Death Beneath Jerusalem

by Roger Bax

Eagerly Garve went through them. It was clear enough that Hayson was a genuine antiquarian, whatever else he might be. There were letters from learned societies in London, requests that he should give lectures; congratulations from fellow-archaeologists on finds which were meaningless to Garve. Hayson had done little enough research in Palestine, but elsewhere he seemed to have been professionally active. Garve noticed with surprise how many of Hayson’s own notes were kept in Arabic. The man must have a wonderful facility in the language.

  Everything was neatly arranged as Garve would have expected, knowing Hayson’s precision. Each pigeon-hole, each drawer, had its own label and its particular contents. Garve threw aside a mass of personal correspondence which he had the inclination, but not the time, to read, and delved into the last drawer.

  At the bottom he struck oil. The long document, inscribed so carefully in Arabic characters, proved beyond doubt what Garve had only so far deduced—the complicity of Hayson in the plot. Garve could not read Arabic as easily as he could speak it, but it was clear to him that this was a list of the ammunition dumps. The exact location of each dump was described, together with the nature and the quantity of the arms. Garve gave a low whistle as he struggled through the text. Colossal! Incredible! No wonder the Arabs had had a feeling of confidence and jubilation during these last few months.

  The bureau disclosed nothing further, and Garve could hardly hope for more. It was true that he had still no idea of Hayson’s whereabouts, and that he was still powerless to help Esther; but this document alone was the key to the success or failure of the revolt. If the police or the military could only take possession of these dumps before the storm broke, the Arabs would be disarmed before they could strike a blow. Police headquarters. That was the next step. And quickly.

  Stuffing the document into his breast pocket he was on the point of leaving when his eye fell on a roll of films which Hayson had left near the bureau. Films!—Now what was it Hayson had said about films? Something, surely. Ah yes—of course—the dark room. Garve walked over to the door and pulled the handle. It was locked.

  “Funny,” he thought, “locking a dark room and taking the key.” He was anxious to get away, but his thoroughness triumphed. “It’s dogged as does it,” had been the slogan of his early reporting days—and what reporter could leave uninspected a locked room in the house of a conspirator. Blissfully ignorant of what lay inside, he raised his revolver again and fired through the lock. The first shot was enough. The door swung open of its own accord, and Esther’s unconscious body lay sprawling at his feet.

  He stepped back with an oath, startled, staring through the smoke, uncertain what had happened. Then he suddenly saw who it was, and was on his knees.

  God, if he had shot her! With trembling fingers he examined her body. She was breathing. She was alive. There was no blood. It was all right —she must have been sitting or lying—could not have been as high as the keyhole. Raging anger seized him as he looked at her pallid cheeks, but he struggled to control himself.

  “Keep cool,” he muttered. “Keep cool.” He groped for his knife and slashed the cords which bound her. Where her wrists had been tied red weals were growing purple under the bonds. No doubt she had struggled. First one white hand and then another fell limply to the floor as the cords were cut. He could see that her fingers were bloodless—the circulation had been stopped as by a tourniquet. Probably her feet were the same. He cursed and cursed, but went on working all the time. There—she was free.

  He laid her out on the rug and rushed into the kitchen for brandy. He brought the bottle back with him, and water. Between her white lips he forced a few drops of the amber liquid, and bathed her forehead, using his handkerchief as a compress. She stirred, moaning slightly. She was coming round. He chafed her hands and feet.

  She opened her eyes, shivered, and groaned. The blood was running back into her lips.

  “There, there,” said Garve, stroking her hair, whispering gently. “I know it’s hurting—but it won’t last long. Here, have some more brandy. Oh, my darling, thank God you’re safe.”

  “Philip!” Esther softly breathed his name and smiled. “Philip, I knew you’d come—but it was such a long while. I—I went to sleep—but I got stiff and—and woke up again—and then I began to get dizzy and cold—I suppose I fainted.”

  “Don’t talk for a minute,” Garve urged. “You’ve had a bad time.”

  Esther was staring round her, still a little dazed. The colour was creeping back into her cheeks, however, and her eyes were alive again.

