by Roger Bax
Esther clung to him. “You kissed me as though —as though you were saying good-bye. Oh, Philip, take care of yourself too. You run such risks—and your life is worth so much more to me than to your old newspaper. There’s always Jackson to look after me and father, but there’s no-one to look after you.”
Garve grinned. “There’s a providence that watches over newspaper men,” he said. “Come on—we’re getting morbid.”
He paid the bill as they passed through the café, and left a liberal tip for the still smiling waiter. “Arabs can be very charming,” he said, “when they like.” He stopped with his fingers on the door of the car and gave Esther a quaint glance. “When I helped you out,” he said, “you were an inaccessible prize—hardly more than a stranger. What a lot can happen in a few hours!” He caught himself up abruptly. “My God, what a platitude! Never mind. I suppose that’s what love does to a man.”
As he let in the clutch he added, “If things begin to happen now, at least we shall have the consolation of knowing that we snatched an evening of happiness before the deluge.” Even. Garve did not realize at what a speed things were going to happen during the next few hours.
The car slid away and Garve pressed the horn three times. They had not covered half a mile before headlights once again sprang out of the darkness behind them, and pursued them tenaciously as they gathered speed along the plain.
“Don’t worry about that car behind,” Garve said, since there seemed no longer any good reason for hiding its identity. “It’s the police. This road has still a bad reputation at night, and Baird kindly provided us with an escort.”
Esther nodded, and snuggled down beside him. “You think of everything,” she said. “I don’t know what it is about you which inspires such confidence, but really, you know, I don’t think I could ever get really worried in your company.”
“It’s charming of you to say so, but I assure you that a single well-directed bullet would put an end to your illusion of security.”
“You’re always thinking about bullets,” Esther protested. She looked up into his face from her half reclining position and saw that the muscles of his jaw were tightly drawn, his mouth set, his brown eyes fixed in unwavering intentness on the road ahead. He was alert, ready, watching the outermost tip of his headlight beam, studying every inch of the illuminated road. As they left the plain and began the long corkscrew climb up into the mountains of Judea, the task of keeping a proper look-out became more difficult. Each section of road ended swiftly in a blind corner, and the danger was that anyone preparing an ambush would be able to see the approaching car long before the car’s headlights could pick out any unusual features of the road.
Garve was sufficiently familiar with the road to know where, if at all, the blow was likely to fall, at least within a mile or two. Obviously Hayson would not himself be lying in wait for the car. Unless his warning had been just an empty bluff, he would have to employ someone to do the job for him—probably a small band of Arab cutthroats. That was an easy enough task in Palestine, where cut-throats abounded. They would have to remember, however, when choosing the site for their hold-up, that parts of the road were ideal for highway robbery and murder, provided all went well, but death-traps if any hitch arose. Between these towering cliffs, for instance, which rose so steeply above the series of S bends the car was now traversing, a body of assailants might find it very difficult to escape. If they were mounted, as was practically certain, they would have to race along the road a considerable distance in one direction or another before they reached a place where they could leave it. If, during that time, they met a police patrol, they would inevitably be stopped or fired on. No, the popular place for an ambush—proved time and again by past experience—was somewhere where the hillside rose not too abruptly from the road on at least one side. Then, after the job was done, it was possible for the assailants to ride their agile horses up the mountain-side, where, in a few seconds, they would be completely and finally lost sight of.
Occasionally Garve’s eyes left the road ahead for the fraction of a second, to make sure by a glance in his driving-mirror that the police car was hanging on his tail. Most of the time it was less than fifty yards behind; occasionally the distance increased to a hundred on a particularly winding bit of road, which Garve happened to know better than the police driver. But always it was in comforting proximity.
As the miles slowly slipped by, Esther began to show signs of sleepiness, and her head sank lower and deeper into Garve’s shoulder. He was glad to let her doze—she would worry less, and there was probably nothing to worry about anyway. If there were, she would wake up soon enough.
