by Sax Rohmer
“Allow me to present Mr. Horace Lord, of the United States Intelligence,” said the bimbashi; “the Sherif Omar Ali Shah.”
Mr. Lord nodded, and Omar Ali Shah bowed, concealing his knife.
“Glad to know you,” said Mr. Lord.
No perceptible emotion stirred his stoic features when Bimbashi Baruk from a long sleeve produced a blunt-nosed revolver and replaced it under his tattered robe. “I laid it on the ledge when you sang out,” he explained, “and picked it up as I turned.”
“It was adroit,” pronounced Omar Ali Shah, speaking as a master to a promising pupil.
But the bimbashi's expression subtly changed; his heavy eyebrows were raised. “Hullo! I have lost my knife!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Lord wistfully, drawing a long blade in a shagreen scabbard from his pocket and returning it to the owner. “I got that all right. Clumsy of me to miss the trick with the gun.”
Selecting one of several cigars which protruded from his breast pocket, he lighted it with some care. “I won't ask you to have a cigar—first, because it wouldn't look right for a dervish to smoke; and second, because I have only three left. Now, what do you say we get the situation straight?”
“Someone followed me back from the house of Saffaridi,” said Bimbashi Baruk.
“That was me,” replied Mr. Lord, with ungrammatical brevity.
The bimbashi stared hard. “I never had a glimpse of you.”
“I didn't intend that you should. I saw you with those two Huns and I thought you called for further investigation. I had been at the house myself, checking up.”
“It is by no means clear to me what you are doing here, Mr. Lord.”
Mr. Lord puffed at his cigar appreciatively. “I am hunting a concession to mine iodyrite. I don't know a whole lot about iodyrite, but so far, fortunately, I have contacted nobody around these parts who ever heard of it. I speak Persian up to a point, but I have no Pushtu. I was at one time attached to the consulate in Teheran, which is why I came to be assigned to this job.”
“This job being?”
“The Marquis Karasu. He's expected, but to date he hasn't arrived. That's a dangerous man, sir.”
“I am well aware of it; but Colonel Gaudian and Dr. Rosener are dangerous also. How did you recognize them for Germans?”
“I could see the mark below the big one's right eye where he sometimes wears a monocle. I wear one myself and I know. And now, Major Baruk, perhaps your friend here would explain his place on the field.”
Omar Ali Shah had stood, arms folded, silent, expressionless but for the fire in his dark eyes; now he spoke.
“I am here to slay Saffaridi the Rat. This I shall do at sunset.”
“You see,” the bimbashi explained, “his daughter has been abducted.”
Mr. Lord nodded. “So the girl is his daughter? They brought her in just before daybreak. She is safe until tonight. Saffaridi has gone to fetch an obliging imam. It is to be a regular wedding. But the death rate among Saffaridi's women is pretty high.”
“His affair will finish ere another moon arises,” said Omar Ali Shah. “The Companions are secretly posted around his dunghill. I, myself, shall strike his head from his body at the hour appointed.”
“We make a strong team,” remarked Mr. Lord. 'Let's work together.”
ZARA, DAUGHTER of Omar Ali Shah, was sixteen, tiny, and a little creature lovely as Khorassan, whose women are noted, ever gave to the world.
Herminiature perfection was fascinating: she reminded the observer of one of those exquisite water-color drawings for which the artists of Ispahan were formerly famous. Her beautiful eyes, silken-fringed, were the eyes of a woman, but her face was the face of a child. She had been weeping. She had wept all through the wedding ceremony recently performed—a ceremony which she knew to be contrary to strict Moslem law; now, in an ornate bridal suite, women were preparing her to welcome her new lord and master. They loaded her with jewels which weighed down her slender arms; they draped her to allure. Unhappiness had given place to despair; despair to desperation. Up to this very hour she had prayed, and believed, that rescue would come; for Omar Ali Shah was rich and powerful, respected by his friends and feared by his enemies. She knew that he wielded some mysterious influence, although she had no idea of its nature; but she had been told by her old nurse tales of his deeds which had led the child to look upon her father as a magician.
When a woman sprayed perfume upon her robe, “I shall kill him,” hissed Zara between clenched teeth.
