The Sword of Islam

by Rafael Sabatini

  Gismondi, apart, with folded arms, watched them and grinned behind his vizor. It was with him an hour of exultation in the revulsion from his recent terrors. He wondered to what length of folly these rash fools would go. He thought he might witness a pretty fight; but the man in red disappointed him of such expectations. He came forward to the table-head, and his voice was raised to dominate and quell the others.

  “Sirs,” said he, “the game is lost. Let us pay the forfeit and be done.”

  Again for a moment a silence fell. Then one, with a sudden strident laugh, stepped forward. “I’ll lead the way, my brothers,” he said, and bowing to the captain, “I am at your orders, sir,” he announced.

  The captain made a sign to his men. Two deposed their pikes, and coming forward seized that volunteer. Swiftly and without word spoken they hurried him from the chamber. Gismondi smiled. This entertainment amused his cruel nature better than had done that other of a little while ago. Swiftly the soldiers went about their work, and in a brief ten minutes there remained but four of the conspirators. One of them was the man in scarlet, who, as their captain, reserved to himself the honor of going last; two others were the men who had been attendant upon him, and the fourth was Gis­mondi.

  The men-at-arms reentered, and the man in red made a sign to Gismondi that was plain of meaning. Gismondi shrugged, smiled to himself, and stepped forward jauntily. But when the soldiers seized him he shook them off.

  “A word with you, sir,” said he to the captain.

  The captain eyed him keenly. “Ah!” said he. “You will be he whom I was told to look for. Tell me your name that I may know you.”

  “I am Benvenuto Gismondi.”

  The captain nodded thoughtfully. “I must permit myself no error here. You are Benvenuto Gismondi, and —?” He paused inquiringly.

  “And,” answered Gismondi with impatience, “I am here on behalf of Duke Cesare Borgia.”

  A quiet, wicked laugh broke from the captain’s bearded lips. One of his heavy gauntleted hands fell upon Gismondi’s shoulder, the other tore the vizor roughly from his face.

  “Does your excellence know the villain?”

  “I do not,” answered the man in red, and added, “God be thanked!”

  He clapped his hands, and now it was that Gismondi saw into what manner of trap he had fallen, what manner of ruse the master-plotter had adopted to weed out, as he had promised, the one who had usurped the place of him that had been slain on the Bologna road. That clapping of hands was your summons, in answer to which there came trooping back into the chamber the entire company of muffled plotters. No farther than the corridor had they been taken, and on arrival there, to each had been explained the test that was afoot.

  Betimes next morning Don Miguel — Cesare Borgia’s Spanish captain — waited upon his master with a dagger and a bloodstained scrap of paper. He had to report the finding of the body of Ben­venuto Gismondi under the trees in the square that fronted the Palazzo Mattoli. The dagger that had slain the man had been employed to attach to him the label Don Miguel presented to the duke, on which was written, “The property of Cesare Borgia.” Don Miguel wondered did his magnificence desire the culprits to be brought to account.

  Cesare shook his head and smiled.

  “It has fallen out as I intended,” said he, and fell to musing. “It would have grieved me had they not discovered him, for it would have put me to the need of sterner measures. As it is, I think their discovery will have heightened their dread of me and of the ubiquity of my spies, and in their terror they will have scattered, their plot abandoned. It is best so. To give them open trial and expose their plot would be to invite imitators to follow in their lead, for man excels himself in playing the ape. You may go, Miguel. I think Messer Benvenuto Gismondi has served my purpose as excellently as I meant he should, and, incidentally, he has had his wage.”

  INTELLIGENCE

  For an hour Professor Kauffmann had been deep in the slum­ber that is common alike to just and unjust provided that physical conditions are healthy, when he was aroused, first subconsciously, then consciously, by the loud insistent trilling of the electric bell.

