A Hundred Thousand Dragons

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack didn’t answer for some time. ‘I was ashamed,’ he said at last. ‘And then . . . Quite honestly, I forgot. I got posted to France and no one knew. I didn’t want to remember, of course, and, after a time, it stopped being important. You know what it was like in France. We lived from minute to minute. I didn’t have time to go over the past and I certainly didn’t want to.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur. ‘I can see that. What happened after you’d pinched the Dove? Did you get back to Petra?’

  Jack nodded and, getting up, lit a cigarette. ‘Yes, I got back to Petra. I remembered where Craig marked the petrol dump on his map and filled up the plane. The B.E.2c was still there but it was badly choked with sand, so I set fire to it, rather than let the enemy have it, and stuck with the Dove. I managed to start the engine by putting the throttle to tick over, which is not something I’d do for fun. I stowed as much fuel as I could in the observer’s cockpit and managed to get back to Ismailia with only one stop.’

  He gave a humourless smile. ‘Believe you me, it’s no joke flying what’s virtually a bomb back over the desert, knowing that any bright lad on our side would take a pop at what seemed to be some demented enemy pilot flying flat, straight and very slowly into British territory. The only thing that got me through was that it was night. Still –’ he thrust his hands into his pockets, – ‘I made it. I’d been given up for dead, of course, and when the euphoria was over, I had to explain what happened.’

  Arthur winced. ‘A Board of Inquiry?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Jack walked to the window and looked sightlessly on to the terrace. ‘What counted in my favour was that I’d made such strenuous efforts to get back. The Dove spoke for itself and so did my previous record. I was pretty young, too. I was only just seventeen. I’d fudged my age to get in.’

  He turned and looked at Arthur. ‘They liked that. It showed evidence of keenness. They were very keen on being keen. Major Youlton understood what the flight back entailed, too, so that was a good point. However, the Inquiry wasn’t fun. It’s a capital offence to wilfully supply the enemy with information. I certainly hadn’t done it wilfully, but there was a definite feeling amongst some members of the board that I could have held out longer. Anyway, Donahue, the medical officer, gave me a thorough going-over and testified I’d been put through the mill a bit. The fact I’d had Ozymandias to deal with caused a real stir. So, with Major Youlton’s support and a certain reluctance in some quarters, I was exonerated. What really put the cat amongst the pigeons was when Craig blew in.’

  ‘Craig?’ repeated Arthur. ‘But that would have told in your favour, wouldn’t it? I mean, he swiped the gold back. As far as the mission was concerned, he’d succeeded.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  Arthur stared at him. ‘What? But Craig and his Arabs attacked the German convoy. That’s why that chap, Oberst Whatisname, flew in to investigate.’

  ‘Not according to Craig,’ said Jack. ‘That’s the story I got from Basak, the Turkish bloke, and from Freya Von Erlangen, but Craig had another story. Craig said he’d got to Petra with the Beni Sakr right enough, and taken charge of the gold from Captain Hawley’s convoy. Then, just as Basak had told me, as the Beni Sakr were celebrating, they were attacked. And that, as far as Craig was concerned, was that. He managed to escape with a few men, but there were far too few of them to lead a counter-attack. He was livid that my story had been believed. As he saw it, I was a coward and a traitor who’d blabbed at the first opportunity and cost the lives of his men, to say nothing of the gold. I’d made up this story of a counter-attack to make it seem as if we’d succeeded, which would be better for me.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Arthur after a few moments’ thought. ‘So the gold just vanished? That’s awkward.’

  Jack nodded in vigorous agreement. ‘It damn well was awkward, Arthur. You see, the Board had given its verdict, so I was officially in the clear. I wondered if the Beni Sakr had taken the gold independently of Craig. He was there when I said it and hit the roof. They were his men, he trusted them implicitly and so on.’ He sighed and crushed out his cigarette. ‘It was pretty awful, really. Craig blamed me, first, last and foremost. And, to be fair about it, I can see his point of view.’

  ‘You would,’ said Arthur.

