The night was still and cloudless, few people were about at this late hour and the quiet side street would have been hushed in silence but for a distant wailing from Arif’s house, where the women had already gathered in Oriental fashion to hold the wake which would not cease until the funeral took place the following morning.
Swithin had seen such ceremonies before and knew what would happen then. Even for a man of some position there would be no coffin or hearse. His male relations, taking turns as bearers, would carry the bier through the streets, followed by a straggling procession, to the burial ground outside the town. There, a rough hole would be dug, the body placed in it, sitting upright and facing towards Mecca, the earth shovelled in upon it, and every man present would cast a stone on the new grave, forming a small cairn. The Turks being curiously callous towards their dead no tributes of flowers would be offered, either at the funeral or afterwards in token of memory and, even if the family troubled to erect one of those queer coffin shaped tombstones it would be allowed to topple over in course of a few months since they would never visit the grave again.
As Swithin pondered the problem he saw that his one hope lay in Arif. Reouf had as good as said that his brother was in the conspiracy, so somehow the Station Master had got to be made to talk—but how? He was a much tougher proposition than the younger man had been and far less likely to open his heart to a stranger unless he could be persuaded by some very potent reason. However the attempt had got to be made so the first question was how to get hold of him.
Swithin rubbed his hawk-like little nose thoughtfully. He could hardly return to the house in the middle of the wake, so the first chance to call would be after the funeral, but that meant waiting until the following day and time was now an all important factor. Every hour that he spent in Constantinople henceforth would be one of danger; he must get his job done and leave Turkey at the earliest possible moment if he were to escape with a whole skin. Besides it would have been reported to Kazdim that Reouf’s body had been recovered and taken to his brother’s house, so it was almost certain that the Eunuch would have the funeral spied on to ascertain who attended it. If Swithin went for the purpose of getting in touch with Arif he considered it a safe bet that he would be recognised by the people Kazdim sent and then his goose would be completely cooked.
After his fourth cigarette he stood up, having decided that his best chance lay in trying to get hold of Arif before the night was out. He sauntered back to the house cogitating ways and means. Outside it he paused; the keening of the women was making the night hideous, obviously he could not just go in at the door and asked to be announced in the middle of this scene of grief, so he turned down a narrow, high-walled alley which ran along the side of the premises.
As he had supposed there was no garden, for the house, built in the old style, was erected round a central courtyard and there were no windows in the wall that faced on the alleyway, only a low nail-studded side door. He knew that Arif would not be with the mourning women but that he must be somewhere about the place. There was just a chance that he might be up on the flat roof-top. It was the sort of a spot a man might well select, rather than a stuffy room, on a hot night when unable to sleep from shock and sorrow.
Swithin picked up a stone from the gutter and weighed it in his hand. He had been a keen cricketer all his life and that now stood him in good stead. He pitched it with commendable accuracy so that it neither went too far and fell into the courtyard which was concealed from his view, or struck the blank wall and rebounded into the lane. It landed on the roof of the two-storey building with a faint clatter which he could just hear from his position down below. He waited a moment—nothing happened—then he pitched up another.
The dark blob of a head suddenly appeared above the stone coping, and Swithin began to whistle softly: ‘God Save the King.’ He did not wish to give his identity away before he was certain that the person above was Arif, but hoped that if it were, the station master might possibly recognise that British tune.
“Is that Mr. Destime?” came a sharp inquiry.
“Yes—and I’ve got to talk to you,” Swithin called up with a cautiously subdued voice. “It’s vital that I should—about your brother. Come down and let me in.”
The head was withdrawn and a couple of minutes later a crack of light appeared down the edge of the nail-studded door. It widened, and Arif stood there peering out into the darkness.
“Thanks.” Swithin joined him in two quick strides. “Take me somewhere where we can talk without being disturbed—will you?” He spoke firmly, showing no trace of doubt as to if the Turk would let him in.
Arif’s hesitation was hardly perceptible, then he turned and led the way down a passage to a small room which contained a desk, an old-fashioned filing cabinet, a swivel chair, and a cheap Tottenham Court Road settee—obviously an office.
“Now,” he said, turning a face lined by grief to his midnight visitor. “What is it? Why do you disturb me thus?”
“Because I know who killed your brother,” Swithin replied promptly.
The Turk nodded. “Well, so do I. It was that hell-spawn Kazdim. The Eunuch whom Kemal has seen fit to make Chief of the Police. You were with me last night when he carried the poor boy off on some pretext—no one has seen Reouf alive since.”
“True, but do you know why Kazdim killed him?”
“Yes, that also I can guess. My brother—Allah rest his soul—was young and an idealist. Poor innocent, he meant no harm but he had allowed himself to get mixed up with certain fools who think that they can overthrow Kemal. Perhaps he was betrayed or perhaps he gave himself away. At all events Kazdim discovered that he was associated with these traitors, and for that reason—took his life.”
“You’re wrong,” said Swithin quietly.
“Why should you think that?”