The car soon passed the “SEA LEVEL” post and ran on, purring comfortably up into the ever-deepening folds of the hills. Nowhere was there any light or any sign of life, human or animal. The road was winding now through the remotest fastnesses of Judea, and Garve watched with redoubled care, for here was the beginning of the danger zone. His headlights sent a regrettably warning beam ahead, but without the moon he could not dispense with them. He peered to right and left as well as in front, as his speed fell to a mere fifteen miles an hour. Bethany now lay not very far ahead, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself that his caution had been unnecessary when it all happened.
The road was skirting the edge of a deep and precipitous valley, which fell away dizzily on the right. On the left the hillside rose more gently, while just ahead the road turned to the left, so that the headlights shone out over the valley and revealed nothing.
As the car slowly negotiated the corner and the lights swung back to the road, Garve’s nerves suddenly went tense. Right across it, from hillside to valley, was a low but impassable stone wall. At such moments Garve never hesitated. Almost at the instant of time when his eye saw the wall, even before a dozen dark figures had jumped down into the road, he had brought the car to a slithering standstill, crashed his gear into reverse, and accelerated back towards the corner, his hooter screaming, Arabs on foot and mounted pursuing him. In those hectic seconds, when the outcome of the incident was still uncertain, Garve could still notice that, though the Arabs had rifles, they were only holding them in readiness to fire, not firing them. Of course—Esther was not to be killed!
With a quick flick of the wheel he ditched the car on the left bank of the road. The headlights of the police car were dazzling in the driving-mirror. A mounted Arab, dashing up with knife raised to strike, reined in his horse with sudden fear as he saw the second car. The feet of horses thundered on the road—great heavens, there must be fifty men at least. They were bearing down on the car—they reined and shouted. The police were on them—into them, by God. A man screamed, there was a volley of shots, the police car stopped with a rending of rubber on stone and a great jolt as it hit something. A dark face bore down on Garve, who fired at six feet. He saw a red hole appear in the man’s forehead as the body pitched over the wheel of the car. A machine-gun opened staccato fire—then another. Pandemonium reigned—noise of the police guns, Arab rifles, shouts and menaces, cries of wounded, and the horrible wailing of a wounded horse. Garve’s left hand crushed Esther down, down against the cushions. There was nothing for him to do but wait with his revolver ready. The hillside sheltered him from the left—and it was clear that the police car had the situation well in hand. Garve watched the vicious bursts of flame as they spat from the machine-gun at the back. Suddenly the firing ceased. The police car’s searchlight swept the hillside in vain—the raiders had gone. Along the road lay four bodies, sprawling and motionless. A horse cried and kicked in agony, till Garve jumped out in desperation and shot it through the head. The driver of the police car joined him, his face smeared with grime and oil.
“Girl all right?” he asked tersely.
Garve nodded, and at that moment Esther walked over from the car. Garve took her arm, peering anxiously into her face.
“I’m perfectly all right,” Esther assured him. “I can’t believe it’s hap
pened, that’s all. I think I was fast asleep—and then I woke up in Bedlam. Are these men dead?”
The driver nodded. “There may be some more on the hillside, but we shan’t know till daylight.”
The two machine-gunners climbed down, nodding sheepishly to Esther, saluting Garve, surveying their handiwork.
“Have you wirelessed Baird for an ambulance?” asked the driver.
“Yeah. He’s sending it; but he says there’s some trouble at Tel Aviv, and he can’t come himself.”
“Must be pretty big to keep him away from this. Well, we’d better get that obstruction shifted. It’s a good old dodge—blocking up the road. They’ve done it pretty thoroughly too.” The driver turned to Garve. “Near shave, sir. I reckon we were lucky to come through like that without a scratch.”
“Damned near thing,” said Garve. “I was afraid you’d ram me in the back—I was going a hell of a pace in reverse.”
“It was that that saved you—if you’d stayed put they’d have swiped you before I could have cleared the corner. But I missed your tail by inches, and nearly swerved over the edge doing it. Jove, you should have seen them scatter. I bet they had the shock of their lives. If we hadn’t been here I reckon nothing on this earth could have saved you.”
