Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “So-ho! So that’s the way of it! Done it before half a dozen times no doubt! That’s how they knew about the TNT, eh? You stole the memorandum off my desk. I remember now, you were in here that morning. What else have you taken?”

  “Nothing else, sir.”

  “I mean on other occasions.”

  “Nothing. I am no thief. I did not take any memorandum. As for this, it was unintentional — mere nervousness — I did it without thinking — I—”

  “Oh, piffle! Sit where you are. Now — look up at me. You’ve been in here to my knowledge twice since the morning that TNT memorandum came.

  “On the second occasion you followed up a letter you had written me. You said you had information too important to be put in writing. But you put a lot in that letter, didn’t you? It was pretty compromising, wasn’t it? And the additional information turned out to be so insignificant that I wondered why you bothered to come.

  “I know now. I was looking for that letter tonight, and it’s missing. It lay in this top drawer. You stole it back — now didn’t you?”

  Jenkins fairly yelled the last words at him and Charkas nearly shrank out of his skin.

  “I did not! On my honor, I swear I did not!”

  Jenkins reached for a whalebone riding-whip that hung from a nail on the wall.

  “Admit it, you — , or I’ll thrash the life out of you.”

  To Jenkins’ surprise, instead of capitulating and confessing the Arab grew suddenly calm.

  “Why should I confess to what I did not do?” he answered. “It is you who should be ashamed not I. If you have lost that letter you have betrayed me faithlessly, because anyone who finds it can make use of it to ruin me. If that is so, I hope it will ruin you too.

  “It was addressed to you. Your name was on it. If I am arrested I shall denounce you. You would better let me get away from here. Give me some money and I will go to Egypt.”

  Jenkins laughed. But he returned the whip to its nail on the wall, recovering his temper with an effort.

  “I know what happened to the letter,” he said. “I tore it up the other day. I was testing you. Seeing you take that paper just now in your — ah — fit of nervousness, I naturally jumped to conclusions and suspected you of other thefts. That’s an old trick, you know, to startle a man into confessing something he did do by accusing him of doing something you know he didn’t. You stood the test, Charkas.

  “You’d better go now, though — it’s inviting suspicion to be found talking with you in here so late at night. Don’t forget — Major Grim is already on the job; so cover up your tracks, and be ready to accuse the Zionists. Good night.”

  “You gave me a severe shock to my nervous system, but — good night, sir.”

  Jenkins whistled the sentry and gave him orders to escort the Arab to the gate. Then he blew out the lamp, locked the door, and went to his own tent, where he sat for a few minutes humming to himself.

  “So he stole that TNT memorandum, did he? I wonder if he took that letter too, or whether I destroyed it by accident. Um-m-m! So he thinks he can ruin me, does he? He’s a mean little rat, and he might make trouble.

  “Pity I accused Catesby, but that can’t be helped now. I shall have to get Charkas on some other count — he’s best out of the way. Um-m-m! Hullo, what’s that!”

  A rifle shot spat out through the darkness near at hand, and was followed by a deal of shouting.

  “Thieves again!” yelled a subaltern’s voice, and there was a rush of officers from the mess marquee to lend a hand in the hunt.

  Jenkins buttoned up his tunic, buckled on his belt, and hurried after them to add to his laurels by being officious even if he reached the scene too late.

  Those night raids take place swiftly, and when discovered the thieves don’t wait to be surrounded. He arrived in time to receive the report from three subalterns, all speaking together breathlessly.

  “Two of our Sikhs wounded, sir, but one of them swears he got home with his bayonet first. There’s blood on the bayonet to prove it. The thieves got away with their dead man, and three rifles and some other stuff that they’d snaffled before they were seen. That’s all, sir.”

  “Quite enough, too,” snapped Jenkins. “It’s a disgraceful business. I shall have an inquiry at once, and fix the blame. Perfectly disgraceful!”

  He himself passed on the report to General Anthony, who came hurrying up a moment later, followed by his aide.

