For a good ten seconds he remained absolutely rigid, his tall figure slightly bent, his arm extended, his hand buried in the coat. Then, as though galvanised into action by an electric current, he began a frantic search through his other pockets although he knew already that it was useless.
The thing had been in his breast pocket and nowhere else. He had placed it there when Tyndall-Williams had handed it to him at the Embassy. He had put it back there after he had shown it to Tania in the taxi. He had not seen it since. But he had felt it. Once when he got out his note case to pay the bill after dinner, and again ten minutes later when, having tied up the launch below the restaurant at Therapia, he had taken Tania in his arms. It had pressed for a moment hard against his ribs from the force with which he had drawn her to him.
It must have fallen out of his pocket in the cabin then, and be on the floor still. The thought had no sooner come to him than he snatched up his coat and rushed out of the room.
Within seven minutes a taxi set him down again at the steps near the Mosque, just below the Dolma Baghtche Palace. To his intense relief the launch was still moored alongside. The boatman had only collected the rug and cushions, then left it at the place where they landed.
He jumped on board and dived into the little cabin, whipped out his matches and struck a couple. By their light he began a frantic hunt for the missing packet. It was nowhere in the centre of the floor. As the matches burnt out he struck others, devoutly thankful to find his box more than half full. Desperate with anxiety now he peered into shadowy corners and rooted into lockers.
A rough voice hailed him in Turkish from the doorway. It was the boatman who, noticing the light in the cabin from his office-shed on shore, had come on board to investigate.
Peter could speak no Turkish, but he had tipped the man lavishly before and, after making him understand what had happened in rough pantomime, used that universal language again to secure his assistance.
The man produced a torch. Together they searched every inch of the little cabin, the stern, and the short forward deck, then went ashore and examined the steps, the boatman’s office, and the adjoining shed where the cushions were stored, without result.
When they had finished Peter stood for a few moments on the landing place, staring out with unseeing eyes across the moonlit waters of the Bosphorus. At nine o’clock he had treated that little packet so lightly, thinking of it only as the cause of a short but exceedingly annoying routine journey. Now, at twenty-past eleven, it had become an object of overwhelming importance.
He had no knowledge whatever of its contents, but that had no bearing on the matter. If they were only birthday greetings, or a piece of wedding cake, the fact remained that it had been entrusted to him as a King’s Messenger for safe delivery to the British Chargé d’Affaires in Angora. He would have taken far more care of it had he not been so overwrought at the necessity of having to say good-bye to Tania. The thought of leaving her behind in Istanbul had driven everything else out of his mind, but he knew that, far from being able to offer that as an excuse for his negligence, his association with her would be an even more damning indictment against him when he had to give an account of his movements during the evening.
It meant instant dismissal. That was a certainty, and it was less than three months since he had been forced to resign from the Army. ‘What a career!’ he thought savagely, ‘to be sacked from two services before reaching the age of twenty-three.’
The first affair had been sheer bad luck of course, but this was totally different. Peter knew that his name would be erased from the Foreign Office list with ignominy, which was virtually the same thing as being cashiered from one of the fighting services.
Suddenly he thought of Tania. Only half an hour before he had asked her to marry him, and promised to take her and her mother back to England on the following day. His bitter dejection became absolute panic.
He remembered now how hard Tyndall-Williams had pressed him to remain in the Embassy for the night, and he had refused because he was determined to have his last evening with Tania. When he was questioned he would have to disclose how long they had spent over dinner, and the much longer time they had spent making love in the launch.
The family would be certain to worm the inside story of his dismissal out of some member of the Foreign Office, and what would happen when the whole clan knew that he had had the audacity to bring home the innocent cause of his lapse from duty as his future wife? The loss of this packet was overwhelming. It spelt ruin to his plans and hopes on every side.
