by Sax Rohmer
When he was informed that they did not know Mrs. Wybrow, he invariably replied: “She often wears a chinchilla cape. You wouldn't forgetthat.”
In this way he had secured two names. “The only lady I know who has a chinchilla cape is Mrs. Burton from Sandby Hall.” This provided one of them; and “You don't mean Mrs. de Marsan who lives out by the Warren?” gave him the second. Discreet inquiries from mine host of the Sandby Arms had enabled him to dismiss Mrs. Burton from the case. He learned little about Mrs. de Marsan.
The somnolence of the lounge, with its prewar copies of motoring journals, was disturbed. A petite and attractively modeled brunette came in, to awaken memories of Paris before the eclipse. Disposing herself on a settee, she revealed suave silken legs and patrician feet shod in high-heeled slippers. From a handbag she took a jeweled case, and from the case a cigarette. Bimbashi Baruk was up, lighter snapped into action, before she had reclosed the case.
“Please permit me.”
Eyes so dark as to be almost black, beautiful eyes except that they were set too closely together, appraised him as he bent and lighted the cigarette.
“Thank you.”
“It is a privilege. I believe I address Madame de Marsan?”
The pupils of madame's eyes seemed to enlarge, so that their blackness became phenomenal. The bimbashi read a message there.
“That is so—but how do you know?”
“The hotel register. You will find my name not far below your own. Brian Baruk. You see, Madame de Marsan, I have been looking for you.”
“Why?”
Her natural pallor grew slowly more marked.
“There is someone I have to find. Can you help me?”
“I don't know. Who is this you—have to find?”
“I have to find the woman with a heart in her hands.”
For perhaps ten seconds he feared that she was going to faint; after those ten seconds the danger was past. Madame de Marsan's full lips trembled into a smile. It was a smile of resignation. Bimbashi Baruk caught himself admiring her.
“Please sit down, Mr. Baruk, and tell me how you—got onto my track.”
“Your chinchilla cape,” he said, dropping down beside her. “It is not necessary that I measure the heels of your shoes—but those you wore on Tuesday night were quite as high. There was another woman with you. She wore low heels.”
“My maid—Suzanne.”
“Is she here?”
“No. She remains—at the bungalow.”
“Sort of—clearing up the mess?”
Madame de Marsan's lips trembled slightly.
“Yes... clearing up.” She raised her eyes. “I could no longer endure to sleep there. Am I to consider myself under arrest?”
“No—not at the moment. There is one rather urgent matter: Plan B. Have you sent it on to anybody?”
She shook her dark head, wearily.
“Everything Jimmy had with him is there, at the bungalow.”
“Really! What was the hitch?”
“There was no 'hitch.' I am very, very unhappy, but I know I must go through with it, now.”
“That would be the best way. May I suggest champagne cocktails? They are quite a good buck-me-up.”
In an atmosphere so artificial that the bimbashi found it unreal, Madame de Marsan told the story of the loss of Plan B.
“My husband, Commander de Marsan, is with his ship in North Africa. We are to be divorced. When it was done I should have married Jimmy. We met, Jimmy and I, in Singapore, two years ago. We became great friends. He was so gay, so generous, so kind—and he was very much in love with me—”
“So you are the woman with a heart in her hands?”
She smiled tremulously.
“He was a wildly impulsive boy. He went to Osuku, the famous tattooer—”
“C,” murmured the bimbashi.
“My name is Camille. After Singapore, we were parted for a long time. I returned to France. Then, the debacle. I escaped, with Suzanne, from Le Touquet, and came here. Jimmy found me the little bungalow at the Warren. His duties sometimes allowed him to visit me; sometimes we met in London. We never wrote to each other, because I was afraid I might fail to get my divorce.”
An elderly clergyman carrying an evening paper entered the lounge almost noiselessly, and adjusted his glasses. Noting madame's Gallic gestures, the man's tense calm, and deducing a lover's quarrel, he withdrew with a sigh.
