Several points held his interest. If the Nazis were behind the mysterious killings of the key men who had been murdered here, and if they owned the mystery warship, why had Ambrose Carter been killed, known as he was to favor Hitler? And what had he been doing in Egypt?
Who was the man who had been shot aboard the Semiramis? Where had he obtained the scarab ring? Why did he want to talk to Ponga Jim and no one else? And what was his connection with the girl, Zara Hammedan?
And last but not least, what could Ponga Jim Mayo possibly know that the enemy might fear?
Whatever it was, it had to be something he had known before he left Africa, several years before. There seemed only one answer to that. He would have to go over all his African experience in his mind, recalling each fact, each incident, each person. Somewhere he would find a clue.
In the meanwhile, he would have to avoid the police and even more, the killers who would be sure to be on his trail. The card that had been found on the dead man, the card bearing the name of Zara Hammedan, was the only good lead Ponga Jim had, and to Zara Hammedan he would go.
He had already learned that she lived in the Ramleh section of Alexandria. So at eight o’clock, moving up through the trees, Ponga Jim looked up at the Moorish palace that was Zara Hammedan’s home. There were no windows on the lower floor; just a high, blank wall of stucco. Above that, the second floor projected over the narrow alley on either side of the house, and there were many windows, all brilliantly lighted.
A limousine rolled up to the entrance, and two men in evening dress got out. For an instant the light touched the face of one of them. He was Nathan Demarest!
As other cars began to arrive, Ponga Jim studied the house thoughtfully. Had there been no crowd he would have shed his disguise, approached the house, and sent his own name to the lady. But now—
Keeping under the cypress trees, he worked down along the alley. At one place the branches of a huge tree reached out toward the window opposite it. Ponga Jim caught a branch and swung himself into the tree with the agility of a monkey. Creeping out along the branch, he glanced through the window into a bedroom, obviously a woman’s room. At the moment, it was empty.
The window was barred, and the heavy bars were welded together and set into steel slides in the window casing. Ponga Jim crept farther along the branch, a big one that had been cut off when it touched the house. Balancing himself, he tested the bars. Almost noiselessly, they lifted when he strained.
They wouldn’t weigh a bit under eighty pounds, and it was an awkward lift. Looking about, he found a fair-sized branch and cut it off with his seaman’s clasp knife. Then, leaning far out, he worked the set of bars up and propped the stick beneath them.
It was quite dark, and in the dim light Ponga Jim could see nothing beneath him. Once, he thought he detected a movement, but when he waited, there was no more movement, no sound. He pushed the window open with his foot and slipped through the window.
Below, in the darkness, the jungle-keen ears of Big London, who had been watching Ponga Jim slowly working the bars up, had heard a soft step. He faded into the brush as softly as a big cat. A man slid slowly from the dark and glanced around, trying to place the black man, and then slid a knife from his sleeve. And as Ponga Jim leaned far out toward the window, he drew the knife back to throw.
A huge black hand closed around his throat, and he was fairly jerked from his feet. Struggling, he tried to use the knife, but it was plucked from his nerveless fingers by the big black. Before the man knew what was happening, he was neatly trussed hand and foot and then gagged.
Ponga Jim gently closed the window behind him and glanced around. There was a faint perfume in the room. He crossed to the dressing table and slid open a drawer. Inside were some letters. He had started to glance over them when a voice in the hall startled him. Instantly, he dropped the packet into the drawer and stepped quickly across the room and into a closet.
The door opened and a woman came in. Or rather a girl, followed by a maid. Her hair was black, and her eyes were large, and slightly oblique. Her white evening gown fitted her like a dream and revealed rather than concealed her slender, curved figure.
She wore a simple jade necklace that Ponga Jim could see was very old. Standing in the darkness, he watched through the crack of the closet door, fearful that the maid might come to the closet.
Zara Hammedan, for it was obviously she, glanced up once, straight at the door behind which he stood. Then the maid started across the room toward him.