Having cudgelled his brains for any other place in which he could have dropped it, he decided that the taxi in which he had taken Tania home offered the only possibility. He must have it traced at once, but he had no idea of its number, so if he went to the police it would be impossible for them to get hold of the driver before they had circularised all the taxi garages in the morning—and that would be too late for him to proceed as though nothing had happened to Angora—even if they found it for him.
There was no alternative. He must go straight back to the British Embassy, report his loss, and face the music. With feet like lead, he walked over to his waiting taxi, gave the address, and was driven up the hill again.
When he arrived at the Embassy he found the Chancery locked up for the night, but on enquiring for Tyndall-Williams he was sent through to the residential portions of the building where an elderly butler informed him that the first secretary was in the garden.
“Is he alone?” asked Peter huskily.
“No sir. Several other gentlemen are out there as well. Shall I take your name through to him?”
“Yes—no.” Peter hesitated and contradicted himself, funking the ordeal now that he was actually faced with it. He felt that he must have a few more minutes in which to pull himself together, so he added:
“I’ll announce myself, thanks. You know who I am, don’t you? I brought the bags from London last Tuesday and I called on Lady Cavendish the following afternoon you may remember.”
“I remember you long before that Mr. Peter, sir.” The elderly butler’s face broke into a waggish smile. “I was with Lady Waincourt at Luke when you used to stay with the young gentlemen there in the holidays. But that’s a good few years back now.”
“Good Lord! yes,” Peter brightened. “I was sure I knew your face when I called the other day. And your name’s—now wait a moment, don’t tell me—I know, Halket!”
“That’s it, sir. Halket. Those were good days Mr. Peter, although you did lead me a dance with your stink-bombs and booby traps.”
“Yes, we had great times at Luke, hadn’t we?”
The old man smiled again then his face went grave. “I was most distressed sir, if you’ll forgive my mentioning it, most distressed to hear about that er—unfortunate affair at Maidenhead.”
Peter winced. It brought him back with a horrid jolt to the far worse situation in which he was at the moment, but he managed to answer: “So you even heard of that out here.”
“Why, yes Mr. Peter. In these foreign places we have little to interest us except the news from home, and him being a Turk it was the talk of the Embassy for a week or more. Of course that Prince Ali deserved all he got. He comes to us here at times and he’s no gentleman, not in the proper meaning of the word, but it was hard, very hard on you and Captain Destime.”
“It was bad luck,” Peter agreed, then the elderly butler went on quietly:
“It’s queer, isn’t it sir, the two of you both being here now on the same day.”
“Here! What on earth do you mean?”
“Why, Captain Destime arrived this morning, sir. In an awful state he was, and then he came rushing in on us again this afternoon. He’s out there in the garden now.”
“Look here, Halket,” Peter spoke gruffly. “Do something for me, will you. Get him away from the others, and bring him in here to me without their knowing of it.”
“Certainly I will—if I can, Mr. Peter, b
ut it won’t be the other gentlemen I’ll have to get him away from. There’s a lady in the case unless I’m much mistaken.”
“Never mind. Go and get him if you can. Say its urgent—very urgent.” Peter had not the vaguest idea how Swithin could help him, but he was dreading his interview with Tyndall-Williams more than he feared the coming of Judgment Day, and the thought of a friend to whom he could pour out his trouble was irresistible.
As Halket left him, Peter sank into a chair in the hall and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He must be looking pretty grim, he thought, and wondered that the garrulous old chap had not commented on it.
On hearing footsteps Peter stood up again. Swithin and Diana emerged from the garden arm-in-arm. Both had seraphically self-satisfied smiles on their faces. They greeted him simultaneously:
“Hullo Peter!”
“How nice to see you here!”
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s nice to see you too—and er—together like this I mean.”
Diana looked self-conscious for a moment and Swithin grinned. Then his bright eyes suddenly narrowed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked abruptly. “You’re looking devilish queer.”
“I’m feeling it,” Peter flopped back into the chair. “I’ve blotted my copybook again—no, worse than that. I’ve spilt the whole bottle of ink over it this time.”
