Bimbashi Baruk Of Egypt

by Sax Rohmer

  “Here is a bad business, Doctor,” said Gaudian, following a long silence. “Even if this man possesses the influence and has the sympathies which you lead me to suppose, our efforts in Syria, our work in Persia, are not of a kind to commend us to Berlin. It is true that our armies soon will be overrunning those countries, but our own parts in the triumph? Not so big, eh?”

  He had a rich Rhine voice, of excellent vintage. Dr. Rosener, who was his senior—he ranked as major general—was oppressed by him. Dr. Rosener was not a soldier, and his short legs prohibited his becoming a good horseman.

  “The English have no generals,” he replied. “This I concede. But they have some unpleasantly efficient agents. Otherwise, Colonel, why are we here? You and I are hunted men—although at the moment we have thrown off pursuit. Others will avenge us; but I agree with you that we have failed in the tasks allotted to us. Very well. This is bad enough. There is something else.”

  “What?”

  “We carry valuables—they are our only safeguard; and at that wretched village where we spent the night I learned that the Scorpion of Kashan is known to have crossed the frontier. Already he is reported to have committed two assassinations.”

  Colonel Gaudian checked his horse—Dr. Rosener rode slightly in the rear. The colonel turned and fixed somewhat protruding green-blue eyes upon the doctor.

  “So this is what has been worrying you? Well, well!” He produced a sound of gargling. “As a politician, as a linguist, I salute you—Major General; but as an orientalist—well, well! Listen to me: The Scorpion of Kashan is not a man; he is a tradition—a legend. He comes to life always when danger threatens Persia. He is twin brother of Hassan of Aleppo, who is supposed to guard the relics of the Prophet. He is a Rhine maiden, he is Robin Hood.”

  Dr. Rosener rode on in silence. He was borne down by a sense of impending harm. His best-laid schemes in Syria had gone agley; he had been expelled from Teheran. With Colonel Gaudian, and aided by Nazi sympathizers, he had succeeded in reaching the Afghan frontier assured of a welcome from Saffaridi Khan. Their route had been discovered and they had had some narrow escapes. Air reconnaissance was an ever-present danger: but for three days, now, no planes had been sighted. Nevertheless....

  “Karasu is said to have preceded us,” he remarked presently. “Do you know him?”

  Colonel Gaudian growled. The Marquis Karasu, formerly of the Japanese Legation in Teheran, thought too much of Nippon and too little of Herr Hitler, to appeal to the colonel.

  “I met him during a ceremony,” he replied. “He resembled a lizard in uniform.”

  “We should not underestimate our allies.”

  “One does not underestimate locusts; but personally I have never invited any to dinner. These fellows must be sharply brought to heel, when they have served our purpose.”

  They turned a bend in the path, to see ahead, aglow in morning sunlight, the fertile plain of Zamara. Prompted by a common impulse, both riders checked their horses and sat looking down upon the prospect: They saw well-ordered grain fields, vineyards and orchards, cattle grazing in green paddocks. Beyond, on a slight eminence, stood the town, its minarets pointing to a pale blue sky. North of Situn and overlooking it was a house, or palace, partly hidden in groves of poplars.

  Colonel Gaudian unfolded a map, adjusted a monocle, and studied the landmarks. His appearance, bearded, turbaned, monocle in place, was not without interest. Producing gargling sounds, he was so engaged when Dr. Rosener spoke, urgently.

  “There is someone overtaking us.”

  Map and monocle vanished. A regular, dull, beating sound drew nearer.

  “A racing camel,” said Gaudian.

  And a moment later, camel and rider flashed into view. The camel was a lovely creature, creamy, clean-limbed, a beast fit to carry the Mahmal; its rider, the hood of a fleecy burnous drawn over his head, proved to be a hawk-faced old man whose snowy beard seemed out of tune with eyes that glittered like dark jewels, with an ease of carriage only to be appreciated by one who has ridden a speeding camel. Like a mirage, man and beast came, and passed.

  “Ho, there, my good fellow!” shouted Colonel Gaudian. “Halt!” The rider rode on. “Halt, I say!”

