The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  Holding the big hunk of bread ready he waited anxiously, knowing that the coming of darkness would rob him of this last chance. He must have been in the cell for over an hour already and the light was failing. A woman came into sight just within the orbit of his vision. No good—he let her pass. Five minutes drifted by, a man appeared, a surly-looking hamel. Swithin was desperately tempted—but refrained, hoping that someone more likely to be a member of the Kaka would come along. As the seconds passed he cursed himself for having been so slow-witted as not to think of his scheme before, and bitterly regretted that wasted hour of useless raving. Once darkness had fallen he could say good-bye to any faint hope of his plan succeeding.

  A youth on a donkey-barrow laden with vegetables passed beneath the window and almost immediately after a young girl went by; then for an interval the alley remained deserted. Swithin stamped with impatience. The sun had set, only its afterglow lingered upon the blank stone opposite, deep shadows were converting the alley into a black-walled pit, then came the sound of shuffling footsteps. A neatly-clad old gentleman appeared, hobbling along bent over a stick. Swithin was almost in despair; it was hardly likely that the frail old man could help him but he knew that this was his last chance, another two minutes and the cobbles would be blurred from his sight by the blackness of the oncoming night. He threw down the piece of bread.

  It fell just in front of the old gentleman’s feet, he looked up startled and paused in his walk. Swithin stretched out his arm to its full extent between the bars. In his finger and thumb he held Arif’s fragile Kaka cell wafer. He released it and it fluttered to the ground.

  The ancient stooped painfully and picked it up, examined it by bringing the thing to within a few inches of his short-sighted eyes, and then looked up again.

  As he peered down from between his bars, Swithin’s heart pounded in his chest. “Help!” he whispered hoarsely. “Help! I have been taken prisoner by Kazdim’s Secret Police. In the name of Allah, listen. Carry a message for me, I beg—Allah will reward you!”

  In that quiet spot the old man must have heard unless he was stone deaf, but he did not reply. He lowered his gaze and shuffled on again until he had disappeared from sight, without once glancing back.

  Swithin’s grip on the bars relaxed, he staggered away from the window and collapsed into the chair once more. He had shot his bolt and failed. Despite his Latin temperament he was not a man given to demonstrative emotion, even when alone, but now he buried his face between his arms upon the table and rocked himself from side to side as the darkness closed about him.

  He had failed—failed utterly from the very beginning. By not foreseeing that Tania’s was such a likely post for the police to plant a spy he had given himself away to Kazdim through entrusting her with that letter. By failing to catch and warn Reouf of Kazdim’s identity that night when they left the café together he felt that he had been largely responsible for the poor boy’s death. By not troubling to take the most elementary precautions at his flat he had walked blindly into the arms of the enemy, then, when almost miraculously his life had been spared, he had been crazy enough to place himself in Ali’s clutches, where the veriest tyro would at least have taken care to find out the name of the Military Governor of Constantinople before risking a visit to him—and now, by his supreme folly in asking Diana to meet him at the Tobacco Depot, he had given her away to Kazdim too.

  He had failed, not only in carrying out his mission, which he realised now was a thing of comparatively small account, since it only concerned investing certain sums of money but, through his incompetence, new wars were to be sprung upon an unsuspecting world and, above all—a thing far nearer home—that woman whom he had considered hard and selfish but who was brave and proud, and whom he now knew that he loved so that he would go down to hell itself to help her, was to be humiliated, befouled, broken and tortured, in body and spirit. His cup of bitterness brimmed and spilled over when he recalled his refusal to take her warning—that he had not the brain or nerve for the job he had taken on so arrogantly—and knew it to be true.

  His body exhausted, his brain bemused, tortured by the most horrible imaginings as to what might be happening to Diana, no longer able to string his thoughts together consecutively he dropped into a nightmare doze, then his head rolled sideways on the table and he was sound asleep.

  He awoke with a start, not knowing how long he had slept but with a feeling that it must be hours later. His mouth tasted horrible but his brain was clear. The cell was pitch black as he looked round wondering what had roused him, then it came again, a low call from the window.