“When he crashed and was so ill, I did not see him for ever so long. Then he was given duties that made it possible for us to be together again. Last Tuesday—” She hesitated, gulped, but went on. “Last Tuesday his car broke down near a place called Anchester. He found that by taking a train to Kessborough he could spend an hour with me and then catch another slow train to London. But when the time came for him to leave me, he was very late. He ran all the way down the garden carrying the brown attache case. Since his illness he had been—”
“Excitable?”
“Terribly, terribly temperamental.”
Madame de Marsan paused; Baruk watched her covertly.
“I am speaking of my lover, the man I hoped to marry. Try to understand. Perhaps—I may be unable to go on. An hour later Jimmy came back. I was wild with joy to see him. He ran in. He looked, and behaved, like a madman. He threw the case open. It was empty. He hurled it on the floor at my feet—”
She spoke rapidly, tonelessly.
“He told me that I had won his love only to ruin him—that I was a spy—a courtesan—a cheat. He had left the train at the first stop and made his way back. Suzanne was out, and I was demented. When he learned that she was out, he uttered a cry like a scream. He shouted, 'She has gone with the plan! I am too late!' I tried to soothe him. I told him I did not know anything about a plan.... He threw me across the room. He said, 'Butyou shall not escape.'”
Madame de Marsan was so pale that the bimbashi grew anxious again.
“He took a pistol from his pocket, and—shot himself.”
A painful interval followed before she was able to proceed. Out in the lobby someone was beating a dinner gong.
“When Suzanne returned she found me lying beside Jimmy. She was my nurse; she is Breton—she has great strength o£ mind, and of body. She found Jimmy's case, locked. In his hurry, he had taken the wrong one. Mine was empty. Suzanne persuaded me to do what we did. We emptied his pockets and carried his poor body through to the garage. Suzanne said, 'It is dreadful. But if he is found here you will hang.' We meant to go to the coast. But it was getting dark. Suzanne sat behind with—him. He was wrapped in a rug on the floor. We came to a hollow beside the road. I was terrified of being stopped by a Home Guard patrol. We carried him to the low wall.
“Something there was below, in the mist. There came a crash of glass ...”
AT ABOUT ELEVEN O'CLOCK that night, Wing Commander Prescott, who was staying with Colonel Brown-Maple, was called to the phone. He had had a tiring and sterile day. Nevertheless, from Walmer, who had been Hallory's great friend, he had learned something. Bimbashi Baruk was on the line.
“Oh, hullo, B.B.!” Prescott called. “I have some news for you. There was a woman in Singapore called Camille de Marsan who got tied up with Hallory, and—”
“I know. I'm with her now.”
“What!”
“Yes. The doctors were right, Prescott. They thought the wound was self-inflicted. Shot himself. By the way, I have Plan B.”
“You have what?”
“Plan B. I forced poor Hallory's case to make sure. You see the job was finished when I found the woman with a heart in her hands.”
“But you haven't found her!”
“What's that you say?”
“I say you haven't found her. Thank God you recovered the stuff, B.B.! Top marks! But Walmer tells me that Hallory had that tattooing done some time before he met the de Marsan woman. The C stands for Cynthia—girl called Cynthia Stockwell, well known in Singapore circles. Old Hallory was crazy about he
r; they were engaged. She ran away with a Marine.”
2. The Bimbashi Meets Up with A 14
BIMBASHI BARUK walked across to the Club. He was in no hurry and he loved the sights and the sounds and the smells of Cairo; for a man who has first known life as it is lived in the household of a wealthy Arab father and later, by desire of an English mother, life as it is lived in a public school, is an unusual man. Mohammed Ibrahim Brian Baruk looked uncommonly well on duty. His lean, narrow-hipped body and long, slim legs promised agility and strength. Brown of skin and heavy lidded, the contrast afforded by blue eyes was almost startling. He had notable poise and wore his uniform with an air.
He found Colonel Roden-Pyne staring out of a window and stamping his feet, rather like a stalled charger. Colonel Roden-Pyne, tall, thin and bristly, had always reminded the bimbashi of a white horse. But there was mutual esteem and they were old personal friends.
