And Solomon answered and said unto her, “I swear unto thee that I will not take thee by force, but thou must swear unto me that thou wilt not take by force anything that is in my house.” And the Queen laughed and said unto him, “Being a wise man why dost thou speak as a fool? Shall I steal anything, or shall I carry out of the house of the King that which the King hath not given to me? Do not imagine that I have come hither through love of riches. Moreover, my own kingdom is as wealthy as thine, and there is nothing which I wish for that I lack. Assuredly I have only come in quest of thy wisdom.” And he said unto her, “If thou wouldst make me swear, swear thou to me, for a swearing is meet for both (of us), so that neither of us may be unjustly treated. And if thou wilt not make me swear I will not make thee swear.” And she said unto him, “Swear to me that thou wilt not take me by force, and I on my part will swear not to take by force thy possessions”; and he swore to her and made her swear.
And the King went up on his bed on the one side (of the chamber), and the servants made ready for her a bed on the other side. And Solomon said unto a young manservant, “Wash out the bowl and set in it a vessel of water whilst the Queen is looking on, and shut the doors and go and sleep.” And Solomon spake to the servant in another tongue which the Queen did not understand, and he did as the King commanded, and went and slept. And the King had not as yet fallen asleep, but he only pretended to be asleep, and he was watching the Queen intently. Now the house of Solomon the King was illumined as by day, for in his wisdom he had made shining pearls which were like unto the sun, and moon, and stars (and had set them) in the roof of his house.
And the Queen slept a little. And when she woke up her mouth was dry with thirst, for the food which Solomon had given her in his wisdom had made her thirsty, and she was very thirsty indeed, and her mouth was dry; and she moved her lips and sucked with her mouth and found no moisture. And she determined to drink the water which she had seen, and she looked at King Solomon and watched him carefully, and she thought that he was sleeping a sound sleep. But he was not asleep, and he was waiting until she should rise up to steal the water to (quench) her thirst. And she rose up and, making no sound with her feet, she went to the water in the bowl and lifted up the jar to drink the water. And Solomon seized her hand before she could drink the water, and said unto her, “Why hast thou broken the oath that thou hast sworn that thou wouldst not take by force anything that is in my house?” And she answered and said unto him in fear “Is the oath broken by my drinking water,” And the King said unto her, “Is there anything that thou hast seen under the heavens that is better than water?” And the Queen said, “I have sinned against myself, and thou art free from (thy) oath. But let me drink water for my thirst.” Then Solomon said unto her, “Am I perchance free from the oath which thou hast made me swear?” And the Queen said, “Be free from thy oath, only let me drink water.” And he permitted her to drink water, and after she had drunk water he worked his will with her and they slept together.
“Well!” Valerie exclaimed, closing the book with a bang. “What a rotten trick to play. Jollying a girl into a promise like that and then saying she’d broken it just because she took a drink of water.”
Lovelace grinned. “If that line hadn’t come off he’d probably have thought up another and I’ll bet there wasn’t much forcing about it. The Arabs have a saying, ‘The fate of every man is bound about his brow,’ and she must have known what to expect when she consented to sleep in his tent. The Eastern peoples have always been fatalists, you know.”
“What happened? I suppose she had a baby?”
“That’s right. Menyelek, her only son, whom Solomon afterwards acknowledged as his heir. The boy became king of Ethiopia and the present Emperor’s directly descended from him. Now you know why the ruling caste in Abyssinia always followed the Jewish faith from Sheba’s day until they were converted to …” Lovelace suddenly broke off and pointed. “Look, the voyage is nearly over. There’s Cape Gris Nez looming up on the horizon.”
The weather was warmer now. Those nine April days at sea seemed to have put the wintry cold and sleet of Halifax among things long past. For the last twenty-four hours they had been steaming up the English Channel; all day the sunshine and light balmy air had held a foretaste of true summer.
