Death Beneath Jerusalem

by Roger Bax

  “Isn’t it possible to join this wire up again?” she asked tremulously.

  Garve shook his head. “They’ve taken a piece away—cut it right out. They’re very thorough and very well instructed. Well, we’ll have to get out of here somehow. If we hug the wall there’ll be less for them to shoot at. Keep close behind me.”

  They had not moved two yards, however, before the crash came. A small black missile hurtled over the wall behind them, dropped behind the sentry box, and exploded with a flash and a concussion that seemed to split the earth. Garve, hurled off his feet, hit the opposite side of the street with a thud which racked every bone and muscle in his body. For a second or two he lay winded and in agony, struggling with nausea and faintness, oppressed by the knowledge that he must get up and do something. By sheer effort of will he forced himself up—lifted himself up, up—with his fingers scraping in the niches of the wall. The air was thick with acrid smoke and heavy with dust. As it cleared he saw that Esther was resting on one knee, not far from him, her face buried in her arms, her shoulders heaving.

  Garve was no coward, but now his courage almost failed him, for he saw that her hands were red with blood, and the thought of what her face might be appalled him. He had seen a child once, in Madrid, after a rebel air raid …! Tortured by every movement, he groped his way across the few feet that separated them, and, with his arm round her shoulders, drew her hands away.

  “Thank God,” he breathed, not knowing even that he said it. Blood was still streaming from a cut over her left eye, but it was neither deep nor dangerous. Dazed, she allowed him to tie his handkerchief round her head.

  Automatically he retrieved his gun, which was lying at her feet, and slipped it into his pocket. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked anxiously. “Take it easy, but try to stand up. Arms, legs feel all right? By God, we’ve been lucky.”

  “Are you all right?” asked Esther faintly.

  “Just bruised and cut about a bit,” said Garve, gazing dejectedly at the knuckles of his left hand, which must have scraped the wall as he was thrown against it.

  “The sentry box seems to have suffered most,” said Esther, pointing to a mass of splintered wreckage strewn over the street.

  “It probably saved our lives,” said Garve. “I should think the bomb was home-made—they mostly are in these individual attacks. If it hadn’t been, we’d both be twanging harps by now.”

  “Ugh! Well, what do we do next?”

  “Stay right here until the police come. That explosion must have been heard for miles, and directly they find they can’t get through on the phone, they won’t lose a minute.”

  “Do you think Saud threw the bomb?”

  “Probably, but we’ve no evidence—it might have been anybody.”

  “Was it you they were trying to get—or me?”

  “If I had been with any other woman I should have said me. As it is, I don’t know. They were given a golden opportunity to bring off a double event, and they did not waste it.”

  They waited silently now. Each moment that passed seemed like an hour, but, as Garve had anticipated, the police arrived speedily. Esther, plucking excitedly at his sleeve, first drew his attention to the sound of running footsteps. His own eardrums had not yet recovered from the shock of the explosion. He was a little fearful that the runners might be Arabs, and not the police at all, but the clatter of heavy boots on stone was reassuring. In a few moments two young men in the uniform of the Palestine force rounded the corner at the double, service revolvers ready in their hands. Immeasurably relieved that the responsibility was no longer his alone, Garve sank down heavily against the wall to nurse his bruises and console himself with his briar.

  “Glad to see you, Phillips,” he said, nodding to the taller of the two men, whom he recognized from a previous encounter. “It’s been pretty exciting here the last few minutes.”

  Phillips, a muscular young giant with a sandy moustache and a gallant manner, was already bending anxiously over Esther, who had joined Garve against the wall.

  “Good heavens!” he ejaculated. “Miss Willoughby! What on earth are you doing here?” He was unrolling a length of bandage from his kit as he spoke, and with a few deft movements had slipped off Garve’s blood-soaked handkerchief and made a workmanlike job of Esther’s head. “Better?” he asked solicitously.

  “Quite all right now, thanks,” said Esther “Just a headache. I think Mr. Garve has had a bad knock, though.”

  “Not a thing wrong with me,” insisted Garve, puffing stolidly with relaxed muscles.

