Death Beneath Jerusalem

by Roger Bax

  Garve was no sentimentalist, and he had seen men die for far less cause before. Yet, in that fearful passage, with the brown water swirling at his feet and the darkness pressing down on him, he felt awed and shocked at the suddenness with which death had repaid the Arab’s treachery.

  His one desire now was to get out of this interminable tunnel. Cautiously he crept round the edge of the pool, and as he flashed his torch on the water he saw Jameel’s corpse, weighed down by its clothing, lying with its head three feet below the surface. Once he had negotiated the pool, his course became easier again, and he made rapid progress.

  Presently he reached a point where the stream bore sharply upwards to the right, and the tunnel widened into a small cavern with a rocky ledge on his left. Following the direction of the stream with his eye, and momentarily switching off his light, he saw, not many yards away, the bright twinkle of a star, and his spirits rose with a bound. He was almost through.

  With the approaching end of his journey came reaction from the apprehension which had gripped him, and, wet though he was, he could not bring himself to hurry over the last few steps. His professional curiosity began to assert itself again. He was standing, after all, where few men had stood in the last few hundred years, and it was highly unlikely that he would ever walk through the tunnel again. He climbed on to the ledge, out of the stream, and proceeded to wring some of the water from his clothes. The exertion of the last stretch of tunnel had warmed him, and he was conscious of a pleasant sense of achievement, corpse or no corpse.

  Sweeping the wall above the ledge with his torch, he examined with interest the markings on the living rock—the laborious work of men who had lived almost on the threshold of human history. He found himself wondering why it had been necessary to swing the tunnel so sharply to the right at this point, and whether the ledge on which he was standing was natural or artificial.

  As he stared in admiration at the hewn surface of the wall, and, as was his habit, sought for words with which to describe it later, a sharp exclamation escaped him. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he could have sworn that the wall looked somehow different at this point. For one thing, different tools had been used—the chiselled markings were a different shape, a different size. The rock was of a lighter colour than that in the tunnel below. He picked up a small chip from the ledge and saw that one side of it was dull and smooth with age, and the other rough and bright. Garve was a layman in such matters, but he was convinced that that particular chip had not lain in the passage for three thousand years. With rising interest, he directed the beam of his torch upwards. To the right, above the stream, the roof was low and clearly visible, but immediately above him the rays of light lost themselves in darkness. As he swung the torch about, he noticed with a thrill that the ledge gave on to another ledge, five feet or so above it, and that in between were several rocky projections which made the climb a simple matter.

  Quickly he removed his soggy jacket and rolled it into a bundle, which he placed on the ledge. He could explore better without it. His gun he transferred to his trousers pocket, though he placed little trust in its effectiveness after the wetting he had received. The whisky flask he placed by the side of his jacket, having first taken a long and welcome pull at its contents. Unimpeded by the jacket, he drew himself easily up to the second ledge and flashed his torch ahead.

  He whistled softly. Before him a new tunnel opened out, higher, wider, and altogether more negotiable than the one that Hezekiah had made. The ground was dry, smooth, and hard. Garve advanced cautiously. The floor rose at a steady angle of twenty degrees, and he judged by its direction that he must be almost under the city wall. Men had walked here recently—his roving light revealed a cigarette wrapper on the ground, and where it was sandy there were footmarks and some curious lines which suggested that heavy objects had been dragged through the tunnel.

  He had climbed for perhaps five minutes, when the torch ceased to make a ring against the walls of the tunnel, and once more threw a beam of light ahead which lost its power in an open space. He saw now that he had reached something altogether vaster than the tunnel—a great amphitheatre of rock whose roof and sides were invisible.

  He hesitated. He was on fire with curiosity, but his torch, for which he had neglected to bring a refill, would give him effective service for only a very little longer, and in this mighty cavern he might easily lose himself. With infinite care he hugged the wall on his right, working round it and watching his step. He proceeded thus for ten or fifteen yards until he came to another passage, branching off again to the right.

