The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  There was a knock at the door. A slave entered, gave Holden a low message. Holden, looking astonished, nodded. Into the room came a cloaked and hooded figure. The man stood silent until the door had closed, then uncovered his face; he was Mulai Ali.

  “Señores! I must speak swiftly.” He lifted a warning hand. “You know Ripperda is here?”

  The consul nodded in puzzled silence. The Moor spoke with harsh, driving energy.

  “Captain Spence has told you of the box I gave him? A month ago Ripperda sent me that box. In it were things he obtained through his agents in Spain—documents relating to the old Moorish kings of Seville and Granada, certain of their relics, and copies of treaties which Spain has made with other nations.

  “Knowing that I was of the Idrisi blood, Ripperda proposed to set me on the throne of Morocco, by aid of these relics and my own power, and then to publish the Spanish treaties. Their publication would make Spain isolated, hated by her neighbors, distrusted. Ripperda hopes to unite the Barbary States and Egypt, means to conquer Spain again for the Moors—”

  “This is madness!” exclaimed the consul.

  “The madness of a great man and a great traitor. Now, finding himself more secure in Morocco than he had thought, the dog has betrayed me. I must flee or be slain. Ripperda commands the Moslem armies before Oran; the Dey dare not offend him. Do you wish to destroy this man Ripperda?”

  The consul frowned, but Dr. Shaw disregarded the frown and spoke curtly.

  “Yes.”

  “Then go to Morocco with me, by way of Tlemcen and the caravan route.”

  Mulai Ali spoke rapidly, excitedly.

  “The Dey will provide an escort. I must go to Arzew in disguise, and shall meet you there. Hassan Bey, who commands at Arzew, is my friend.

  “You are Christians; I can trust you. Once at Udjde, over the Moroccan frontier, I am safe. The Governor of Udjde is my kinsman and supports me. All Morocco will rise for me; the Sherif Abdallah is much hated. Speak quickly! Will you go or not?”

  “I will go, for one,” spoke up Spence eagerly. “Why do you wish our company?”

  “Because you are true men. And through you I can make treaties with England; also, I need your advice and help. If I win, Ripperda is overthrown!”

  “I will go,” said Dr. Shaw quietly.

  “Good! Tomorrow the Dey will give you safe conduct, and an escort of Spahis. I meet you at Arzew, if Allah wills! And bring the casket, and beware of a black burnoose.”

  With a brief salute he turned and was gone in haste.

  The three men regarded one another in silence. Spence was smiling, the consul frowned gravely, Dr. Shaw was lost in abstracted thought.

  “Zounds!” said Holden suddenly. “This is madness! Why do you go, gentlemen?”

  “Because I want to see the ruins and Roman remains in the west,” said Dr. Shaw. “I shall find much of interest. We must carefully compare Ptolemy and Abulfeda as we journey, Patrick! Besides, we go the errands of Christendom, if you want a better reason.”

  “And I,” said Spence with a shrug, “because my fortune drifts that way, Mr. Holden. I am curious about that astrologer of Arzew; and I like this Moor! He is a real man.”

  The consul laughed shortly. “Have your own way. Pray heaven you bear luck with you—this Ripperda will menace all Europe if he be not pulled down!”

  Spence, remembering that dark and tormented man, could well agree with such an assertion.

  The situation seethed with intrigue. Ripperda was the actual ruler of Morocco. The Dey of Algiers, now allied with him, was furtively helping Mulai Ali. The dey was a sly fox. The Spaniards were tightly besieged in Oran. At sea, the Moorish fleet was supreme, under Admiral Perez. This renegade Carthusian, Ripperda’s one actual friend in the world, was a great seaman.

  It was typical of Ripperda that he should first intrigue to put Mulai Ali on the throne, then should turn against his puppet. Such madness had already ruined Ripperda in two countries.

  With morning the three men went into the city. Holden and Shaw set off to interview the dey. Patrick Spence and a consulate guard went to the market to buy native garments.

  Not far from the slave mart Spence halted before an open-fronted shop where an old Moor sat smoking a water pipe. Down the narrow street surged natives, soldiers, arrogant Spahis and Janissaries, horses and camels, shouting and disputing. The clamor was deafening. Spence let the Negro bargain for the clothes he wanted.

