by Talbot Mundy
“There are two things that have stuck in my memory that Lord Salisbury used to say when I was an Eton boy, spending a holiday at Hatfield House,” said Monty. “One was, Never talk fight unless you mean fight; then fight, don’t talk. The other was, Always study the largest maps.”
“Who’s talking fight?” demanded Fred.
Monty ignored him. “Even this map isn’t big enough to give a real idea of distances, but it helps. You see, there’s no railway beyond Victoria Nyanza. Anything at all might happen in those great spaces beyond Uganda. Borderlands are quarrel-grounds. I should say the junction of British, Belgian, and German territory where Arab loot lies buried is the last place to dally in unarmed. You fellows ‘ud better scour Zanzibar in the morning for the best guns to be had here.”
So I went to bed at midnight with that added stuff for building dreams. He who has bought guns remembers with a thrill; he who has not, has in store for him the most delightful hours of life. May he fall, as our lot was, on a gunsmith who has mended hammerlocks for Arabs, and who loves rifles as some greater rascals love a woman or a horse.
We all four strolled next morning, clad in the khaki reachmedowns that a Goanese “universal provider” told us were the “latest thing,” into a den between a camel stable and an even mustier-smelling home of gloom, where oxen tied nose-to-tail went round and round, grinding out semsem everlastingly while a lean Swahili sang to them. When he ceased, they stopped. When he sang, they all began again.
In a bottle-shaped room at the end of a passage squeezed between those two centers of commerce sat the owner of the gun-store, part Arab, part Italian, part Englishman, apparently older than sin itself, toothless, except for one yellow fang that lay like an ornament over his lower lip, and able to smile more winningly than any siren of the sidewalk. Evidently he shaved at intervals, for white stubble stood out a third of an inch all over his wrinkled face. The upper part of his head was utterly bald, slippery, shiny, smooth, and adorned by an absurd, round Indian cap, too small, that would not stay in place and had to be hitched at intervals.
He said his name was Captain Thomas Cook, and the license to sell firearms framed on the mud-brick wall bore him witness. (May he live forever under any name he chooses!)
“Goons?” he said. “Goons? You gentlemen want goons? I have the goon what settled the hash of Sayed bin Mohammed — here it be. This other one’s the rifle — see the nicks on her butt! — that Kamarajes the Greek used. See ’em — Arab goons — slaver goons — smooth-bore elephant goons — fours, eights, twelves — Martinis — them’s the lot that was reekin’ red-hot, days on end, in the last Arab war on the Congo, considerable used up but goin’ cheap; — then here’s Mausers (he pronounced it “Morsers”) — old-style, same as used in 1870 — good goons they be, long o’ barrel and strong, but too high trajectory for some folks; — some’s new style, magazines an’ all — fine till a grain o’ sand jams ’em oop; — an’ Lee-Enfields, souvenirs o’ the Boer War, some o’ them bought from folks what plundered a battle-field or two — mostly all in good condition. Look at this one — see it — hold it — take a squint along it! Nineteen elephants shot wi’ that Lee-Enfield, an’ the man’s in jail for shootin’ of ’em! Sold at auction by the gov’ment, that one was. See, here’s an Express — a beauty — owned by an officer fr’m Indy — took by a shark ‘e was, in swimmin’ against all advice, him what had hunted tigers! There’s no goon store a quarter as good as mine ‘tween Cairo an’ the Cape or Bombay an-’ Boma! Captain Cook’s the boy to sell ye goons all right! Sit down. Look ’em over. Ask anything ye want to know. I’ll tell ye. No obligation to buy.”
There is no need to fit out with guns and tents in London. Until both good and bad, both cowardly and brave give up the habit of dying in bed, or getting killed, or going broke, or ending up in jail for one cause and the other, there will surely always be fine pickings for men on the spot with a little money and a lot of patience — guns, tents, cooking pots, and all the other things.