  Only then did he realize where he was. These underground workings must be Solomon’s Quarries. The second entrance to them, which rumour said gave access to the quarries from the temple area above, in reality led down to Hezekiah’s Tunnel. And it had been hewn out very recently, with what stupendous labour Garve could only imagine.

  He cursed heartily at his lack of foresight in not bringing a spare battery with him. The failing current warned him that he had no time to waste, and he turned about reluctantly, still clinging to the wall. He knew that it would have been madness to go farther.

  As his fingers passed lightly over the surface of the rock he detected an occasional smoothness which aroused his interest. Turning the light upon it, he saw that in the rock a kind of fresco had been hewn. There were crude figures of men and animals, with strange hieroglyphics underneath them. Where the figures had been carved, the surface of the rock had been polished until it shone.

  “I suppose it’s this sort of thing that Hayson wants to decipher,” Garve thought. “I must ask him about it.”

  He would have liked to make a more careful examination—the curious carvings seemed to run all round the wall at intervals of a few feet—but the light was growing dim. In a very few minutes he was back at the ledge and climbing down into Hezekiah’s Tunnel. It took him only a very short time to complete the last stretch of tunnel, and as he climbed the steps which led up to the Virgin’s Fountain he drew a deep breath of pure air and relief. The fountain lay like a mirror under the still rising moon, and its beauty almost hurt the eyes. He glanced with loathing at the tunnel, but knew now that he would have to go back there. He was not a reporter for nothing.

  He trudged back to the hotel with dog-tired steps. His brain was too fatigued to consider any of the problems that lay ahead. He collected his key from the night porter, making no effort to conceal the fact that his clothes were soaked with water and blood. For fifteen minutes he lay in a steaming bath, then gulped down a stiff whisky as hot as he could take it, and, for the second night in succession, sank into an exhausted sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  7. A Damsel in Distress

  So they were being married after all! Hayson had lost, and Esther was about to become Mrs. Garve. The minister, with a pock-marked face and one eye, was reading the final words of the service, and Jackson the chauffeur was hurrying up the aisle so that he might be the first to congratulate the bride. Ali Kemal was trying to get his horse through the church door. Silly fellow! And the bells were ringing—ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding. Why did people have bells at their weddings? Bells were so persistent. Damn the bells—surely they would stop soon—ding-ding, ding-ding.

  Garve stirred uneasily in his bed and opened his eyes. The telephone was ringing not a yard away. With a great yawn he reached for the receiver.

  “Hallo,” he said sleepily.

  “Good gracious!” came Esther’s low, rich voice over the wire, “you sound tired.”

  “On the contrary,” said Garve, “I am no longer tired.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Esther.

  “I’ve just this moment woken up. What’s the time?”

  “It’s nearly one o’clock. You are a sloth!”

  Garve consulted his watch. Yes, he had slept for nearly nine hours. On the table by his bed stood a glass of orange juice and jug of water which had long since ceased to steam. He had no recoll
ection of the maid bringing it in.

  “It was nice of you to ring,” said Garve. “As a matter of fact I was just dreaming about you.”

  “No! What was I doing?”

  “Well—er—I can’t very well tell you over the phone. Wait until I see you.”

  “It sound interesting, but if it was too bad to talk about, it must have been some other girl! Tell me, how did you get on last night? I’ve been quite worried about you.”

  “Have you?” asked Garve cheerfully. “Why the anxiety?”

  “Well, father has just been on to police headquarters about something or other, and they said you hadn’t made your usual call this morning. I thought perhaps you’d got lost in the tunnel. What was it like?”

  “A bit damp,” said Garve cautiously. “And dark, you know—dark.”

  “You’re very mysterious, and vague. I don’t believe you went near the place. I expect you spent the night in some low Press haunt, and now you’re trying to blame the tunnel for your hangover!”

  Garve tenderly touched his swollen face and sighed. “That’s right,” he said. “And I’ve been fighting too. Take my advice and never argue with a ‘drunk.’ ”

  “Oh, you’re absurd. You seem cheerful enough now, anyway.”

