by Sax Rohmer
“That's perfectly simple,” said Captain Maitland. “Miss Yuan, a highly intelligent girl, was checking details of the route in a guidebook.”
“Of course she was,” the bimbashi conceded. “But why did she mark a certain page with a piece of red wool?”
“It was the page she was reading at the time something occurred,”
“There, Maitland, I fear I cannot agree with you. In my opinion, it was the page she had begun to readafter something had occurred.”
“How do you arrive at that, sir?” Carr asked.
“Very simply.” Bimbashi Baruk took the book from a capacious pocket in his camel-hair coat. “She has not only marked the page but she has also placed a penciled ring around the paragraph. This is the paragraph:
” 'Wadi-el-Hamiz (theHamiza of the Crusades), a small, dried-up oasis on the Plain of Roty; once a resting place for caravans on the ancient road from Aleppo to Basra. Contains a ruined mosque erected by En-Nasir in 1318: is uninhabited.”
He returned the book to his pocket and glanced inquiringly from face to face. “Any comments?”
“Rather!” The cry came from Carr; he was galvanized. “El Hamiz is about sixty miles northwest of Rutbah, just over the Syrian border and plumb between the two pipe lines. There was a project floated not long before the war to make it a refueling station on a new commercial airway. The route was from Beirut to Basra and was intended to connect with a steamer service from Trieste. It was a German-Italian scheme, and I think our people smelled a big rat. Anyhow, it was washed up. There is supposed to be water somewhere, and I understand that artesian borings had actually begun.”
“Have you been there?”
“Personally, no; but it's marked on all our maps as a good emergency landing. I fancy that the airfield had been partially laid out, but of course it would be overgrown now.”
“No doubt,” the bimbashi agreed, and his regard momentarily grew dreamy again. “You will note, Maitland, that El Hamiz is not on the normal route to Baghdad, although Miss Yuan had carefully marked it. But I hope that I have made it clear that quite a lot of our evidence doesn't add up. For example, how can we fit in the deliberate misinformation given to Rutbah?”
“What misinformation?” asked Maitland. “I saw the plane myself; watched it through my glasses until it was nearly out of sight. The pilot's report was handed to me. Simply read 'All's well. Walburton.'”
“That,” said Bimbashi Baruk, “is the deliberate misinformation to which I refer. Bearing in mind the fact that at Rutbah Walburton was twenty minutes late, a considerable time must have elapsed since the steward had prepared cocktails—and they were never served. General Cooper never completed his postscript—” He looked from face to face, noting effects as the implication of this small but remarkable episode became clear to Maitland and Carr.
“Good lord, sir!” Carr exploded. “It almost looks as though—”
“On the evidence found in the plane, you mean, it almost looks as though the party never reached Rutbah?”
“But, damn it, I can trust my own eyes!” cried Maitland. “With respect, I don't see that your reasoning is necessarily right. It is always possible, for instance, that a member of the party was taken ill.”
“There is a medical officer at Rutbah. Walburton would have made a landing there, rather than report 'All's well.'”
“At any rate,” Carr exclaimed, “he wouldn't have brought the patienthere!”
But Bimbashi Baruk had permitted his attention to wander; he was gazing analytically at a wheel of the undercarriage. In morning light it presented a curiously speckled appearance, seeming to be mottled with countless flecks of light blue. This phenomenon demanded closer inquiry, and he moved across, knelt down and began to scrape bright fragments from the wheel. Holding a number of these in his left palm, he stood up, turned—and the somewhat saturnine face was transfigured.
“Look!” He extended his hand. “Blue wind-flowers:anemones. Walburton landed somewhere else before he landed here—at some place carpeted with early wildflowers! Anemones are among the first. You used the words quite recently, Carr, 'But of course it would be overgrown now—'”
“El Hamiz!” cried Carr. “Good lord, sir! Walburton must have been forced down at El Hamiz!”
“Are you mad, or am I?” Maitland demanded. “If Walburton landed at El Hamiz, why did he afterward cross Rutbah and report 'All's well?”