  Garve could see that she was groping for recollection, and did not attempt to hurry her. His encouragement, in any case, was unnecessary, for suddenly she clutched wildly at his arm and struggled up into a sitting position, her face strained with eagerness.

  “Hayson!” she cried. “I remember now. He wanted me to go away with him. He was going to kidnap father. Quick, we must go.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Garve gently. “I want to move as quickly as you do, darling, but I must know all the facts. Sure you’re feeling better now?”

  “I shall be when I’m doing something.”

  “All right—tell me in as few words as you can what happened to you after I left you.”

  “I was seized by three men,” Esther blurted out. “They were waiting in the shrubbery. They brought me to Hayson. He told me about the revolt. He’s the leader—you know.”

  “I’ve just found his list of ammunition dumps,” said Garve grimly. “Go on.”

  “He’s an Arab. His name’s Hussein.”

  Garve stared incredulously. “An Arab! Hayson—Hussein! Good God!” So that was it. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. “Of course—his tanned skin, his dark eyes, his impassive manner, his Arabic. Well, he’s the leader, and we’ve got to find him. Where is he, Esther?”

  “In the quarries—so he said. We must see if my father is at home.”

  “He’s not,” Garve told her gravely. “There’s no one there.”

  Esther was turning pale again, and he plied her with more sips of brandy.

  “Then Hayson’s carried out his plan,” she said. “He told me he was going to kidnap father, and make him sign a paper saying he’d been taken by Ali Kemal to Petra, and asking the authorities to send a lot of troops after him so that the revolt could begin without any resistance. I’m afraid that sounds awfully mixed up.”

  “On the contrary,” said Garve, “it’s crystal clear—only too clear. The clever devil!”

  “He nearly made me go with him, Philip. He’d actually bought two tickets on a boat from Port Said, he was so certain. He’s got them with him now. He was willing to abandon the whole revolt.”

  Garve nodded. “I know the feeling. Just as I would have thrown up my job if I could have got you out of this before the crash. Now listen, Esther. There isn’t going to be a crash. We’re going to stop it. We can stop it—but you’ll have to help.”

  “Oh, I want to help. Anything—anything.”

  “Listen—there are two things to be done. You must see the authorities at once. Everybody will try and keep you out; but if you tell them who you are you’ve more chance of getting through to them than I have. You’ll take this list of ammunition dumps with you. They’ll realize quickly enough that they’ll have to put a guard on each—if it’s not too late. Tell them about the plot to get the troops away. Tell them what you like, but don’t leave them until they understand. If they’ve started sending forces to Petra, they must be brought back. Make that clear to them. It’s up to you, Esther. Use your name, your womanly charm, any damn thing, but make them act.”

  “Leave it to me. How do I get to them?”

  “I’ll take you in the car and drop you outside. And this time I’ll see there’s nobody lurking in the bushes. How do you feel—are you fit enough?”

  “I’m quite recovered—and—Philip—so happy to be with you again. What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, I’m going to the quar
ries,” said Garve nonchalantly.

  “Philip—oh Philip. I knew that’s what was in your mind. I’m so afraid—what can you do there? All the leaders—all the most desperate of the Arabs—will be there. You won’t have a chance. You can’t do anything if you go. Wait until you can get help from the police if you must go.”

  “Your father’s down there,” Garve reminded her gravely. “His life is in the utmost danger. I must go, Esther. In those quarries, if Hayson told you the truth, all the heads of this revolt are gathered. Without them the conspiracy is at an end, the rising will peter out. Once they are free and abroad in the country they can rouse their people, and civil war may last for years. It’s now or never.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try and meet Hayson with his own weapons—duplicity and cunning. And—yes, I’ve got it. Wait, I shan’t be a minute.”

  He snatched up the telephone and asked for police headquarters.

