“You do not like the idea apparently,” Kazdim was still smiling. “Then tell me the name and whereabouts of the tall fair-haired lady who was to have collected this note?”
“If the writing is like mine—it’s a forgery. I don’t know anything about it—or any fair-haired lady.”
“Allah sees fit to fill your mouth with foolish talk. Tell me that which I ask and I may reconsider my decision about yourself.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Swithin repeated doggedly, “and if I did I wouldn’t tell you with any hope that you would keep your word.”
The Eunuch shrugged. “No matter. I do not press you, since my men will easily find her if she is still in Istanbul, and we will send you for a swim. There is good bathing in the Marmara Sea. A few miles down the coast there is a little place called Floria where all Istanbul bathes every summer. The season opens always upon the 6th of August. The beaches are black with people on that day.”
“But why the 6th of August?” Swithin asked, catching at any straw which would deflect his thoughts, even for a moment, from those ghastly pictures which had been forming in his brain. “It’s marvellous weather here from the middle of May on—why wait until the summer’s half over?”
Kazdim very slowly shook his great head. “I do not know, but that is the date. Only mad dogs and Englishmen enter the water before then.”
“I see,” said Swithin, and again he fell to frantic speculation upon possible methods of escape. If only there were a chance of someone arriving at the flat to create a diversion, but only two people even knew of its existence. Arif and Diana. Arif now, he had been there earlier that day, say he had managed to secure further particulars of the conspiracy through Jeanette. He might take it into his head to call. But if he did, how would that help. He would ring the bell, which would give Kazdim’s people plenty of warning, then when they let him in he would be taken as completely by surprise as Swithin had been himself. Even if he were armed and put up a fight, he could not possibly hope to overcome Kazdim and his two men. Of course, if that did happen, Swithin knew that he would chance a bullet himself and leap into the fray, then the odds would be two against three and reasonably sporting. The third, too, would be the Eunuch, who could almost be counted out. He was probably very strong if he got a grip upon anybody, but so unwieldy that it would not be difficult to place him hors de combat. With mental relish, Swithin decided to be thoroughly un-English and, at the first sign of a diversion, to kick him. He selected the spot with care and enjoyment; he could almost feel his boot go home in that great mass of blubbery flesh. Then his new enthusiasm evaporated instantly, as he realised with appalling suddenness that the hope of Arif arriving was almost fantastically unlikely, and that even if he did he would certainly be taken by surprise and find himself at the absolute mercy of Kazdim’s gunmen.
Then there was Diana, but it was even more of an outside chance that she would put in an appearance. She had never visited him there and the fact that she had seen him only a couple of hours before made it even more improbable that she would be so now. As Swithin realised that, he felt it to be at least one blessing for, courageous as she was, she could have done no earthly good, and Kazdim would be sure to recognise her from the description of the woman who was to have collected the letter he left with Tania. They would seize her as his accomplice, and … but the thought was utterly unbearable, he thanked God again that she was safely out of it.
She had behaved splendidly again that afternoon. He knew from the fact that no sign of unusual activity had appeared at the Depot when he last glimpsed at it, that she must have played her part with Lykidopulous and held the fort for at least ten minutes. He was glad now—devilish glad that he had said that nonsense about the White Queen. He only wished that he had said more and told her that he didn’t give a damn whatever she had done on the yacht, because he never really thought of her as any different from what she’d seemed that night when he had first met her at Maidenhead.
Suddenly he realised that the Eunuch had not spoken for a long time, and glanced up at him. That monstrous caricature of humanity was still seated there, imperturbably smoking his endless cigarettes. A little pile of butts lay at his elbow, fifteen—more—twenty at the least, and the two plain-clothes men still stood on either side of him holding their pistols at the ready.
What could they be waiting for, Swithin wondered, then it dawned on him that the shadows in the room had lengthened. It must be nearly nine o’clock. That human devil in the chair was only marking time until darkness had fallen; then under cover of night he would add one more murder to his long record of sadistic crime.
