The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  Swithin glanced back again. The knot of a dozen people who had started after him from the waterfront was now a bunch of thirty. The policeman and the lanky youth were still leading—from the ease with which he ran the latter looked as if he were a trained athlete. Lykidopulous had dropped behind and was hidden in the pack. Again Swithin cursed his ill-luck in having been spotted by the Greek and realised that his change of clothes with Tyndall-Williams had been responsible for landing him in this wretched situation.

  If he had only remained in the chauffeur’s uniform, or been dressed in one of his old rigs as seaman or mechanic, it was highly improbable that he would have been recognised, but Tyndall-Williams’ light grey Savile Row production was very similar in colour to his own lounge suit in which he had visited the Tobacco Depot so often. Naturally Lykidopulous had known him again immediately.

  He shot into an alley to the left, and again made easier going on the level stretch. Fortunately his long years of army training had kept him strong and supple. He had been battered about pretty badly in these last two hectic days, but he knew that he must have slept several hours the night before in the cell at the Eunuch’s house and, in addition to his long rest in the wine-shop all that afternoon, he had had a spell of real refreshing sleep at the Embassy in the morning, so he was feeling far better than at any time since Kazdim had had him thrown down the shaft in the Marble Tower.

  Suddenly he came out of the alley into the Street of Steps and found himself about two-thirds of the way up it. In gradient it differed little from the others he had just traversed in the same direction. Each step was shallow and separated from the next by a yard of cobbles. Before he noticed a policeman who was slowly walking up towards him he had bounded down two of them. Then, knowing that the man would be certain to try and intercept his wild flight, he pulled himself up with a jerk, spun round, and bolted up the hill again.

  As he passed the alley he had just come down he saw that he had lost a good twenty yards of his lead. The athletic youth had now outdistanced the others who followed some way behind, jammed together in the close walled passage.

  Swithin put on a fresh spurt, managed another eighty yards of the hill, and switched down a narrow turning to the left. To his horror he saw that it contained a small fruit and vegetable market where a number of people were making purchases from stalls erected in front of a row of grimy shops. He hesitated a second, thinking of continuing up the Street of Steps but that last dash up the slope had taken it out of him badly. The mob was straggling up the hill and the rear of it was still pouring out of the alley, but the tall youth was thirty yards ahead of the rest and no more than twenty from the entrance of the market. Swithin’s momentary pause decreased the distance by a half, and seeing it was too late to turn he dashed forward among the shoppers.

  From the first stall in the street, he grabbed an apple, then he turned suddenly and flung it. Once more his cricketing days stood him in good stead. With the velocity of a rocket it struck the pursuing youth full in the right eye. He let out a yell, slipped sideways, and went sprawling in the gutter.

  “That’s settled him,’ thought Swithin savagely, and then, ‘poor kid he’s not to blame—I’m devilish sorry’; but the shop assistant at the stall had seen the episode and with a loud cry roused the whole street.

  People paused in their bargaining to look round, and saw a panting, sweating, hatless figure in grey come charging in amongst them. One man tried to trip him and got a blow on the ear for his pains which sent him crashing sideways, another grabbed at his shoulder but Swithin had played rugger as well as cricket and, side-stepping with practised skill, raced on.

  He was nearly through the market when the original mob entered the street at the far end. Some of the shoppers had joined in the chase and there was now the best part of a hundred angry shouting people at his heels. His wind was going and he knew that unless he did something desperate he could not remain free for more than a couple of minutes.

  Someone threw a potato which struck him on the back of the neck. Other missiles began to fly. A man leapt at him from the last stall in the street, but as the man jumped, a carrot, thrown by someone in the rear, struck him in the mouth. He lost his balance, grabbed wildly at his stall, and fell upon it.

  The stall was old, rickety, and heavy laden. It gave with a sharp splintering sound, and went down under the man’s weight. In a second a cascade of purple, pink and golden fruit was pouring into the narrow street. Baskets, boxes, punnets, all disgorged their loads and bounded over the cobbles. As Swithin, wild-eyed, breathless, panting, darted round the corner he knew that providence had given him one more slender chance of escape.

