by Roger Bax
“His name’s familiar,” said Willoughby, all attention, “but I can’t quite place him.”
“Well, he’s been in the news several times. He’s one of Transjordan’s stormy petrels, and has already been in jail once or twice for anti-British activities. There have been rumours that he was trying to raise a revolt against the Emir, who, of course, has been a friend of Britain. Altogether, he seemed an eminently suitable man to interview.”
“Surely he would be deterred by the fact that the Emir can always rely on our support,” broke in Willoughby. “The revolt wouldn’t last a week.”
“That was my view at first, but there were one or two things that worried me. First of all, the position in Palestine. Whatever views one holds about the British policy of building a Jewish National Home, there’s no doubt that the Arabs here will never accept it. They’re solid as a rock against a continuance of Jewish immigration. If Transjordan revolted, Palestine would rise too. The second thing that troubled me was the difficulty of knowing what was happening. Our troops are always on the watch for a sudden outbreak, but it’s virtually impossible for them to know beforehand when or where the Arabs are going to strike. As you are aware, Palestine is honeycombed with secret terrorist societies. Hitherto, they’ve always struck independently, without any proper plan. An assassination here, a train wreck there, an aqueduct blown up somewhere else—unco-ordinated acts of violence that had no lasting effect. Recently there have been signs of a change. The terrorist acts have continued, but far more rarely. In my opinion the only reason they haven’t stopped altogether is simply because whoever is behind them didn’t want us to suspect a change of policy. I haven’t a lot of evidence so far, but in my view the Arabs have at last found a leader with the authority to organize them. I believe there’s a big conspiracy on foot, and for the first time in Arab history a brain behind it which makes it dangerous.”
“And you suspect Ali Kemal?”
Garve hesitated. “I don’t know. Until I saw him I thought he might be the man. He’s undoubtedly a natural leader—he has fine physique and presence, he knows what he wants, and his personality is striking. His own Bedouins obey him as naturally as they eat. But he’s vain and a little boastful. A good leader doesn’t boast to journalists until he’s established himself.”
“I always thought that an Oriental who didn’t boast was a rarity. He said too much, did he?”
“He said enough to justify my suspicions that an outbreak was being planned. He took some drawing out, mind you, and it was a long time before I discovered his weakness. I drank his coffee and we fenced amiably for some time. I tried to make him talk about the Emir, but he wouldn’t. He made no secret of his anti-British feeling, of course, but he didn’t say anything that the police could have arrested him for if they’d heard it. As I rose to go, however, I told him there were rumours that he was plotting against the Emir, and warned him, in quite a friendly way, that Britain wouldn’t stand for it and would smash him if he tried it. Somehow that got his goat—his vanity was greater than his caution, and he lost his temper. The things he said about Britain then would have blistered a greener landscape. He virtually threw down the gauntlet to me, as the only available representative of the country he hated. He just loathes us, and would do anything to drive us into the sea.”
Willoughby nodded. “I don’t doubt that—but the wish is one thing, fulfilment is another.”
“True, but another factor enters in here. So far, the Arabs have never been in a position to challenge our supremacy, because they’ve never been adequately armed. To-day they’re getting arms, and in large quantities. They’ve got dumps that we know nothing of—I’m sure of it. In the old pre-war days, arming a subject nation was no light undertaking. To-day, with the whole world an armed camp and factories in every country turning out munitions at a rate never before known in times of peace, arms are as easy to buy as oranges in Jaffa. Of course, they have to be smuggled in, but Transjordan was made for smugglers. I don’t doubt the convoys take a slightly different route on each occasion and only move at night. These Arabs know the mountains, and we don’t—we can spot them by day with aeroplanes but at night we’re powerless.”
“H’m!” Willoughby looked a shade sceptical. “Of course, you’re almost certainly right that arms are trickling in to some extent—and you know far more about it than I do—but I should have thought the menace wasn’t as serious as you suggest. Have you any direct evidence—any first-hand knowledge?”
“Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I have,” said Garve. “I’ll tell you a story that hasn’t appeared yet in the Morning Call. Two days after I got back from seeing Kemal, I was told that a cache of weapons was to be made that night in a cave near Bethany. I don’t mind telling you it cost my paper a small fortune to get that information, and the Arab who gave it to me risked his life. He told me where to watch. I didn’t trust him an inch, but the chance was too good to miss. You know how the mountains spread southwards from the Jericho road and how little we know of them. I went to Bethany just after dusk in Arab dress. That was easy. In the dark I made my way to a point which overlooked the little gully along which my informant had said the consignment would come. Very carefully I chose a place of concealment well away from the spot he had recommended. As it happened, my precautions were unnecessary. Just before midnight, in the pitch dark, I heard the sound of hooves on the hard dry ground. Presently a string of mules passed by me—almost under my nose. Each had a heavy pack and each was led. There were ten of them altogether. I waited, perhaps for an hour, and the mules came back. Their packs had gone and the Arabs were riding them. I followed my talkative friend’s directions, and in a deep cleft where the mountain had split I found the weapons!”
“Rifles?” asked Willoughby.
“Machine-guns! Brand new and of a modern type.”