“You’re right,” said Garve grimly. “They took no chances—it looked like a cavalry division charging down the road. They’ve left five behind, not four. I had to shoot one over by the car.”
“Do we have to wait until the ambulance comes?” asked Esther, drawing her wrap closely round her against the chill mountain air.
“ ‘Fraid so,” said Garve. “It’s unlikely they’ll make another attempt, but we’ll all go home together and take no chances.”
“In that case I’m going to help demolish the wall,” said Esther. She slipped daintily round an Arab corpse and proceeded to lug the smaller stone from the hastily built barrier, while the two policemen, who were already working there, grinned and encouraged her.
Garve sat on the running-board of the Ford and filled his pipe. He felt the elation which always comes from swift and successful action. He had little or no compunction about the dead Arabs, who had planned a cold-blooded assassination with overwhelming numbers. Apparently Esther, too, was wasting no sympathy upon them, and Garve marvelled again at her pluck and spirit. He guessed that the vigour with which she was at present moving stones was something of a cover for her feelings, but the noise and excitement, not to mention the blood, had been shocking enough for any woman, and none of the three policemen made any attempt to hide his admiration.
“She comes of good stock,” said the driver to Garve, jerking his head towards the diminishing heap of stones. “Brave and tough like her father. He was with Allenby, and fought over every inch of this ground.”
“I know,” said Garve; “but how are you so sure he was tough?”
“I was with him,” the policeman told him. “Served under him, and loved him.”
Garve nodded. “He’s got guts all right, or he wouldn’t have come out here now. Queer thing—the Arabs were on our side then, and we promised them protection and a home in Palestine. Now we’re helping to drive them out.”
“Ah,” said the policeman, “and that wasn’t the only promised land that never came to anything.”
He was just beginning to expatiate on the duplicity of politicians in not providing homes for heroes, when the light of a car came into view a mile away up the hill.
“That’ll be the ambulance,” said the driver. “And none too soon—it’s devilish cold up here.”
By now the last of the stones had been removed, and Esther joined Garve at the car, rubbing the dust from her hands.
“That’s better,” she said, smiling. “I really felt quite shaky at first.”
“We shan’t be long now. Come and sit in the car while they load up. It won’t be a pretty sight.”
He gave her a cigarette, and while the ambulance men helped the others, he moved the Ford away from the hillside.
The police driver came over to them. “Right you are, sir—we’ll clear up the rest to-morrow. You can step on the gas—they want the ambulance urgently at Tel Aviv. Awful mess there—Arabs laid a mine under a whole block of flats and hundreds are dead.”
“Sounds like a story I’ll have to cover,” said Garve to Esther as they shot away.
“You mean you’ll have to go there?”
“If it’s as big as they say. It’s too late to get anything on the wire to-night, but they’ll want it in London early to-morrow.”
“Can I come with you?” Esther asked eagerly.
“I shouldn’t, sweetheart. You’ve missed your beauty sleep already, and you’ve no idea how incredibly beastly these big explosions can be.”
Esther subsided. “I suppose I should be rather in the way,” she admitted. “But I can’t bear to lose you to-night. I shan’t sleep a wink anyway. What a night, Philip! The first part so peaceful, so sweet, that it seemed as though there couldn’t be any evil in the whole world, and then violence and murder and frantic hurry everywhere. I say, this car does go, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” said Garve grimly, hugging his near side as he took a left-hand bend at forty. “It’ll have to to-night. At last things are warming-up—there’ll be martial law to-morrow, if I’m not mistaken—same as last year.”
Jerusalem was completely silent as they ran swiftly through the outskirts. Baird’s car was standing outside police headquarters, and as Garve ran up the steps he met Baird hurrying out.
He stopped and gripped Garve’s hand, and the light of battle was in his eyes. “All safe?” he asked, saluting Esther. “Man, you must have second sight. The murderous devils!”
“Never mind them,” Garve interposed. “What’s the strength of the Tel Aviv business?”
“A whole block of dwellings demolished. Bodies being dragged out by the score. Jews in a ferment, and grave risk of riots. Military taking control. Is that a story?”