  The leaders of the pursuit slipped up on the sea of figs, lemons, peaches, plums, apricots and nuts that had been scattered by the hundred. They tumbled right and left among the fruit, crates, and baskets, bringing down more people in their rear and holding up the rest of the mob in a scene of indescribable confusion. Only two got through without tripping, a big black-bearded fellow in a blouse and the policeman whom Swithin had nearly run into on the Street of Steps.

  With the perspiration streaming down his face he panted on, darting and thrusting his way through a new throng of people. He saw that he had reached the brow of the hill and come out into the open space about the great White Tower of Galata. Round, massive and smooth-walled, it loomed above him; its four storeyed top, like the stages of a birthday cake, each smaller than the one below and ringed with arches.

  The pavements were crowded and the roadways full of traffic. Even if his straining lungs could have enabled him to keep his former pace he knew that it was not possible to maintain it in this moving multitude. He wondered desperately if he would stand more chance of getting away by taking the next turning in the hope that it would be less crowded, or by relaxing to a walk and endeavouring to shake off the pursuit by mingling with the passers-by.

  Another swift glance back showed him the black-bearded man and the policeman still hard on his heels. At the sight of him they both raised their hands and shouted. He sped on and, fearing to be knocked down by his onrush, the people in his path gave way to right and left—opening a passage for him.

  Only one man tried to stop him in the next twenty yards and with a violent thrust Swithin sent him reeling into the roadway; but at that, as though by a signal, the crowd about him started forward and he knew that in another moment they would be on him like a pack of wolves.

  With sudden decision he floundered off the pavement in front of an oncoming car. Its wheels missed him by inches. A cursing drayman strained at his reins and pulled up his horses. Swithin ducked beneath their tossing heads but dashed into a bicycle—sending its rider spinning. He fell as well, was nearly run over by a car coming from the opposite direction, but saved himself by rolling over into the gutter, staggered to his feet and stumbled on again through the crowd on the far pavement.

  For a moment he had thrown off his pursuers, but only for a moment. The furious cyclist had picked himself up and was yelling after him; fresh heads were turning to stare in his direction. Breathless and exhausted he reached the southern end of the Grand’ Rue de Pera with a fair lead but with a new mob after him.

  Sometimes in the gutter, sometimes in the pavement, he dodged and darted through the shifting crowd. Seeing a temporary gap in the traffic he crossed the road again. The vehicles closed up behind him giving him fresh hope for another moment. There was a big store one block farther on, and he felt that if he could only reach it before the pack got across the street he might be able to throw them off altogether, but as he pushed his way through the swing doors a moment later he saw, over his shoulder, a policeman holding up the traffic and the mob streaming across the roadway in full cry.

  Once in the store he stopped running and fought to control his laboured breathing. It was coming in quick, gasping sobs, and he feared that it would attract the attention of the people as he pushed his way in among them. As quickly as he could he slipped through th
ree departments, turned left and so by another entrance out into a side street. He was almost certain that he had done the trick but, next second, he was disillusioned. The black-bearded man and one of the policemen, guessing his ruse, had let the mob surge into the front entrance of the store while they dashed round to prevent his exit from its side.

  They were no more than fifteen feet from the door as Swithin came out into the street, and both rushed at him together. It was too late to dash back into the store so he stood stock still and waited, his feet planted firmly, determined to put up a fight for it.

  As the policeman charged in Swithin hit him with all his force. The straight left landed on the fellow’s chin and he went down like a ninepin. The workman grabbed at Swithin’s arm but he brought his right round with a smashing body blow, tore his arm free, and took to his heels again. Thirty seconds later he was back in the Grand’ Rue.

  The burly workman grunted painfully, gave one contemptuous glance at the huddled body of the policeman and set off after Swithin, hullaballooing in a deep bass voice. Another policeman who was on guard at the front entrance of the store heard him as he reached the corner and before Swithin had got fifty yards the hunt was up again.