  Jack smiled briefly. ‘No, I mean it. You can’t get round it, Arthur, he was ambushed because of me.’ His face grew grave. ‘Craig came off very much worse from the affair. If he’d been a different sort of man, he might have weathered it, but, like a lot of these bluff types, he’s deeply sensitive and resented the shadow cast over him and his doings when the real villain, as he saw it – me – got away scot-free. He pushed off into Central Arabia and spent most of the war out there. His pet scheme, that of starting an Arab revolt, was taken up by Colonel Lawrence and Prince Feisal, and so we had T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, not Durant Craig in the starring role. As for me . . .’ His voice broke off abruptly.

  ‘Well,’ prompted Arthur gently. ‘What about you?’

  Jack walked to the mantelpiece where he stood, restlessly turning a paperknife over and over in his hands. ‘I went through it,’ he said quietly. ‘Men had been killed because of me.’ He rubbed his face with his hand. ‘When I went to France I fought like a maniac, trying to . . . well, you know. I don’t know why I survived.’ His voice shook. ‘I actually got given a couple of medals. It didn’t work.’

  With a sudden movement, Jack drove the tip of the paperknife into the wooden mantelpiece. ‘It should have worked, Arthur. God knows, I didn’t want to live. Not then. Every so often it comes back. I read Dante, years later, and that struck deep. In his journey through hell he has a special place for those who betray others. Right at the bottom of the pit. Ice, you know. Coldness. I couldn’t touch the book afterwards.’

  ‘You were pushed beyond your limit,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘You wouldn’t blame anyone in those circumstances. I certainly don’t blame you.’

  Jack looked up. ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly. He drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, you now know why I’ve been acting so damned oddly these last few days. I couldn’t help it. The very thought of him gave me the jimmies. I’d suspected Simes might turn out to be Von Erlangen and it was shattering to be proved right. Oddly enough, now I do know it’s true, it’s stopped being quite so scary.’ He looked at the discarded envelope on the floor. ‘I’d better tell Bill that Madison or Simes wasn’t what he appeared to be. And Ashley, come to that.’

  ‘You do realize,’ said Arthur, picking up the envelope, ‘that this means Von Erlangen’s dead?’

  Jack looked up, startled. ‘My God, yes!’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘No wonder Craig fell out with him. I wonder how long it took him to work out exactly who the urbane Mr Madison was?’

  ‘D’you think he did work it out?’

  Jack hesitated. ‘Well, as far as I know, the two men never met, but I think Craig would have cottoned on to Madison being Ozymandias. That could explain why Craig came back looking for Madison. If Craig suspected Madison’s true identity, that would be a real motive. Craig could have taken Vaughan’s car and waited around, hoping to see Madison on his own. Then, afterwards, all he has to do is disappear back East.’

  The library door opened and Isabelle came in. She looked at the letter in Arthur’s hand.

  ‘This is what Jack was waiting for,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s a photograph of the man who called himself Madison.’

  Jack took a deep breath. ‘And whom I knew as Von Erlangen.’

  ‘Oh, Jack.’ It was all she said, but she took his hand and squeezed it.

  ‘He’s dead, Isabelle,’ said Jack. ‘I can hardly believe it, but he’s dead.’

  ‘So what now?’ she asked, her eyes on his face.

  ‘I think I’d better tell Bill Rackham.’ He drew a deep breath, ‘I need to see him face to face. I’ll have to tell Ashley as well, but I’d rather tell Bill first. He was in the war and Ashley wasn’t. I don’t know if that makes a difference, but I
think Bill will understand.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Isabelle swiftly. ‘You can’t go alone.’

  Arthur did most of the talking. Jack was grateful for that. He was able to stay on the sidelines, distance himself from the ghastly memory and – he realized he’d been holding his breath – watch Bill’s reaction.

  Rackham was shocked, there was no disputing it. Shocked at what he’d done? With an emotional lurch like someone grasping for the edge of a cliff, he knew Bill was on his side.

  Arthur replaced the photograph of Von Erlangen in the envelope and put it back on the desk with a gesture of finality. ‘So that’s who Mr Madison is.’

  There were white lines of anger round Rackham’s mouth. ‘Lothar Von Erlangen. Ozymandias. It’s a pity he’s dead. I’d have liked to have strangled the swine with my own hands.’

  Jack cleared his throat. He wanted to get away from the past, to have some action to occupy his thoughts. ‘So what now, Bill?’