  A heavy repeater appeared in the colonel's hand; he raised it. Dr. Rosener grasped his arm.

  “Always will you forget that you are not in uniform, my friend,” he said quietly.

  Colonel Gaudian turned green-blue eyes in the doctor's direction; they were suffused redly, a symptom which betrays the killer.

  “For this you are to blame, my friend,” he replied; and his tone was icy.

  THE NEXT RECORDED appearance of the old man on the cream-colored camel was at a rest house in the valley. Ramshackle and evil-smelling, this caravanserai, had survived from days before the administration of Saffaridi Khan had brought prosperity to Situn. The road through the mountains which formerly it had served, now was by-passed and rarely used. The inn was built around a courtyard, in which were a number of goats and a tethered mule. The proprietor, together with all his family, was out at work in the fields. Storerooms and stables were gaping caverns, and certain apartments above which opened on a balcony promised disturbed and verminous slumber. Flanking the entrance were verandas shaded by upper rooms that threatened to fall down, and provided with rough wooden benches. The building was of lath and mud, and once had been plastered. On one of the benches a bearded dervish reclined, his staff laid on the ground, his blue eyes staring into space. One would have said that he meditated; and in fact this would have been true.

  Bimbashi Baruk, seconded from the Camel Corps for special duty with the Intelligence Department, was considering a brief homily recently offered by his immediate chief. “The agent in war is a sort of one-man commando. His duties may be in the nature of routine less exciting than that of a bank cashier or may abruptly bring him up against an issue in which his wit, his nerve, his physical fitness, stand as the only shield between him and an inglorious finish.”

  It was at this moment that the camel appeared. One glance at that thoroughbred animal and at a bright green turban visible under the hood of its rider (denoting that he was a sherif, or descendant of the Prophet) induced the dervish to murmur: “Quite—and 'abruptly' is a good word.”

  Sweeping into the courtyard, the white-bearded rider uttered a sibilant order. The camel stopped dead, gently dropped to its knees, and the old man sprang off with an agility that reminded the bimbashi of a display of Cossack horsemanship he once had witnessed. His bearing, as he stood looking about him, resembled that of an Eastern king. All of which was well enough, but this majestic descendant of the Prophet might prove a difficult person to deceive; and although Mohammed Ibrahim Brian Baruk was son of an Arab father, had visited Mecca and knew much of Moslem custom, the fact remained that he had had an English mother, had been educated at an English public school and was no true dervish. The old man considered him, and then approached him; his carriage was lithe as that of a panther.

  “I need your service, dervish.”

  Bimbashi Baruk noted, gratefully, that he spoke Persian.

  “I serve none but God and his Prophet,” he replied, watching from beneath lowered lids.

  Eagle eyes, which possessed the unusual property of never blinking, blazed at him, but he sustained their regard, unmoved. The old man snatched up the staff from the ground, swung it, hesitated, and then lowering it, studied it.

  “This is no majanah for one of the Bektashiyeh,” he exclaimed. “It is not of almond, but of ash. I see that you are an impostor.”

  But the bimbashi remained outwardly unmoved, resting on one elbow. “I broke my staff over the head of an infidel,” he replied indifferently. “Because it was of almond wood I failed to slay him. He, too, wore a white beard,” he added, with a snarl which revealed his excellent teeth.

  “It is evident,” said the old man softly—but he was considering the pose of the dervish's right hand, which remained concealed—“that thou art
one who longs for the joys of Paradise.”

  “Who fitter to announce my coming than a descendant of the Prophet—may God be good to him.”

  The old man's reaction to this studied insolence surprised the bimbashi, who was rarely surprised. His stark ferocity melted in a gentle smile; he dropped the staff, bent as if to conciliate the dervish—and seized his right arm just below the elbow with fingers which felt like steel cables!

  “Show me the weapon which you hold,” he ordered.

  It was only by means of an effort of will and the tensing of nearly every muscle that Bimbashi Baruk forced drooping lids to continue to droop and also to hold his right hand concealed. Inhaling slowly, he spoke calmly; at the moment he was helpless.

  “Thou hast a mighty grip,” he said, and prepared, even at risk of a broken arm, to disentangle himself.