Her attendants exchanged uneasy glances. This daughter of Omar Ali was unlike any other of the women whom the Lord Saffaridi had honored. A hasty consultation took place in an anteroom between one of the attendants and some invisible male who spoke in uncertain reedy tones. As the trembling Zara was led to a great canopied couch resembling a tent of green and gold, the attendant returned, carrying a tall Venetian glass containing perfumed sherbet.
“The Lady Zara must be parched with tears, for tears dry up the wells of the heart and also impair the voice. Drink this, then, and rest a while.”
And Zara, who in fact was desperately thirsty, drank the sherbet and then lay back on silken pillows. Hope had all but fled—except the hope of revenge; but she had searched those rooms in vain for some weapon which might serve her purpose. She had had to do so surreptitiously, for she had never been alone, and so now she spoke, in a dreamy voice.
“Leave me. I am weary.”
But it seemed to be a long time before the women withdrew. First, one of them lowered the green and gold draperies. A dim lamp hung inside, so that Zara, seen as through a haze, resembled a lovely vision. From somewhere in the distance stole faint sounds of music. Then, there was much business of clearing up the apartments and arranging gilt furniture for the eye of Saffaridi Khan. In fact, this was still going on when Zara experienced overpowering drowsiness. She hovered on the edge of sleep when the last woman retired. As a result, she remained unaware of a mysterious occurrence.
There was a deeply recessed lattice window at the left of the canopied bed, and one of its small grilles was raised silently. An arm reached in and released the bolts which closed carved shutters below. The shutters were pushed open, revealing a balcony which overhung a garden, and admitting a draft of keen night air. A tenor voice became audible, singing that plaintive ghazal of Hafiz, the burden of which (a theme familiar to every crooner) is: Why hast thou deserted me, O my beloved? But Zara never stirred.
Omar Ali Shah stepped in, swept aside the draperies of green and gold and raised his daughter gently. She opened her wonderful eyes in a glare of horror—which melted into an expression of complete happiness, of absolute trust.
“O my father,” she whispered, “I knew you would come,” and pressing her face against the fleecy hood of his burnous, she fell asleep in his arms—for the sherbet had been drugged.
Omar Ali Shah laid the sleeping girl down for a moment while he stripped off his warm cloak. This he wrapped about her, raised her again and went out onto the balcony, where a second hooded man had appeared. There were whispered instructions, a low cry; and the second man, guided by a third, below, carried Zara over the rail and down a ladder which had been placed in the garden underneath. Omar Ali Shah watched from the balcony until another faint cry came; he returned to the bedchamber, closing the lattice. He wore a camel-hair tunic, white breeches and highly polished black riding boots. In his belt were a heavy repeater and the plaited hilt of a huge knife protruding from its leather scabbard. His fierce eyes surveyed the room searchingly. A long, narrow satin cushion attracted his attention. He crossed to where it lay, took it up and placed it beneath the sheets, disposing them to represent a hidden sleeper. Then, he merged with ghostly shadows in the window recess.
Downstairs, in a large saloon lighted by twelve lamps of perforated silver hanging from the ceiling, Saffaridi Khan entertained his guests. Three screened windows opened upon the garden and there were four doors to the saloon. On a dais a
t one end an entertainment had taken place; singers, musicians and dancers of Saffaridi's extensive household had appeared. All this had been preceded by a feast which would have satisfied the appetite of Henry VIII, and had gone far to satisfy that of Colonel Gaudian. Nor had wine been lacking at this Moslem board; in fact, Dr. Rosener was slightly drunk and unmistakably happy. A dark-eyed damsel with an expensive figure filled his glass, and he beamed appreciation through misty spectacles. From time to time the doctor entertained a vague impression that her twin sister was present also. Seated, Dr. Rosener normally was not without dignity, since there was then no evidence of penguinitis, or as it is sometimes called, duck's disease; but when he stood up he stepped down.