The last rays of the westering sun caught the white cliffs of the French coast as Valerie stared out towards them. In a few hours now she knew that the ship would berth at Rotterdam.
On previous voyages she had always felt a little thrill of joy on catching her first glimpse of Europe. It meant that she would soon be seeing old friends again; a prospect of change, new scenes, and jolly parties. Now, in the fading light, with the dark shadows of night gathering about them as the ship headed up the Straits of Dover, her heart was heavy with foreboding.
CHAPTER V
THE INTRICATE WEB
The Hotel de Bayonne et Biarritz is situated in a quiet side street behind the Gare St. Lazare. It is small, old-fashioned, and unpretentious.
Christopher Penn had always occupied a suite at the Crilleon on his previous visits to Paris but, in their peculiar circumstances, Sir Anthony Lovelace had considered it imperative that they should avoid all their usual haunts. He had selected this modest hotel as their headquarters. Valerie Lorne had flown them from Rotterdam that morning and was still with them. They had only arrived half an hour before and were still busy with a breakfast of hot coffee and crisp rolls.
All three of them were waiting now, while they ate their hurried breakfast, in the stuffy little private sitting-room of the hotel, with its old-fashioned gilt-framed mirrors and worn red plush furniture, for the man who was to give Christopher further instructions which might carry him to Italy, Malta, Egypt, Eritrea, or even, perhaps, Abyssinia.
“When this chap turns up how shall we know that he is one of us?” asked Lovelace suddenly.
“Naturally he will be,” Christopher replied a little irritably. “I was given his name before I left the States and I wired him from Rotterdam soon after we landed last night, directly we’d settled where to go to earth when we reached Paris, in fact. I showed you his reply, which was waiting for us here when we arrived, saying he’d been expecting me for nearly a week and would call this morning.”
“Yes, but as the Millers of God have no secret sign or password, what guarantee will you have that he’s actually the man you believe him to be? We’ll be in a fine mess if the enemy have intercepted your wire and send one of their own people to lead us into a trap.”
Christopher shrugged. “That’s most unlikely. Anyhow it’s better we should have to take such an outside chance than that the society should have permanent centres and an organised membership. With only our leaders meeting to formulate decisions, which are passed on by word of mouth, it makes it far harder for the police, or anyone else, to fix anything on an individual member. When I’ve done my job I shall just fade out, as others have, and there won’t be a single document or tie in existence to prove I did it.”
At that moment the shabby waiter ushered in a short plumpish, smartly dressed man of about thirty, and waved him towards the little party at the table.
Christopher got up to meet the visitor who, as the door closed again, said quickly; “Mr. Penn—yes? I am Paul Barrotet. I had expected to find you alone for discussion of our business.”
“My fiancée, Miss Valerie Lorne, and Sir Anthony Lovelace.” Christopher introduced the others. “They both came over with me and know all about this thing.”
“All?” The Frenchman asked sharply, raising a pair of bushy black eyebrows.
“Yes. I exercised my discretion, as members are entitled to when they need help. Won’t you sit down.”
Barrotet bowed to Valerie and then his black boot-button eyes rested for a second on the tall, brown-faced Englishman. He bowed again before pulling up a chair and said gravely, “One sees in Sir Anthony the type which has made the justice of his nation respected all over the world, and it is a w
ar of justice which we wage. Only through the work of the Millers of God can there be any true hope of a permanent world peace.”
“Miss Lorne has only come as far as Paris with us,” said Lovelace slowly, “and I only volunteered to join Penn because I know the countries to which you may be sending him, whereas he’s never been east of Rome. He’s told me quite a lot about the Millers of God in the last fortnight, and I understand that your aim is to stop future wars by killing off the war-makers. Any number of people must profit out of war though, and what I don’t quite get is where certain of them reach the point when the Millers decide that they should be er … executed?”
The short, dark Frenchman leant back and spread out his hands. “It is simple—no? Is it agreeable to you that we should speak in French which is easier for me?”
