‘Being questioned. Now look, Swift. We can trust Harry, and I won’t let him touch another drop.’
‘Dyb dyb dyb.’ Bing held his fingers in the Scouting salute then struggled to his feet. He wavered a little then set off in the direction of the street. ‘Follow me.’
‘Lennox,’ a voice hailed me from the stairs. It was Dreadnaught. ‘Are you fellows going out? I’ll join you.’
‘No,’ Swift replied. ‘You can’t.’
‘We’re going to the Raqisa,’ Harry called out. ‘Dancing girls, you know.’ He swung around with his arms extended, giggling.
‘Ha, excellent! I like that place very much,’ the German replied as he caught us up.
‘No, no. Now look, you can’t,’ Swift started but was interrupted.
‘You guys going to that joint with dancing girls?’ Vincent called out as he too came trotting downstairs. ‘Great idea!’ He grinned. ‘Mammie’s lyin’ down with a headache and I gotta get outta here. They found our lawyer dead in a cupboard. That Frenchie’s been giving us a hard time ever since we got back. Hey, Lennox, your mutt’s gonna be a star. And as for your butler, if he ever wants a job…’ He slapped me on the back.
Swift was almost hopping. ‘No. No-one’s coming!’
He held up his hand for all the good it did, they laughed in good humour, walked around him and strolled out into the street.
It was cool under a moonlit night. I gazed up at the sky, now a deep blue with countless sparkling stars. Damascus was different after dark; the chattering crowds had dispersed and the streets were mostly silent. The stones retained the day’s heat, but the air was chill. Dark alleys dipped away from lamplit streets, muffled voices and suppressed stirrings escaped the shadows, suffusing the city with a sense of menace. The smell of beasts and spices hung heavily and we weaved through twisting cobbled streets, before turning into a deserted square.
Bing paved the way, the night air having blown some of the alcohol from his fuddled mind. He stopped and looked around as we caught up with him.
‘Down there.’ Vincent pointed to a dimly lit passage, his voice bouncing off the walls and shuttered houses that surrounded the yard.
‘No, it was this one.’ Dreadnaught motioned to an arched alley.
‘I distinctly remember it being this one.’ Bing went toward another gateway.
‘How did you find it last time?’ I asked, rather losing confidence in our companions.
‘Guide,’ Bing replied.
‘Wasn’t the bath-draw boy, was it?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Dreadnaught replied. ‘You know, old fellow, I haven’t seen him around recently.’
I decided not to say anything.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Swift snapped. He’d been stalking behind us, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his tightly belted trench coat. The evening walk didn’t seem to have improved his mood.
‘Pssst, effendi,’ a voice hissed from the shadows. ‘It is I, Jamal.’ He emerged, peered about carefully then trotted across to join us.
‘Greetings.’ I was relieved to see him. ‘Just the chap we need!’
‘I escaped the French and followed, effendi. I fear for you in the night. This is not a place of safety.’
‘Nonsense!’ I clapped my hands together, relieved that the evening was not entirely lost. ‘Where’s this Raqisa place then?’
‘I do not know, effendi. I am too lowly for its portals. And it has girls without veils, it is a bad place.’
‘Yeah, that’s why we’re goin’ there.’ Vincent grinned.
Jamal looked up at our faces as we formed a circle around him. ‘I have heard it is to be found in the alley of the donkey, effendi.’
‘And where is that?’ Swift demanded.
‘It is the passageway over there.’ Jamal pointed toward the archway.
‘Ha, as I said!’ Dreadnaught’s smile was a flash of white in the darkness.
Swift stalked toward it, muttering under his breath
The narrow road wound steeply downhill. It was evidently well named because there was dung liberally spread along the cobble stones. We turned a corner to find a short man in baggy trousers, shirt and red waistcoat sweeping up the droppings and placing them in a basket. Behind him were a group of tethered donkeys in front of what looked like a stable.
Bing hailed the donkey-minder with a cheery greeting, Swift hissed at him to be quiet.
‘Wait! It’s here,’ Bing shouted suddenly. He walked down some steps leading off the road and into a deeply shaded alcove. It smelled of dank, decay and something of the sinister.
