The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Hate you! Good God, I adore the very ground you walk on!” He gripped her arms and pulled her clumsily towards him.

  Then, sheltered from view by the lattice which had screened the ladies of the harem in years gone by they clung together, greedy for each other’s caresses; unheeding of time, place, or danger, in the ecstasy that the opening of the flood-gates of their long suppressed emotions had let loose.

  At last they drew apart. Diana dried her tears on a minute handkerchief and stammered: “You—you stupid little man—why didn’t you say you—you cared for me before?”

  He laughed happily. “You great big gawk of a girl. Why didn’t you give me half a chance? You never have since that afternoon when we had tea together at Belgrave Square—and I did my stuff that day.”

  “But I hardly knew you then and I had to be certain.”

  They stared at each other, blind to their surroundings and everything except their own happiness; kissed again with sudden mutual passion and remained locked together with closed eyes. Then breathless from their embrace, they separated again and Diana said faintly: “We needn’t go back yet, need we? There is a ruined palace here and lovely gardens—aren’t there? Let’s stroll round them arm-in-arm so that I can really feel I’ve got you with me for a little while. I’ll have to be alone and desperately anxious for you again so soon.”

  “Whatever you wish, my sweet.” He drew her arm through his, opened the fingers of her hand, and passing his own between them pressed his palm to hers. Then they sauntered back through the dim side chambers of the old Mosque, to its front entrance. “Darling, I want to hear you say ‘I love you so,’ just as you did before,” he said suddenly.

  “I love you so,” she murmured. “I have from the very beginning I think.”

  “Even on the yacht?” The second he had said the words he could have bitten out his tongue for asking the now pointless question, but she had already unclasped his hand and withdrawn her arm.

  “So you still don’t trust me?” Her voice was high pitched, resentful, bitter, but he had no chance to answer.

  As they came out into the sunshine they both saw Sir George Duncannon and Tyndall-Williams walking towards them from a big closed Daimler which was parked some fifty yards away. Then another car came racing round the corner and pulled up with a jerk. Swithin recognised the driver immediately. It was the first taxi that he had taken when he ran out of the Embassy. Almost before it was at a standstill Malik and two other policemen jumped out of it.

  “Quick,” he cried, grabbing Diana’s arm and pulling her back into the entrance of the Mosque. “The police—they’ve traced my taxi and followed in it.”

  She wrenched him forward again. “This way! Daddy’s come in the Ambassador’s car—it’s the same as Embassy soil—we’ll be immune from arrest if we reach it—for God’s sake run!”

  Tyndall-Williams, Sir George, Swithin, Diana, Malik and the other policemen all started forward together from different directions. They collided about ten yards from the Daimler, Diana dodged one of the policemen neatly and jumped on to the running board. Tyndall-Williams got in Malik’s way and they both tumbled in a heap. Sir George added to the general confusion. Swithin shook off the man who grabbed him—thrust Diana into the car and sprawled in beside her. A moment later Sir George joined them.

  Tyndall-Williams picked himself up, lightly dusted down his grey lounge suit, and then turned his attention to Malik who was angrily protesting against this obstruction of arrest.

  “If you care,” said the diplomat quietly, “to report the matter through the proper channels doubtless your protest will receive the attention of the Embassy in due course.” Then he turned his back and calmly got into the car.

  The Daimler’s engine purred and, with a superior glance at Malik, the cockney chauffeur let in the clutch. The Turk stood watching with impotent fury blazing in his eyes. He would cheerfully have given five years of his life to be able to draw his gun and haul Swithin out of the car at the point of it—but he dared not. A small silk Union Jack fluttered gaily from a slim staff on the Daimler’s bonnet. No policeman—be he black, white, yellow, or brown, lays hands with impunity upon the property of His Britannic Majesty’s accredited representatives the wide world over—and Malik knew it. Stirred by profound emotion he spat, while Swithin, no less stirred by the portentous meaning of that little flag, looked away quickly and lit a cigarette.