  He was feeling the strain badly now. His heart was pounding in his ribs, his breath came in rasping gasps, and his lungs seemed to be bursting. His head was swimming and he could hardly see out of his eyes. He stumbled and fell, losing a precious moment, but picked himself up and forced himself on again at a loping run.

  Suddenly he realised that he was running parallel with a tram and just ahead of it. The front platform where the driver stood was open to accommodate extra passengers with standing room during rush hour traffic. Only two women stood on it at the moment. He halted, grabbed the stanchion as the tram went past, and swung himself on.

  With a gasp of relief he fell against the partition which separated the seated passengers from the platform and stood there panting, white and shaken. For a moment he could think of nothing but endeavouring to get back his breath, then he tried to force his thoughts on to where he had better head for.

  The yacht was now out of the question. Kazdim would have been telephoned to by this time and told of his recent appearance in the vicinity of the port. On that, the Eunuch was quite shrewd enough to suspect his intention of trying to escape by water and ordering a special lookout to be kept down at Galata. The Embassy was temptingly near, Swithin saw that he would be almost passing its front gates in a moment, but it was completely barred since Malik would undoubtedly have resumed his watch there, and be praying for another chance to intercept him. The thought of McAndrews’ house occurred to him but he instantly dismissed it. To reach Moda he would have to cross the Bosphorus and he had already ruled out the neighbourhood of the port as highly dangerous. He decided that his best chance was to slip into a small cinema and lie low there until night had falle, then steal a boat from one of the unfrequented piers above the Customs House and attempt to reach the Golden Falcon under cover of darkness.

  In the two minutes since he had boarded the tram it had been swaying along at a fine pace so he felt sure that he had given his pursuers the slip at last, but he was still sucking in his breath with painful gasps and the two women on the platform were eyeing him curiously.

  Suddenly he heard a loud commotion in the passenger compartment behind him. Whipping round he stared through the glass partition. The devilishly persistent black-bearded man and another policeman must have chased the tram and leapt on to its rear platform. They were forcing their way through the excited passengers and their faces, just beyond the glass, were only six feet from Swithin’s own.

  The tram had almost reached the junction of the Grand’ Rue and Hamal Bachi Street. The driver, unconscious of what was happening in his rear, applied the brakes. Swithin sprang off before it had ceased moving, jumped from in front of a car on to the pavement, and began to run again. Blackbeard and the policeman followed a moment later, yelling at the pedestrians to stop their quarry.

  As he charged headlong into the crowd, Swithin knew that he could not last much longer. The respite on the tram had been so brief that it had done little but stave off complete exhaustion for a few moments. Every muscle of his body ached as though it had been bruised and beaten, a blood vessel hammered in his head as if it were about to burst, and his legs were failing under him. He thrust a man aside who had heard the policeman’s shout, bumped into a small boy who stood gaping at him and careered on in a wild zigzag.

  There was only one thing to do now. Immediately round the corner, only twenty yards away, lay the British Embassy. Malik would be waiting outside the gates, that was almost a certainty, but Swithin knew that he was absolutely at the end of his tether, and could not cover another hundred yards before they caught him.

  Another man hunt had started up. People on all sides were shouting “Stop him! Hold him!” but he took to the roadway, preferring the risk of being run down to that of being grabbed by the people on the pavement.

  One last exhausted spurt and he was round the corner. He caught a glimpse of two gorgeously robed Kavasses standing in the gateway of the Embassy. Then Malik’s face loomed up before him, barring the way to safety.

  Only ten yards separated them. Malik drew his gun. ‘Would he use it?’ was the only thought which seared through Swithin’s dazed mind. To shoot a British subject in cold blood outside the gates of his own Embassy would take some explaining whatever charges they might trump against him afterwards in an attempt to justify the act.

  With sudden inspiration Swithin thrust his hand into his breast pocket and drew out the packet containing the all-important Kaka wafer, flung back his arm, and hurled it over Malik’s head into the Embassy garden.