  “We’ll see about that. Give him the once over, Featherstone.”

  The second officer made a superficial examination despite Garve’s protests, and announced that, so far as he could judge, no bones were broken.

  Phillips nodded. “Glad we were in time, old man,” he said to Garve.

  “For us, yes.” Garve indicated the Wailing Wall with a movement of his thumb. “You’ll find your man over there with a knife in his back. Looks like Simpson. He doesn’t need help any more.”

  “Christ!” said the young policeman soberly. “The swine—the infernal swine. That’s the fourth this week.” His worried gaze returned to Esther. “We’d better get you out of this right away, Miss Willoughby. Can you walk, do you think?”

  “We’d better not try and get through the city again,” Garve interposed. “I suggest you send Featherstone back to Willoughby’s house for a car as quickly as he can go. He can tell someone else to collect the corpse. We’ll pick up the car near the French Consulate. We can slip out through Dung Gate and walk round outside the wall. It will only take us ten minutes …” He moved, and a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder. “Well, perhaps twenty minutes. If you come with us we’ll have two guns, in case they feel like finishing the job.”

  Phillips, who had had many dealings with Garve, and knew him for a man of sense, nodded and passed on the instruction to Featherstone.

  While Phillips made the necessary arrangements, Esther struggled with an awakening conscience. She noted the pallor of Garve’s thin bronzed face, and felt suddenly very humble.

  “Are you angry?” she asked softly.

  “With myself,” said Garve. “Very! I was a fool. I knew perfectly well that I ought to have stopped you.”

  “I was very stupid and selfish,” said Esther contritely, and he saw with horror that her dark lashes were glistening with tears.

  “Don’t you worry,” said Garve awkwardly. “Here, have a cigarette.” Fumblingly, he struck a match for her and hurled the burnt stump petulantly away. It annoyed him that after all his experience in handling people and situations he should feel he had bungled this one so badly.

  He scrambled so his feet. “Ready, Phillips? Give Miss Willoughby a hand, will you? I’ll bring up the rear. And for the love of God take it easy or you’ll lose me.”

  That short journey was one of the most trying that Garve had ever known. By now the sun was beating down unmercifully on the hard, dry ground, and waves of hot air made breathing uncomfortable and walking a penance. The smell of the brook Kedron was fouler than ever in the heat. As the little party passed slowly and painfully along the undulating path leading from Dung Gate, Garve saw that the whole southern-side of the wall was deserted, as though the Arab population had been warned to keep away.

  Phillips, brisk and smart, alone appeared to be enjoying himself. He had taken Esther’s weight upon his arm, and kept up an even flow of light conversation during the whole journey. Garve, worried and aching, turned over the events of the morning in his mind, trying to link them somehow with what he knew of the growing Arab conspiracy. In the end he gave it up, and contented himself with thinking out the opening paragraph of the “story” he would cable to London that afternoon.

  As they neared the Consulate he saw with relief that a big black saloon was already waiting. Featherstone had clearly lost no time. Two men were hurrying down the steep uneven path to meet them, and one—the one
, strangely, who gave the greatest impression of haste—had a limping gait. It was Francis Willoughby, called unexpectedly from his breakfast, and jolting and slipping among the stones as though he set no value at all on his neck.

  Esther ran to meet him, grave-faced and repentant. “I’m sorry, father,” she said, as his hands rested on her shoulders and he looked her anxiously up and down. “Please don’t look so worried—I’m quite all right.”

  “It’s more than you deserve,” declared Willoughby, but his eyes were moist with thankfulness, and belied the brusqueness of his tone. “Who’s this young man?”

  “Phillip Garve—he’s the Palestine correspondent of the Morning Call. Mr. Garve—my father.”

  Willoughby gave Garve a searching look from under spectacularly red eyebrows, and held out his hand.

  “I wish we’d met in pleasanter circumstances, Mr. Garve. Anyway, let’s get home and discuss the matter in comfort. I’m sure you can’t have had breakfast yet.”

  Garve bowed his thanks. He had read a good deal of Willoughby’s stuff and admired his prose style. “It will be a pleasure,” he said. He turned to Willoughby’s companion with an inquiring glance at Esther.