‘I remember the head. Look.’ Bing pointed at a brass lion’s head fixed to a heavy wooden door. He picked up the ring suspended from its mouth and rapped it. The banging reverberated through the empty streets and alleyways. If everyone in the district hadn’t heard us before, they certainly had now.
Chapter 16
A small metal grill opened in the door, barely visible in the darkness, and a voice rapped out something incomprehensible.
We stood back to let Jamal answer, guttural debate resulted before he moved out of the line of the door-keeper’s sight and waved a hand in our direction. The reaction was immediate, locks were thrown back, chains rattled and the door opened to reveal a long dark corridor with bright lights in the distance. Music, singing and shouting greeted us – it sounded like a lot of people having a jolly good time.
We filed in wearing grins, except Swift of course, who was determined to remain a wet blanket. We tried to persuade Jamal to join us, but he refused and went off into the darkness.
A happy hour later, one of the ladies was shimmying her navel before our boggle-eyed gaze as we sat on low couches, sipping some sort of paint-stripper. Actually not all of us were drinking, Bing had been threatened, on pain of being booted out, if he took so much as a sniff. He had a glass of honeyed camel milk, or some such concoction.
Dimly lit alcoves, like private booths, were arrayed around the dance floor. Ours, and all the others I could see, were furnished with couches, cushions and low tables. To one side of the smoke-filled room were musicians playing lutes, zithers, tambourines and a drum. They belted out frenzied notes while, in the centre, dancers quivered under sparkling chandeliers. The ladies dazzled in sequinned tops above bare midriff’s and hip-hugging skirts of gaudy silk, which flared and flashed as they swayed to the rhythm of the beat.
We’d been mesmerised from the minute we sat down.
‘What are we supposed to do now?’ I hissed to Swift, whose bad temper had mostly melted in the intoxicating mix of belly dancers and strong liquor.
‘Keep your eyes open, someone’s bound to spot us.’ He hissed back, under cover of the rowdy music.
I looked around at the various alcoves where the clientele lounged in robes of many hues. Most of them were imbibing merrily or smoking jars of bubbling liquid, with their eyes fixed firmly on the entertainment.
‘Swift, we couldn’t be more spottable if we were wearing flaming beacons.’
His reply was lost as another lady sprang into the centre of the dancing floor and started swaying faster and faster. Clapping began and we slapped our palms to the tempo as she shimmied across the floor. Then more ladies swirled out until there were over a dozen, jiggling their hips as everyone stamped and yelled.
‘Is this the ‘seven veils’?’ Bing said loudly.
‘The what? ‘I shouted back.
Dreadnaught laughed. ‘Innocents abroad! I told you, Major, you are in need of broadening your education.’
‘Yeah, you should come to Hollywood,’ Vincent laughed. ‘Now that’s an education!’
The dancing reached a sizzling climax, then the ladies suddenly ran off through a doorway as waiters emerged with trays of delicacies. The music fell to a light melody, as a feast of small dishes was set before us. Not one of them featured sheep’
s eyes, which Tommy Jenkins had assured me was standard fair in these exotic parts.
‘What’s Hollywood like?’ I asked, having had visions of woods with prickly leafed trees but now suspected that was an unlikely scenario.
‘Booze, broads and big bands. It’s a blast.’ Vincent leaned in to heap a plate with pastries filled with minced lamb and mint. ‘Parties every night, music and dancing, whatever you want, it’s yours. And now that the dames are emancipated, they’re letting their hair down and turnin’ their hem-lines up.’
‘There’s a dance called the Charleston,’ Bing joined in. ‘And everybody goes wild with excitement. It’s a ragtime jazz, you see. Totally new music and you just can’t help but get up and jig to it.’
Dreadnaught had mellowed with the alcohol. ‘We used to dance the waltz back in Bavaria in black-tails and bow ties. But, in Hollywood, I can wear whatever I like, dance however I want and talk to whomever I choose.’
‘Why can’t you talk with ‘whomever’ in Bavaria?’ Swift asked sipping his glass of Arak. He was leaning back on a heap of colourful cushions with his trench coat cast aside, looking relaxed for a change.