  Lurching to his feet he groped his way towards it, a man’s head and shoulders showed vaguely on the far side of the bars. When he saw Swithin he spoke in a quick whisper:

  “Hist!—my father sent me.”

  “Help, brother—help!” muttered Swithin, all his wits flooding back to him. “These dogs of police seized me and have detained me here. I must escape or send a message for I am entrusted with Allah’s business.”

  “I know it—watch the door,” whispered the other. “I have a file. Cough if you hear anyone coming.”

  Swithin said no more but hastened to the other side of the room and bent, straining his ear for any approaching footfall, while he blessed the inspiration which had led him to drop the Kaka wafer at the feet of the old gentleman. Behind him at the window, the steady music of a grating file as it bit into the iron bar sang a hymn of possible deliverance.

  How long he remained crouched by the door he could not tell. It seemed to be for nights on end and it was actually a little over two hours. At last the low call came again and, although he had not realised it with the gradual lightening of his cell, he saw that dawn was not far distant. The window was a square of light and the dark outline of his deliverer’s head was now framed in it.

  He ran softly across the room and with the fierce strength of frantic urgency helped his unknown friend wrench aside the two bars which had been sawn through. Then, feet first, he performed the by no means easy feat of wriggling between them. The stranger lent his aid and pulled him down on to a short ladder which was propped against the wall. Another moment and he was standing in the alley, free—free at last.

  His rescuer proved to be a burly youth hardly out of his ‘teens. Swithin asked him his name, but the young man only shook his head and said: “There are things which Allah’s children do for each to other in the sight of Allah—and Allah knows all.”

  Then he returned the Kaka wafer, swung the ladder up on to his shoulder and marched away as the full light of dawn broke over the surrounding houses.

  The faint cry of a Muezzin from a distant minaret, calling the Faithful to prayer, drifted to Swithin on the fresh morning breeze, but he was too accustomed to the musical chanting to take any notice of it. He had already rendered brief but heartfelt thanks for his amazing escape and now his every thought was centred again on Diana.

  If she had not gone out the night before, he might yet warn her in time, and his need to know if she were still safe or not was so pressing that he began to run up the silent alleyway where the full splendour of the new day was now gilding the ancient walls and rounded arches.

  He ran and ran through the quiet streets, only slackening his pace, when he had to for lack of breath, to a quick walk, hoping every moment that he would come across an open shop or restaurant, but he covered nearly two miles and reached Galata before, down by the port, he saw an all-night café.

  Unheeding the slovenly-looking waiter, who was swabbing up the floor of the now empty dive, he barged his way through the stacked up chairs to a public telephone which hung on the wall at the rear of the premises.

  Whatever Diana’s orders about never ringing her up, he meant to disregard them on this occasion. He prayed that she might still be sleeping, for even if he roused her what did that matter as long as she was safe? He found the number, gave it, and waited impatiently.

  He heard the bell ringing in the h
ouse at Bebek, and clung to the wall to support himself, still panting heavily after his long race. It went on ringing—insistent but unanswered.

  At last the line clicked and an angry voice came in Turkish: “Hello—who is that?—why do you disturb us at this hour?”

  Swithin controlled his panting as well as he could and spoke with curt authority: “I wish to speak to Miss Diana Duncannon. The matter is very urgent.”

  “I regret, sir,” came the reply of the startled servant, “but Miss Duncannon left here last night and she has not since returned.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  LOVE AT THE SWEET WATERS

  Swithin plumped himself down at one of the tables in the empty café, beckoned over the waiter and ordered coffee, European fashion with milk, and rolls. His instinct urged him to dash off again to Prince Ali’s house, break in before many people were about, and chance his luck in being able to find Diana; but he knew that, unarmed and single-handed as he was, there could be little hope for such a crude attempt at rescue. Acting on impulse had proved so disastrous before that he now felt it vital to consider every aspect of the situation prior to deciding on his next step.