“There is no evidence whatever,” said Bimbashi Baruk, “to show that Walburton ever did cross Rutbah.”
RUTBAH REGAINED, the bimbashi had speedy corroboration of a theory which had presented itself to his mind as the only logical explanation of an episode otherwise inexplicable. Colonel Roden-Pyne had telephoned an order to the effect that he was to be called up the moment Bimbashi Baruk returned. The call was put through.
“Hullo, B.B.—urgent news for you. Anything to report?”
“Yes; I have found the missing plane.”
“It was the real one, eh? Well?”
“Not a soul on board.”
“Good God!” Colonel Roden-Pyne's voice gave the impression of a flat tire. “But the transport plans?”
“I regret to say are missing. I have come to the conclusion—”
“Wait a minute. There's something you must know. The new code—I call it Ack-Toc—is out of commission. The other side has got hold of it! I have the man responsible—a native clerk—but it's cold consolation. They knew all about General Cooper's journey—even the identity word—”
“That is the conclusion to which I had come.”
“What! How?”
“It's a long story, and I am in the middle of a job.”
“Any hope?”
“Some. The plane has just come in, and I find myself curiously interested in the fact that General Cooper is a non-smoker. I have an inquiry to make on this subject before starting.”
“Where for?”
“El Hamiz.”
Reconnaissance of El Hamiz by plane revealed, notably, a V-shaped patch of brilliant blue shining like an enameled victory sign set in the desert. This was the abandoned airfield, now a meadow of wildflowers. Near by lay a long, squat building, surrounded by what appeared to be remains of a wall. Ruins of smaller structures were dotted here and there. The mosque of En-Nasir stood some distance from the site, and about it there bloomed another floral carpet, so that from above its dome resembled a lonely mushroom growing in an azure field. Streaks of shadow, broken in places, marked the course of the ancient caravan road from Aleppo to Basra. Excluding an assembly of carrion crows, which took the air as the plane approached, no living thing was visible.
Bimbashi Baruk experienced an unpleasant pang. The presence of vultures is always significant; and while inclusion of a woman in the general's party must have added to their difficulties, it was reasonable to suppose that someone would have attempted the trek to Rutbah to summon aid. There were other possibilities, including that of his being in error throughout—the possibility that Walburton had never landed at El Hamiz at all.
“Apparently not in enemy possession,” said Carr; and then: “Hullo! What's that?”
A flash of light had showed momentarily from a point between the wall and the low building.
“Field glasses,” replied the bimbashi: “somebody watching us.”
Carr banked in a sharp turn, and they swept back over the airfield. Almost at the same moment a man came running out into brilliant sunshine below; he was waving some white object which might have been—and was—a towel.
Bimbashi Baruk focused his glasses. He saw that the man with a towel was attired in shirt and trousers, both of khaki color; that he had a profusion of gray hair.
“Shall I make a landing, sir?”
“Yes.”
They sank down onto a carpet of blue anemones with shallow sandy soil beneath and some firm flat foundation. As Bimbashi Baruk climbed out, the gray-haired man, breathless but clear-eyed, came up.
“Do
I address Brigadier General Cooper?”
“You do.”
“I am Major Baruk, and more than happy to see you well, sir.”
But General Cooper's manner remained unaccountably furtive, even when he acknowledged the bimbashi's salute and accepted his hand.
“Do you entertain some doubts concerning me?” Baruk asked sharply. “Possibly Flight-lieutenant Carr can reassure you.”
Indeed, the youthful joy of that officer had a most beneficent effect, and General Cooper explained himself.
“I apologize most sincerely, Major,” he said. “I believe you will understand when you know the facts.”
But even as he spoke, the bimbashi was glancing around him interrogatively.
“You are wondering about the other members of my party?” the general suggested. “If you will come across to temporary headquarters”—he smilingly indicated the squat building—“and permit me to complete my toilet, which your welcome arrival interrupted, I will tell you the story.”