“Expecting you,” said the colonel. “Flop in that armchair. We have the place to ourselves.”
Characteristically, he plunged headlong into his subject, not even pausing to inquire about the bimbashi's health. It was a queer, rather inconsequential story he unfolded; and Baruk, who had filled and lighted his pipe, presently found that it had gone out.
“You see, B.B., we've had some useful hidings since you went away, and my department hasn't escaped all the kicks that have been flying around.”
“No, lucky we don't lose wars, because we lose most of the battles.”
“In short, I can't afford to come a purler over this business. That's why I asked for you.”
“Charmed, although I might point out that if I had wanted to be a policeman I shouldn't have joined the Camel Corps.”
“Penalty of being so damned clever. You set up a big reputation at home for trailing the missing.”
“The Ragstaff Hill mystery? I am therefore condemned to remain a bloodhound?”
“At present. Let me run over the essential facts again. Ask any questions that occur to you. Right? Inside the triangle, Ankara, Damascus, Baghdad, something has gone wonky. First, our most reliable underground postman in the western part of the area disappears. The man, an Armenian tallyman-huckster—sells cheap trinkets, bits of stuff and so on to the women of the smaller towns. Sand as a bell and well paid for the District messenger job. He had established contact with A 14, the best agent we have between Palestine and the Turkish frontier, and was carrying valuable material. When he was posted overdue, I inquired through the usual channels. At some point, in or near Damascus, he had vanished like a mirage—”
“With the information?”
“With everything. Not a trace.”
“Brigands?”
“A possibility. But the French have reported no incidents, and we can't be too curious. Damascus, of course, is an enemy hotbed. Rosener, of the German Staff, is there. Also, we know that his three-star agent—opposite number of our A 14—is operating in the area.”
“Who is this agent?” Colonel Roden-Pyne neighed realistically—he had suitable teeth.
“Find that out, B.B., and I'll recommend you for the D.S.O.! I'll wager there's an Iron Cross waiting at the other end for the German who finds out who A 14 is, too.”
“You're a nasty, secretive lot.”
“Try to be. A 14 is little short of wizard. His reports are models. He has tipped us practically every move made by Rosener. He warned us of the Baghdadcoup d'etat a week before it came off. Any questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Very well. Episode Second: Through our contact in Damascus, a barber called, I think, Abu Hassan—
“All Arab Berbers are called Abu Hassan.”
“Well, through him we found out what little we know about the Armenian. Abu Hassan, of course, merely passes the wink that stuff is waiting, he knows nothing whatever about it and could give nobody away. It looked to me as though Z—we call the German agent Z—had got hold of the parcel. Not knowing contents of same, I sweated freely. It's a rattling fine code, of Arab origin, introduced by A 14 and used by no one else. But I wouldn't swear that it can't be broken. I panicked badly. I sent for Madden. You know Pop Madden—used to be with you.”
“Rather. Little wiry fellow. Permanent expression—a baked apple.”
“Exactly. Been with me here for some time. Knows Syria well. First-class with dialects, customs and so forth, nearly as good as you, and as clever as a monkey at the game. Works out as a camel dealer. Knows all about camels.”
“He who knows the camel knows the worst.”
“Well, I brought him up to date, and off he went. That was”—he glanced at an almanac on the wall—“the ninth. Ten days ago. Last Monday I got this.”
Colonel Roden-Pyne took a slightly dirty postcard from a pocket case and handed it to Bimbashi Baruk. It bore the Damascus postmark and had been mailed on the day after Madden's departure. It was addressed to Said Ali, the Muski, Cairo.
“Who is Said Ali?”
“Abu Hassan's brother, a perfumer. They both run accommodation addresses. Suits our purpose.”
The note, written in that kind of colloquial Arabic used by professional letter-writers, simply said:
“If your nephew is the boy with a rose in his mouth I don't like him. May God be with you and with Yosef-Abu Hassan.”
“Who is Yosef?”