  “You speak with the accent of Egypt. I suspect you to be a spy of the German despoilers. If so, prepare to die.”

  Those words fell like balm upon the bimbashi's troubled spirit. In a deliberate attempt to provoke this formidable old man to a declaration of his identity—which was what he wanted to know—he had succeeded only in placing himself in a particularly awkward position. He forced a smile.

  “Pardon, O Sherif,” he replied, “I suspected the same of you. I am a British officer.”

  “Speak me a sentence in English.”

  “A pleasure, I assure you, sir. I am conscious of my faulty Persian!”

  The stranglehold was relaxed, the gentle smile returned to soften hawklike features, and the old man took a seat on the mastabah. Bimbashi Baruk forced an aching arm to function and exhibited a blunt-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver of a pattern often found among tribesman, then replaced it beneath his ragged robe. He sat upright.

  “As a young man, I spent some years in London,” explained the sherif, speaking English with no more than a faint accent. “May I ask your name?”

  “I am Major Baruk.”

  “It is an Arab name.”

  “My father was an Arab. I am a Camel Corps officer.”

  The old man nodded; his unblinking gaze had never left the bimbashi's face. “I am Omar Ali Shah, sometimes called the Scorpion of Kashan.”

  Bimbashi Baruk caught his breath; a legend had come to life. But the words had been spoken so casually that no comment seemed to be called for. He bowed slightly, feeling like one who acknowledges presentation to Sinbad the Sailor.

  “I am a man with two distinct identities, like your Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll. One of these—hereditary in my family for five hundred years—is known only to a few. I add you to that select number, Major Baruk, for I perceive that you are a man of coolness and address, adroit of speech and fearless in adversity. We are here of a common mind: your enemy is my enemy. I have far outdistanced my party, and indeed am now at a loss how next to proceed.”

  “May I ask your destination?”

  An appalling frown swept the smile away and, when he replied, Omar Ali Shah reverted to his own language.

  “The house of Saffaridi Khan—intriguer, spawn of hell, voluptuary. Him I have never seen, nor his accursed dung heap, but all men know of his vices, of his plotting with the foreign enemy. Rarely do I take up the sword: in my own place I am justly esteemed as a man of peace. None save he Companions suspect me to be the One Appointed. I have many possessions and fair vineyards—and Ihad a fair daughter.” He paused, gnashing evidently powerful teeth. “Her beauty is renowned and the Saffaridi dog had the effrontery to ask her in marriage. Angered by my refusal, last night he caused her to be stolen from my house! Three of those concerned I have slain; but with my own hand”—from beneath his burnous he produced a huge knife—“I shall strike his head from his body.”

  Such a story surprised the bimbashi less than it might have surprised another: he was a realist who knew his Orient from the inside. He was aware that practices such as slave dealing, those of the thugs, the dacoits and the hashishin had long ago ceased—officially, but not otherwise; and already he had formed a high opinion of this dangerous character, whose rectitude, if somewhat bloodthirsty, was beyond question. Furthermore, he had acquired information, for hitherto he had supposed the Scorpion of Kashan to be not a man but a myth. It was good news to learn that he was pro-Ally.

  “Listen!” Omar Ali Shah concealed his knife. “Horses. I leave you to deal with this matter. Later I shall rejoin you.”

  He walked silently away. When Bimbashi Baruk turned his head, the Scorpion of Kashan had disappeared like a vision. Dropping back upon one elbow, the bimbashi prepared to make himself objectionable to the newcomers; such was his simple means of disarming suspicion, since few expect an enemy agent deliberately to attract attention. The usual routine had failed in the case of Omar Ali Shah, but Omar Ali Shah was a truly unusual person. “It seems,” the bimbashi was reflecting, “that I am now one of the Companions, whoever the Companions may be. This could prove a blessing or a nuisance: it remains to be seen.”

  When the horsemen rode into view he gave no sign to show that he was interested, whereas, in fact, he had been waiting for them since an hour before dawn. Their conviction that they had shaken off pursuit was ill-founded. The bimbashi might temporarily have been deceived by Colonel Gaudian, whom he had never seen before, but not by Dr. Rosener, whom he knew well by sight.