  Suddenly he became aware of a man in a black burnoose watching him. Remembering the warning of Mulai Ali, he turned; but the man was gone. Spence had a memory of a twisted face that was marked by a purplish birthmark about the right eye.

  “Devil take it!” muttered Spence. “I’ll suspect every black burnoose, unless I get myself in hand! That fellow was only staring at a Christian.”

  Upon returning to the consulate he had come within a few hundred feet of his destination; he was passing a low-arched doorway carved with the hand which spells the name of Allah. From the shadowed depths two figures darted out, plunged bodily upon him. Spence fell backward, the two men on top of him; as he fell, he glimpsed that twisted face with the birthmark.

  He crashed down. A knife clashed on the stone beside his ear, but already his long arms were busy. He jerked one man over his head, heaved, twisted himself. He pulled clear, rolled over, and leaped to his feet in time to meet the rush of the man in the black burnoose. Spence drove his fist into the misshapen features, and the man reeled away.

  At this instant the consulate Negro dashed up, scimitar bared. A dozen other men converged on the scene. The two assassins paused not, but took to their heels, with a crowd streaming after them. Two minutes later, Patrick Spence was safe in the consulate.

  He told Dr. Shaw of the incident, but the worthy divine related it to Holden in the light of an attempted robbery. Shaw feared lest the consul forbid the journey as too dangerous, and was taking no chances. So the matter was passed off without great comment.

  That night, the safe conduct having been provided, Dr. Shaw and Patrick Spence packed up. The consul provided them with letters of credit upon a Jew of Mequinez, while Shaw lingered lovingly over his rapier, maps and instruments—particularly the latter.

  “This brass quadrant,” he discoursed, “I had from Mr. Professor Bradley at Wanstead. It is so well graduated that I can even distinguish the division upon the limb to at least one-twelfth part of a degree. And this compass hath the needle well touched—”

  The good divine seemed quite oblivious to the fact that he was entering an almost unknown land, measuring wits against the most unscrupulous man of the age. Yet Dr. Shaw, as Spence knew well, was a shrewd comrade, reliable to the full, and quite able to use his sword as effectively as his instruments.

  At dawn Spence wakened to the shrill cries of muezzins, lifting into the gray morning, calling the faithful to prayer. From all around they came; from the grand mosque, El Khebir, from the Mosque of Hassan, from the Zaouia, from the palace mosque, and others.

  And in the courtyard the escort of twenty Spahis knelt at prayer, their gorgeous uniforms glittering in the new sunlight.

  CHAPTER III

  “He cheats the stars, and they him, and both cheat fools, ’tis all one to me!”

  Spence, with the leather box sewn in canvas and lashed at his saddle, rode westward with his friend and their escort. He was agreeably amazed by the ease and comfort of their journey, which followed the Chelif Valley road to Arzew.

  Under the auspices of the swaggering Spahis, the guest house in each town was commandeered. In order to avoid the war zone about Oran, the route lay from Arzew to Tlemcen, thence to Fez by the ancient route of caravans and armies.

  On the morning of the day they neared Arzew, Mulai Ali joined them. He rode toward their party, superbly mounted on a white Arab bearing the circle-bar brand of the Beni Rashid tribe. He was dressed in the richest of pale green and pink silks. From the gold-twisted fillet at his brow to the red Mo
roccan boots, he looked the chieftain. He was alone.

  “Well met, Señores!”

  He greeted Spence and Dr. Shaw in Spanish.

  “All is safe?”

  “All is safe,” said Spence, knowing that the query referred to the leather box.

  “You ride like a king,” said the divine, perplexed, “yet we thought to find you in danger and disguised! What means it, Mulai Ali?”

  “A good omen!” The Moor laughed. “Ripperda has not yet rejoined the army before Oran. Hassan Bey has made me welcome at Arzew. Before Ripperda learns I am there, I shall be gone. After leaving Arzew we must push hard for the south.”

  “Then,” said Dr. Shaw, “you aim to enter Morocco by the back door and seize the throne while Ripperda and the army lie before Oran?”

  “Exactly.” Mulai Ali lifted his hand and pointed. “Here comes Hassan Bey to meet you!”