  “That you, Fairfax? Listen, man, this is Garve. Any sensational news? What’s that—message from Mr. Francis Willoughby? Captured by Arabs? Right—I know all that. Now, listen, that message is a fake. No, I’m not going to argue; I’m telling you. What’s that? I don’t care what the authorities are doing—it’s a fake. Miss Willoughby’s on her way to tell them about it now. If you like you can warn them to expect her. What I want you to do—damn you, Fairfax, I know I’m a journalist, but your job and all our lives depend on this—it’s a simple matter—no I can’t come over, there’s no time. Well, I’ll tell you if you’ll listen. Send a dozen men with two machine-guns to Hezekiah’s Tunnel at the point where it comes out into the Virgin’s Fountain. And send a similar guard to the top end of the quarries. Tell the men to arrest or kill any Arabs coming out of the tunnel or quarries during the next hour.… I don’t care how many men you’re short of—this is vital. You must get them stationed right away. I’ve got to ring off now, Fairfax, but don’t fail me, for God’s sake. Good-bye.”

  Garve hung up noisily. He shrugged his shoulders, seeing the question framed on Esther’s lips. “Of course he doesn’t understand a thing and doesn’t see why he should take instructions from me—but, he’s a good fellow, and I have a hunch that he will. Now then, old girl, ready?”

  Esther nodded. “Please, Philip, be as careful as you can. I found you and lost you, and now I’ve found you again, and—I can’t stand it much longer.”

  Garve was fumbling in Hayson’s bureau. “If we get through this, Esther, we’ll take the first boat back to England and be married right away.” He found what he was looking for—a second gun that he had noticed in his previous search. The chambers were fully loaded, and he stuffed it into his pocket. “There—I’m a walking arsenal, and can’t come to harm. Anyway there’s a special providence—or have I said that before?” He gave Esther one great hug, and they both dashed for the car. The sky was growing light, and as they took their seats they heard the drone of engines above them, and saw dark wings sweeping eastwards into the sunrise.

  “Bombers,” said Garve tensely, “bound for Petra. It’s your job, old girl, to get them back. Good luck.”

  18. Death Beneath Jerusalem

  Garve waited outside military headquarters only till Esther had been safely escorted within, and then he drove back quickly to Damascus Gate. He was quite convinced that he had done the best thing possible in letting Esther do the explaining. As the daughter of the man who had been kidnapped she was in a special position, and the authorities would have to listen to her.

  By comparison, Garve’s own job was beset with difficulties. A plan was taking shape in his mind —a dangerous plan, full of pitfalls and hazards, a plan which might easily fail, but the only possible one in the circumstances. The need of the moment was to prevent the Arabs leaving the quarries—to keep them in there until Fairfax could bring up his party of police and cut off their line of retreat. That—and to prevent them from killing Willoughby.

  The immediate problem, however, was how to get into the quarries at all. Every moment it was growing lighter—zero hour must be very near, for the Arabs in the quarries would undoubtedly want to leave before sunrise. If the entrance to the quarries were unguarded, well and good; but if, as Garve anticipated, there were sentries on duty, it might be impossible to enter without being detected. The opening to the caves was at the foot of the wall, and could be approached either along the wall or across thirty yards of open ground from the road.

  As he drew near to the place Garve slowed the car almost to walking pace so that its engine should not attract attention. A dip in the road quite near the quarries offered an excellent and inconspicuous parking ground, and from there Garve walked back to a point opposite the entrance from which he could reconnoitre the position.

  At once he saw that his fears had not been groundless. Just inside the entrance stood two armed Arabs conversing. Both were powerfully built, and each had a rifle and bayonet. They looked, thought Garve, alert and efficient. He cursed under his breath. At any moment the ringleaders of the revolt might file out of that narrow opening and disperse throughout Palestine. He must do something—must get in. He considered the possibilities. To attempt to surprise them was hopeless—the open ground forbade it, and the fact that there were two of them. Had there been only one, he would have risked creeping along by the wall and making a sudden assault. In present circumstances that would be suicidal. These Arabs had acute hearing, and were quick as lightning with a knife. Good shot though he was, Garve realized the impossibility of using his revolver on them from any point within safe range which would give him cover. Besides, he did not want to shoot lest the sound of firing should warn the Arabs inside.