And this was the story.
“ABOUT THREE MINUTES of six it happened. The steward was mixing drinks and I was writing a letter. I noticed some disturbance, and Sergeant Marks came to tell me that urgent orders had just come through. An unidentified plane was between us and Rutbah, and we were instructed to change direction north-northwest and make for a place called El Hamiz, where we would find a British party. There we must land, and await further orders. I asked him, 'Is El Hamiz a regular airfield?' He said he didn't know, but that the situation was evidently serious, as we were warned not to use our radio. We couldn't disturb the pilots for details, but Miss Yuan had a guidebook in which El Hamiz was mentioned. She marked the paragraph and passed the book around. It didn't sound promising: in fact, even drinks were forgotten, and everybody was looking out for enemy aircraft....”
Walburton arrived at El Hamiz, exchanged messages, and alighted on the azure runway. A party of armed men wearing British battle dress surrounded the plane; a lieutenant of artillery received the general and other passengers. Accompanied by Miss Yuan, Colonel Western and Captain Wallace, the general engaged in conversation with Lieutenant O'Neil (for so he had introduced himself), crossed to that long, low building which they had observed from the air. “Don't bother to bring anything,” Lieutenant O'Neil had said. “I am happy to tell you that the plane will be leaving again, on a new course, almost immediately.”
Entering a bleak, concrete apartment, lighted by iron-barred windows, General Cooper found himself and his friends under cover of a machine gun, the nose of which protruded through an opening in the wall! Lieutenant O'Neil stepped outside, closed the door and addressed them through one of the windows.
“I must apologize for this interruption of your journey, but I am merely obeying orders. I am a German officer. Any sound will result in the machine gun opening fire. This I should regret. To your smaller personal belongings I fear you must say good-bye, but your heavy baggage will be restored to you. There is water and some rations.”
A trifling misunderstanding arose, but was soon settled, before the R.A.F. complement of the plane, escorted by three armed men, marched up to join the general's party. Sergeant Marks was seen to be developing a black eye.
When all were securely locked in the sergeant explained. “I spotted the dirty business a minute too late. There's aJap in charge out there!”
Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for the Oriental in question presently appeared at a barred window. General Cooper attempted to describe him, but Bimbashi Baruk interrupted.
“Please don't go in for a description, sir, because if you succeeded you would merely have described the entire Japanese race.”
The yellow gentleman was liberal in apologies, but explained that the transport plans carried by General Cooper were indispensable to his purpose. He was sure that so many resourceful officers would find a means of extricating themselves, and their charming lady companion, from this predicament. He retired; so did the machine gun. The mortified prisoners, all of whom were unarmed, watched their baggage being rapidly but systematically searched. They saw the plane take off again. They saw three cars, equipped with sand tires, set out bearing members of the “British party.” Last to embark were “Lieutenant O'Neil” and the Japanese. The latter, who was not in uniform, courteously raised his hat.
It was at this point in General Cooper's remarkable story, which had been related while he finished dressing, that Bimbashi Baruk felt impelled to inquire about the fate of the others.
“We broke out in eighteen hours, Major. It was a tough proposition. Marks and Dimes worked miracles.”
“But where are they?”
“Marks and Dimes set out right away on the trail to Rutbah. They took enough water and rations to last the journey, on a low quota, in case they didn't meet up with anybody or find a well on the road. Wallace and Camper followed—we drew lots; then Walburton and Western.”
“But Miss Yuan?”
“No doubt she, too, has been completing her toilet, for here she comes.”
Bimbashi Baruk turned as a slender girl entered from the sunshine. She wore a suit which Bond Street might have delivered that morning; her stockings and shoes were Fifth Avenue. Glossy black hair framed a face which resembled a placid ivory mask, but the fine, slightly oblique eyes said that there might be snow on sleeping volcanoes. Her acknowledgment of General Cooper's presentation of Bimbashi Baruk was that of one making a new and welcome acquaintance in the Park. In middle distance, standing by the plane, Flight-lieutenant Carr was visible, his interest in Miss Lotus Yuan clearly discernible even at long range.