Willoughby was duly impressed. “That certainly alters the outlook. It would only need a small army, adequately supplied with machine-guns, to hold these mountains almost indefinitely.”
“Exactly. You’re beginning now to see the extent of the danger. Personally, I should sum up the position something like this. I know the Arabs have arms, but I don’t know where. I know they are making plans, but I don’t know what. I know they have leaders, but I don’t know who. And I don’t know when the explosion is coming.”
Willoughby grinned. “Apart from that, I suppose, you’re well informed!”
“Just so!” Garve puffed vigorously at his pipe. “As I see it, there’s only one course of action which is going to save the situation. Somehow we’ve got to strike at the centre of the plot. We’ve got to discover the mind behind it. If Ali Kemal is this man, we’ve got to prove it to our satisfaction, and then put him somewhere where he’ll do no harm.”
“It sounds like a big proposition. By the way, did you describe that interesting interview in the columns of the Morning Call?”
“I haven’t done, so far,” said Garve. “I’d like to—it was an expensive trip, and after all I’ve got to show something for the enormous sums the Morning Call is spending, whether it knows it or not, in establishing contacts. Still, this seemed to be a case where I ought to hold back. If Ali Kemal is our man, as seems likely, we should only put him on his guard by drawing attention to him.”
“I think you’re right. What about the machine-gun find——” He broke off as a light footstep sounded in the house, but it was only Esther and Hayson returning.
“Who’s talking about machine-guns?” asked Esther gaily. She was flushed and obviously in high spirits.
Willoughby placed a comfortable chair for her, and Hayson drew one up beside her.
“Garve here has been doing a little sleuthing,” said Willoughby “He’s been watching the Arabs gun-running.”
“Really?” said Hayson, handing round cigarettes. “By Jove! that must have been exciting. May we know more?”
“I’m afraid,” said Garve, “that the question of publication is sub judice
. In the meantime, I know you folks won’t talk about it.” He glanced pointedly at Esther, who pouted.
“Anyone would think I babbled like a brook,” she said. “I think it’s a shame to whet our appetites and deprive us of the meal.” She walked across to Garve, gave him a smile which would have melted the heart of a sphinx, and said in a wheedling tone, “Please, Mr. Garve, may I come with you on your next Nocturnal Adventure?”
“Not if it’s looking for gun-runners,” interposed Willoughby. “If you land yourself in any more tight places, young woman, I shall have you handcuffed to Jackson.” A mischievous light stole into his eyes. “I dare say, though,” he added, “if you ask Garve nicely, he will take you down to the Dead Sea for a moonlight bathe.”
“Will you?” asked Esther eagerly.
“With pleasure,” said Garve. “I’ll be a bit stiff for swimming for the next day or two, but the water is said to be excellent for muscular complaints.” He rapidly consulted his diary. “Full moon on Friday. Is it a date?”
“Lovely!” exclaimed Esther. “Come to dinner at 7.30, will you? We shall have plenty of time to drive down afterwards.”
“I shall live for Friday,” sighed Garve, with mock gallantry. His thoughts were already racing wildly ahead when the deep, rich voice of Hayson scattered them.
“The road to the Dead Sea is very dark, winding, and dangerous,” he observed. “I hope you’re familiar with it.”
“Bogey, bogey,” said Esther, and laughed in his handsome face. His white teeth showed in a smile that was almost a caress, but as Garve caught his eye the smile faded and was replaced by a glance of cold displeasure.
“Jealous, that’s what he is,” Garve told himself gleefully. “Horribly, horribly jealous! And if he’s jealous he can’t feel so certain about Esther as his possessive and confident air suggests.”
The conversation took a less personal turn, and shortly afterwards Willoughby found an opportunity to take Garve aside again. “Sorry I was heard talking of machine-guns,” he said, “but Esther is the soul of discretion, and I know she won’t breathe a word. By the way, have you told the police of your find?”
Garve studied Willoughby’s calm, rather rugged features. “Not yet,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Only that I found your story somewhat unsettling. It’s not really my business, but I thought maybe the police should know. If they set a watch each night over the cache, they might get a line on the gun-runners.”
Garve nodded. “Maybe I’ve been too secretive. It’s true I can’t watch everything. The first opportunity I get I’ll tell Baird at police headquarters.”
“And just one other thing,” said Willoughby. “If you want any unofficial help at any time, count me in. I’m not so active as I was, I’m afraid, but I still get about, and it won’t do me any good to be writing all day and all night.”
“I’ll remember your offer,” said Garve gratefully. “All the same, England wouldn’t thank me if I ran you into unnecessary danger. She’s looking to you for at least six more masterpieces.”
Willoughby laughed without conceit, and they joined Esther and Hayson again.
4. Hayson Proffers Advice
Immediately after lunch, Willoughby excused himself and went off with the faithful Jackson to keep an appointment. Garve hoped that Hayson would be impelled to return to his excavating, but the call of archeology was apparently no more insistent than the call of journalism when a charming girl needed company.