“I’ll say it is,” said Garve. “Are you going right away?”
“Yes—I’m leaving Fairfax in charge—he’ll give you any help you want here. So long—see you later.”
“I’ll be on your tail,” Garve told him. He watched Baird’s car as it shot away. The next thing was to get Esther home without delay. Garve was now just a pure newspaper man with a single purpose. His eyes shone with a fierce determined light. For days he had sent nothing important to his paper—and this was big enough to take the front page of any London daily.
Esther saw his excitement and called him to the car urgently. “There’s no need to bother about me, Philip. It’s only ten minutes’ walk home, and I know you’re dying to get away.”
“Rubbish,” said Garve. “It won’t take me a second.” He clambered in and the Ford roared away on third gear. Almost before he could change up they were passing Damascus Gate, and had drawn up outside the Willoughby house.
“You’ll be all right now,” said Garve, kissing her. “I’m a rotten lover—but to-morrow I’ll make up for it. Try and sleep, darling. Goodnight.”
“Good-night,” she said softly. “I love you very dearly.” She watched his tail-light till it disappeared, and then turned into the drive. She was hardly through the gate, however, before two dark forms slipped from behind a mass of cactus and seized her. She would have screamed, but a bundle of rags was pressed over her mouth, half stifling her. She was lifted easily by the head and feet and carried at a run into Hayson’s drive. In less than a minute, during which time hardly a sound had passed, she was handed in through Hayson’s front door, which closed upon her. The two Arabs slipped away into the darkness. The light in the Willoughbys’ hall went on burning; it seemed that the rest of Jerusalem slept.
Garve, congratulating himself that at least Esther was safe for the night, turned the bonnet of his car towards the coast.
14. Garve Thinks it Out
He drew a deep breath of something very like relief as th
e Ford sped quickly through the outskirts of Jerusalem. For the past few days he had been simply marking time, from the newspaper point of view—collecting background but precious little news. To-night he felt that he was back on the job again. His watch told him that it was nearly half-past one, but time was nothing for him now till the story was cleared up. He felt as fresh as a sea breeze, as keen as an Arab knife. The racing engine found response in his racing thoughts—long ago he had discovered that his brain worked with speed and clarity on a long night drive. It seemed to tune-in to the throbbing power of the car. It had to be constantly alert for fast driving, and problems which had seemed difficult lying in bed were often solved with ease between the flashing kilometre posts.
For the first few miles the road claimed the greater part of his attention. All round Jerusalem rose the mountains of Judea, and it took an iron nerve and a confident touch on the wheel to negotiate them at speed. Garve was dropping to the flat fertile country which stretched from the mountains to the sea, and the car swayed violently from right to left and left to right as he skidded the back wheels round the constantly recurring hairpin bends with a short jab at the brake and a swing over. Always he was completely master of the car, skidding it to an inch, smashing down on the accelerator as it came into the straight again. It was savage work; constantly the body groaned as the sharply turned wheel racked it with unfamiliar strains and stresses, and showers of pebbles shot from the tyres as they sought for a grip on the corners. He hardly knew why he was driving so fast, except that on big stories he hurried from long habit. Sometimes it meant that one could get the story on the wire and actually catch an earlier edition than a rival; more often by arriving early, one picked up some interesting item of news, some specially human angle, which the late arrivals would miss. Like a crime, a news story was more easily dealt with when the scent was hot.
Garve considered, from various aspects, the story he was racing to cover. There would probably be plenty of scope for vivid writing, particularly if the blown-up block were well alight, as seemed likely. It would be a messy business prowling round among such bodies as had been recovered, but on a story bodies were curiously impersonal things. To a reporter the main thing was how many there were of them and their identity—how they had suffered and died could be sketched-in later with a few deftly chosen words. Garve knew he would have no difficulty in getting all the information that was available. He considered the story in relation to the Morning Call’s front page. If the explosion were as big as he supposed, his account of it might be worth a column, provided of course no big news story broke at home at the same time. After all, it came under the category of an “Arab outrage,” and was therefore news.