“No, Miriam,” Zara said suddenly, “just leave the things. I’ll take care of them. You may go now. If anyone asks for me, tell them I’ll be down shortly.”
The maid stepped from the room and drew the door closed. Zara touched her hair lightly and then put her hand in a drawer and lifted a small, but businesslike automatic. Then she looked at the closet door.
“You may come out now,” she said evenly, “but be careful! You should clean the sand from your shoes.”
Ponga Jim Mayo pushed the door open and stepped out, closing it behind him.
“You,” he said smiling, “are a smart girl.”
“Who are you?” she demanded. Her face showed no emotion, but he was struck again by its vivid beauty.
“I am a man who found another man murdered in his cabin,” Ponga Jim said quietly, “and that man had your name written on a card that was in his pocket. So I came to you.”
“You choose an odd way of presenting yourself,” Zara said. “Who was this man?”
“I do not know,” Jim said. “He came to see me, and in his pocket was a ring with an emerald scarab.”
She caught her breath.
“When did this happen?”
“Shortly after midnight. The man was shot by someone using a silencer from across the street. So far the police know nothing about the murder. Or about the ring or your name.”
“Why did I not know of this?” she asked. “It seems—”
“One of your present guests knows,” Ponga Jim said. “Nathan Demarest.”
“He?” She stared at him wide-eyed. “But who are you?”
He smiled. “I’m Jim Mayo,” he said.
“Oh!” she rose. “I have heard of you. You came here, then, to learn about the murdered man?”
“Partly.” He sat down and took off the headcloth. “The rest is to find what he wanted to tell me, where he got that ring, and what you know about a certain warship now in the Red Sea. Also, what there is to this Moslem movement you’re heading.”
She smiled at him. “What makes you think all of these questions have anything to do with me?”
“I know they have,” he said. “And I’ve got to know the answers, because somebody’s trying to kill me. I was attacked last night, shoved in the harbor by a killer.”
“You?” she exclaimed. “Was it a man with a scar across his nose?”
“Sure,” Ponga Jim said. “That’s him.” He took a cigarette from a sandalwood box and lit it. Then he handed it to her. “A friend of yours?”
“No!” The loathing in her voice was plain. “But the man was a pearl diver from Kuwait. I don’t see how—”
“How I got away? I’ve done some diving myself, lady, and a lot of fighting. Now give. What’s this all about?”
“I can’t tell you,” Zara said. “Only—if you want to live, take your ship and leave Egypt, and don’t ever come back!”
“That’s not hospitality,” he said, grinning, “especially from a beautiful girl. No, I’m not leaving. I’ve been warned before and threatened before. I’ve as healthy a respect for my own hide as the next man, but never have found you could dodge trouble by running. My way is to meet it halfway. Now somebody wants my hide. I’d like to see the guy. I’d like to see what he wants and if he knows how to get it.”
“He does. And I’ll tell you nothing but this—the dead man was Rudolf Burne, and you are marked for death because of three things. You beat a man playing poker once who never was beaten be
fore or since, you know where the emerald ring came from, and you know where the warship is!”
“I do?” Ponga Jim stared. “But—”
“You’ll have to go now!” Zara said suddenly, her eyes wide. “Quick! There’s someone coming!”
He hurried to the window. She stood behind him, biting her lip. Suddenly he realized she was trembling with fear.
“Go!” she insisted. “Quickly!”
“Sure.” He slid open the window and put a leg over the sill. “But never let it be said that Jim Mayo failed to say good-bye.” Slipping one arm around Zara’s waist, he kissed her before she could draw back. “Goodnight,” said Ponga Jim. “I’ll be seeing you!”
As the steel grate slid into place, he heard the door open. Then he was back in the foliage of the tree and in a matter of seconds had slid to the ground.
“Now,” he told himself, “I’ll—”
At a movement behind him he whirled, but something crashed down on his head with stunning force. There was an instant of blinding pain when he struggled to fight back the wave of darkness sweeping over him, then another blow, and he plunged forward into a limitless void.