  As the Daimler gathered speed Tyndall-Williams glanced back out of the rear window and remarked: “It was darned lucky for you H.E. had the idea of sending me after you in his car, but they are following us. What do you intend to do now?”

  “Drive straight back to the Embassy,” said Sir George promptly.

  “That’s all very well—but if we once take Destime in they will arrest him immediately he comes out again—and he has got to be down at Galata this evening on a very important matter.”

  “I know,” Swithin agreed. “You must drop me somewhere on the way. Then I’ll lie low till I have to turn up for my appointment with Arif.”

  “No, no!” Diana exclaimed. “Those policemen behind will see you get out. I won’t let you.”

  Tyndall-Williams was still peering out of the small window at the back. “They’ve only got a taxi,” he said, “and we’re gaining on them already. Tell our man to drive as fast as he can, Destime—then we’ll increase our lead. If we can put a few streets between us when we come to the houses you ought to be able to drop off without being seen.”

  “Right!” Swithin gave swift instructions to the driver, and the big car leapt forward. Then he turned back to Tyndall-Williams. “Look here—there is one thing you can do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Swop clothes. They will be looking for me in this chauffeur’s uniform, so if there is another agent on the gate he will think I have gone to earth in the Embassy again when he sees you drive in, besides I should be far less likely to be spotted in your lounge suit.”

  For a moment the diplomat stared blankly, then he glanced at Diana.

  “Go on!” she said sharply. “I’ve seen thousands of men in nothing but their bathing shorts—what does it matter if I see you in your pants.”

  “All right,” he murmured. “But I’m glad that secretaries to the Embassy don’t have to do this every day.”

  As the Daimler sped through Abouselam the two men exchanged clothes. Another few moments and they were entering Haskeuy. The taxi had dropped out of sight behind them.

  “I’m getting out here,” said Swithin putting his hand on the door latch of the car.

  “Oh darling!” whispered Diana and her eyes were full of tears again.

  Her father looked at her in mild astonishment and she caught his glance. “Darling,” she repeated. “That’s what I said. The man’s a jealous untrusting brute—but I call him darling just the same.” In nervous misery she clasped her hands together and clenched them tightly.

  They were in a quiet street. The car slowed down. Swithin smiled at Diana then, while it was still moving at a running pace, he dropped off on to the pavement. Its speed increased again and it sped away. Diana only caught his parting murmur of “Bless you sweet” and the next moment he had disappeared from view up a narrow alley.

  By devious ways, learned weeks before when he had been a nightly visitor to the Haskeuy quarter, Swithin made his way to the small wine shop which he had frequented for a time with the Russian workmen.

  Having reached it safely he dived down the few steps from the street and took refuge in the gloomiest corner of the low, vaulted room. It was dark and cool in there after the glare of the midday sun, but he feared for a moment that the clothes he was now wearing, ill as they fitted him, would attract unwelcome attention from the sullen waitress who came over to take his order. The sartorial elegance of Savile Row must be a rare phenomenon among her shabby customers. However, she served him without any manifestation of interest, and, as he settled himself with as much outward calmness as he co
uld muster, he blessed her dull apathetic brain.

  Fortunately the vault was practically deserted and remained so. A few men in blouses entered it now and again, bought a drink, talked together for a little, and then went out again. None of them came near Swithin’s table and, after half an hour, he was able to take fresh courage from the thought that he had eluded Malik successfully. It was now a matter of patience. Just sitting there doing nothing until the time came when he would have to venture forth to meet Arif.

  He repeated his drink order, and asked for a double portion of the greasy pilaff which was the main dish on the day’s bill of fare, thus guarding against any inclination on the part of the owner of the place to turn him out after he had been there a certain time, then, when he had eaten, he lay back in his corner against the wall and pretended to go to sleep.