THE NIGHT was yet young when Saffaridi Khan informed his guests that he must leave them. He was a man of fine presence, wearing a pointed beard which lent to him something of the character of a Saracen knight; but his amber eyes scowled while his lips smiled, and laughed when he frowned. His retirement, he insisted, did not mean the end of the entertainment; his steward was at their command, his musicians, his dancers at their disposal until dawn if need be. A matter of urgency demanded his attention—they would excuse him; he would be at their service in the morning.
Saffaridi Khan withdrew, and Dr. Rosener, glass in hand, turned to Colonel Gaudian. At their host's request, they had not discarded their native characters, but he had provided them with robes of a more dignified description.
“I am of opinion, Colonel,” said the doctor, “that here we may redeem some of our lost credit.”
“I do not share your opinion.”
Dr. Rosener set his glass down and, one elbow propped on the table, bent toward Colonel Gaudian.
“What do you say?”
“I say I do not agree with you.”
Dr. Rosener closed one eye, the better to discern Colonel Gaudian's expression; this he studied with some care.
“Oh,” he remarked, and drank reflectively.
“In the first place,” said the colonel, speaking German, “why has Karasu failed to appear? These yellow fellows seem to have sources of information denied to us. It is certain that Saffaridi Khan is known to be a friend of the Nazis; therefore it is not impossible that steps are to be taken against him. We may have walked into a trap; Karasu may have avoided it. Again—why has our host left us?”
Dr. Rosener winked, and having learned that he saw more clearly with one than with two, allowed the winking lid to remain closed. He bent again to Gaudian.
“A little bird whispered—” He looked about him. “Ah, she has gone. But a little bird whispered—”
He lowered his voice in a drunken confidence which ended in chuckles. Colonel Gaudian nodded and was about to speak, when a most appalling sound rang through the house. It struck some of the high color from Dr. Rosener's cheeks and brought the colonel to his feet like a trumpet call. It was a wild, a despairing cry; it was a shriek which melted into a groan—a sound to chill the blood, laying icy fingers on the stoutest heart.
“Gott! what has happened?”
People seemed to be running about all over the building. The saloon had become deserted. There were remote voices, frightened calls; above all, a sound of persistent knocking from somewhere upstairs. Colonel Gaudian strode toward one of the doors, but before he could reach it another door was thrown open and a man ran in, wearing resplendent livery, a man unwholesomely fat who had a voice like a clarinet.
“My lord! We are afraid that something terrible has occurred!”
“Why don't you make sure?” asked Gaudian reasonably.
“He is in the harem apartments, my gentlemen; they are locked, and I had his orders that whatever took place I was to allow no one to enter. He has the keys.”
“Those orders do not apply to me. Lead the way.” The command was obeyed, and as Colonel Gaudian set out Dr. Rosener followed. He was disagreeably surprised to learn that the floors of this house were not immovable, as he had supposed, and that a staircase upon which presently he found himself possessed certain qualities in common with escalators, furthermore presenting unusual features peculiarly its own. Fright had induced hiccoughs, which added to the doctor's embarrassments.
In front of a door in a recess before which hung a brass lamp, the party paused. The corridor leading to this door was peopled by muffled shadowy women. They dispersed like ghosts. An effeminate young man, his handsome face pallid, stood in the recess.
Colonel Gaudian hurled his considerable bulk against the door. It creaked but stood firm. A second and third assault found it still closed.
“Damnation!”
Dragging out his repeater, he stooped and fired a shot into a large keyhole. Then he hurled himself yet again at the door; and it burst open with such expedition that he pitched heavily into a lighted bedchamber beyond.
“My God!” Dr. Rosener was the speaker. “He has no head!”
This circumstance was objectionably obvious, but the solecism passed without comment. Clutching in his rigid fingers a considerable portion of green and gold drapery which he had dragged with him as he fell, Saffaridi Khan lay beside the bridal bed, a spectacle which a professional headsman might have viewed with satisfaction, but one to turn the stomach of a lesser man. After one glimpse, the handsome youth had swooned.
“Search the rooms!” roared Colonel Gaudian.
But search availed them not at all, and finally they trooped downstairs again, conscious of an urge for brandy. As they entered by one door, two men entered by another and confronted them. One of these was a tall, lean man, who smoked a cigar, and the other was a bearded dervish. Colonel Gaudian turned in a flash. A figure wearing a hooded burnous occupied the doorway through which he had come in and had a rifle raised. The colonel faced the saloon again; his green-blue eyes were suffused.