CHAPTER V
When Ponga Jim’s eyes opened he was lying on his back in almost total darkness. A thin ray of light from a crack overhead tried feebly to penetrate the gloom. He tried to sit up, only to find he was bound hand and foot and very securely.
His head throbbed with agony, and the tightly bound ropes made his hands numb. After an instant of futile effort, he lay still, letting his eyes rove the darkness. The place had rock walls, he could see—one wall at least. There seemed to be some kind of inscriptions or paintings on the wall, but he couldn’t make them out.
The air was dry, and when he stirred a powdery dust lifted from the floor.
Lying in the darkness he tried to assemble his thoughts. Most of all there hammered at his brain the insistent reminder that he, himself, knew the answers to the puzzling questions that had brought him to this situation. Zara had told him that he knew the man behind the scenes, where the ship was, and where the ring had come from.
But there was something else—a memory he couldn’t place, a sensation of lying in the bottom of a boat and hearing voices. Now he slowly pieced together that memory, scowling with effort to force the thought back to consciousness. In that swaying darkness he half remembered, with spray on his face and damp boards against his back, he seemed to have heard a guttural voice saying in triumph:
“That will be the biggest convoy of all! Forty ships, and they are helpless before the Khamsin.”
Then another voice that had muttered, “And only two days to wait!”
Ponga Jim Mayo lay still, his head throbbing. For the first time in a life of fierce brawls, barroom brannigans, gunfights, and war on land and sea, he was helpless. Not only was he imprisoned somewhere far from civilization, he was sure, but he was bound so tightly that even to wriggle seemed impossible. The feeling came over him that he was not just imprisoned. He had been carried here to die.
His mind sorted out his memories. The warship was in the Red Sea. Zara had told him that something in his own past, something he had forgotten but another remembered, linked him with the base of the warship.
Carefully, trying to neglect nothing, he tried to recall that long, narrow, reef-strewn sea of milky, sickly water. He remembered the sandstorms sweeping across the sea from the desert, the days of endless calm and impossible heat when the thermometer soared past one hundred and thirty degrees.
He remembered rocky islets and endless, jagged coral teeth ready to tear the bottom from a ship, sandy shores where desert tribesmen lurked, ready to raid and pillage any helpless ship, pirates now as they had been ages ago in Solomon’s time.
And along those mountainous, volcanic shores where no rain fell were ruins—ruins of the heyday of Mohammed, of Solomon, of Pharaohs; ruins whose names and origins were lost in the mists of antiquity. No like area in all the world has so many ruined cities as the shores of the Red Sea and the edge of Arabia where it faces the Indian Ocean.
Even in Mokha, once the center of the coffee trade, in 1824 a city of twenty thousand inhabitants with a shifting population that made it much larger, only two or three hundred Somalis, Arabs, and Jews now lived in ruined houses of stone, crawling like animals in rags from their lairs, cowardly and abject, but ready to fight like demons if need be. Mokha was now only a memory, with its streets heaped with debris, its stone piers crumbling into the stagnant, soupy sea.
Yet somewhere along the shores of the Red Sea was a base. A base that must be well equipped and fitted for at least minor repairs, with tanks filled with water and fuel oil. But where?
His memory searched around Hanish Island, around many a Ghubbet and khor, down the Masira Channel and past Ras Markaz, across the dreaded Rakka shoals and up to Jiddah town, where the Tomb of Eve with its wide, white dome stands among the old windmills.
Somewhere in that heat, sand, and desolate emptiness was the base for the battleship of mystery he had seen.
Now Europe, Asia, and even America were at war, and in the Near East the bazaars were rife with whispers of intrigue, with stories of impending rebellion, of the gathering desert tribes, of restlessness along the Tihama, of gatherings in the Druse hills. And then out of the night—murder.