  One thing stood out clearly. Diana had not been arrested—but abducted, and as she was not guilty of any offence against the established government, her detention was illegal. The obvious thing on the face of it therefore was to seek the assistance of the police; but Kazdim controlled the police and was using them on behalf of the Kaka, so any appeal in that quarter was worse than useless. Kazdim’s direct superior, the Minister of the Interior, would be with Kemal three hundred miles away in Angora and even if Swithin could have got in touch with him he saw that the report about Diana’s disappearance would only be referred back to Kazdim—who would promise every assistance in tracing her and then promptly sidetrack the inquiry—unless the Police Chief were actually charged with her abduction, and complicity in the Revolutionary conspiracy. That was the course which Swithin felt had the best hope, but the devil of it was that he still lacked any proof to support an accusation against the Eunuch. After looking at the problem from every point of view, he decided that his first move must be to inform Tyndall-Williams at the British Embassy and thus secure official assistance.

  Finishing his coffee, he paid the waiter out of the small change which Malik had left to him and, finding that he had just enough money remaining for a taxi, he hurried out to get one. It was still early yet however, only a quarter to seven, so no cabs were to be seen, but people were now fairly numerous in the streets and the trams were running. He hopped on one which took him up the hill, covered the last few hundred yards on foot and turned in through the gates of the British Embassy.

  The magnificently-clad Kavasses who guard its portals by day were not yet on duty and the night porter, judging Swithin by his villainous appearance, gave him anything but a cordial reception. Being in no mood to suffer delay, calmly he adopted his most authoritative manner and insisted on his name being taken up to the first secretary despite the fact that that worthy was reported to be still in bed and asleep.

  Grumbling a little the porter showed Swithin into one of the small rooms off the Chancery, and sent a servant, who was polishing the floor, upstairs to rouse Tyndall-Williams.

  On being woken half an hour before his time the diplomat swore gently to himself but, recognising Swithin’s name, pulled on a dressing-gown, ran a comb through his sparse brown hair, and came downstairs to interview his visitor.

  “So you are Swithin Destime,” he said quietly once they were alone together. “Sir George Duncannon told me in a letter two months ago that you might turn up here if you found yourself in some especial difficulty, and Diana has mentioned you to me several times in the last few days in connection with this Kaka business you have unearthed for us.”

  “It’s about Diana that I’m here,” Swithin shot out at once. “She’s been kidnapped by these devils.”

  “Dear me!” Tyndall-Williams’ mild blue eyes showed a pained distress. “That’s bad news—however, I think you had better tell me all about it from the beginning.”

  “But it’s urgent!” Swithin insisted. “Desperately so! We’ve got to do something and devilish quick!”

  “Of course,” the diplomat soothed him, “but all the same since you have been working with her I should like to hear what you’ve been up to from the beginning, then I shall be able to place the facts clearly before His Excellency.”

  Swithin nodded. “All right, then. Tell me how far you are acquainted with the work I have been doing and I’ll go on from there.”

  “Diana told me of her talk with you at the Tobacco Depot two days ago and, from all she said of the Kaka then, it sounds a pretty serious business. We are very anxious to hear more.”

  “It is,” Swithin agreed quickly, and launched into a full account of his adventures. At first he had been impatient at Tyndall-Williams’ quiet, unhurried air, yet as he proceeded with his story the diplomat displayed a youthful keenness which he usually concealed under an appearance of bored but distinguished middle age and Swithin found considerable comfort in being able to pour out his tale at last to such sympathetic ears.

  When he had finished Tyndall-Williams sat back in his chair and said feelingly: “By Jove! you have had a time!”

  “I’ve made a pretty fine mess of things,” Swithin muttered bitterly.

  “Mess! not at all. I think you have done remarkably well.”

  “What? I’ve been thundering lucky in getting away with my life, of course, but look at this ghastly situation Diana is in—entirely through my stupidity.”

  “Don’t feel too badly about that,” Tyndall-Williams said earnestly. “Anybody might have made the same bloomer and the fact does remain that you have performed a pretty remarkable piece of work in getting all these particulars of the Kaka for us.”