We spent a morning with Captain Thomas Cook, and left the store — Fred, Yerkes and I — with a battery of weapons, including a pistol apiece — that any expedition might be proud of. (Monty, since he had to go home in any case, preferred to look over the family gun-room before committing himself.)
Then, since the first leg of the journey would be the same for all of us we bought other kit, packed it, and booked passages for British East Africa. Between then and the next afternoon when the British India steamboat sailed we were fairly bombarded by inquisitiveness, but contrived not to tell much. And with patience beyond belief Monty restrained us from paying court to Tippoo Tib.
“The U. S. Consul says he’s better worth a visit than most of the world’s museums,” Yerkes assured us two or three times. “He says Tippoo Tib’s a fine old sport — damned rogue — slave-hunter, but white somewhere near the middle. What’s the harm in our having a chin with him?”
But Monty was adamant.
“A call on him would prove nothing, but he and his friends would suspect. Spies would inform the German government. No. Let’s act as if Tippoo Tib were out of mind.”
We grumbled, but we yielded. Hassan came again, shiny with sweat and voluble with offers of information and assistance.
“Where you gentlemen going?” he kept asking.
“England,” said Monty, and showed his own steamer ticket in proof of it.
That settled Hassan for the time but Georges Coutlass was not so easy. He came swaggering upstairs and thumped on Monty’s door with the air of a bearer of king’s messages.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked. (We were all sitting on Monty’s bed, and it was Yerkes who opened the door.)
“Do you an injury,” said Yerkes, “unless you take your foot away!” The Greek had placed it deftly to keep the door open pending his convenience.
“Let him have his say” advised Monty from the bed.
“Where are you going? Hassan told me England. Are you all going to England? If so, why have you bought guns? What will you do with six rifles, three shot-guns, and three pistols on the London streets? What will you do with tents in London? Will you make campfires in Regent Circus, that you take with you all those cooking pots? And all that rice, is that for the English to eat? Bah! No tenderfoot can fool me! You go to find my ivory, d’you hear! You think to get away with it unknown to me! I tell you I have sharp ears! By Jingo; there is nothing I can not find out that goes on in Africa! You think to cheat me? Then you are as good as dead men! You shall die like dogs! I will smithereen the whole damned lot of you before you touch a tusk!”
“Get out of here!” growled Yerkes.
“Give him a chance to go quietly, Will,” urged Monty, and Coutlass heard him. Peaceful advice seemed the last spark needed to explode his crowded magazines of fury. He clenched his fists — spat because the words would not flow fast enough — and screamed.
“Give me a chance, eh? A chance, eh?” Other doors began opening, and the appearance of an audience stimulated him to further peaks of rage. “The only chance I need is a sight of your carcasses within range, and a long range will do for Georges Coutlass!” He glared past Yerkes at Monty who had risen leisurely. “You call yourself a lord? I call you a thief! A jackal!”
“Here, get out!” growled Yerkes, self-constituted Cerberus.
“I will go when I damned please, you Yankee jackanapes!” the Greek retorted through set teeth. Yerkes is a free man, able and willing to shoulder his own end of any argument. He closed, and the Greek’s ribs cracked under a vastly stronger hug than he had dreamed of expecting. But Coutlass was no weakling either, and though he gasped he gathered himself for a terrific effort.
“Come on!” said Monty, and went past me through the door like a bolt from a catapult. Fred followed me, and when he saw us both out on the landing Monty started down the stairs.
“Come on!” he called again.
We followed, for there is no use in choosing a leader if you don’
t intend to obey him, even on occasions when you fail at once to understand. There was one turn on the wide stairs, and Monty stood there, back to the wall.
“Go below, you fellows, and catch!” he laughed. “We don’t want Will jailed for homicide!”
The struggle was fierce and swift. Coutlass searched with a thumb for Will’s eye, and stamped on his instep with an iron-shod heel. But he was a dissolute brute, and for all his strength Yerkes’ cleaner living very soon told. Presently Will spared a hand to wrench at the ambitious thumb, and Coutlass screamed with agony. Then he began to sway this way and that without volition of his own, yielding his balance, and losing it again and again. In another minute Yerkes had him off his feet, cursing and kicking.