  “Halt!” yelled Malik. “Halt or I fire!”

  But Swithin was past weighing chances. The supreme knowledge of victory now blazed in his brain. Whatever happened to him he knew that he had outwitted Kazdim and succeeded in the thing that he had set out to do. With his last ounce of strength he launched himself at Malik’s knees.

  It was a rugby tackle in the best tradition; swift, fearless, and direct. Malik, taken completely off his guard by this unorthodox attack, went crashing to the ground. Swithin, twisted as he fell, kicked out, and rolled into the very gateway of the Embassy.

  Next moment there was a general melée. The pursuing policeman sprang forward on to him. Blackbeard arrived panting on the scene, A dozen others came rushing up and people on all sides began to run towards the gateway.

  In it, an extraordinary struggle was proceeding. Swithin, utterly finished, no longer had the strength to raise a finger, but one of the great swarthy Kavasses had grabbed him by the collar as he rolled into the gate, and the other by the wrist. Both were endeavouring to haul him inside while the policeman, astride his body, and Blackbeard, who had a firm grasp on his ankles, tried to pull him back on to the pavement.

  The crowd edged in, shouting and waving their arms excitedly as they abused or urged on the combatants. Malik had staggered to his feet. He thrust his way through them, his small dark face livid with anger, rushed in beside the policeman and grabbed at Swithin’s shoulder. One of the Kavasses pushed him back. The other gave a violent jerk at Swithin’s collar and hauled him another yard. Malik made as if to follow. Then as from a great distance Swithin heard a quiet voice say:

  “You can’t come in here you know!”

  Blackbeard released his legs, the other policeman was now standing beside Malik, the two Kavasses lifted Swithin to his feet, and he saw that it was Tyndall-Williams who had spoken. The diplomat was just behind him. He was calmly smoking a cigarette and his face showed no trace of excitement or emotion.

  “I want that man!” Malik declared furiously, pointing at Swithin. “I have a warrant for his arrest.”

  Tyndall-Williams shook his head. “I’m sorry but I happen to know that this gentleman is a British subject, and as you are aware, it is quite impossible for me to allow you to execut
e your warrant here. If you submit it through the proper channels the Embassy will surrender him to you, of course—providing you can show bona fide grounds for his arrest.”

  “Twice!” shouted Malik. “Twice you have abused your privilege to obstruct me in the execution of my duty. You will hear more of this!”

  The crowd outside had swelled to nearly a hundred. Tyndall-Williams ignored Malik and glanced towards the head Kavass. “With all these people in the street I think you had better close the gates for half an hour.” Then he took Swithin’s arm and supported him as he stumbled up the drive.

  As the gates clanged to behind them Swithin’s dazed brain began to function again. “Did you get the packet?” he gasped.

  “Rather, a second after you threw it. Fine work that, but lucky for you it occurred to me that you might have trouble getting in here again and thought of keeping a look out for you at the gate.”

  “You—you were expecting me then?”

  “Yes, you told me if you remember that your appointment was at six o’clock—I hardly thought that you would get here so soon though!”

  Swithin grinned feebly. “I meant to try for Duncannon’s yacht—but they spotted me at the port—and I ran all the way.”

  “Well done—take it easy now—you’ll be all right in a minute.”

  In the entrance hall Swithin halted, his chest still heaving painfully. “It was—devilish sporting of you,” he said jerkily, “to have the Kavasses there and—get me in like that. But won’t there be hellish trouble—about this abuse of privilege, I mean?”

  Tyndall-Williams smiled slowly. “I don’t think so. It is most irregular of course. We should never dream of trying to prevent an arrest like that in the ordinary way, but the circumstances are quite unusual. H.E. feels that most strongly. Some people think he’s slow, just a nice old boy who gets on well with Johnny Turk—but he’s a bit more than that when it comes to a time of crisis. We have been in communication with the F.O. and they take that view as well, so the old man has got his hackles up and is prepared to stretch diplomatic privilege as far as it will go.”