  Professor Kauffmann sat up in bed, switched on the light, and verified that it was ten minutes past two. A little while he sat quite still, an oddly intent alertness in the grey eyes that looked so very light by contrast with his swarthy black-bearded face and the black hair, cut en brosse, that rose stiffly above it. At last, moving leisurely, he left the bed, and from a chair-back near at hand he took up a heavy quilted dressing-gown. He was a tall, active man of about forty, who did not look as if he were an easy prey to fear. Yet he trembled a little as he put on that garment. But then the night was cold, for the month was December — December of that fateful year 1914. From a small table near the bed he picked up a life-preserver, a slight weapon of lead and whipcord, and he thrust it together with the hand that held it into the roomy pocket of his gown.

  Then — the bell still ringing — he left his bedroom, passed down the heavily-carpeted stairs of that choicely appointed little house in Mayfair, and went to open the door. As it swung back, the light from the hall behind the professor fell upon a slim pale young gentleman in a fur-lined coat over evening clothes.

  Professor Kauffmann’s relief showed itself a moment, to give place almost at once to surprise and irritation.

  “Elphinstone!” he exclaimed. “What the devil . . . ? Do you realise that it is after two o’clock?”

  His English was so fluent and colloquial that he might easily have passed for an Englishman. It was only occasionally that a too guttural note proclaimed his real origin.

  The young gentleman lounged in without waiting to be invited.

  “Awfully sorry, Kauff, to drag you out of bed. But I never imagined you would answer the bell yourself.”

  The professor grunted, and closed the door. “I am all alone in the house. My man is away ill,” he explained. And he added without cordiality — “Come along in. There may still be a fire in the study.”

  He led the way upstairs, opened a door, touched a switch, and lighted up a spacious lofty room, the air of which was pleasantly warm and tobacco-laden. In the fireplace the remains of a fire still smouldered under an ashen crust. The professor went to stir it into life, and as he passed the massive writing-table that occupied the middle of the room he put down the life-preserver which the event had proved to be unnecessary.

  Elphinstone removed his opera hat and loosened his heavy coat. His hands trembled a little. He was very pale and rather breathless. Uneasiness was stamped upon his weak face and haunted the restless eyes that took stock of the room, from the gleaming bookcases flanking a blank-faced mahogany press to the heavy purple curtains masking the French windows of the balcony above the porch.

  “I’m a dreadful nuisance, Kauff, I know,” he was apologising. “But I certainly shouldn’t have knocked you up at this time of night if the matter hadn’t been urgent.” He paused nervously, to add a moment later — “I’m in trouble rather.”

  Kauffmann came upright again and looked round calmly, still grasping the poker. “Have a drink,” he invited, and pointed to a side-table and a tray bearing decanters, glasses, and a syphon.

  “Thanks.”

  The visitor crossed, poured himself a half-tumbler of whiskey, squirted a tablespoonful of soda into it, and gulped it down.

  The professor’s light eyes watched him inscrutably.

  “Been playing bridge again, I suppose,” he hazarded. “I’ve told you before that you ought to give it up. You know that you’re not lucky, and everybody else knows that you can’t play. You haven’t the temperament.”

  “Oh, shut up,” was the peevish answer. “It isn’t bridge this time.”

  Elphinstone flung himself into the padded chair at the writing-table and looked across it at his host. “As a matter of fact, it isn’t chiefly about myself that I’m troubled. It’s about you.”

  “About me? Oh! What about me?�
�

  Watching the man’s calm assurance Elphinstone’s lip curled in a deprecatory smile. He half shrugged.

  “What do you suppose? Do you think a man can go on behaving as you do in such times as these — with the country excited about spies?”

  Very quietly the professor put down the poker. In silence he crossed the room, and came to lean upon the writing-table, facing Elphinstone at close quarters.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said in a very level voice.

  “Oh, yes, you do. I mean that your damned mysterious ways of life have brought you under the notice of the Home Office. I don’t know whether there’s occasion for it or not, and I don’t want to know. I’ve got troubles enough of my own. But you’ve behaved rather decently to me, Kauff, and . . . well, there it is. I thought you’d like to know that you’re being watched.”

  “You thought I’d like to know it?” Kauffmann smiled. “Of course it gives me the liveliest pleasure. And who is watching me?”