“Steady, Will!” called Monty from below; but it was altogether too late for advice. Will gathered himself like a spring, and hurled the Greek downstairs backward.
Then the point of Monty’s strategy appeared. He caught him, saved him from being stunned against the wall, and, before the Greek could recover sufficiently to use heels and teeth or whisk out the knife he kept groping for, hurled him a stage farther on his journey — face forward this time down to where Fred and I were waiting. We kicked him out into the street too dazed to do anything but wander home.
“Are you hurt, Will?” laughed Monty. “This isn’t the States, you know; by gad, they’ll jail you here if you do your own police work! Instead of Brussels I’d have had to stay and hire lawyers to defend you!”
“Aw — quit preaching!” Yerkes answered. “If I hadn’t seen you there on the stairs with your mouth open I’d have been satisfied to put him down and spank him!”
It was then that the much more unexpected struck us speechless — even Monty for the moment, who is not much given to social indecision. We had not known there was a woman guest in that hotel. One does not look in Zanzibar for ladies with a Mayfair accent unaccompanied by menfolk able to protect them. Yet an indubitable Englishwoman, expensively if carelessly dressed, came to the head of the stairs and stood beside Yerkes looking down at the rest of us with a sort of well bred, rather tolerant scorn.
“Am I right in believing this is Lord Montdidier?” she asked, pronouncing the word as it should be — Mundidger.
She had been very beautiful. She still was handsome in a hard-lipped, bold way, with abundant raven hair and a complexion that would have been no worse for a touch of rouge. She seemed to scorn all the conventional refinements, though. Her lacy white dress, open at the neck, was creased and not too clean, but she wore in her bosom one great jewel like a ruby, set in brilliants, that gave the lie to poverty provided the gems were real. And the amber tube through which she smoked a cigarette was seven or eight inches long and had diamonds set in a gold band round its middle. She wore no wedding ring that I could see; and she took no more notice of Will Yerkes beside her than if he had been a part of the furniture.
“Why do you ask?” asked Monty, starting upstairs. She had to make way for him, for Will Yerkes stood his ground.
“A fair question!” she laughed. Her voice had a hard ring, but was very well trained and under absolute control. I received the impression that she had been a singer at some time. “I am Lady Saffren Waldon — Isobel Saffren Waldon.”
Fred and I had followed Monty up and were close behind him. I heard him mutter, “Oh, lord!” under his breath.
“I knew your brother,” she added.
“I know you did.”
“You think that gives me no claim on your acquaintance? Perhaps it doesn’t. But as an unprotected woman—”
“There is the Residency,” objected Monty, “and the law.”
She laughed bitterly. “Thank you, I am in need of no passage home! I overheard that ruffian say, and I think I heard you say too that you are going to England. I want you to take a message for me.”
“There is a post-office here,” said Monty without turning a hair. He looked straight into her iron eyes. “There is a cable station. I will lend you money to cable with.”
“Thank you, my Lord!” she sneered. “I have money. I am so used to being snubbed that my skin would not feel a whip! I want you to take a verbal message!”
It was perfectly evident that Monty would rather have met the devil in person than this untidy dame; yet he was only afraid apparently of conceding her too much claim on his attention. (If she had asked favors of me I don’t doubt I would have scrambled to be useful. I began mentally taking her part, wondering why Monty should treat her so cavalierly; and I fancy Yerkes did the same.)
“Tell me the message, and I’ll tell you whether I’ll take it,” said
Monty.
She laughed again, even more bitterly.
“If I could tell it on these stairs,” she answered, “I could cable it.
They censor cablegrams, and open letters in this place.”
“I suspect that isn’t true,” said Monty. “But if you object to witnesses, how do you propose to deliver your message to me?” he asked pointedly.
“You mean you refuse to speak with me alone?”
“My friends would draw out of earshot,” he answered.