Swithin began to study the faces of Malik and Servet, the two plain-clothes men, consciously for the first time. It occurred to him that if only he could get one of them alone, he might be able to bribe him. But how could he set about it? The peril in which he found himself seemed to have robbed him of his wits, for he could no longer think clearly. With fresh bitterness he realised anew how right Diana had been and how hopelessly unsuited he was to the job he had taken on.
The men hardly seemed conscious of his presence. Their faces were quite expressionless and set like masks of wax. If he asked to be allowed to go into the bathroom, Swithin thought, it was unlikely that they would both be sent with him, and he had big money in his belt, enough to tempt a dozen ordinary Turkish policemen into condoning some small irregularity. The fellow might contrive some blunder which would give him a chance to escape—if he could knock out the Eunuch—and take the other by surprise. But that was hardly a small irregularity, and these were not ordinary policemen. In fact, they were not acting as policemen at all. It was quite obvious from the manner in which Kazdim had displayed the letter and spoken of his intentions, that his two lieutenants were also members of the Kaka, so it was equally in their personal interest to put an interfering foreigner, who knew too much about it, out of the way for good. Their own lives and safety depended upon taking ruthless measures against such people as himself; and as that fact sank into his mind, he saw how futile it would be to waste his breath in trying to bribe either of them into giving him a break.
The clock upon his desk was ticking loudly, unnaturally so it seemed to him, and as the twilight deepened he knew that it was ticking out the moments of his life. The heart in his breast seemed to be hammering in time with it and the fantastic thought came to him that the clock would still be ticking there all through the night, for many hours after his heart was still.
One thing he was resolved upon. When the time came he meant to fight. That they would shoot him down was as good a certainty as that the Derby would be run again next year in England, but it was better to go out like that than submit tamely to the death they intended for him. If only he could draw his gun, but it seemed hopelessly inaccessible in the hip-pocket where he carried it.
During the next twenty minutes he thought of many things. His boyhood in summer holidays; Sandhurst and nights in London. His first day with the regiment, manœuvres on the Plain; good days out hunting; a girl that he had met in Leicestershire; another down at Pau; Prince Ali eyeing Diana that night in the ballroom at Maidenhead; another dance, another girl; then Diana again as he had seen her that afternoon.
Kazdim stirred his great bulk and stood up. Twilight had vanished and the night had come. The room was now lit only from an arc lamp in the street below. It had never been in anything approaching genuine darkness.
Without a word Swithin sprang. The Eunuch went down under the impact. Frantically Swithin grabbed at his hip-pocket endeavouring to wrench out his gun. It came free and was half-lifted when a blow like a hammer descended on his wrist. He felt the weapon slip from his nerveless fingers, and almost in the same second another smashing drive caught him behind the left ear. His head swam, but he turned and lashed out with his only sound fist; the other hung limp and useless, aching horribly. His jab went home, and Malik, who had caught him in the neck, staggered backwards with a grunt, but Servet, who
had maimed his wrist, was now behind him and with a second savage blow brought down the butt of his pistol, this time on Swithin’s head. His knees gave way under him, his whole body crumpled, and he slipped to the floor.
He could not have been out for long, but when he came to he found that his arms had been tied behind him, and a gag thrust into his mouth. Malik was slapping his face, by no means gently, to bring him round, and as soon as he opened his eyes he was jerked to his feet.
Kazdim had already left the room and was tripping lightly downstairs; the other two thrust Swithin after him. Next moment they were in the street and pushing him into a waiting car.
He was bundled into the back seat beside the Eunuch; the other men clambered in, and the car set off. Fortunately, perhaps, Swithin was only semi-conscious during the first part of that journey. The side blinds of the car were drawn, but he could see ahead over the driver’s shoulder, and vaguely realised the route they were taking. In a haze of pain he recognised a street sign in the Hamal Bachi and, supreme irony, the gates of the British Embassy, then he was dazzled by the bright lights of the Grand’ Rue de Pera.
