
Now it was done. To-night the sahib would call and he, Muhafiz Ali, would settle back into an untroubled existence—many rupees the better. He felt peace upon him already. So he sat in the doorway of his shop and contemplated the green-bronze lizard, and breathed, almost with relish, the mingled odors of fruit and fish and cologne.
Muhafiz Ali had in him the makings of a psychic. He anticipated happenings with amazing accuracy. Therefore, when a shadow fell upon the roadway in front of him and he looked up to see Mohammed Khan, the money lender, he felt a pall descend upon him. Mohammed Khan, bearded and turbaned to exaggeration, frequently came to indulge in bazaar gossip. With a word of greeting, he sank upon the doorstep beside his brother-Mussulman.
He had startling news this day. Sadar Singh, who belonged to the Indian Escort of the Agent, had come to pay the fifteen rupees he owed him, and Sadar Singh, who never lied, had that very morning heard the Residency Surgeon talking with the Commissioner Sahib. The substance of their conversation was that there had been a robbery at the palace. The vaults had been looted of the state treasures. The famous Peacock Turban was stolen.... And the Pearl Scarf.
Muhafiz Ali's brain did not function normally for some time after this announcement. He felt frightened—nauseated.
The Pearl Scarf stolen. Suppose the copy was found in his possession, and the police, who had strange ways, connected him with the robbery? The house in Peshawar dwindled; he saw the jail looming before him. He was innocent, but how could he explain?