“You look as if you need a double brandy at the moment,” said Diana.
Halket had followed them in and Swithin glanced at him. “Mr. Carew is not feeling too well, I’m afraid. D’you think you could get him something.”
“Certainly, sir. A double brandy I think madam said.”
“What’s bitten you, old chap?” Swithin asked kindly when the butler had disappeared.
Peter made a wry grimace. “When I heard you were here I asked to see you so that I could tell you about it before I go on the mat in front of Tyndall-Williams—and get myself hung.”
“What in the world have you been up to then?” Diana inquired. “Spending all your journey money on chorus girls or making immoral suggestions to Lady Cavendish?”
“Good Lord no! It’s a thousand times worse than that. I’ve lost a blasted packet that Tyndall-Williams gave me to take to Angora.”
“What!” Swithin almost shouted.
“A double brandy, sir,” murmured Halket, appearing at his elbow.
“Thanks,” said Peter gratefully.
“You had better bring me one too,” Swithin added grimly. “Out in the garden if you don’t mind. Come on, Peter. It’s cooler out there and you can tell us about it without any likelihood of our being interrupted.”
Outside they settled themselves on a semi-circular bench, hidden by a surrounding hedge of young cypresses from Tyndall-Williams and his friends, the murmur of whose voices came gently on the still night air from the place where they were seated some fifty yards away.
“Now,” said Swithin. “Let’s have it. You say you’ve lost the packet that Tyndall-Williams handed you this evening for transmission to Angora.”
“That’s it,” Peter nodded miserably.
“Oh, Peter!” gasped Diana.
He gulped his brandy. “I know. I deserve everything that’s coming to me.”
Swithin shrugged his shoulders. “You must forgive me being a bit sore but I sweated blood over this business. However that cuts no ice now so let’s get down to brass tacks. How did you come to lose it?”
“There was a girl—is, I mean,” Peter began.
“Go on Peter,” urged Swithin. “Is she a home product or an houri of this city?”
“She’s a Russian—her name’s Tania Vorontzoff.”
“Merciful heavens!” Diana groaned, “you don’t mean to say …”
“Your brandy, sir.” Halket appeared out of the darkness and proffered a glass on a salver.
Swithin took the glass and sighed profoundly; “Thank you. God knows I need it.”
Diana glanced at the butler. “I’m afraid it’s very late, Halket, but I wonder if you could find me a drink too.”
“By all means, madam. Would you care for a chicken sandwich with it perhaps?”
“That would be nice—if you are quite sure that we are not keeping you up?”
“Oh no, madam. It is only twenty-five to twelve and I rarely go to bed before one.”
“So you fell for Tania eh?” Swithin murmured as the butler turned away.
“You know her then?” Peter exclaimed.
“Yes, we know her all right, and I suppose you realise that if you have been monkeying with her, you did not lose the packet but that she stole it from you?”
“No,” Peter protested. “No—it isn’t possible, she wouldn’t do a thing like that—she couldn’t.”
“Believe me she could. She is in the employ of Kazdim Hari Bekar.”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh, he’s a jolly little man. Great friend of mine. I’ve been seeing quite a lot of him lately. He’s the Chief of the Secret Police here and about the biggest thug unhung.
“You don’t mean that Tania …”
“I do. I hate to hurt your feelings if you’ve really fallen for her badly, but the fact is she’s a secret agent—a spy.”
“Good God!” Peter muttered miserably, “and—and I’ve promised to marry her.”
“Peter, you haven’t!” Diana suddenly sat boldly upright.
“She’s not a spy—I don’t believe it,” Peter choked out angrily.
Swithin shook his head. “Both Diana and I know that she is, so it’s useless for you to try and kid yourself however much it hurts. Now be a good chap and tell us as clearly as you can just what did happen.”
With an effort Peter pulled himself together, and in less than two minutes he had given them an account of his stay in Constantinople, his affair with Tania, and its disastrous consequences. He had just finished when Halket appeared again.