A succession of nods greeting his suggestion, he went on quickly: “Many who contribute in a small way to the making of wars are unconscious agents, guilty of no more than lack of thought for the general good in the means they employ to earn their daily bread. With them we do not interfere. It is those few, wealthy, intelligent, unscrupulous, who deliberately aggravate national grievances in the hope that wars may result from which they will profit, upon whom we pass sentence.”
“I give you an example, hein? Certain of our members keep constant watch upon the International Press. Day after day they find paragraphs in the Italian papers which say:
“‘Britain is secretly backing Abyssinia.’
“‘British rifles have been found in the hands of captured Abyssinians.’
“‘Britain has put an embargo on the sale of camels in her African territories; in consequence Italian soldiers are suffering the torture of thirst, because not enough camels can now be purchased to ensure regular water transport.’
“‘Britain is turning innocent Italian business men out of Malta and Egypt on false charges of espionage, so that British merchants can secure their trade.’
“And so on, and so on. Meanwhile, in the British papers it appears:
“‘Italy’s real objective in this war is not the barren mountains of Abyssinia, but to turn the British out of fruitful Egypt. Abyssinia is only the first step.’
“‘An Italian was arrested in the dockyard at Malta with a bomb in his pocket when attempting to get on board a British warship.’
“‘An automobile bearing a G.B. touring plate was overturned in Milan and its English occupants chased by an angry mob.’
“‘The Italians are a lot of cowards; remember how they ran away at Caporetto!’
“And so on, and so on.”
Lovelace nodded. “Yes, I thought digging up that last business was absolutely uncalled for; a gratuitous insult to a friendly power. But I suppose their Press said the same about our troops having been nearly chivvied out of South Africa by a lot of farmers in the first year of the Boer War.”
“Exactly.” Barrotet leant forward earnestly. “Now these things are pinpricks only, but constantly irritating pinpricks, goading each of these naturally friendly people to distrust, fear, and hate each other. No ordinary journalist in either country is so stupid, or wantonly malicious, as to wish to influence his people to a degree of bitterness where they might force their leaders into war. Ninety percent of these paragraphs were inspired.”
Christopher’s black, unruly hair was damp about the temples, and he listened with eager, fascinated attention as the Frenchman went on softly:
“The Millers of God traced those paragraphs to their source. In the Bureau, from which they emanated, a certain man was receiving secret payment on a very high scale to distort facts and utilise every possible episode to aggravate bad feeling between Italy and Britain. The Millers of God decided to ‘eliminate’ that man. He is now dead.”
A little shudder shook Valerie’s shoulders. On her record-making flights she had had to face the fact that, if anything went wrong, she might be forced down over land or ocean and, when her frozen fingers could no longer cling to the slowly sinking plane, drown; or crash to earth where she would be consumed in a blinding sheet of flame. Yet there was something infinitely more horrible in the Frenchman’s quiet statement that this man had been “eliminated.” It conjured up thoughts of darkness and stealth; the unsuspecting victim taken unawares; his stark terror when he found himself cornered and cowed before the pistol barrel, knowing there was no escape.
“That’s right! That’s right!” Christopher whispered, and Valerie turned to look at him. His dark eyes shone with a sombre fire, two pools of blackness in the matt pallor of his handsome face. He was trembling slightly and seemed almost carried out of himself by his fanatical zeal for this secret war that was to end all wars. For the hundredth time since she had left her home on Long Island, she told herself: “It is a Crusade … a Crusade … and he needs my help. I mustn’t let him down.”
Her glance shifted to Lovelace. The older man was quietly puffing at his pipe. His was a stronger face, tanned to a permanent brown by years of travel in hot countries, and lined a little at the corners of the mouth and eyes. His lids were lowered and he appeared quite impassive. She would have given a lot to know what thoughts were passing behind that unrevealing mask. He had said that if, by giving his life, he could prevent another war he would endeavour to screw up his courage to it, and she had little doubt about his courage; but she did not believe that he gave his full approval to the methods of the Millers of God. Suddenly he spoke:
“Did you give this fellow any warning?”