Hard-bitten old General McKnight, who knew the East as few men did—murdered, poisoned with his own sherry. And Norfolk, shrewd criminal investigator, stabbed suddenly on a dark street. One by one the men who could fight this new evil, this strange, growing power, one by one they were dying, murdered by unseen hands at the direction of a man who sat far behind the scenes pulling the strings upon which puppets moved to kill.
Ponga Jim stirred restlessly. That was the horror of it, to know that he knew the clue, that somewhere down the chaotic background of his past was the knowledge that could end all this killing here.
Suddenly, he stiffened. There had been a movement, a sly, slithering sound. And for the first time, he became conscious of a peculiar odor in the place. His eyes had gradually grown accustomed to the dim light, and now, with a skin-crawling horror, he saw!
On a heap of broken stone and piled earthen jars was a huge snake, lifting its ugly flat head and looking toward him! His throat constricting with terror, Ponga Jim’s eyes roved again. And now that he could distinguish things better and in the dim vagueness could see grotesque figures, of carts, animals, and workmen painted on the walls, he knew he was in a tomb! He was lying where a sarcophagus once had lain, on a stone table probably three or four feet above the floor.
TURNING HIS HEAD, he could see the dim outlines of great coils, more snakes. And still more.
He looked up, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, and it dawned upon him what had been done. Above, a loosely fitted stone slab had been moved back, and his body had been lowered into this old tomb. Soon he would fall off the table to the floor, and the snakes would bite. Or he would die of thirst or of starvation.
Ponga Jim felt with his feet toward the edge of the stone table. He got his ankles over, and a thrill went through him as what he had hoped proved true. The edge of the stone slab on which he lay was clean-cut, sharp!
Hooking his ankles over the edge, he began to saw. It would take a long time, but it would have to be. A snake moved, rearing its head to stare, but he worked on as sweat soaked his clothing.
It seemed that hours passed, but still he worked, on and on. Above him, the light grew dim and darkness closed down.
Suddenly, dust spilled in his face, and above him he heard a grating as of stone on stone. He looked up, and above him was a square of sky and stars, blotted out suddenly by an enormous shape.
“Captain Jim?” The voice was husky with effort. “You down there, Captain?”
“You’re right I am!” Ponga Jim’s voice was hoarse with relief. “Watch it! I’m tied hand and foot, and this place is crawling with snakes. Get a line and rig a hook on it.”
/> “Captain, they ain’t no more line up here than there’s nothin’! This here place is nothing but rock and sand. Ain’t no fit place for no snake even.”
“Wait!”
In desperation, Ponga Jim hacked viciously at the edge of the slab and suddenly felt the weakened strands give. He hacked again, kicking downward against the stone edge, sawing, jerking against the corner.
The snakes were stirring restlessly now. He knew what would happen if one struck him. Within an instant he would be bitten a hundred times. Snakes, like rats and men, can be gang fighters.
But the rope fell loose.
He crawled to his feet, staggered, and almost toppled from the table into the crawling mass below.
Ponga Jim’s hands were bound, but even if they had not been it was a good ten feet to the hole above.
“London,” he called, “scout around and find something to haul me out of here or I’ll start knotting these snakes together. If I do I swear I’ll toss you the hot end to hold!”
“Don’t you be doing that!” Big London said hastily. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Ponga Jim bent over, working his slender hips between the circle of his arms and bound wrists. Once he had them down over his hips he stepped back through the circle and straightened up, his arms in front of him. Then he began working at the knot with his teeth. It was a matter of minutes until the knots were untied.
Shaking the ropes loose, he gathered up the pieces. He had about eight feet of rope; a bit less when he had knotted the two together with a sheet bend.
There was sound above him.
“Captain”—Big London’s voice was worried—“I reckon you going to have to start working on them snakes. They ain’t nothing up here like no rope.”
“Lie down!” Ponga Jim said, “and catch this rope! I’ll toss it up, you take a good hold, and then I’m climbing. And you better not let go!”
“You just leave it to London, Captain,” the black man assured him. “I’ll not let go!”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 46