Garve, reclining in a deck chair and puffing contentedly at his old briar, rested with an easy conscience. He had been blown-up that day in the service of his paper, and the most unreasonable editor could hardly ask for more. If a train were wrecked or a bridge dynamited he knew that he had good friends at police headquarters who would seek him out and let him know at once. In any case, he could no longer work up any enthusiasm over minor outbreaks of violence. They meant nothing to London. They were hardly news any longer. Much better, he thought, to concentrate on digging out the really big story that he felt was on the point of breaking. If he could only get an “exclusive” on a major revolt, his second visit to Palestine would have proved worth while. And the more he thought of Ali Kemal, the more certain he became that he had hit upon the focal point of the plot. It might break, of course, at any moment, before he could get to the bottom of it, but his contacts were good, and, in the meantime, there was nothing he could do—he glanced at Esther—well, nothing to-day, anyway.
Rest and peace seemed to be having the same attraction for Hayson. With a deliberation which suggested that he was taking up his position for the remainder of the day, he placed a chair near Esther in that possessive manner which angered Garve so much, and proceeded to make himself thoroughly comfortable. To Garve he was gravely courteous, but when he spoke to Esther he always switched on a brilliant smile, which he clearly realized was fascinating. Garve himself was fascinated by it. To Esther, in romantic circumstances, he feared it might prove irresistible.
However, since the afternoon was apparently to be spent à trois, Garve resigned himself to the necessity of being friendly, and, with the true instinct of the newspaper man, set to work to make Hayson talk about himself. He had already scented a possible story. Archaeological discoveries often made first-class copy, and a man of Hayson’s ability would hardly be “digging” in Jerusalem without good reason. Garve openly and smilingly confessed his curiosity with a disarming apology for not minding his own business.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Hayson, with the tolerant air of a man who knows he is worth interviewing. “As a matter of fact, I’m used to pressmen. I even edited a rag myself at Oxford.”
Garve badly wanted to laugh, but hastily coughed instead. Even Esther did not seem very impressed.
“At Luxor,” said Hayson, “we were inundated with newspaper people. I was deputed to act as a kind of public relations officer, and I found them a very decent crowd of fellows. But they didn’t know much about archaeology.”
“I bet they didn’t,” said Garve with a grin.
“Tutankhamen would have turned in his sarcophagus,” said Hayson gravely, “if he had known how they were messing up his dynasty. They got the dates wrong, and the names wrong, and even the history wrong.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Hayson is as fond of newspaper men as he pretends,” declared Esther. She looked cool and comfortable, and was toying with one of Hayson’s Turkish cigarettes, which she liked.
“I assure you I’m quite sincere,” said Hayson. “I know that scientists don’t usually favour the popular press, but the garbled kind of pseudo-scientific article which appears in papers like—like——”
“Like the Morning Call,” prompted Garve, chuckling.
“Well, like the Morning Call,” said Hayson solemnly— “that kind of article is often as much the fault of the scientist as of the journalist. Now, when I talk about my work, I try to make it intelligible. I avoid technical terms as much as possible, and I don’t try to parade a lot of abstruse knowledge.”
“I wish there were more like you,” observed Garve. “Anyway, to avoid any possible misrepresentation, I promise you that if what you are working at here makes a story, I’ll submit my ‘copy’ to you for technical correction before I release it.”
Hayson gave a little gesture of self-depreciation. “There’s not really much to tell yet, and you mustn’t exaggerate the importance of it. I’m searching for the Ark of the Covenant.”
Garve whistled softly. “It sounds like a headline to me.”
“I thought it was stranded on Mount Ararat,” said Esther.
“You’re thinking of Noah’s Ark,” said Hayson, and as he turned to Garve he was just too late to intercept a wink. “The Ark of the Covenant was built by Moses—you’ll find all about it in the Book of Exodus. It was made of shittim wood, overlaid with pure gold, and was carried on gold staves. It was to contain, if you remember, two tablets of stone ‘written with the finger of God.’ Moses bro
ke the first two, but according to Exodus they were renewed. And when we find the ark—if we ever do—we may find the tablets too.”
“They’d make a good picture,” said Garve irreverently. “I remember now—the Ark was supposed to have been hidden in Jerusalem, wasn’t it. Under the city. And that’s why you’re working in Solomon’s Quarries?”
“Exactly. Have you ever been inside them?”
“Oh yes—a little way—but only as a tourist, I’m afraid.”
“Please, please,” Esther interrupted. “You’re going much too fast for me. “I haven’t been inside Solomon’s Quarries. Do tell me more about them.”
“Solomon’s Quarries,” said Hayson, beaming on Esther as on an ignorant child, “are a great chain of underground caverns which run beneath the old city. Nine hundred years before Christ the stone for Solomon’s Temple was hewn out of them. For two hundred years their existence was lost sight of. Then, in the middle of the last century, a man was walking past the Damascus Gate when he suddenly missed his dog. He turned on his tracks and discovered the animal crawling out of a hole under the wall, which was all overgrown with vegetation. He shifted a lot of debris, and discovered that the hole was really the choked-up entrance to a vast cave. Nowadays the upper workings of the quarries are one of the sights that visitors always want to see.”
“I should think so,” said Esther. “It sounds most interesting. Please go on.”