  “The sound of your voice——” began Garve.

  “I know. I’ve heard that one. What about coming round for a talk some time to-day? Mr. Hayson will be here for dinner——”

  “That’s fine. I’ll come to tea.”

  “Don’t be silly. I was going to ask you to dinner as well, but Hayson said he had an idea you’d be unable to come.”

  “The devil he did! Nice of him to arrange my time-table for me.”

  Esther laughed softly. “I don’t believe you like him.”

  “My dear girl,” said Garve severely, “I know you think there are only two presentable men in Jerusalem, but that’s no excuse for making your coquetry so very obvious.”

  “I hate you,” said Esther.

  “Hugh! I should hate you if I didn’t know you were just pulling my leg. As it is …”

  “Yes?” said Esther.

  “As it is, I just dislike you.”

  Esther laughed. “I had a very interesting time in the quarries yesterday,” she said slowly.

  “I can imagine it. Poking about in the dark! Were Hayson’s researches advanced at all?”

  “I don’t think so. But he showed me something he said were his hieroglyphics.”

  “Ah!—I was beginning to suspect that he’d invented them for publicity purposes. Did he make love to you?”

  There was a long pause—so long that Garve said, “Hallo, hallo,” thinking he had been cut off.

  “I’m still here,” said Esther.

  “I see—silence is golden.” His voice was suddenly dry. “Look here, p’r’aps I’d better not come round to-day after all.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Esther. “I want to talk to you. Honestly. Something rather important. I—I need your advice.”

  “You’re a queer kid,” said Garve softly. “Always fooling, and then suddenly serious. All right—I’ll come, I’ll be along about four.”

  “Thanks. I must go now—lunch is ready. Au revoir.”

  “Bye,” said Garve. He replaced the receiver gently, lit a cigarette, and lowered himself carefully into bed again.

  Esther puzzled him. Sometimes she seemed to be just a flirtatious little butterfly, but he knew that she could be sensible and kindly when she wanted. And, after all, why should she be serious with him? He had treated her all along in a very off-hand way, reprimanding her one moment as though she were a child of ten and teasing her in a casual sort of way the next. She probably thought he was just a cynical newspaper man—as, in general, he was—who didn’t mind amusing himself with any charming girl. If that was what she thought, she was undoubtedly treating him in the right sort of way, and displaying remarkable sense. The question was, how was she treating Hayson? Hayson took himself very seriously. He seemed to be lacking in humour, and, judging by the way he looked at her, he was very much in earnest. Perhaps she didn’t flirt with him. Hayson would be a difficult—yes, even a dangerous—man to flirt with.

  Garve drew thoughtfully at his cigarette and began to turn over in his mind the events of the previous night. He had never really believed that Jameel would attack him. The man must have been mad either with greed or hate to do it. The question was, which? He had already been promised five hundred piastres for his night’s work, and he could hardly have been such a fool as to imagine that Garve was carrying even that much money with him on such an expedition. He must have known, too, the colossal risk he was running if he succeeded in the murder. With his evil one-eyed face he could never have hoped to escape arrest for long. Not if he were working alone, at any rate. Perhaps, after all, the attempted assassination had been political. No doubt, he knew Garve—everybody knew Garve—and had simply decided to seize an excellent opportunity to rid his countrymen of an inquisitive busybody. In that case he would rely on whatever secret society he belonged to to conceal him till the search was given up. However, he was dead, and no one would ever know now what his motives had been. Garve thought of him, lying all bloated and swollen in the pool, and then looked out of his window at the warm and brilliant sunshine. Life was very sweet—all the sweeter to-day, because the night before it had seemed so near its end.

  All in a moment Garve felt very tired of Palestine. It was a dry, hard, cruel country, and no promised land. He felt tired of the interminable wrangling between Jew and Arab; impatient of the policy which brought Great Britain in as guardian of the peace, and tried to populate the country with an unpopular race. Surely there were vast empty places in the world which the Jews could have colonized without this ceaseless bloodshed. For months now he had lived only in the storm centres of the world, and he longed for peace and kindliness. He imagined himself with Esther in some green and restful English village—accessible to London, yet away from its hurly-burly. A little quiet reporting for a change —days off which were really free from care—English food, green vegetables, golf.…

  “Hell, I’m getting old,” he told himself. But all the same he decided to ask for his recall directly he had landed his big story. And that he knew must soon come now.