“I know it—just as I know that you yourself are one of those very traitors whom you speak of—the Kaka who are plotting against Kemal.”
For a second the two men stared at each other; Swithin dark, small, wiry, calm, but his blue eyes unwavering and hard as steel; the Turk, taller almost by a head, lean, muscular, but stooping a little, and not up to the same degree of fitness owing to years spent at a sedentary occupation. Swithin was quite confident that he could knock hell out of the bigger man if it came to a dust up. Arif thought so too perhaps, for his black eyes narrowed and he made a sudden dive towards the top drawer of his desk, but Swithin with equal quickness thrust his hand into his pocket, and the other checked his movement immediately.
“You don’t need the gun you’ve got in that drawer,” remarked Swithin affably. “I’ve got one on me but I don’t intend to use it—yet.”
Then with a quick smile he withdrew his hand from his pocket and extended the gold case that it held. “Let’s talk this matter over quietly—have a cigarette.”
Arif shook his head and backed away with a suspicious look. “Who are you?” he shot out tersely.
“An Englishman representing others who are good friends to Turkey. I want you to believe that. If you do, no harm will come to you through me, if not—well, the last thing I want to do is to threaten, but I’m afraid you’re going to have a pretty sticky time.”
“You mean to inform on me to Kazdim?”
“Not if you do as I request.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I want you to answer a few questions. To some of them I know the answers already so I shall put them only as tests to see if you are telling the truth. The others concern certain points that I am still in doubt about and wish to check up.”
“And if I refuse?”
Swithin shrugged. He felt an utter beast in using such methods but for the moment he had to put every consideration out of his mind except his job. “If you don’t,” he said firmly, “you know what happened to Reouf—I’m afraid it will be your turn to-morrow night.”
A strained silence fell in the little room, then Arif jerked out at last: �
�You cannot hope to wreck our organisation—even if I do tell you all that I know.”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Swithin bluffed on swiftly, “but we’ll start at the beginning. Give me the objects of the Kaka, please.”
“So be it.” Arif’s eyes fell to the floor and the terror that the name of Kazdim inspired strong upon him, he recited almost mechanically: “We are bound by oath to work for—the restoration of the Faith, the law as it is set forth in the Holy Koran, and our ancient Empire—for the destruction of the atheist, blasphemer, and traitor Kemal; and to obey without question all orders emanating from the chief of our cell or one who shows the signet. Praise be to Allah the Most High and blessed be the name of Mahomet his Prophet.”
‘Ha! ha!’ thought Swithin, ‘so they are working this on the cell system—are they,’ while he asked at once;
“What is the number of your cell?”
“Number 310.”
“Is that your parent cell or one that you have formed yourself?”
“My own.”
“What is the number of your parent cell?”
“Number 72.”
“And how many members are there to each cell?”
“Five,” Arif replied with a suspicious look, “but why ask me such a question when you know the answer?”
“In order to test your veracity,” Swithin countered promptly, as he thought rapidly to himself: ‘No wonder this chap thinks it would be mighty difficult to wreck their organisation. If he were tortured for a week he could not give away more than eight of his fellow plotters, the four in the cell into which he was originally initiated and the four pals that he has roped in to form a new cell under his own leadership.’
“How many cells have been formed to date?” he inquired.
“I do not know exactly but the number is over 1,700 now.”
Swithin calculated quickly. ‘Four new members to each—that meant nearly 7,000 people were involved already, and half that number were at work all over Turkey recruiting their friends to form new cells of their own. The movement must be spreading like wildfire. It was a far graver business than he had imagined.’ His eye fell upon a small old-fashioned iron safe in the corner of the room.
“I should like to see your correspondence,” he said suddenly.
Arif frowned. “What do you mean—you know that we have none—all orders are passed from cell leader to cell leader by word of mouth.”
Seeing he had blundered badly in his bluff that he already knew the answer to many of the questions he was asking, Swithin hurried on: “No matter—produce your signet, please.”
With an angry shrug Arif half turned away. “This is absurd,” he protested. “You trick me into answering by pretending that you know much of our organisation and I find that you know nothing—I refuse to reply further.”
“It does not concern you in the least what I know or what I do not know,” Swithin said quietly. “The question is—do you talk or do I turn you over to Kazdim?”
Fear gleamed suddenly in the Turk’s eyes again and he muttered: “So be it then. Only twenty-one persons, the members of cells 1 to 5, possess the signet so it is impossible for me, a member of cell 72, to show it to you.”
“Thank you. Now on what date is the rising against Kemal to take place?”
“I do not know.”
“Be careful.”
“As Allah hears me I do not know!”
Swithin’s eyes bored steadily into those of the Turk. “Don’t run away with the idea that because I am ill-informed on some points that I know nothing of this business,” he warned him. “You are Chief Station Master of the Goods Depot at Haidar Pacha—aren’t you?”
“Yes—but all Istanbul knows that.”
“Do they also know of the contraband machine-guns and other material which you have concealed under the heading of ‘Government Stores’ in some of your warehouses at the Depot?”