  Arzew opened before them, with its extensive groves, its rocky precipices, its ruins. A dust cloud upon the road resolved itself into a hundred horsemen headed by Hassan Bey—a hard-fighting old Turk whose wine-frosted nose showed small regard for religious precepts.

  With a great firing of guns and clamor, the parties met. Escorted by this guard of honor, Spence and Dr. Shaw entered the town. The bey had made ready quarters for them in the kasbah, or citadel, and received them with an entertainment that was lavish. The feast lasted far into the night.

  In the morning Spence wakened to find Mulai Ali present. The Moor and Dr. Shaw were engaged in a discussion of religious points, which ended when the worthy divine sallied forth to inspect the ruins and make notes. Mulai Ali remained while Spence broke his fast.

  “Well,” asked the Moor, “and did you see the man in the black burnoose?”

  Spence looked up sharply and described the attempted murder. “Who is the man, then?”

  “His name is Gholam Mahmoud. He was once a Janissary; he is now one of Ripperda’s bodyguard of renegades. We shall probably find him ahead of us on the road.”

  “H-m! You seem little concerned,” said Spence with a shrewd glance.

  “The event is in the hands of God, the compassionate! I saw the astrologer last night, and go this morning to receive my horoscope.”

  “Good! This astrologer is a slave, eh? An old man? And English?”

  Mulai Ali smiled in a singular fashion.

  “Yes, captured by Hassan from an English ship, and kept here secretly. Hassan is afraid of the astrologer, yet refuses to sell the slave to me. I have need of the stars to guide me, and should like to have the slave in our company, if possible.”

  “Oh!” Spence studied the other man, and chuckled. “You will aid him to escape, then?”

  “After I have eaten the salt of Hassan?” The Moor gestured in dissent. “I could not do this. Of course, a Christian has no scruples, and might manage it.”

  Spence broke into a laugh.

  “Certainly, I have no scruples! Let us be frank, Mulai Ali. You want me to steal this astrologer for you?”

  “Let us ask the stars about it,” said the other evasively.

  Clearly, the Moor would not speak frankly; yet eagerness struggled against gloom in his eyes. The man was strongly tempted, thus to split hairs with his religious scruples.

  “I will attend to it,” said Spence curtly. “When can we see the astrologer?”

  “Now.” A curious smile stole into the bearded features. “You are ready?”

  Spence nodded, rose, and followed.

  They descended to the kasbah courtyard, where their Spahis and the garrison Janissaries were fraternizing. Hence, Mulai Ali passed into the gardens adjoining, the guards saluting him respectfully. They came to a square, commodious tower of stone, centered in a small grove of pomegranates.

  Before the doorway of this tower squatted a huge black eunuch, half asleep, across his knees the glistening blade of a broad scimitar. Sighting them, he sprang up and saluted Mulai Ali, then loosened the bar of the door and stood aside. Plainly, Mulai Ali had unquestioned access to Hassan’s astrologer.

  “After you, señor,” said the Moor.

  Spence found himself in a well-lighted room, hung with gorgeous stuffs. Upon a stone stairway to the right appeared an old hag, who addressed them in Spanish.

  “It is too early, señores—”

  “Say that Mulai Ali the Idrisi is here,” spoke up the Moor curtly. “And with him a Christian, who seeks guidance from the stars. Hasten, slave!”

  Mumbling imprecations, the hag scuttled up the stairs. In a moment she was back again and beckoning them to follow.

  They entered a chamber which had evidently been long occupied by gentry of the same profession. A stuffed crocodile, moth-eaten and musty, hung on wires from the ceiling; about the room were skulls, stuffed birds, instruments inherited from the Moors of elder years.

  Above a curtained doorway hung a handsome pentacle of brass; beside it was the Arabic nine-squared diagram, the Haraz al Mabarak—a very ornate piece of work in wood, the ciphers inlaid with silver.

  The astrologer appealed suddenly before them.

  If he had stared before, now Spence stared with twofold amazement. No doddering old man was this astrologer—no man at all—but a woman, wearing a white burnoose. As he stared at her, so she stared at him, her eyes wide; dark eyes, set in a face that was suddenly white. Her hands gripped the curtain beside her in a tense grasp.