  Although he never allowed himself actually to drop off, he remained for a long time in a semi-doze, but all his thoughts were conscious and centred about Diana. If only he could get safely through this business what times they would have together! His dash of Latin temperament almost made him cry himself as he thought again of the tears she had shed in the Mosque. In his imagination he could feel them damp on his cheek as they had been when he had first taken her in his arms and pressed her face against his own.

  At three o’clock he roused again and ordered another drink. He reckoned that it would take him no more than an hour to reach Galata, even on foot as he meant to go, so there was no point in leaving the wine shop before five. It was far safer to remain there in comparative security than to risk wandering about the open street.

  For a long time he considered what his next move had better be if Jeanette had succeeded and Arif was actually able to hand over the Kaka wafer. The approaches to the British Embassy would almost certainly be guarded again by Kazdim’s men. Swithin wished now that he had thought of that before jumping out of the Daimler, and asked Tyndall-Williams to have the car sent to meet him somewhere so that it could run him safely in, but the time they had been together had been so short and almost entirely occupied by changing clothes. Eventually he decided that it would be madness to risk trying to get into the Embassy again and that a far better plan would be to slip quietly off to the Golden Falcon and lie low there until Sir George or Tyndall-Williams could join him.

  The last hour of his wait seemed never ending, but it dragged itself away in time, and towards the end of it he began to get restless and excited. His nerves were keyed up to the highest pitch by the knowledge that Diana loved him. He felt himself omnipotent—capable of quick thought and swift, sure action.

  Just before five he ordered a final drink, eager now for the final effort that lay before him and, pulling Tyndall-Williams’ smart Homberg well down over his eyes, left his refuge.

  The journey to Galata was uneventful. He kept to side streets practically the whole way and there were plenty of them in that teeming quarter of the city. At the bridge, he found the Café Athéné without difficulty but was a little worried at the thought that Arif had not suggested a more discreet meeting place. Beneath its striped awning five rows of tables occupied the broad pavement; most of them were taken, and inside the building quite a number of people were already seated at an early evening meal, but his momentary anxiety at the publicity of the spot was forgotten in his delight at finding that Arif had kept the appointment and that Jeanette was with him.

  They were at a table in the back row, right at the end and partly sheltered from observation by a row of small bay trees in brass bound tubs which divided the Café Athéné’s length of pavement from that of its next door neighbour.

  As Swithin joined them and took a chair with its back to the street he thought that Jeanette looked pale and tired and Arif grey faced and miserable, but they both cheered up on his arrival. The Turk ordered him a coffee from a passing waiter and then, leaning forward, said in a hasty whisper:

  “So you are safe. We were out of our wits because Jeanette told me that you had been … well, after that which befell you last night we feared not to see you again. We came here not knowing what else to do. Allah has indeed been merciful.”

  “He has,” Swithin agreed in a low voice. “Last night I thought it was all up with me, but I’ve been counting all day on Mam’selle Jeanette having heard that I got clear this morning, and letting you know. I’m darned glad you came here this evening on the chance of my luck holding. Have you …”

  Arif nodded. “Jeanette has got it.”

  “Well done!” exclaimed Swithin.

  She tapped his knee under the table and then pressed a small flat parcel into his hand. He took it quickly and slipped it into his inside pocket as he inquired eagerly: “Where did our friend keep it?”

  “Roun’ ‘is neck,” she murmured, “in a locket—on a ribbon. ’E was a little drunk when ‘e come ’ome lars night an’ I made ’im more so. Later, when ’e was asleep I cut the ribbon an’ take it off ’im.”

  “She stole out of the house and came over to me at Scutari in the middle of the night,” Arif added. “She dare not go back. The police will have been hunting for her all day and I tremble to think what those devils will do to her if they catch her.”

  “That’s bad.” Swithin made a wry grimace. “What do you mean to do?”

  “I have drawn all my money out of the bank and we must leave Turkey at once—but how?”