  His thoughts switched back to Hezekiah’s Tunnel. Far more than the motives of Jameel, the discovery of the newly built tunnel intrigued him. It had been a massive labour; it must have taken dozens of men weeks to construct, particularly if they had worked secretly. And for what? Garve could think of only one explanation which made sense. If the Arabs were using the dangerous and unknown depths of the quarries as a vast ammunition dump, the tunnel would be necessary. The upper entrance to the quarries was too public—police often patrolled the walls, hundreds of people used the highway which passed within a few yards of it. One slip and their secret would be known, their work all gone for nothing. Hezekiah’s Tunnel, on the other hand, was never visited. On the contrary, it was avoided. On a dark night arms could be brought through the Kedron Valley on mules without the Arabs going anywhere near the city or running any risk at all. It would be simplicity itself to unload them at the Virgin’s Fountain, carry them down the few yards to the ledge, and hoist them up into the new tunnel. The quarries, as Hayson had agreed, were an ideal cache, and would provide a constant stream of weapons when required in the very centre of the revolt.

  Garve sighed. It was quite obvious that he would have to spend one or two nights at the Virgin’s Fountain. No doubt the police would be only too glad to do the job, but that way out did not commend itself. He took a certain professional pride in the things he had discovered so far. He was conceited enough to believe that he was the best “snooper” in Palestine. If the police started blundering around, the Arabs might take fright and change their hiding-place. When Garve went poking about they merely thought of him as a prying journalist. In any case, it was his story—once the police got hold of it it wou
ld become official, and the whole world might know. And that would be the end of his scoop. Also, in the back of his mind was still the uncomfortable feeling that the Palestine police force, composed as it was of British, Jews, and Arabs, was not the safest repository for any secret.

  Clearly the next thing to do was to explore the interior of the quarries thoroughly. He would have to tell Hayson of his discovery and enlist his aid. The fellow was objectionable enough as a rival, but he knew the quarries and their dangers better than any Englishman in Jerusalem, and he had an inquiring turn of mind. Two people could clamber about better than one; they could carry more equipment; they could help each other in case of difficulty. Hayson was not interested in newspapers to any extent; if anything were discovered he would be reasonably discreet. He looked a solid, reliable fellow—blast his eyes!—and, anyway, as long as he was with Garve he couldn’t be with Esther.

  Garve began to whistle cheerfully and proceeded to dress. He was making good progress in spite of his stiffness, when suddenly he caught sight of his face in the mirror and his whistling stopped abruptly.

  “My God” he ejaculated, “I can’t go visiting like that!”

  Across his forehead stretched a dull red scar, one eye was nearly black and his upper lip was swollen. He looked nearly as villainous as Jameel himself had done, and ten times more battered than he felt.

  “Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” he decided, shrugging his shoulders. He shaved with difficulty, washed the congealed blood off his forehead, bathed his eye and lip, and finished dressing.

  Over lunch, which he took in the hotel, he tried to concoct a plausible explanation of his injuries. None that he could think of sounded dignified, least of all the one he had given jestingly to Esther. He didn’t want her to think he ever got as drunk as all that. How could one get one’s face bashed in with dignity? He had fallen downstairs! No, that sounded as though he had just learned to walk. He had walked into a lamp-post! That didn’t sound very sober either. He had tried to rescue a damsel in distress! No, Esther wouldn’t swallow that two days running. Whatever he said he would feel horribly like Don Quixote. Exploring old sewers was almost more ludicrous and certainly less romantic than tilting at windmills. He could not tell her the truth, because that would mean a lot of questions about Jameel, and there would be quite enough trouble about Jameel as it was. Oh, well, he would think of something.