‘We are very stiff-necked in the upper classes,’ Dreadnaught replied. ‘One cannot bend to look below one’s nose, you know.’
‘No different than the English, then,’ Swift rejoined.
‘Ah, no. We Germans are very different. This is our strength and our weakness.’ His handsome face fell serious. ‘We are a communal people, you see, we act as one and we follow our leaders slavishly. And this is good, because like bees in a hive, each has his role to play and his work to do and it makes the hive productive. But, if we have bad leaders, like our vainglorious Kaiser, then still we follow without question, and it becomes dangerous. There is no room for dissent in our society, nor individualism. It can be stifling.’
‘Hasn’t the war changed things?’ I asked, being very aware how our own class boundaries had begun to break down.
‘A little.’ Dreadnaught sipped his shot glass of clear spirits. ‘But in Germany we merely rebuild our society back as it was. We look always to the past, to keep things as they were.’
‘Or as you thought they should have been,’ Swift threw in, which I thought rather perceptive.
‘Ja.’ Dreadnaught smiled. ‘And so you find me in Hollywood, not in Hohenburg.’
‘Yeah, Hollywood, there’s no place like home.’ Vincent laughed.
More drinks arrived and Vincent threw a handful of American dollars onto the table for the waiter. I noticed we were receiving furtive glances from several quarters.
‘You’re from the Bronx, Vincent.’ Bing had left the food untouched and was still cradling his glass of milk.
‘But I adopted Hollywood,’ Vincent replied. ‘I got pals in high places too.’
‘Wouldn’t be spies, would they?’ I put in.
This made him laugh even harder. ‘No, money men. Everybody wants to make the good times roll, and by that I means rolls of cash.’
‘And you and Mammie are making it in the movie business?’ Swift asked a leading question.
‘Mammie! Boy has that woman been good for me.’ Vincent suddenly softened. ‘She’s the best. A real pro. Wanted to be an actress but she ain’t no beauty and her folks was strait-laced, didn’t even want her to go out an’ work. But Mammie don’t let nothin’ get in her way and she got hold of a camera and started making a few shorts for herself. Trouble is, she ain’t technically minded, so someone told her to come and find me in the backlots of Hollywood. I was trying to scrape together enough dollars to buy my own camera when she turned up. She took me from bein’ a hustler to a real movie director and we ain’t never looked back.’ He laughed again. ‘And, to answer your question, yeah, movies make money. Hell, it’s almost like printing it!’
‘Well, you certainly saved my bacon, old man.’ Bing raised his glass of milk in Vincent’s direction.
‘I ain’t gonna save it for long if you don’t give up on the booze, Bing,’ Vincent’s good humour died.
‘Where are you from in England, Bing?’ I changed the subject before the conversation soured.
‘A scion of West Sussex, old bean.’ Bing’s smile drifted away. ‘Raised by fusty old school masters from a tender age.’
We raised our brows in question, so he explained.
‘I’m a by-blow. Ridiculous in this day and age, isn’t it – that it should matter? Pa was heir to the Lordship of the Manor, Ma was a shop girl. They met, fell in love, followed the primrose path to happy conclusion and voila! I was the result.’ He raised a wry grin. ‘I’m afraid my appearance rather put a spoke in the romance. Marriage was vetoed, Pa was packed off to foreign parts, Ma married a publican and died of consumption.’
He sighed. ‘I was catered for on the QT and eventually pushed into a position in the Foreign Office. Did my bit for King and Country and then fell along the slippery slope into Hollywood.’ He laughed lightly. ‘My face is my fortune, don’t you know.’
‘I do know and you’d better look after it,’ Vincent growled.
‘Your lawyer.’ I decided to take a dig at Vincent. ‘He’s been dead for two days and you don’t seem to give a damn.’
‘He’s not mine,’ Vincent took a deeper draft of Arak. ‘He was dumped on us by the spooks.’
‘Spies, you mean?’ Swift asked, leaning in.
‘Mammie knows them from way back. Nothin’ to do with me.’ His eyes shifted away toward the quietly strumming musicians.
‘Is Mammie an agent?’ Swift asked outright.