He closed his eyes. His head, neck and wrists were throbbing madly, the cords cut into his flesh, and he was forced to sit awkwardly forward owing to the doubled-up position of his arms behind his back. He knew that they were speeding down the hill and when he opened his eyes again, they were crossing the Galata bridge.
His full senses returned to him then, and he jerked himself upright. This was fantastic, impossible, it could not be true that they really meant to kill him, yet the car raced on. They were passing the Fire Tower of the old University and, on the other side, the Grand Bazaar.
He tried to struggle to his feet but the Eunuch thrust him back by jabbing a great elbow in his chest. He realised then that he must pull himself together—and think clearly—that was his one chance of saving his life, yet coherent thought simply would not come.
They had passed out of the Laley Djami now and turned left along the Avenue Moustapha Kemal Pasha towards the sea. He thought wildly of endeavouring to attract the attention of the people in the streets and collected his breath for a stentorian shout but, when he gave it, the gag prevented any sound except an uncouth rumble coming from his mouth.
In a quarter of an hour—ten minutes—it would be too late. He knew that with a horrible certainty as he gritted his teeth and strained at the cords that bound him. They had turned right again and were running along Maslak Vlnga Street—the direct road to the Castle of the Seven Towers. It was horrible, unthinkable he felt, that his life should end like this; never to see the sun again or hear the whinny of a good horse impatient for a gallop—he must think of something—do something—before it was too late.
His breath was coming in painful gasps and the cold sweat of stark ungovernable fear was running down into his eyes in little rivulets.
The speed of the car had increased now that they were free of congested traffic. It was roaring along the straight through Samatia Street, its klaxon howling to drive the slum population from its path. Five minutes now, and they would be there.
Swithin groaned behind his gag. All sense of pain in his head and arms had been driven from him by the one appalling thought which now came fully home to him. There was no escape. They really meant to do him in. He was going to die. Soon—terrifyingly soon—within a few minutes now. The car had entered Imrahor Street—the last lap—they would reach the Wall in under a hundred seconds. He tried to persuade himself that he was suffering from a nightmare, that he would awake cheerful and well to another glorious day of health and life in the bedroom at his flat or in the Pera; but he knew that this was no ghastly dream, he was awake and sane. This terrible thing was happening to himself and they meant to kill him—to blot him out—so that never again would he see the faces of dear friends, or know joy in this existence. It was true!—true!—true!
In the whirling panic of his brain he wished desperately that they had killed him in the scrap. A bullet would have been different. No one cared to die that way either when there were so many wonderful things still to do; but as a soldier he had grown up all his life with the knowledge that he stood a fair chance of going out like that, and it was a decent sort of ending—whereas to be pitched head first down that ghastly well …
The car took a side turning and ran on a little, parallel with the Wall, towards the Marmara. He could see it now, huge and foreboding, towering above them. Again he sought frantically for a way to save himself but no thought would come except that of icy rushing water.
He knew that they had arrived at their destination yet it gave him a fresh shock of horror when the car actually halted; but he was given little time for further thought. The door was flung open and the two gunmen dragged him out. The Eunuch followed, calm and imperturbable as ever, still smoking his endless cigarettes. He produced a torch and led the way over the rough uneven ground, and as Swithin, hustled along by Malik and Servet in his rear, caught a whiff of the fragrant tobacco he almost cried out at the thought that he was never to savour the serene delight of smoking any more.
Dark shadows were all about them as they approached the frowning wall. They climbed some steps and entered a narrow passage. It was black as pitch inside with only the beam of the Eunuch’s torch in front to light their stumbling feet. To Swithin it seemed that they walked a mile in that close musty darkness, then as he staggered down a flight of broken stairs he saw lights ahead, another moment and he heard again that ceaseless hissing sound and then he was in the vaulted chamber of the tower staring at the black hole in its floor.