  Rackham hesitated, then dropped his eyes and, picking up his pipe from the desk, concentrated on reaming out the bowl with his penknife. ‘The short answer is, I don’t know,’ he said after a while. ‘We’ve got to find Craig, of course, but he’ll have left the country by now.’ He looked at Jack understandingly. ‘I know you want to be up and doing, but there’s nothing much to do.’ He stuffed tobacco in his pipe and rammed it down with his thumb. ‘It’s a matter of waiting until we get a lead on Craig. Until then?’ He shrugged. ‘Business as usual, I suppose. Have you anything planned for this evening?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Arthur. ‘We thought we’d have dinner before we went back to Hesperus. Do you want to join us?’

  Bill pulled a face. ‘I wish I could, but I’ve promised one of the neighbours to make up the numbers at a whist party. I know they’ll be stuck if I skip it so I’d better say no, worse luck. However,’ he added as Jack scraped his chair back, ‘there was something else, before you go. You know that book of watercolours we found? The one with the poem in it? I wouldn’t mind your opinion on it. It definitely belonged to our man. We were able to get a good set of fingerprints off it and they matched up with the prints we got from New York.’

  ‘I thought there was something more to that book than met the eye,’ put in Jack.

  ‘What sort of something?’ asked Isabelle.

  ‘A secret message.’ Jack smiled as Isabelle’s eyes brightened. ‘It sounds a bit melodramatic, I know.’

  ‘What sort of secret message?’

  ‘That’s just it, Miss Rivers,’ said Rackham. ‘It looks as if it should mean something, but I’m blessed if I know what. I gave it to our tame expert, Professor Bruce, to see if he could make anything of it, but I’m afraid his considered opinion is that the poem is just a poem and the pictures are just pictures.’

  Isabelle looked so crestfallen that Jack laughed. ‘It’s all very well,’ she said, ‘but the idea of secret messages is thrilling.’

  ‘Even when they don’t exist?’

  ‘They’re not the most thrilling sort, I grant you.’

  ‘So what do you want our opinion on, Bill?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I’m not satisfied,’ he said, getting up from the desk. He went to the filing cabinet and took out the cardboard box containing the book. ‘I don’t know what we can see that an expert didn’t spot, but I wouldn’t mind looking through it with you all. You never know, something might click.’ He opened the book on the desk.

  ‘A hundred thousand dragons lie, Underneath an Arabian sky,’ Isabelle read softly. ‘That’s rather nice, isn’t it?’ She turned the pages. ‘I like the drawings, too. How would you make a secret message out of pictures, though?’

  ‘Count the camels and divide by two?’ suggested Arthur with grin. ‘I know what you’re getting at, though. It feels as if it should mean something, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Only it doesn’t,’ said Jack. ‘Not according to the expert.’ A sudden frustrated weariness possessed him. ‘Nothing seems to mean much, not even knowing who Madison really is. It doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Bill. ‘We’ve found out Craig’s motive.’

  That was true, but . . . ‘It doesn’t help us to find out where Craig is now, does it? Mind you, the way I feel, if Craig can get away with it, it’ll be fine with me.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Bill. ‘By the way, you know you said Von Erlangen was married? Well, it’s a bit of a wild guess, but there’s a woman in the case. I wonder if that’s Freya Von Erlangen by any chance?’

  Jack inwardly shied away. It seemed wrong, somehow, to have Bill say her name. Freya Von Erlangen. She’d never been a Von Erlangen in his thoughts. She’d only ever been Freya. Freya . . . He didn’t even know if she was still alive. ‘You mean the woman in the car in the Hammer Valley?’ he asked, with a puzzled frown.

  Rackham shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking of her. This is another woman, a Miss Kirsch, who was clearly involved with Von Erlangen in New York.’ Jack looked a question. ‘I found out about her from the British Museum. I enquired about the letters which passed between the Museum and Madison, as we knew him then. The curator didn’t know what I was talking about at first, because he’d never written to anyone called Madison. However, he had written to a Miss Kirsch in New York, who wanted the names of the leading authorities on the Nabateans. The address is right. 1168, Fourteenth Avenue, Manhattan.’