‘No, and she never was before you ask,’ Vincent replied. ‘She’s no more than a messenger, she gets given stuff, she passes it on. That’s it and that’s all it’s ever been. Midhurst was tagged onto us so he could go poking around out here. But neither of us is involved in all this sneaking about so you lay off her.’ He suddenly stabbed a finger at Swift. ‘Or you’ll find I got a mean side you guys don’t wanna mess with.’
The musicians ramped the beat back up again as waiters appeared in droves to clear the tables and we all leaned back in anticipation. Must admit to being a tad disappointed as a group of men came in wearing very long frock coats and began twirling on the spot. It was dizzying to watch, but as the music rose in tempo it wasn’t long before the whole place was clapping and shouting.
‘Whirling Dervishes,’ Bing shouted above the noise.
The Dervishes whirled to a halt and were instantly replaced by a half dozen scantily clad ladies shaking their hips. They now bore tinkling bells, strung to the tops of their bottoms. The clapping abated as the gathered throng stared in rapture then suddenly exploded again when more ladies emerged and began to pull men onto the dance floor.
‘It’s the Dabke!’ Bing announced and leapt to his feet to join in. Vincent followed in the kind of hopping gait only a short stocky chap from the Bronx can make.
Swift’s hand was grabbed by a smiling lady, and protesting every step of the way, he was made to join the mob forming a circle in the centre, kicking their feet. Dreadnaught took no persuasion and I was just about to follow them when a hulking man with a bushy moustache cut across my path.
Chapter 17
There were a dozen moustachioed henchmen, all dressed in black with swords hanging from their belts. We were seated around a long table; six heavies on each side, me on a stool at one end and the tomb-robber at the other. He had greeted me in excellent English.
‘I am Qarsan.’
‘Greetings,’ I offered. ‘I’m…’
He cut me off. ‘You are Major Lennox, and you are a fool. Do you not understand that your every movement is reported instantly to me?’
I had expected a ruffian in robes, but he wore an immaculate grey suit with a white shirt, dove-grey waistcoat and silk tie. His thick black hair held traces of silver and he smiled with perfect white teeth in a sm
ooth, olive-hued face, pierced by darkly intelligent eyes. Vincent would have cast him as a noble sheik in a movie.
I had been escorted along a lantern lit corridor to a room adorned with panels of richly tinted tiles in brilliant blues, greens and reds, with flecks of gold worked into the ceramic. Oil lamps flickered above our heads to cast disquieting shadows across the ceiling.
I leaned back before remembering I was sitting on a stool and jerked upright again.
‘In that case, you know why I’m here,’ I replied.
‘The reason you are here, Major Lennox, is because I had you brought here,’ he spoke precise English with barely an accent. ‘You have the medallion. Please pass it to me.’
‘No.’
‘Would you prefer it be taken from you?’
‘Erm, no… Look, you’re supposed to tell me where to find the house of Hanno, or draw a map or something first,’ I stuttered, never having negotiated with a tomb-robber before.
He appeared amused. ‘As you say, Major.’ He regarded me, his manicured hands resting lightly on the polished wooden arms of his throne-like chair. ‘But you are in my domain – among my men. My orders are merely a snap of the finger away.’
He went as if to click finger and thumb together and each of his men reached for the hilts of their swords. He slowly lowered his hand as cold sweat formed on the back of my neck.
My reply was as measured as I could manage. ‘Not until I see the map, or whatever you have. You’ve given your word to Charles Langton, and you must know that I am here in his stead.’ I didn’t know that for a fact, but it seemed like a good riposte.
‘Ah, the unfortunate Mr Langton. Colonel Fontaine has incarcerated your friend — rather bad sport, don’t you think?’
‘He’s not my friend,’ I retaliated, ‘but, yes, it’s bloody bad sport and I’ve been dragged all the way from England for this.’
He laughed drily, then demanded, ‘Who killed the lady?’
That took me aback. ‘I… erm… why would you want to know that?’
‘I ask the questions, Major Lennox,’ he reminded me coldly. ‘You and your friend pretend to be British detectives. I suggest you detect the lady’s killer if you wish to leave this city.’
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 13