  “I’ve been giving these rifle raids a lot of thought and close attention,” he added in conclusion. “It’s my belief that when the facts are out you’ll find Zionists are at the bottom of it all.”

  Anthony looked hard at him in the light of a sentry’s lantern.

  “Anyone who could prove that would be entitled to great credit,” he said slowly. “Have you seen that the wounded Sikhs have attention? No, never mind; I’ll go myself.”

  CHAPTER VII

  “I can deal with twenty-five as easily as one!”

  IT was Jim’s intention, once he had found the leper’s rendezvous and got rid of the rather embarrassing company of Mahommed ben Hamza, to return for Catesby and Narayan Singh, or perhaps to send Suliman for them if the boy could be induced to go alone.

  But there was something about the dark, open mouth of that tomb that fixed his attention for the moment. It did not differ particularly from a thousand others dotted here and there within a radius of a few miles; there was a sort of porch, perhaps a dozen feet deep, roughly hewn out of the hillside without any significant figures; and down in a corner of that was a dark hole of not more than half a man’s height, leading no doubt into a natural cave beyond.

  But while he looked, wondering what attracted him, a distinct sound emerged from the hole. Noises in the night, propelled from a cave by the echoing walls, are not easy to recognize; but if it sounded like anything familiar it was a human hiccough.

  Any of a number of creatures might have made the noise; owls, jackals, hyenas, badgers, rats — for those old tombs, once robbers have plundered them, make the handiest imaginable dens for wild beasts, provided their opening stands above the waterline, as this one did.

  They business of being a hunter, whether of animals or men, produced two salient characteristics; a tendency to form opinion in advance as to what the hunted will most likely do, and an equally alert ability to throw preformed opinion to the winds at the first hint.

  Jim had made up his mind that the leper would hardly risk waiting at the rendezvous, and for several reasons. In the first place the cave was almost certainly a trap, with only one opening. Whoever waited inside it could form no notion of what was passing outside, and would be at the mercy of superior numbers; men who had risked their lives to steal rifles might likely balk at surrendering the booty to one lone individual within the narrow compass of a grave.

  To be morally afraid of a dervish dancing like a devil on a hill was one thing; to fear him at all when face to face within four walls would be another. A man with the knowledge of Arab human nature that the leper had displayed would appreciate that certainty.

  On the other hand, to wait at a little distance, watch for returning plunderers, perhaps even warn them sternly from an overlooking point of vantage, and come down to collect the booty after they had placed it in the cave and after making sure that the coast was clear, would be safe, circumspect and sane — cynical, in fact, in keeping with the cynicism that made use of the leprosy and religious emotion for unlawful ends.

  Jim’s first idea consequently was to wait at a point of vantage, too, and descend on the leper in turn and catch him red-handed whenever he should descend to possess the loot.

  But there is no accounting for the recklessness of criminals, or the arrogance of men who think that fear gives them a hold over their accomplices. Cunning though he is, and careful though he is in a thousand ways, the charlatan who practices on superstition is once in a while more incautious than a sheep-fed wolf; like the wolf he takes outrageous chances af
ter use has made the game seem simple.

  Jim sat down in front of the tomb and listened, while Suliman clung to him in the hysteria of small-boy terror of bogies. For a long time the only movement was Suliman’s trembling, and the only sound the footfall of some small night animal borne on an almost imperceptible breeze. But then the cough, or sneeze, or belch, or whatever it was, was repeated and Suliman hid his face in Jim’s abyi (long-sleeved Arab cloak), shuddering as if he hoped to crawl out of his skin.

  “Now,” said Jim, “we decide whether or not you wear girl’s clothes for a year. I’m going in there. Are you coming too?”

  * * * * *

  It was an awful test of courage for a child of eight, with a shameful alternative. But Jim, whose own youth had been one long adventure with hardship and disadvantage, in which the only penalty he had learned to loathe was self- contempt, was not friend of compromise. Shameful alternatives were things he faced and turned his back on in New England at such an early age that decision had become a habit; and what a man has done repeatedly himself he finds it hard to believe another cannot do. Suliman knew perfectly well from grim experience that Jim would be as good as his word.