  “The Government, of course. Have you ever heard of Scott-Drummond?”

  The light eyes flickered, and a keen ear might have detected the faintest change in the voice that asked — “Scott-Drummond? Do you mean Scott-Drummond of the Intelligence?”

  “Do I mean . . . ? What other Scott-Drummond should I mean? What other Scott-Drummond is there?”

  “Ha!” Kauffmann stood upright again, his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown. “I know of him — yes,” he answered easily. “What about him?”

  “I have good reason to believe that he is in charge of your case. He is having you shadowed — or whatever they call it. That’s what I came to tell you, so that you may take your precautions.”

  The professor laughed outright, a thought too heartily perhaps.

  “That’s very kind of you, Elphinstone — very kind. But what precautions need I take? Good Heavens, if Scott-Drummond chooses to waste his time over my affairs, the more fool he. Have another drink?”

  But Elphinstone ignored the invitation. His weak mouth was sullen, and it was an impatient hand that thrust back the rumpled fair hair from his brow. “It’s not very generous of you to pretend that my warning is of no value,” he complained. “I don’t suppose they’d suspect you without good reason. And I can tell you that I’ve come here at considerable risk to myself.”

  The professor smiled at him tolerantly as one smiles at a foolish child.

  “You really believe that, do you? Well, well!” He sat on the edge of the writing-table. “Tell me, anyhow: Where did you pick up this priceless piece of gossip?”

  “It’s more than gossip. I happened to overhear something from a talkative young under-secretary at Flynn’s this evening. And from what he said I should clear the country quick if I were you, Kauff. That’s all.”

  “Bah! You’ve stumbled on a mare’s nest.”

  “You know best, of course.” There was vexation in the thin voice. “But at least you’ll admit that I’ve acted as a friend to you — that I’ve taken a good deal of risk in coming here.”

  “Not much risk, really,” laughed the professor. “Still you are very kind, and I am grateful to you for your friendly intentions.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I think I’ll be going.” He rose slowly. The uneasiness that had marked his manner throughout became more manifest. “That’s all right,” he repeated, faltering. Then he paused. “There’s another matter I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. And then, speaking quickly, like a man who, resolved, takes things at the rush — “Fact is, I am in a bit of a mess,” he confessed. “I absolutely must have a hundred pounds by morning. Do you think you could . . . I mean, I should be most awfully grateful to you if you would . . .”

  He left the sentence there, glancing self-consciously at his host.

  Kauffmann’s eyes considered the weedy degenerate with frank contempt. He even laughed shortly, through closed lips.

  “I thought we should come to that sooner or later,” said he.

  Elphinstone made a movement of indignant protest. His cheeks flushed faintly.

  “You don’t suppose,” he cried, “that I am asking you to pay me for the information I have . . .”

  “Are you quite sure,” Kauffmann cut in, “that you didn’t manufacture the information for the express purpose of placing me in your debt?”

  “Kauffmann!”

  “Are you quite sure,” the other continued, his light eyes almost hypnotic in their steady glance, “that you are not simply making capital out of silly suspicions of your own, and that this story about Scott-Drummond is not a pure fabrication?”

  “What do you take me for?” was the resentful question.

  “For a young gentleman who plays bridge for stakes far beyond his means, who loses persistently, and who is reduced by his losses to perpetual borrowing.”

  The flush deepened in Elphinstone’s cheeks; then it ebbed again, leaving them paler than ever. With a great show of dignity he buttoned his coat and reached for his hat. “It’s no use being angry with you . . .” he was beginning.

  “No use at all,” Kauffmann agreed.

  Elphinstone shrugged, put on his hat, and turned to go. But his need was greater than his pride. He paused again.

  “Kauffmann,” he said seriously, “I only wish for your own sake that I could confess that you are right. But I haven’t said a word that isn’t absolutely true. From what I overheard I’ll lay fifty to one that if you remain in England until to-morrow night you will spend it in prison.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” There was a note of irritation creeping into the voice that hitherto had been so smooth. “A man can’t be arrested in this country without some sort of evidence against him, and there’s not a scrap of evidence against me; not a scrap.”