  “Of course,” she said sweetly, “I forgot you two haven’t met. Mr. Antony Hayson—Mr. Philip Garve of the London Morning Call.”

  3. Garve Tells of a Discovery

  The big car made short work of the return journey round the outside of the wall. Garve occupied the front seat next to Jackson, the secretary-escort, who was driving, while at the back Hayson and Willoughby sat one on each side of Esther, and ministered to her wants.

  By moving his position slightly, Garve was able to pass the time profitably by studying Hayson’s features in the driving-mirror. The man was undeniably handsome, as Esther had said. His face was strong and regular, with clear-cut lines, his skin tanned a deep walnut, as though he had been excavating for months in tropical sunshine, his hair black and curly. His eyes were very dark, and gave to his face an expression of unusual serenity.

  As a possible rival—and though Garve could have kicked himself for being so susceptible to Esther’s charms, that was how he already regarded this fellow—Hayson was undoubtedly formidable. His attractions had the advantage of being spectacular. When he smiled he displayed a set of strong white teeth which any film star might have envied, and he had the poise and quiet self-assurance of a man who has been soundly educated among the right people. That faintly discernible Oxford accent, Garve told himself jealously, would have provided all the introduction necessary in any social circle throughout the far-flung Empire.

  He noticed, with a quick spasm of irritation, the proprietorial air which Hayson had adopted towards Esther. His arm lay along the back of the seat behind her, not close enough or obtrusively enough to be familiar, but near enough to seem protective.

  Even allowing for Esther’s impulsive nature, thought Garve, the man must be a quick worker to have achieved so much in a single day without giving offence.

  In a few minutes the car drew up outside the Willoughby establishment. It was a compact house of some eight or ten rooms only, solidly built of Jerusalem stone, and overlooking the Damascus Gate. A large open balcony and a flat roof provided a view to the east stretching away to the top of Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives. Below, at the bottom of a rough garden of olives and cactus and prickly pear, stretched the road that Esther had travelled alone earlier that day.

  Willoughby continued to cast occasional anxious glances at his daughter while breakfast was being prepared, but the cut on her head seemed to be giving her no trouble, and her spirits were rapidly rising again. Garve noticed with some interest that two Arab servants were employed—young men whom Esther addressed as Abdul and Feisul. Apparently she had decided to dispense with a maid on this trip. The Arabs looked harmless enough, and no doubt Jackson had his eye on them, but, all the same, Garve made a mental note to advise Esther to lock her bedroom door at night.

  Willoughby proved an admirable host, even at breakfast. His alert mind roved from one topic of conversation to another, and his humorous blue eyes beamed from under his rugged red brows at each of the party in turn. He was a man, Garve surmised, of sixty or thereabouts, but he presented a singularly active appearance, and would, in fact, have been something of an athlete still but for the war wound which had slightly shortened his right leg.

  When there was a gap in the talk, Hayson filled it with just the right mixture of deference and independence. He seemed always to say exactly the right thing. Garve, still aching abominably, found such self-possession increasingly annoying, and took refuge in a most unsociable moroseness.

  After breakfast they all adjourned to the balcony, where they found comfortable chairs in the shade of a welcome canopy.

  “Now,” said Willoughby, when they were settled, “perhaps I can have a full account of this morning’s episode?”

  “I’d better do the talking,” said Esther. “It was entirely my fault. I was horribly obstinate—wasn’t I, Mr. Garve?”

  Garve grinned. “You make it very awkward for me. Chivalry forbids me to agree with you——”

  “To a journalist,” said Esther reprovingly, “truth should always come before chivalry.” She proceeded to describe the circumstances of their adventure, while the gravity of Willoughby’s expression deepened and his eyebrows gave an occasional angry twitch.

  “Well, young woman,” he said severely, when the recital was over, “you’ve had a fortunate escape. Far more fortunate than you deserve.”

  “You certainly succeeded in giving us all a frightful shock,” said Hayson, quite as though he were one of the family. “I think we’re all very indebted to Mr. Garve for sticking to you so closely.”

  “Up to the point when the bomb exploded,” said Garve, with a smile, “it was a pleasure.”