  “I am a man, not a woman. I will not wear girl’s garments. Must I go in first?”

  “No; I’ll lead.”

  “Lead on then, Jimgrim.”

  “Good for you, youngster.”

  But Jim was minded to test him to the utmost.

  “Seeing you’re willing, you may stay outside if you like.”

  “No. I am a man. Lead on.”

  “All right. But listen; not a word to me in English. Hold your tongue — listen with all your might — and try to take your cue from me. Now are you ready?”

  Jim produced a pocket electric torch and, stooping beside the black hole, flashed the light across the opening. Little by little, as nothing happened, he directed the light down into the hole, keeping himself out of the path of possible bullets. But it was a long passage and not straight, high enough inside for a man to stand without stooping and wide enough to carry in a body on a bier, but turning so abruptly after fifteen or twenty feet that there was nothing to be gained by peering in.

  The fact that the flashlight had not scared out any animal was possibly presumptive proof that a man was in there who had scared the usual denizens to flight already; but in that case all that he had certainly done so far was to give the man notice of his coming.

  So he crouched into the opening and stepped down and forward without further preliminary, flashing the light again and trusting to its glare to spoil the aim of any man or beast disposed to murder. Suliman, forgetting the solace of the kukri, clung to the skirts of his abyi and followed breathlessly.

  He took the turn in a hurry, for there is nothing to be gained by giving your enemy time to think until you have the weather gage of him so surely that thinking may induce him to surrender. But again nothing happened, and Suliman’s teeth were chattering so loudly that Jim could not be sure whether or not he heard something moving in the darkness.

  Immediately beyond the turn the passage sloped steeply into a natural cave, with a sheer drop at the end of three or four feet to the cave floor. Somebody might easily be crouching there, so he switched the light off suddenly and took the last lap with a run and a jump, leaving Suliman at the corner, scared out of his wits but grimly silent. The instant his feet touched the floor he faced about and turned on the light again, rather expecting to see the leper rise from beneath the opening and start to scramble away. But again nothing happened, except that Suliman took hold of courage with clenched teeth and came charging down after him, blinded by the torchlight in his eyes and pitching into the cave head foremost, unhurt by a miracle.

  The tomb proved to be low, but long and wide — thirty feet at least each way, with a smooth floor showing traces of the chisel, although the roof was in its natural state. A swift examination of the walls by the torchlight showed deep recesses cut into the sides about four feet above the floor, each one doubtless in its day a separate sepulcher. Jim started to examine them one by one, commencing from the nearest to the entrance, and got no farther. His man was there — alive, alert, apparently amused.

  Squatting in the mouth of a hole that once held human bones, like an Indian idol, except that most of the Indian gods lack humor, the leper smiled and said nothing, resting his chin in the hollow of one hand and his elbow on one knee, blinking at the light.

  He looked abominably leprous. Whole patches of his skin from face to heels were glistening white and scaly. Yet his muscles seemed as firm as a horse’s and as magnificently molded underneath the skin, while the expression on his face was not that of a man grown used to gnawing agony or the leprous local anesthesia. His eyes shown healthy in the torchlight, and except for the disgusting state of parts of his skin he looked more like an athlete in condition than a sick man.

  For two minutes no one spoke. Then the leper reached behind him with his left hand, and Jim covered him instantly with his pistol.

  But all that the groping hand brought forth was a candle-end and a match. The iblis set the candle-end on a ledge in the broken wall of the recess and lit it, never moving the rest of his body or shifting the position of his chin. So Jim put out the torch, to save the meager battery.

  “Shoot him, Jimgrim,” Suliman whispered unable to bear the tension any longer.

  “Sa’id, ya Jimgrim!” boomed the iblis.

  Having snatched Jim’s name out of the silence as it were, he saw fit to speak. Moreover, having apparently only his sharp wits for a weapon, he proposed to take the upper hand by assuming the role of questioner.