  “If Scott-Drummond makes it his business to find evidence that you are in the pay of Germany — naturalised British subject though you may be — he’ll find it.”

  “Not if it doesn’t exist; and it doesn’t exist; it can’t exist. I tell you,” the professor added vehemently, “that I am not in the pay of Germany. In fact, you would be insulting me if you weren’t boring me, and after all you’re obviously only half sober. It’s very late, Elphinstone, and I want to go to bed.”

  “All right,” was the sullen answer. “I am going.”

  But it was one thing to announce the resolve, and another to find the courage to carry it out. Far, indeed, from doing so, Elphin­stone broke down utterly. Quite suddenly the lingering remains of reserve fell from him.

  “Kauff, old man,” he exclaimed desperately, “I’m in the very devil of a mess. If I don’t get a hundred pounds before morning I don’t know what will happen.”

  “Pooh! Creditors can wait.”

  “It isn’t creditors — not an ordinary creditor. It . . . it’s a case of borrowed money.”

  “As one who has frequently lent, I confess I don’t perceive the difference.”

  Hoping to move him, Elphinstone was driven to make a full and humiliating confession. “This money was borrowed without asking permission. If I don’t put it back before it is discovered it will look like . . . Oh, you know what it will look like. I shall be ruined. I don’t know what’ll happen to me. Kauff, for God’s sake . . .”

  But the professor remained entirely unmoved, unless it were to a deeper contempt.

  “Do you know how much money you owe me already?” he asked coldly. “Do you realise that it amounts to close upon a thousand pounds?”

  “I know. But I shall be able to pay you back very shortly.”

  There was a whine in the pleading voice.

  “I am glad to hear it. But until you do I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.”

  “Not after what I’ve told you?”

  Elphinstone was overcome with horrified amazement.

  “It’s no use, my boy. You must get it from someone else. I can’t afford it at the moment.”

  Elphinstone’s lips tightened. His weak face became
ghastly.

  “You absolutely refuse me, then?”

  “Sorry, of course.” The professor’s blandness savoured of contempt. “But I can’t afford it.”

  “You can’t afford it?” Elphinstone looked at him, and sneered. At bay, his manner assumed a certain truculence. “What about all this German gold you are receiving?”

  The professor eyed him stonily a moment. Then — “Drop that, Elphinstone,” he said shortly. “It won’t pay you.”

  “Won’t it?” Elphinstone’s angry excitement was rising; his voice grew shriller. “I am not so sure. You think I am a fool, Kauffmann. If I’ve kept my mouth shut it’s because you’ve been kind to me and helped me when I was in trouble. But it doesn’t follow that I’ve kept my eyes shut, too. I know more than you think. I could tell Scott-Drummond something that would . . .”

  And then Kauffmann became really angry.

  “Get out of my house,” he ordered. “Do you think I am the man to submit to blackmail? Get out at once.”

  The tall vigorous figure and grim swarthy face became oddly menacing. Elphinstone was scared.

  “Wait a minute, Kauffmann.” He was cringing again. “I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t. I am up against it. I . . .”

  “I don’t care whether you meant it or not. Go to Scott-Drum­mond and tell him anything you like. But don’t forget that he may have some questions to ask you. Don’t forget that it will come out that you have had about a thousand pounds from me, and that a jury of your countrymen will certainly want to know what it was for.”

  “What it was for?” Elphinstone stared in amazement. “I never intended . . .”

  “No. But I did,” Kauffmann answered dryly. “I don’t pay a thousand pounds to seal a man’s lips without taking good care to see that the seal is going to hold. My dear Elphinstone, when you realise that you are a fool you will have taken the first great step towards wisdom. Meanwhile, I have had enough of you. Get out before I throw you out.”

  “For God’s sake, Kauffmann . . .” Elphinstone was beginning desperately.

  Kauffmann advanced upon him round the table. “Get out, I tell you.” He seized the young man by the shoulders to thrust him towards the door. But Elphinstone squirmed and twisted in his grasp.