  Swithin considered for a moment then he said softly: “There is a yacht in the harbour. It is called the Golden Falcon and belongs to Sir George Duncannon. I am going off to it as soon as I can. You would be safe there—anyhow for the time being. I think it would be best if we separate at once though. As they are looking for Mam’selle and myself now there will be less chance of us being caught if we do not remain together.”

  She nodded quickly and Swithin went on: “The Golden Falcon, remember, owned by Sir George Duncannon. When you arrive ask for the Captain. Harold Wortley is his name, say I sent you and tell him I said that you were to remain there until I turn up or you have seen Sir George. He knows all about this business so he will look after you both if I fail to make it. You had better go now. I’ll pay for the coffee and remain here until you have had a good start.”

  They both stood up. “I thank you my brother,” said Arif. “I have entrusted my future wife and myself to you, and you have not failed us. We are very deeply grateful.”

  “Nonsense,” Swithin replied a trifle self-consciously. “I’ll see you again under the hour I hope—Good luck.”

  When they had gone he sat on for a little, toying with his coffee. As he pressed his upper arm against his chest he could feel the little locket which held the wafer, a small hard bulge in his breast pocket. The joy of success warmed him like a glass of wine. If he could only reach the yacht safely he was through with his share in this desperate business now.

  Casually he looked through the half-lowered glass screen at the early diners seated at the long rows of tables in the interior of the café. One man was stuffing macaroni into his mouth with amazing speed. Arif’s body had concealed him from Swithin’s view before. The man’s profile seemed vaguely familiar.

  Suddenly he turned his head and looked straight at Swithin. Recognition was instantaneous and mutual. It was Lykidopulous.

  The Greek bounced up from his table, dropping his fork with a clatter. Swithin sprang to his feet a split second later and barged his way out through the crowd on to the edge of the pavement. As he turned to the right he caught a glimpse of Lykidopulous in the doorway of the café, shouting:

  “Stop! Police!—that man is wanted by the police! Stop him!”

  Dodging through the crowd Swithin covered thirty yards in as many seconds, then he glanced back. The crowd in front of the café were staring after him. Half of them were already on their feet. A table crashed over in the middle of them. A policeman had appeared and was blowing his whistle. Lykidopulous was on the pavement pounding after him, a small mob of people at his heels all yelling at the t
op of their voices.

  Swithin thrust a man out of his path, dug his elbows into his sides and began to run—literally for his life.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE MAN HUNT

  Swithin had turned to the right as he dashed from the café. Now he turned right again into a narrow street leading away from the waterfront. A moment later he realised that he had blundered. It ran steeply up hill, bad going for a hunted man with fresh pursuers likely to join the mob at every street corner. However, he was free of the crowd so able to increase his lead a little before the others reached the turning.

  As he padded up the hill he threw a swift glance over his shoulder. A policeman was leading, with a lanky youth beside him. Another policeman was not far behind and then came a bunch of people headed by Lykidopulous.

  With fury in his heart Swithin wished damnation on the Greek. He saw that it was natural enough for the man to take delight in raising this hue-and-cry after the way he had pried so persistently into affairs at the Tobacco Depot, but what evil luck to have come to the Café Athéné as a rendezvous, and that Lykidopulous should have been feeding there that evening. Then he cursed himself for not having thought of such an eventuality when Arif had first mentioned it as a meeting-place for Greek business men. It was only just round the corner from Tophane Street, the heart of the business quarter, and he should have remembered that Lykidopulous came in to negotiate deals there at least twice a week. But self-reproach was useless now.

  Half-way up the hill he caught sight of an arcade on his left and, swerving, dived into it. The easier going gave him a chance to increase his lead still more. He flew down its fifty yards of deserted length and dashed out of the far end just as the shouting mob entered it after him. Again he turned right, up towards Pera, but this time he had little option; a small crowd blocked the way lower down outside a cheapjack shop where a street auction was in progress. As his pursuers surged out of the arcade the street auction broke up at this new excitement, and the idlers who had been watching it joined in the chase.