“That is a Sumatran sword, isn’t it?”
“It comes from Borneo,” said the baronet shortly.
“The home of the headhunters.”
Sir Gregory looked round, his brows lowered.
“No,” he said, “it comes from Dutch Borneo.”
Evidently there was something about this weapon which aroused unpleasant memories. He glowered for a long time in silence into the little fire that was burning on the hearth.
“I killed the man who owned that,” he said at last, and it struck Michael that he was speaking more to himself than to his visitor. “At least, I hope I killed him. I hope so!”
He glanced round, and Michael Brixan could have sworn there was apprehension in his eyes.
“Sit down, What’s-your-name,” he commanded, pointing to a low settee. “We’ll have a drink.”
He pushed a bell, and, to Michael’s astonishment, the summons was answered by an undersized native, a little copper-coloured man, naked to the waist. Gregory gave an order in a language which was unintelligible to Michael—he guessed, by its sibilants, it was Malayan—and the servant, with a quick salaam, disappeared, and came back almost instantly with a tray containing a large decanter and two thin glasses.
“I have no white servants—can’t stand ’em,” said Penne, taking the contents of his glass at a gulp. “I like servants who don’t steal and don’t gossip. You can lick ’em if they misbehave, and there’s no trouble. I got this fellow last year in Sumatra, and he’s the best butler I’ve had.”
“Do you go to Borneo every year?” asked Michael.
“I go almost every year,” said the other. “I’ve got a yacht: she’s lying at Southampton now. If I didn’t get out of this cursed country once a year, I’d go mad. There’s nothing here, nothing! Have you ever met that dithering old fool, Longvale? Knebworth said you were going on to him—pompous old ass, who lives in the past and dresses like an advertisement for somebody’s whisky. Have another?”
“I haven’t finished this yet,” said Michael with a smile, and his eyes went up to the sword above the mantelpiece. “Have you had that very long? It looks modern.”
“It isn’t,” snapped the other. “Modern! It’s three hundred years old if it’s a day. I’ve only had it a year.” Again he changed the subject abruptly. “I like you, What’s-your-name. I like people or I dislike them instantly. You’re the sort of fellow who’d do well in the East. I’ve made two millions there. The East is full of wonder, full of unbelievable things.” He screwed his head round and fixed Michael with a glittering eye. “Full of good servants,” he said slowly. “Would you like to meet the perfect servant?”
There was something peculiar in his tone, and Michael nodded.
“Would you like to see the slave who never asks questions and never disobeys, who has no love but love of me”—he thumped himself on the chest—“no hate but for the people I hate—my trusty—Bhag?”
He rose, and, crossing to his table, turned a little switch that Michael had noticed attached to the side of the desk. As he did so, a part of the panelled wall at the farther end of the room swung open. For a second Michael saw nothing, and then there emerged, blinking into the daylight, a most sinister, a most terrifying figure. And Michael Brixan had need for all his self-control to check the exclamation that rose to his lips.
VIII
Bhag
It was a great orangutan. Crouched as it was, gazing malignantly upon the visitor with its bead-like eyes, it stood over six feet in height. The hairy chest was enormous; the arms that almost touched the floor were as thick as an average man’s thigh. It wore, a pair of workman’s dark blue overalls, held in place by two straps that crossed the broad shoulders.
“Bhag!” called Sir Gregory in a voice so soft that Michael could not believe it was the man’s own. “Come here.”
The gigantic figure waddled across the room to where they stood before the fireplace.
“This is a friend of mine, Bhag.”
The great ape held out his hand, and for a second Michael’s was held in its velvet palm. This done, he lifted his paw to his nose and sniffed loudly, the only sound he made.
“Get me some cigars,” said Penne.
Immediately the ape walked to a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and brought out a box.
“Not those,” said Gregory. “The small ones.”
He spoke distinctly, as if he were articulating to somebody who was deaf, and, without a moment’s hesitation, the hideous Bhag replaced the box and brought out another.
“Pour me out a whisky and soda.”
The ape obeyed. He did not spill a drop, and when his owner said “Enough,” replaced the stopper in the decanter and put it back.
“Thank you, that will do, Bhag.”
Without a sound the ape waddled back to the open panelling and disappeared, and the door closed behind him.
“Why, the thing is human,” said Michael in an awestricken whisper.
Sir Gregory Penne chuckled.
“More than human,” he said. “Bhag is my shield against all trouble.”
His eyes seemed to go instantly to the sword above the mantelpiece.
“Where does he live?”
“He’s got a little apartment of his own, and he keeps it clean. He feeds with the servants.”
“Good Lord!” gasped Michael, and the other chuckled again at the surprise he had aroused.
“Yes, he feeds with the servants. They’re afraid of him, but they worship him: he’s a sort of god to them, but they’re afraid of him. Do you know what would have happened if I’d said ‘This man is my enemy?’ ” He pointed his stubby finger at Michael’s chest. “He would have torn you limb from limb. You wouldn’t have had a chance, Mr. What’s-your-name, not a dog’s chance. And yet he can be gentle—yes, he can be gentle.” He nodded. “And cunning! He goes out almost every night, and I’ve had no complaints from the villagers. No sheep stolen, nobody frightened. He just goes out and loafs