It was a shot in the dark—initiated by the memory of Diana’s question about smuggled armaments the night before, and a sudden realisation that this man, in so high a cell as number 72 and with such perfect facilities for storing contraband and ensuring its rapid distribution to all parts of Turkey, might have been made use of for that purpose—but it found its mark.
Arif flinched and paled a little under his dark skin although he murmured sullenly: “I do not admit that.”
Swithin saw that he had scored a hit and rammed it home. “It is not necessary, I can easily tell Kazdim to send his men to inspect your sheds.”
“So be it then—I am in your hands—but the date of the Jehad I cannot tell—for I do not know it. Perhaps it has not even been fixed yet.”
For one awful moment Swithin held his breath. The word ‘Jehad’ flamed through his brain with all its terrible possibilities. Of the patriotic ravings of young Reouf he had taken little stock but this was a very different business. It even far exceeded the scope of the determined internal revolution of which he had learned in the last ten minutes, for a Jehad meant the preaching of a Holy War. These people were not out only to destroy Kemal and reinstate the old law of the Koran but, with all the bitter zeal of blind fanaticism, they meant to carry their full programme into actual practice. It meant the certainty of another flare-up in the Balkans, their co-religionists would probably rise in sympathy and begin massacres of Europeans in India, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Algeria and, taking into consideration the unstable state of things in Europe, perhaps even be the kindling spark leading to the supreme horror of a war to the death between fresh combinations of the Great Powers.
“How long do you consider it will take your army to reach Salonica?” he asked, putting the leading question as casually as he could, and with equal casualness Arif confirmed his worst fears.
“A week perhaps, not more, since our air force could wipe out that of the Greeks in forty-eight hours. Kemal has at least forged us a fine weapon to strike with when the time comes. No one outside Turkey has any idea of the number or efficiency of our ’planes.”
“I see.” Swithin paused again, completely staggered by the momentous importance of this secret which he had discovered. It was clear now beyond all doubt from Arif’s attitude that if these madmen gained control they really meant to play the ‘Mad dog of Europe’ and start a first-class war overnight. His task had suddenly assumed immense significance. It was now more than ever up to him to get every possible detail that he could and either persuade Arif into acting with him or force him into disclosing other leads for further investigation. With the latter in mind he said: “I should be glad if you would give me now the names of the other members of your two cells.”
“No, that I cannot do.” Arif shook his head firmly.
“You can, since you must know them.”
“True, but I refuse. I will not betray my comrades.”
“Kazdim has not forgotten how to bastinado obstinate people, I imagine!—surely it would be wiser to speak now than wait until the soles of your feet have been beaten to a pulp.”
“I will not, I say.” The Turk drew himself up with dignity. “I have given you the information which you ask about the Kaka because if I can, I would save my life, but I have only done so with the knowledge that you cannot prevent its success. Even if you were to kill a hundred individuals like my brother and myself you could not do that. It is like an octopus and for every arm you cut off a dozen more will grow; but when it comes to betraying others personally—that I will not do.”
“I’ll give you two minutes to think it over,” Swithin declared sticking out his chin. “If you have not told me those names by that time you know what to expect.”
“If you gave me a hundred years my answer would be the same.”
Swithin glanced at his watch and then stood there silently. It was pure bluff but he had got to get every scrap of information that he could and the names of eight other men concerned in this secret movement would be extremely valuable, each could be forced for further details and other names
in turn.
As he stood there the magnitude of this menace appalled him afresh. The fact that he had spent six weeks in the city probing for something of the kind, yet finding nothing, was ample proof that when fresh cells were formed they chose the members with the utmost care, only admitting men whose anti-Kemalist views were proved beyond question. Reouf could only have been a rare exception. And there were 7,000 of them—more undoubtedly by now, all bigoted fanatics who would stop at nothing to restore the full observance of their ancient faith, and glory in marching to war upon their old enemies the Balkan Christian States.
The thought of grim, fasting, Uncle Issa came into his mind. Men of a higher position but very similar would take control. Kemal’s superimposed westernisation of the nation would melt away like frost before a summer dawn. A million bowler hats would be flung into the Bosphorus, long-hidden fezes would come out of every drawer. The Mullahs with their antiquated religious law would be the final court of arbitration for the civil population once again. Women, however much they might have progressed in the last fifteen years would be thrust back behind the jalousies and the old reign of corruption and bribery would be restored. Within a month Turkey would be clamouring for war and plunder, those twin excitements upon which these descendants of the Asiatic Huns had lived for centuries. Whatever their other shortcomings no one has ever denied that they are first-class soldiers and with the army which Kemal had trained to such a high degree of efficiency they could overrun the Balkans in a week. France would stand by that child of her creation, the Little Entente, Italy had ambitions in the Adriatic, and before the private citizens of the world could protest they would find that the pacts and leagues by which their statesmen had so brilliantly enmeshed them had precipitated another general slaughter.
The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 17