As the butler set the tray down on the stone seat beside Diana, Swithin looked up at him and inquired: “Is His Excellency’s car in the garage?”
“No, sir. His Excellency went out just after dinner and he is not back yet.”
Diana nodded. “That’s right, Sir Francis told me that he was going down to see Daddy on the yacht for some special conference.”
“I see.” Swithin turned to Halket again. “There must be other cars in the garage though. I want to borrow one for half an hour—do you think you could arrange it for me?”
“Might I suggest that you—er, speak to Mr. Tyndall-Williams first, sir?”
“I’d rather not,” said Swithin frankly. “I don’t think he would mind my borrowing a car, but he’s got the French Military Attaché with him at the moment, and as this is a private job I hardly like to disturb him about it now.”
“Quite so, sir.” Halket hesitated. “Do you wish to drive yourself, or would you require a chauffeur?”
“I must have a chauffeur, I’m afraid, and if there is any choice in the matter I’d prefer a closed car with side blinds. Otherwise I shall have to have myself driven out lying on the floor. Unfortunately the Turkish police are on the look out for me, you see.”
“So I gathered, sir. I happened to witness your arrival here this evening. A very fine performance if I may be permitted to say so, sir.”
Swithin smiled. “That’s nice of you Halket. Now will you be a real sportsman and try and fix up something for me. I’ll leave a note for Mr. Tyndall-Williams with you which will exonerate you from all blame. If I don’t manage to get back he will be able to collect the car in the morning.”
“Very good, sir. I’m afraid that most of the chauffeurs are in bed by now—but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Splendid—and the sooner I get off the better. Then if all goes well I’ll be back by a quarter past twelve.”
“Darling! What are you going to do?” Diana cried the second Halket’s back was turned.
“I’m going to have a cut at getting the darn thing back,” he
declared.
“How can you,” she protested. “We don’t even know where it is.”
“We do, dearest. At least I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea. Peter only left the girl at eleven o’clock. This thing is so important that she would never keep it till the morning. By the time he had got back to the Pera she was on her way to Kazdim with it. He would not be at his office at this hour so it’s a hundred to one that she took it straight to his house. It’s a wonder really, since he lives just behind the Mosque in the street leading down to the Dolma Baghtche steps, that Peter didn’t run into her when he went back to search the launch.”
“Even if you’re right—how can you possibly get hold of it?”
“By getting into Kazdim’s house the way I came out. With all that’s happened since, that seems days ago now, but it was really only the first thing this morning—so it’s very unlikely that they’ve had the bars repaired yet.”
“Swithin! That would be sheer madness!”
“Why?” he countered. “I should go in armed, so they won’t have it all their own way this time if I do get caught, but if I’m lucky I’ll find Kazdim on his own and get him in a corner. Then it will be my turn to laugh. The only thing is, Peter must come too and give me a leg up to that window—are you game, Peter?”
“Game? Good God yes!” Peter shot out with almost frantic eagerness. The thought that there might still be a chance to repair his folly filled him with new life and he hurried on: “I’ll go anywhere with you—or without you. I’ll do anything you tell me to. It’s marvellous of you to …”
“Good lad!”
“Darling!” Diana’s voice came hoarse and strained. “There’s not a hope of you succeeding. You’re certain to get caught.”
“It’s not like trying to break into a police station or a barracks,” he tried to reassure her. “The place is only a private house, so Peter and I ought to be able to deal with the Eunuch and the one or two men he may have with him, between us, if we can only take him by surprise.”
“No, no. You must not even think of it.”
“Listen, my sweet.” Swithin took her hands and held them tightly in his own. “In a little over an hour now the Revolutionaries will be distributing the arms from their secret stores and, unless we can stop it, the balloon goes up to-morrow at midnight. You know that the only chance lies in Kemal receiving the Kaka wafer before that, and anyhow—for Peter’s sake—we’ve simply got to get the darn thing back.”
The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 32