Barrotet nodded. “Yes … and he refused to take it.”
“Well, that was fair enough, I suppose. He certainly deserved death according to your standards.”
“None who is sentenced by the Millers of God does not.”
“Go ahead then. What is Penn’s particular job to be?”
The Frenchman sat silent for a moment. “Do you know why this war was started?” he asked.
“I know the usual reason given. The Italian need for expansion.”
“That is what the Italians believe themselves, but only because they have been made to do so by intensive propaganda. The truth is very different and known only to those behind the scenes. Abyssinia is practically the only black man’s country which has so far remained closed to the white man’s exploitation. It is rich in minerals and there is good reason to suppose that great quantities of oil could be obtained from a certain district of the country. For years whites of many nationalities have been pestering the Emperor to grant concessions. He has refused to do so because he considers it better that his people should remain semi-barbarous and free from work in mine gangs than flaunt the tawdry trappings of western civilisation.
“Having failed to secure concessions by arguments or temptations, those interests, which we do not need to specify, decided to force the Emperor’s hand. His country is not rich by our standards. If it were compelled to sustain a war the necessary money to purchase armaments would become a vital necessity. What has Abyssinia to sell? Nothing except concessions. You follow me?”
“The devils!” Christopher snapped. “So they worked on the minds of the Italian people until they lost all sense of reason and began to clamour for a war which would revenge the defeat at Adowa. Just think of it! That happened in the time of the grandfathers of those poor wretches who’re dying out there to-day. Hardly one of them could have given it a thought until they were stirred up by this vile propaganda.”
Barrotet bowed. “To come now to the present situation. War has been made but those who made it have not yet secured their concession and, although they are reaping profits, the war is small. The corpse is not big enough for the vultures. They hope to secure their concession shortly now, but war is even more profitable than concessions and, if they get it, they intend to use it to bring about another general conflagration.”
Lovelace shook his head. “They won’t succeed. In spite of all the mud that’s been slung Britain and Italy are still friendly at rock-bottom. Besides, Mussolini must re
alise that Italy would be bound to lose in a war against the British Empire, even if the other members of the League ratted on us.”
“Perhaps, although it is admitted that the hundred-and-eighty mile stretch of sea which separates Italy from North Africa is too wide for the British Fleet to close against Italian transports. Also that Italian bombing planes have sufficient range to attack Alexandria and return to their bases on the Libyan frontier. However, that is by the way. All that I say now has application not only to the tension over Abyssinia. The war there may burn itself out. If it does, other equally grave situations are certain to be fermented and made use of for the same purpose, by the enemies of peace, in the future. Let us concede that Britain could master Italy alone. Could she, at the same time, defend herself from Germany?”
“Germany!” Lovelace exclaimed. “But for years past Germany and Britain have been drawing closer together. We can’t understand her ill-treatment of her Jewish citizens, but that’s about the only difference of opinion between us.”
“You may think so and I, a Frenchman, agree that at heart Britain is nearer to Germany than she is to France, but there is a far more serious question between you than Germany’s determination to become one hundred per cent. Aryan. Have you so soon forgotten that the whole of her Colonial Empire was taken from her after the great War, and that Britain annexed her most valued possessions?”
“Of course she’d like to have German West and Tanganyika Territory back but we’re not willing to give them up—that’s true.”
“It is. Germany raised the question of the return of her Colonies before she left the League, but she received no satisfaction. The soulless intelligence we have to fight misses nothing. It has worked upon the minds of the German people ever since. Never for a day are they allowed to forget what they consider to be this great injustice and insult to their pride as a nation. Why have they made their country an armed camp again? Not to crush France, although they hate us. They have been preparing for the chance which will soon be given them: the opportunity to regain their lost Empire.”
The Secret War Page 5