  “We are here, señorita,” said Mulai Ali courteously. “I have told my friend, Captain Spence, that you are the most wonderful woman in the world. If my horoscope is finished, the fact will soon be proved to his satisfaction.”

  The astrologer trembled slightly, then forced herself to speak.

  “I have it here—if you will be seated—”

  Spence controlled himself to silence, bowed, and seated himself.

  Upon him was dumb amazement as the woman came forward. Woman? Nay, but a girl, and no Moor, either, but English! Despite the suspense, the emotion, that had gripped her, she was now completely mistress of herself. And she was beautiful, Spence realized; not with the coldly perfect lines of classic beauty, but with character that made for personality. Dark eyes, dark hair, a sweetly girlish face—and an astrologer withal! Here was a marvel!

  “I have written it in Castilian,” she was saying, giving Mulai Ali a scroll, which evidently held the horoscope. “You may study it at leisure—and it may be unpleasant.”

  “Allah controls all,” said the Moor impassively. “Will my enterprise succeed?”

  “It may. You are ruled by Taurus, which augurs well, though Mars and Scorpio have a strong influence. Tell me, señor! If you abandon this enterprise, you will live long and happily, a man of wealth, but holding no position or rank. Will you abandon it?”

  A flash lighted the eyes of the Moor.

  “And if I hold to it?”

  “Then you will not live long—ten years, at a venture. They will be crowded with great events: wars, conquests, triumphs! Your fortune will increase to the end. You will sit upon a throne. But the end—ah! I know not the customs of your country; but it is cruel.”

  A harsh laugh broke from Mulai Ali.

  “But I know them. Well, then—I have to choose between a long life of obscurity or a short life of greatness, at the end of which I shall be sawn asunder or burned to death by the Spaniards. Is that it?”

  The girl inclined her head gravely.

  “That is it.”

  “By Allah, ten years is enough for any man! I have chosen. Now, señorita, this is the Captain Spence of whom we have spoken. Speak quickly, lest Hassan suspect that we remain overlong with you.”

  The girl turned to Spence, her eyes alight. “You will help me?” she said. “I am English. I was traveling to Venice with my father, a student of astronomy, when the pirates captured me. Him they killed—since then I have struggled against disaster—”

  “Madam, I am wholly at your service,” said Spence quietly. “Your name?”

 
“Elizabeth Parks.”

  “Then, Mistress Betty, have no more fear!” Spence laughed with assumed lightness. “You shall go with us into Morocco, if that be possible. Can you trust any here?”

  “None,” she said, her lips atremble. “There was talk of the bey’s harem—but I knew enough of the stars to make him fear me. It was my only chance. I managed to avert danger—”

  “Fear not,” said Spence. “We must depart now, but you shall hear from us. I take the responsibility on my own shoulders, Mulai Ali. You agree?”

  “Very well.”

  The Moor made a gesture.

  “You trust us, señorita?”

  The girl smiled suddenly. “Have I not read of you in the stars?”

  Spence brought her fingers to his lips, and with smiling assurance, departed, her eyes haunting him. He followed Mulai Ali to the garden, then, at a word, walked off among the trees and left the Moor talking with the black eunuch.

  This amazing and unexpected meeting had overwhelmed him. He could realize how this quick-witted and desperate girl had seized one slim hope of escaping the harem, how she had worked upon the besotted and superstitious Hassan Bey until he feared her more than he desired her.

  “By Heavens, what a woman!” thought Spence.

  He turned as the Moor came toward him.

  “Well, señor, what think you of the bride I promised?”

  “I do not steal brides, Mulai Ali. I help her, because she is a woman. I desire no wife, however.”

  “You might do worse,” said the other. “I have arranged with that eunuch, her sole guard. He will leave her with us and accompany us into Morocco.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  The Moor smiled.

  “He would rather be chief eunuch of a Sultan’s harem than a slave in Arzew.”

  Spence studied the Moor.

  “You seem confident, my friend! Yet you have no army. Ripperda’s assassins are seeking you—”

  “Allah rules all things; who would dispute the ways of God? If a thing is ordained, it will come to pass.

  “Besides,” added Mulai Ali dryly, “I am not without friends. Do you fear to accompany me, who go alone to seek a throne?”