  “But damn it man!—What, are we going to do about Diana?—that’s what’s driving me insane.”

  The diplomat’s mild blue eyes hid the fact that he had soon assessed Swithin’s personal interest in the missing lady but his voice was very kind as he said: “I know—I can guess what you must be feeling and if you are right about Prince Ali I agree that the affair doesn’t bear thinking about. Still, he must be very heavily occupied with this Revolution so close at hand and the probability is that he won’t have any time to devote to his fair prisoner for the moment. I’ll get on the telephone to Allan Duncannon’s house and find out all the particulars about her disappearance that I can. As a matter of fact I am rather surprised that they have not reported it to us already.”

  He got the number, asked a few questions, listened intently for a little, then hung up the receiver and turned back to Swithin.

  “That’s queer! Allan Duncannon did not return home either last night nor did his daughter Ursula. They both went out with Diana after dinner—about nine o’clock.”

  Swithin brightened. “Well, it’s some consolation to think that her uncle is with her, anyway.”

  “I take an even better view of it than that,” Tyndall-Williams remarked hopefully. “Quite possibly all three of them stayed the night with friends.”

  “Surely they would have telephoned to the house if they decided to do that.”

  “Not necessarily. There is no one else in the family who might be alarmed for them, and if it were late, after a dance perhaps, Duncannon may not have thought it worth while digging the servants out of bed to say that they did not mean to return until this morning.”

  “How about clothes?”

  “They would send for those this morning—it’s early yet—only a little after half-past seven you know.”

  Swithin shook his head gloomily. “It’s possible of course, but rather unlikely unless there was some special reason which kept them out very late quite unexpectedly.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow this is a good sign. You know the Revolution hasn’t taken place yet so Ali and Kazdim are not actually in power. They might risk staging the disap
pearance of a single girl like Diana, and offer half a dozen different reasons to account for it. A secret romance for one, with the suggestion that she had eloped with somebody, or that some Turk had developed a passion for her and taken extreme measures—such things have happened in Istanbul before now you know—or even that she had been white-slaved—but I hardly think they would risk kidnapping a prominent man like Allan Duncannon and his daughter into the bargain. That would be infinitely more difficult to explain away.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Swithin agreed despondently, “but we can’t remain in this awful state of uncertainty. What the hell are we going to do?”

  Tyndall-Williams stood up and laid his hand gently on Swithin’s shoulder. “You are going to leave things to me for a bit while you come upstairs, have a good hot bath, and then a few hours rest on my bed.”

  “I can’t,” Swithin protested. “I’ve got to find her somehow, and if your inquiries don’t bring any result I’m going out myself to have a cut at Prince Ali’s house—can you lend me a gun?”

  “No. Only a safety razor. You’re just about all in, my dear fellow, so if you want to be any real help you must take a few hours off to get your wind back while I rout round and have a talk with H.E.”

  Swithin was horribly reluctant to give in, but his common sense told him that Tyndall-Williams was undoubtedly right. He had been through so much during the last forty-eight hours that he was virtually at the end of his tether. Only by taking a short spell off could he possibly hope to recruit his energy sufficiently to enter the field effectively again.

  Upstairs he dragged the thick sailor clothes from his stiff limbs, shaved his two days’ beard, and tumbled into a warm bath, where he luxuriated for a quarter of an hour. Then he returned to Tyndall-Williams’ room and found that the bed had been remade with clean sheets, and pyjamas laid out for him.

  The diplomat came in just as Swithin was climbing into bed. “I’ve spoken to the chief,” he said, “and he is going to get on to Kemal personally. That is the devil of the Gazi having shifted the capital to Angora. It means our running two Embassies. Of course, we live at Angora in the winter, but it is a god-forsaken spot and impossible in the summer, so we come back here and then we are always up against the difficulty of having to use the long distance telephone instead of being able to see people on matters of urgency. We are sending a report through and the list that you secured for us of secret ammunition stores—which are to be distributed to-night—by special ‘plane. He should receive them by mid-day.”