  “I suppose you didn’t catch a glimpse of your assailant?” asked Hayson. “I mean, if you could describe him …”

  “He was the other side of the wall,” Garve pointed out, a little coldly.

  “Of course. These fellows so rarely come out into the open. I’m sure you did all you could.”

  Garve squirmed, and was about to make an angry reply, when Willoughby diplomatically intervened.

  “At least, Mr. Garve, I’m glad to know that you weren’t a willing partner with my daughter in this escapade. Between ourselves, you know, I’m not surprised she got her own way. She rules me completely, though it’s a dreadful confession to make.” He glanced fondly at his daughter, and Esther pretended to sigh.

  “Please, I didn’t mean to be wicked,” she murmured, and everybody laughed.

  Willoughby turned to Garve again. “Strangely enough,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “several people have spoken to me about you already. I gathered the impression that you knew more about Palestine than anyone in Jerusalem, that you had an astonishing capacity for extracting confidences from policemen, and that nearly all the big shots in the city were regular readers of the Morning Call, if only to keep au fait with what was happening over here.”

  Garve laughed. “I should like to think that I had such an important public,” he said. “By the way, Mr. Willoughby, what brings you to Palestine at such a time as this? It isn’t exactly a restful spot.”

  Willoughby agreed. “I felt I wanted stimulating,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I find I can always write in a more lively vein when there’s something exciting happening around me. That was one reason, anyway. A more important one, perhaps, was that I felt a sudden urge to revisit the scenes of my comparative youth. I served with Allenby, you know, and Jerusalem impressed me very deeply. It’s a stirring city, even when it’s peaceful. The problems of the country fascinate me, and, if I may say so, I welcome this opportunity of hearing about the situation from an acknowledged expert.”

  “Look here,” said Hayson genially to Garve, rising from his chair, “I’m sure you and Willoughby would like to be left in peace for
a little while. I can see the conversation is going to be political, and politics bore me to death. If Miss Willoughby would care to pop over to my place for an hour or so, she could help me unpack those bits of Roman pavement that I dug up at Pompeii. Or are you too tired?” he asked solicitously, turning his warm gaze on Esther.

  “I’d like to come,” she replied with enthusiasm. “I’ve a slight headache, but thinking about it won’t make it any better.”

  “Right you are,” said Willoughby. “But for heaven’s sake don’t go roaming again.” As they left he called after them: “You can take Jackson with you if you like,” and solemnly winked at Garve, who sat in silence till the sound of her gay laughter had faded.

  “Fine young fellow, Hayson,” said Willoughby when they had gone. Garve, who was himself barely thirty, felt like a grandfather. “Amazingly brilliant, too. Took a double first at Oxford, I understand, before he discovered his passion for archaeology. He’s done some good work at Luxor, and I think at Memphis. Immense application—speaks Arabic like a native. He’s got a nice little house behind ours—you can just see the end of his garden from here. I was rather afraid my daughter might be a bit lonely in Jerusalem, but Hayson, like a good fellow, has promised to show her round—so far as safety permits, of course.”

  Garve’s spirits sank lower and lower as he listened to this eulogy. The recollection of chestnut hair in the sunrise and tears of penitence under the Wailing Wall, had made him feel almost maudlin. Perhaps, he told himself, he ought to blame the shock of the explosion for his weakness. After all, she was only a flighty young miss, hardly different from thousands he had met and forgotten. Hardly different! What blasphemy! With a stern effort of will he pulled himself together in time to realize that Willoughby was asking him a question.

  He frowned and thoughtfully pressed tobacco into his pipe. “You want to know what I think of the chances of real trouble? Well, to be honest, I think they’re considerable. A lot of people in Jerusalem don’t agree with me, of course, but perhaps I have exceptional opportunities to get behind the scenes. Last week, for instance, I took a trip into Transjordan. My paper hadn’t sent me any specific instructions, and I was rather at a loose end. One gets tired of reporting a succession of murders, however eminent the people who are killed. Finally, I decided to cross over and try and get an interview with the Sheikh Ali Kemal. Have you heard of him, by the way?”