“Good evening.” The tall man was speaker; temporarily he had removed his cigar. “Colonel Otto Gaudian and Dr. Rosener, I believe. My name is Horace Lord. I represent the U. S. Army. This is Major Baruk, who represents the British. I shall be glad, gentlemen, if you will regard yourselves as our prisoners.”
He replaced his cigar, turning to Bimbashi Baruk; at which moment Colonel Gaudian twitched his pistol from its hiding place, fired, and Mr. Lord's long cigar became reduced to a short stump. The colonel would have fired again if something had not glittered in the lamplight.
Dropping his weapon, he choked, raised his hands, dropped them and, still choking, crashed forward onto the floor. Several inches of a serviceable knife skillfully thrown had completely severed his jugular.
Mr. Lord surveyed the cigar stump and glanced at a patch of broken plaster on a wall behind him.
“Near miss, that,” he remarked, as Omar Ali Shah appeared from somewhere and redeemed his knife, which he thoughtfully cleaned upon a portion of the dead man's garments. Knife in hand, he stood upright.
“I am obliged, sir,” said Mr. Lord.
“Justice has been served tonight,” was Omar Ali's simple acknowledgment. “Praise God to Whom be all glory.” He turned to Dr. Rosener. “Your friend was a brave man. Permit me to spare you also the inconvenience of a long journey,” he suggested courteously.
Arms outflung, the now sober doctor staggered toward Mr. Lord; but it was Bimbashi Baruk who answered.
“This man you must leave toour justice.”
Omar Ali Shah replaced the dreadful blade in its scabbard at his belt.
“You are of the Companions,” he said gravely. “Your wishes are mine. Take your prisoner away; we are about to fire the house.”
Less than an hour later, under a rising moon, Bimbashi Baruk and Mr. Lord, from outside the ancient caravanserai which formed the latter's advanced headquarters, watched leaping flames and a reddened canopy of smoke over the ruins of the house of Saffaridi Khan. Omar Ali Shah had bidden them farewell half an hour ago, embracing the bimbashi and placing on his finger a silver ring fashioned to represent a scorpion with its tail in its mouth. Then he had disappeared sile
ntly on his thoroughbred camel. And now came the Companions, who rode Arab horses. In a compact body they appeared from the direction of the town and passed the inn like a dust-storm. Every man swung up his right hand in passing, and Bimbashi Baruk stood stiffly at the salute. As those hooded horsemen of the Scorpion of Kashan, a phantom company, swept on their way to the hills, he remarked:
“It seems to me that the Companions would make uncommonly sound guerrillas.”
“GENERAL DESMOND COOPER and Colonel P. J. Western, of the U. S. Army, have left Cairo by air for Teheran to confer with British and Russian authorities on the problem of deliveries across Persia.”
The above paragraph appeared in scores of newspapers. It was official; it was a plain statement of fact; but it is also a plain statement of fact that the sequel introduced circumstances so totally inexplicable that even Bimbashi Baruk found himself at fault. These circumstances were brought to his notice by Colonel Roden-Pyne, of the Cairo Intelligence Department, sitting back, half sideways, with one long leg thrown across an arm of his office chair.
“Meaning that I am to go slinking around in disguise again?”
“Meaning that I am interested in a certain Mr. Ko.”
“How is it spelled?”
“K-o. He is a Japanese gentleman.”
Bimbashi Baruk, elbows resting on the big, neat desk, puffed at his pipe reflectively.
“I am not Nippon-conscious,” he declared. “All Japs look alike to me.”
“You must correct your perspective.”
“To contemplate the features of General Tojo is to find myself transported to the highest branch of the tallest coconut tree. I have never been able to take Nippon seriously.”
“You are compelled to take Mr. Ko seriously.”
“Why the personal note? You mean, no doubt,'One is compelled,' et cetera.”
“Exactly—and that one is you.”
As old and intimate friends, the colonel and Bimbashi Baruk scrapped formality in private, but now the bimbashi registered firm, Army Regulations opposition.