  “What manner of name is Jimgrim? What sort of Arab prowls by night with such a name for the diba (hyenas) to laugh at?”

  The man’s voice was pleasant, though his consonants were hard and vowels coarse. Being an Egyptian his opinion on the subject of Arab names was certain to be at fault as well as unimportant. The Arabs themselves gave Jimgrim his name. Jim answered instantly, mocking him in turn.

  “Do the lepers of Egypt all smear on the sickness form a paint- pot?” he asked.

  The iblis blinked steadily, still smiling, but saw fir not to answer.

  “And smear so clumsily that the pain peels off at the edges here and there?” Jim asked again.

  “What kind of cursed mother of impudence brought thee forth?” asked the iblis.

  “One whose son can smell an Egyptian from half a mile away, and knows the look of paint, O father of unimportant questions,” Jim replied.

  “Come close. Touch me then, and count how many days until you too have leprosy!” sneered the iblis.

  Suliman clutched at Jim to hold back, but Jim was no fledgling to take a dare and step within reach of those bronze arms. The man’s fingers looked strong enough to pull out an opponent’s muscles as an ape pulls off a chicken’s head, and the candlelight was in his favor.

  “Shoot him, Jimgrim; shoot him!”

  Suliman, with no affairs of state to complicate the issue, could imagine only that one remedy.

  “Are you afraid to? Give me the pistol. I am not afraid.”

  The iblis answered that by putting out his tongue between his teeth, screwing his face into a hideous likeness of the prince of darkness, and hissing like an angry cat. Suliman screamed and jumped back against the far wall.

  “Shoot, Jimgrim! If he spits and it hits you, you will die!”

  The iblis took the hint and spat, wide of the mark on purpose, as a warship fires an “angry blank” across another’s bows. Past master of bluff and opportunity; he was too wise to spit straight and prove his ammunition harmless. It obviously disconcerted him that Jim stood still.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “Nothing more than I can have,” Jim answered.

  “Fool!” sneered the iblis. “He who wants no more than that is like the rat that craves a bellyful. Get out of here. Ruh min hene!”

  “Not until I have what I c
an have.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Partnership.”

  “Thou — dog of an Arab — son of a mother of abominations — spat-upon offspring of sixty dogs — fuel for the fire of Eblis — partnership with me?”

  “Aye, with you, father of impotent curses.”

  The iblis laughed again.

  “Shoot!” he jeered. “No bullet can harm me.”

  And whether the man really believed that or not Jim was at a loss to know. A deal of fanatical self-confidence goes to the attainment of such dancing and deviltry as his.

  “The bark of the pistol will bring my friends in any case,” said Jim.

  “The bark of a jackal summons the pack to eat carrion,” the iblis answered; “but one roar of a lion sends them scurrying.”

  Jim pointed the pistol straight at him, and met his eyes along the blued steel barrel. The iblis did not flinch, and Jim felt in rather a predicament. He, too, was bluffing, for he had not the slightest intention of killing the man — even in self-defense if he could help it.

  Dead the rascal would be useless. Alive there was the possibility of making him uncover all the ramifications of his plans. If Jim managed to call Catesby and Narayan Singh they could easily capture the man between the three of them. By gagging him and waiting near the cave they might even secure a few of the thieves when they came to deliver loot.

  But Jim knew better than to suppose that this imitation leper was without influential backing, and he wanted the “men higher up.” One or two words that Jenkins dropped had convinced him that the brigadier was making use of the most tempting of all tools to the unscrupulous ambitious man — the criminal network of the underworld, and he did not propose to play into Jenkins’ hands by destroying the evidence too soon.

  He suspected that nothing would suit the brigadier’s purpose better at the moment than to have this particular tool safely under lock and key. The iblis had served his purpose by producing a condition, out of which Jenkins proposed to get credit by destroying it and then attributing the blame to his superiors, adopting the U.S. brand of cheap city politics transported to another sphere, without quite all the subtlety or half the brains.