“Your friends? Your gang, you mean!” She drew herself up very finely — very stately. Very lovely she was to look at in that half-light, with the shadows of Tippoo Tib’s* old stairway hiding her tale of years. But I felt my regard for her slipping downhill (and so, I rather think did Yerkes). “You look well, Lord Montdidier, trapesing about the earth with a leash of mongrels at your heel! Falstaff never picked up a more sordid-looking pack! What do you feed them — bones? Are there no young bloods left of your own class, that you need travel with tradesmen?”
—— —— —— * The principal hotel In Zanzibar was formerly Tippoo Tib’s residence, quite a magnificent mansion for that period and place. —— —— ——
Monty stood with both hands behind him and never turned a hair. Fred Oakes brushed up the ends of that troubadour mustache of his and struck more or less of an attitude. Will reddened to the ears, and I never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.
“So this is your gang, is it?” she went on. “It looks sober at present! I suppose I must trust you to control them! I dare say even tavern brawlers respect you sufficiently to keep a lady’s secret if you order them. I will hope they have manhood enough to hold their tongues!”
Of course, dressed in the best that Zanzibar stores had to offer we scarcely looked like fashion plates. My shirt was torn where Coutlass had seized it to resist being thrown out, but I failed to see what she hoped to gain by that tongue lashing, even supposing we had been the lackeys she pretended to believe we were.
“The message is to my brother,” she went on.
“I don’t know him!” put in Monty promptly.
“You mean you don’t like him! Your brother had him expelled from two or three clubs, and you prefer not to meet him! Nevertheless, I give you this message to take to him! Please tell him — you will find him at his old address — that I, his sister, Lady Saffren Waldon, know now the secret of Tippoo Tib’s ivory. He is to join me here at once, and we will get it, and sell it, and have money, and revenge! Will you tell him that!”
“No!” answered Monty.
I looked at Yerkes, Yerkes looked at Fred, and Fred at me.
There was nothing to do but feel astonished.
“Why not, if you please?”
“I prefer not to meet Captain McCauley,” said Monty.
“Then you will give the message to somebody else?” she insisted.
“No” said Monty. “I will carry no message for you.”
“Why do you say that? How dare you say that? In front of your following — your gang!”
I should have been inclined to continue the argument myself — to try to find out what she did know, and to uncover her game. It was obvious she must have some reason for her extraordinary request, and her more extraordinary way of making it. But Monty saw fit to stride past her through his open bedroom door
, and shut it behind him firmly. We stood looking at her and at one another stupidly until she turned her back and went to her own room on the floor above. Then we followed Monty.
“Did she say anything else?” he asked as soon as we were inside. I noticed he was sweating pretty freely now.
“Didums, you’re too polite!” Fred answered. “You ought to have told her to keep her tongue housed or be civil!”
“I don’t hold with hitting back at a lone woman,” said Yerkes, “but what was she driving at? What did she mean by calling us a pack of mongrels?”
“Merely her way,” said Monty offhandedly. “Those particular McCauleys never amounted to much. She married a baronet, and he divorced her. Bad scandal. Saffren Waldon was at the War Office. She stole papers, or something of that sort — delivered them to a German paramour — von Duvitz was his name, I think. She and her brother were lucky to keep out of jail. Ever since then she has been — some say a spy, some say one thing, some another. My brother fell foul of her, and lived to regret it. She’s on her last legs I don’t doubt, or she wouldn’t be in Zanzibar.”
“Then why the obvious nervous sweat you’re in?” demanded Fred.
“And that doesn’t account for the abuse she handed out to us,” said
Yerkes.
“Why not tip off the authorities that she’s a notorious spy?” I asked.
“I suspect they know all about her,” he answered.
“But why your alarm?” insisted Fred.
“I’m scarcely alarmed, old thing. But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, that she wants us to believe she knows what we’re after. She’s vindictive. She imagines she owes me a grudge on my brother’s account. It might soothe her to think she had made me nervous. And by gad — it sounds like lunacy, and mind you I’m not propounding it for fact! — there’s just one chance that she really does know where the ivory is!”