“This place is a regular fortress, Major Baruk,” she said. Her voice was that of a silver bell and she spoke English which had no trace of accent. “It is built of concrete; you can see the mixers overgrown with wildflowers. It was their storehouse, I suppose, and they had to provide against Arab raiders. Smaller wooden buildings had been carried off, piecemeal. A stockade existed at some time, but little more than its foundations stand. Abandoned artesian borings are a quarter-mile to the west. The airfield is as you see it—a carpet of blue anemones.”
“To blue anemones,” declared Bimbashi Baruk, “I owe the pleasure of meeting you. But I fail to understand how you have existed here for more than three days and still contrive to resemble a cover design for a New York magazine.”
“We found a water tank,” said General Cooper. “It was pretty foul, certainly. But there was enough of iron rations left us to keep the party alive for a week at a pinch. Our heavy baggage was handed back—with the exception of one portfolio.”
“But I left all my make-up in the plane,” added Miss Yuan. “I am not as a rule so pale as this. When the general first sighted you, we were terrified—”
“I venture to doubt it.”
“We thought it was the enemy returning; we thought they had found out.”
“Indeed!” Bimbashi Baruk's white teeth were revealed in a smile which collaborated successfully with his blue eyes. “Found out what?”
“That the plans in General Cooper's portfolio were not the plans of the Persian supply route! You see, there are plenty of old maps and plans in Cairo, and I had a sort of intuition—intuitions are not Hitler's copyright. I scratched out some lettering and put other lettering in. It was easy.”
“She had a hunch, Major,” said the general. “It was right, too. We left the original plans at American headquarters. Those in the portfolio don't mean anything. I guess the Japanese thief beat it right for the Persian border, or he'd be back by now. Miss Yuan tells me that this hold-up is the work of a certain Mr. Ko.”
The bimbashi turned to Miss Yuan, who was watching him contemplatively.
“Do you mean that the man that you saw was Mr. Ko?”
“No, no,” the Chinese girl replied. “Marquis Karasu would not have been so easily tricked. The marquis is clever. He is my enemy, the enemy of my people. I had never seen the man who was here. But what I persuaded General Coop
er to do was this: I made photographs, much reduced, like aerographs, of the plans and of the text. These we brought with us. I could easily have printed suitable enlargements in Teheran. The negatives were in the general's attache case on the plane, and”—she performed odd little gestures with slim fingers—“the plane has gone.”
Bimbashi Baruk patted her gently on the shoulder.
“My dear Miss Yuan, your intuition has not been wasted. We have recovered the plane. Mr. Ko has failed through a fault common to his type of mentality—that of over-elaboration. The plane was flown to Rutbah, at a most terrific lick, to make up lost time, and, as he had stolen the code in use, messages were exchanged which allayed immediate suspicion. His chief object in getting rid of the plane was to defeat air reconnaissance here in case the radio messages had been picked up by someone else. Then it was abandoned in the Syrian desert, no doubt at a prearranged spot where some sort of transport for the pilots was waiting, and everything on board was left as found, further to confuse inquiry. They needed time for their journey, you see. I am concerned about your companions, I confess.” (As a matter of record, Marks and Dimes reached Rutbah some hours later and the other parties were picked up by patrols.) “But your aerographs are in safe hands.”
“What's that!” cried General Cooper, and his expression changed magically. “What's that?”
“I considered it my duty to read your unfinished letter, and I noted, sir, that you were a non-smoker. Some hours later the significance of this, considered in conjunction with the presence in your bag of a tin of Turkish cigarettes, dawned upon me. I examined the seal, and found that it had been very neatly tampered with. I broke it— and discovered the films. May I congratulate you, Miss Yuan? It is a pleasure—and a vast relief—to know that we have you on our side.”
Miss Yuan took the bimbashi's extended hand, and a faint flush, like that in the heart of a lotus, crept over her ivory cheeks.