  Yet the minutes—vital, invaluable minutes—were slipping away. To go right round to Hezekiah’s Tunnel and in by that entrance would take too long, and there might be a guard there too. It looked very much as though his fine schemes were going to come to nothing after all, and as though he would have to wait in this place till the police came.

  But that was unthinkable. Surely, surely there must be a way. Any method, however desperate, was justifiable. If a frontal attack was impossible, was there no subterfuge that might succeed?

  In a moment he knew there was a chance—an extravagant chance, a last throw. Quickly he slipped back to the car. It seemed a wicked piece of vandalism, but—war was war. From the floor at the back he dragged a two-gallon tin of petrol, and wrenched the cap loose with a spanner. Lavishly he splashed the liquid over the upholstery and woodwork at the front and back. He took the top off the petrol tank and loosened the nut at the bottom of the carburettor. Then, with the reek of petrol half choking him, he threw a lighted match through the rear window on to the seat.

  As he rushed away he felt the hot blast of flame behind him. In a few seconds the car was a blazing inferno. Keeping well down in the shadow of the low stone wall at the roadside he raced back until he was level with the quarries. As he looked over the wall he could almost have shouted in exultation, for the two sentries were running across the open ground towards the car. They would think, he reflected grimly, that whoever had driven it there was inside, and since it was quite impossible to get anywhere near the flames, they would go on thinking so. Garve gave them a minute or two to get well down into the dip, and then slipped over the low wall and dashed across to the quarries.

  He breathed again. Not merely had his ruse been perfectly successful, but he now stood between the conspirators and freedom. He might not seem to provide much of a barrier against thirty or forty desperate men, but the tunnels of the cavern were narrow and tortuous, with plenty of cover, and he had two guns. In such circumstances a single determined man might hold up an army. Had it not been for the presence of Willoughby in the cave he would have been inclined to take up a position at the top end of the precipice ledge, or, better still, at the narrow aperture which led out of the apparent cul-de-sac, and simply wait for reinforcements. The temptation was great, but Garve did not b
elieve that the Arabs would want to bring Willoughby out alive. He had served his purpose, and in the daylight would be a dangerous encumbrance.

  Only too clearly he realized that his difficulties were just beginning. It was not easy for him to recall the geography of the quarries, and he had only a small flash-lamp to help him on his way instead of the two powerful torches which had driven a great beam of light through the tunnels on his former visit with Hayson.

  The problem which worried him most was how to find the right tunnel in the top chamber—the one which led to the aperture and the precipice ledge. He could recall no distinguishing marks about it, and was still in doubt as to what he should do when the difficulty was solved for him.

  As he approached the entrance to the chamber, and for safety’s sake momentarily switched off his flash-lamp, he saw that there was already a light ahead of him. He advanced with infinite caution till he was able to see round the edge of the passage wall into the chamber. A few yards away, illuminated by a flare, a third sentry leaned against the wall, his rifle grounded. Just behind him another tunnel broke the wall, and this, Garve concluded, was the one he was guarding and therefore the one which led below.

  Garve no longer feared to shoot. He had come too far for the sound to be heard above, and if it were heard below it no longer mattered now that he was in the quarries, and could take up a position almost anywhere. It was rather like potting a sitting rabbit, but he thought of Jackson and hardened his heart. Taking careful aim—to miss might be disastrous—he fired at the man’s head. The Arab spun round and dropped where he stood without a cry, and the noise of the explosion echoed and reverberated like thunder through the galleries. Garve waited till the noise had died down and stepped across to the sentry. As he had intended, the bullet had passed clean through his brain. He left the flare burning and hastened along the tunnel.

  Yes; it was the right one. Again he switched off his lamp as he approached the narrow rock slit and peered round it cautiously before squeezing himself through. There was no-one about. The precipice no longer had any terrors for him, but he advanced cautiously towards the place where the tunnel suddenly dropped. Eight feet —that was nothing—when you knew its depth. He lowered himself over the edge, hung for a moment by his hands, and let go. He landed awkwardly in the dark, but without suffering serious damage.