  ‘So that’s this Miss Kirsch in the frame, right enough,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘What’s your idea? That she’s really Freya . . .’ He forced himself to add the surname. ‘Von Erlangen?’

  ‘She could be, Jack,’ put in Arthur.

  ‘I suppose she could be,’ he agreed doubtfully. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘It’s just a guess,’ said Rackham. ‘I suppose if she really was Freya Von Erlangen, she’d call herself Mrs Something, not Miss.’

  ‘Couldn’t this Miss Kirsch actually be Von Erlangen himself?’ asked Isabelle. ‘After all, it’s easy enough to say you’re a Miss Anyone, if all you’re going to do is write letters.’

  Rackham looked at her with respect. ‘That’s not a bad point, Miss Rivers. However, the letter to the British Museum was written and replied to while Von Erlangen was in prison.’

  Jack glanced up sharply. ‘That’s why he needed this Miss Kirsch. He wouldn’t want to receive a letter in prison. They get checked by the authorities. You might be right, Bill,’ he was compelled to add. ‘About who she is, I mean. He’d have to trust her and there can’t be many people he’d trust.’

  ‘What I can’t understand is why Von Erlangen picked Mr Vaughan,’ said Arthur. ‘It sounds as if they’d never met before. I wondered where he came into the picture.’

  Jack looked at him with quick gratitude. He knew Arthur had guessed his reluctance to talk about Freya and he appreciated the tactful change of subject.

  ‘I wondered that too,’ said Rackham, ‘but it’s easy enough to work out. Von Erlangen wanted an expert on the Nabateans and they’re fairly few and far between. If we can believe what Vaughan told us, Von Erlangen wanted him to fund an expedition to Arabia, to this lost city he’d found. I asked the bloke at the Museum and apparently it costs a mint to get out there. Vaughan’s one of the very few – perhaps the only – chap in Britain who’s interested enough in the Nabateans and has the means to consider an expedition.’

  ‘But that still doesn’t explain why he asked Mr Vaughan,’ said Isabelle with a frown. ‘Surely there must be rich collectors in America? Why come to England?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Rackham stopped. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Why not go to Germany?’ asked Jack with abstracted eyes. ‘Why come to England? That was a good point of Isabelle’s. After all, he’s German.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Maybe that’s just it. He’s probably a great deal more well-known in Germany than anywhere else. He might be afraid of being recognized.’

  ‘That’s true, Jack,’ said
Arthur.

  ‘But why not ask an American?’ muttered Jack. ‘Bill, when did the British Museum write to Miss Kirsch?’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of the letter here, together with the rest of the paperwork,’ said Rackham. He took a folder from his drawer and laid it on the table.

  Jack opened it, read through the letter, frowned and pulled the desk calendar towards him. He picked up a pencil and jotted down a few notes, then looked up. He didn’t like what he’d found.

  ‘Here’s the answer,’ he said, pointing to his notes. ‘Look at the sequence of events. Miss Kirsch received a letter from the British Museum, detailing the various experts she could approach. Then there’s a gap of about a week or so, in which, I imagine, she made enquiries as to who was both independent and wealthy enough for her purposes. The New York Public Library would have that information, but a copy of Who’s Who would probably do it. She writes to Vaughan in Madison’s name. She might have written to a couple of others, but it’s Vaughan who sends the cable yipping excitedly about the Nabateans and inviting Madison to England.’

  He put his finger on his notes. ‘Look for yourself. Simes or Madison or –’ he swallowed – ‘to give him his real name, Lothar Von Erlangen, murders the guard, makes his escape, and, the very next day, he’s on the Berengaria to England. That’s why he didn’t approach an American archaeologist. He knew he was going to commit murder to escape from prison and wanted to get out of America and over to Britain where he’d be safe.’

  Rackham looked at the notes. ‘My God,’ he breathed. ‘You’re right. He had it all worked out. He had his escape all worked out before he moved a muscle.’

  Arthur Stanton whistled. ‘That’s pretty cold-blooded.’

  ‘It’s typical of him,’ said Jack, grimly. ‘What’s more, if he hadn’t run into Craig, it would have worked. He would have been safe.’

  ‘That was rotten luck for him, wasn’t it?’ said Arthur. ‘I mean, what were the chances of him meeting Craig?’