  “Hullo, there!” cried Gaudian. “Guide me to the house of Saffaridi Khan.”

  Bright eyes staring out from the bearded, dirty face of the dervish offered no indication of understanding; he did not stir. Dr. Rosener rested his hand for a moment on the colonel's knee.

  “We seek a guide, hadji.” He was conciliatory. “And our affair is urgent.”

  “That which must be bought should be paid for,” snarled the bimbashi.

  “You shall be paid—when we get there.”

  Bimbashi Baruk stood up, stretched himself, yawned loudly and then, grasping his staff, strode out on to the roadway.

  “Follow,” he said.

  NEARLY AN HOUR elapsed before the bimbashi returned. He had made it his business to acquaint himself with the town and with the house, or rather palace, beyond. Accident, and sound staff work on the part of Colonel Gaudian, had enabled both fugitives to cross the frontier. Bimbashi Baruk had learned their destination, and by plane and car had been sent to intercept. But his position was one of some delicacy, and Kandahar the nearest place to which he could look for assistance. He had led the Germans through narrow, winding and dirty streets and out of Situn by its eastern gate. Then, the route had lain up a gentle slope to the extensive walled property of Saffaridi Khan. The place was a sort of winter palace and, so far as he had been able to make out, accommodated a large number of inhabitants. Of great age in parts, it had been enlarged and modernized, architecturally: rumor whispered that, domestically, it fulfilled the ideals of Kubla Khan, from one of whose Persian generals Saffaridi claimed descent. Having seen the Nazi officers enter the courtyard, he had returned, deep in thought.

  In fact, he had many things to think about, and another was thrust upon his notice as he strode through gaily-colored but septic-smelling streets of the market quarter by a belief, partly instinctive, that someone followed him. He adopted all the devices which he knew to force this follower to betray his presence, but failed to reap any reward. By the time he had regained the inn, which stood far outside the present area of the town, he was moderately sure that this mysterious surveillance had ceased; but he was far from satisfied.

  He noted the absence of the cream camel and assumed that Omar Ali Shah had pushed on in pursuit of his just but murderous purpose. The mule, however, remained, and because it was a prosperous and well-barbered mule, he found himself wondering to whom it belonged—for, excepting Omar Ali, he had seen not a soul about the place. Standing at the foot of a rickety stair which led to the apartments above, he called:

  “Ho, there! Why keep me waiting?”

  There was no reply, so he went up. All the rooms into which
he looked were simply furnished in the native manner; that is to say, there was no furniture. But presently he came to one which presented evidence of habitation. A camp bed stood under a window, and, noting a cupboard in the wall, below which was a narrow ledge, he crossed and opened the door. He saw two suitcases and was about to investigate further when a crisp, harsh order, spoken in good Persian with a bad accent, checked and tensed him.

  “Put up your hands.”

  The speaker stood behind him, and unhesitatingly he obeyed. He heard a light footstep; deft fingers explored his ragged garments; the footsteps retreated.

  “Now turn around.”

  Bimbashi Baruk did so—and saw a tall, lean man, wearing an unobtrusive blue suit and a soft brown hat, covering him with a practical-looking automatic. This man was clean-shaven, had dusky skin and that entire absence of expression which marks pictures of the once-great Sioux tribe. He wore a monocle. And Bimbashi Baruk had turned only just in the nick of time.

  Behind this lean stranger who stood in the doorway, a sort of noiseless phantom materialized: gleaming dark eyes, a splash of vivid green, formed no more than a background for a broad, flashing blade.

  “Stop, Omar Ali! This man is our friend!”

  The dreadful knife was actually sweeping down —but its course became magically diverted. Omar Ali Shah stepped into the room and glared from face to face.

  “You are German,” he said to the man who held the automatic—and he spoke in English.

  “You have me wrong, sir. It's the single eyeglass.”

  “Mr. Horace Lord, I believe,” said the bimbashi. “I met you some years ago, but I am glad to note that you fail to recognize me. I am Major Baruk.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Mr. Lord, his voice suggesting the tones of a gramophone record which has been in a sandstorm. “Who's your friend?”