“Myself. The card, of course, was written by Madden. I spotted at once that something had made him uneasy. This was a tip, in case he failed.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Not a notion. But as Madden also has disappeared, I want you to cut up to Damascus and find out. At all costs wemust get in touch again with A 14.”
“This thing is not my idea of a jamboree. I would rather be shot on a camel than against a wall. Besides, I haven't been in Syria since I went with the Transport Commission to Beirut, and my Syrian Arabic is not so hot.”
“Your Arabic is your own affair. I look for results.”
“Happy is he who leaves obstacles to the less fortunate.”
“Let's stroll over the way. I will show you one of A 14's reports and fix necessary contacts.”
DAMASCUS grew sleepy in the morning sun, which restored aged minarets to the dazzling whiteness of their youth so that they stood as translucent shafts amid those groves of poplar and orchards of fig, apricot and pomegranate which lovingly embrace this pearl of the East. Already mueddin might be seen, a moving black speck, on his high gallery. In the covered bazaars with their cavelike shops—khans which had housed merchants from Baghdad when the great Harun reigned—and cooling fountains, a drowsy hum prevailed. Rumor passed from lip to lip. In the Street of the Coppersmiths it might be heard amid the ceaseless tap of hammers; in the Street of the Perfumers one smelled it out above ambergris and musk. Laden camels, indifferent to the convenience of pedestrians, paced rubber-footed on their way; and their dopey eyes held some secret which might not be told.
At one of the crossroads in this maze of merchandise there was a gracefully lazy fountain. It was old and venerable, having been erected by the Caliph Marwan in A.D. 750. Thousands of weary travelers had paused there gratefully in the centuries between, but only one was seated beside the fountain now—a fierce-eyed dervish. He was impressively dirty, unshaven and ragged, wearing a garment originally black but at present patched so as to resemble a dilapidated quilt. A thick staff lay beside him, and although he demanded nobakshish he might demand almost anything at any moment, so that the prudent deemed it wise to avoid him. The green turban of the order to which he belonged lent this nomad some spiritual authority. Furthermore, members of such fraternities often possess a fertility of invective and a range of curses highly disturbing to the modest.
A buxom Negress carrying a basket of green vegetables on her head came out from one of the narrow streets and approached the fountain. Then, from the same direction came a slender youth, well dressed and wearing a sky-blue turban. His indolence of carriage was poetic, for he was a ha
ndsome, if an effeminate, stripling, and his large, dark eyes surveyed the scene with languorous indifference. In his mouth he held a red rose (as affected by some Sufi intellectuals) rolling the short stem between his lips as other men roll a cigar.
Into the mysterious murmur of the bazaars, above clatter of hoofs, beating of hammers and cries of vendors, sweetly stole the Call to Prayer, weaving its silver thread among the embroidery of Eastern sound. It was the hour of noon.
Alone of those present in the little square, the dervish, pulling a scrap of carpet from beneath his tattered robe, prostrated himself. The poet, leaning against a wooden archway near by, smiled cynically. The colored woman rested her heavy basket on the edge of the fountain. Prostrations completed, the dervish, vanishing his scrap of carpet, fixed light, fierce eyes upon her.
“O mother of blackness, sell me a lettuce for a prayer.”
She stooped to her basket in which there were a number of fine lettuces, but her glance darted here and there the while as though she sought someone.
“Who can live on prayer?” she muttered.
“Prayer is better than meat,” returned the dervish. His voice was unexpectedly melodious. “Therefore, sell me a lettuce which has no less than fourteen leaves.”
Bending over the basket, the Negress replaced that lettuce which she had first selected and seemed to hesitate.
“Who shaves the heads of the Faithful?” she whispered.
“Who but Abu Hassan in the Street called Straight. Give me the lettuce.”
She produced a large one from deep down in the basket and, as it changed hands, murmured:
“Be careful. One is watching.”
“May blessing and peace be with you,” intoned the dervish; “for he who gives in faith gives to God's only prophet happy in his own Paradise.”