The lights came from flaring torches placed in sconces on the walls. For a second their glare blinded him after the darkness of the hidden tunnels in the fortifications, then he saw that two other men besides the Eunuch and his guards were present. Both were huge negroes, naked to the waist, their black skins shiny and glistening, their white eye-balls staring at him with dumb animal curiosity.
Kazdim spoke to them in his high falsetto. The mouth of one opened in a half-imbecile grin and Swithin realised dimly, through a wave of sickening horror, that the man had no tongue—and that they were mutes, old henchmen of the Eunuch’s from his Palace days perhaps, the instruments of many hideous crimes under his orders if they could only tell of them.
Malik and Servet stepped back. The negroes took their place at Swithin’s sides. One of them wrenched the gag out of his mouth. He tried to speak but his tongue was so swollen that the words would not come. The other pushed him forward to the edge of the hole.
The Eunuch stepped up to him and pulling the flat check cap from his head, folded it round a piece of broken brick, then dropped it down the shaft. For what seemed an eternity they all stood there listening. The hissing continued unabated then at last there was the faintest ‘plop.’ In a sort of blur Swithin glimpsed the Eunuch’s face, pasty white and grinning in the torch light, a mask of unutterably cruel enjoyment.
So this was the end, thought Swithin, and whatever way a man left this world he should endeavour to make a decent showing. He was quite a little man so the top of his head barely came level with the shoulders of the huge negroes, but he stiffened himself and stood upright, then all the terrible fear that he had suffered in the last hours seemed to fall from him. As the mutes seized him again by his bound arms he even managed a nod of farewell, that had half a smile in it, to the two watching policemen.
Suddenly the negroes jerked him off his feet and, lifting him high into the air, pitched him with one heave head foremost into the gaping hole.
He felt himself falling—falling—falling, then with a stunning blow his head hit the torrent, he was twisted violently in its grip, and the waters of death closed over him.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE DESOLATE CITY
A violent shudder ran through Swithin’s limbs as he plunged down—down—down into the icy depths. He had struck the water with such force that it seemed as if he would never stop in that smooth gli
ding descent. The top of his head felt as though it had been split open with a hatchet. It seemed to have become bigger than his whole body and to be opening and shutting in agonising spasms. Blinding lights and whirling circles flashed before his eyes. Apart from that, he was conscious of nothing but the searing pain in his cranium and the appalling cold.
Suddenly he knew that he had stopped moving downwards. The current had caught him and turned him on his side. Normally he could swim fairly well under water, so automatically he opened his eyes. Not a ray of light penetrated the darkness and the utter silence was the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced. It was as if he had been struck blind and deaf in the same instant.
For a second he thought ‘so this is death,’ but the sense of feeling still remained to him and the smooth pressure of the water upon every portion of his body told him instantly that he still had to suffer final dissolution.
Next moment the constriction in his chest confirmed that horrible knowledge. He had yet to face the agony of gulping down great draughts of water when he could no longer hold his breath and began the hopeless fight for air.
The underground current bore him swiftly onwards, turning him like a sack, first one way, then another and rolling him over half a dozen times in as many seconds so that he could no longer tell if he was face downwards or on his back. Then, without warning, something seemed to leap at him out of that terrible silent darkness. The subterranean torrent had whirled him violently against a snag of rock.
The pain of the blow was so great that he opened his mouth to cry out, the water filled it and he forced it shut again, but he was compelled to swallow the gulp he had taken. It tasted salty and bitter.
He could hear nothing, see nothing, yet he knew that his clothes had been ripped from his side and that the cold water was now flowing against the bare flesh of his thigh as he was rushed headlong forward again in the grip of the racing tide. The awful pressure in his chest was growing. A stabbing pain had started behind his eyes, and then his last desperate fight began.
The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 20