Rebels of Babylon by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters Read Free Book Online

Mr. Barnaby had grown extraordinarily agitated. He searched my uniform as if two hands were inadequate.
    “Something wrong, is it?” I asked him.
    He raised a worried face. “I can’t find it,” he told me. “What ’as you done with it, sir? Begging your pardon, but tell me where you put it …”
    His demeanour was transformed. A fellow of aplomb in the midst of battle, he had grown as nervous as a lass who cannot find the slippers she meant to wear to her first ball.
    “What are you—”
    Staring at me, the fellow seemed pushed toward madness.
    “For God’s sake,” he cried, “where is it, sir? We ’ave no time to waste!”
    “Whatever are you on about? Surely, we—”
    “The charm, the charm … where is it?” He did seem terribly anxious. “Petit Jean always sneaks one onto ’is victims, for good measure. Did they put anything in your pocket? Around your neck?”
    “You mean that stinking little bag?”
    “That’s it, that’s it! What ’as you done with it, sir?”
    “I threw it away. It was oozing powder and—”
    The poor fellow took such alarm I feared he would swoon.
    “Dear God!” he bellowed. “We ’as to find it. Quick, sir.”
    “It was just a filthy, little sack and—”
    “Where is it, sir? I begs you. If you wants to wake up in the morning!”
    “It’s in the dustbin in the changing room. Just down the hall. As soon as I—”
    He hurled my uniform at me, launching himself back through the curtains so fiercely I thought he would tear them from the railing.
    “Dress!” he shouted behind himself. “For the love of God, get dressed, sir!”
    It all seemed rather a fuss.
    As I was pulling my trousers high and snapping up my braces, my rescuer reappeared between the curtains.
    His face was pale as fresh milk in the bucket. He held out a little satchel, just the size and shape of a human finger. Holding it at his arm’s full length, as if it were a thing he feared to touch.
    His voice was quieter now, cut to a whisper. “We ’as to go. ’Urry up, sir.”
    “Mr. Barnaby,” I began, “you must calm yourself. You said a fellow has been murdered. And someone made an attempt on my life with that snake. There are matters I must attend—”
    Twas the queerest thing. When I tried to draw my right brace onto my shoulder, my arm refused to obey me.
    Mr. Barnaby watched as I struggled to make my limb behave.
    “Dear God,” he whispered. “It’s already begun.”
    MY REBELLIOUS HANDS were fussing with my buttons as he pulled me from the hotel’s lower entrance, straight out between the shut-up shops and beneath the pillars that aped a Roman temple.
    He did not so much select a cab as seize one. Forcing me inside, he followed after, depressing the carriage’s springs by at least six inches. He slapped shut the door, then thrust his head back out through the window leathers.
    “Bayou John!” he cried, “By the shell road, past the race course. I’ll tell you when to turn off.”
    “Twice the fare for them parts,” the driver said. “Night-time, too.” “Go!” Mr. Barnaby ordered. “Drive, man! Go! ”
    The coachman whistled. “Hoo, she must be sumpin’, yes, sir!” He gee-upped his horse and the cab rocked into motion.
    Returning his attentions to my person, Mr. Barnaby said, “This ain’t good at all.”
    “Mr. Barnaby,” I began, “while I appreciate your concern for my well-being, I assure you that my arms are simply cramped. I’ve been through more than is sensible today, with falling off roofs and buryings and such like. I will be fine in the morning, when I am rested.”
    “You doesn’t understand!” he cried. “If you ain’t dead when the sun comes up, you’ll be paralyzed and worse!”
    “My dear Mr. Barnaby—”
    It was the queerest thing. My tongue had begun to swell. And my throat tightened. Forming words grew difficult, which is a hard fate for a Welshman.
    A realization struck me like a cannonball.
    “Poison …” I managed to say, with