Bimbashi Baruk Of Egypt

by Sax Rohmer

  “As well tell you as tell it in court,” he said; “so listen. For two and a half years, Juan Manoel treated Antoinette as neither you nor I would treat a mongrel dog.”

  “Who is Antoinette?”

  “My wife. She was Manoel's wife at that time. I was young, and prosperous. I had a big business in Santo Domingo. Antoinette and I were engaged; we should have been married in three months, when her family—she is of old French stock—found out—”

  “Found out what?”

  Peter Gillam stood up again and stared through the window; he had heard a car in the lane above. He replied slowly, as if choosing his words.

  “The de Charnys—my wife's people—and the Manoels, their near neighbors, came to the West Indies in the days of Henry Morgan. They had always prided themselves on the purity of their respective races. The Manoels were notorious for their treatment of colored servants. My father was a British naval officer; I was born in Devon and I graduated from Merton. What they found out was this: They found out that my maternal grandfather was a Haitian Negro.”

  He twisted around to face the bimbashi, and his strange eyes seemed to glow. “That he was also one of the finest men who ever breathed God's air counted not at all. The engagement was broken. Antoinette was forced into marriage with Manoel, the second wealthiest man in the island, and thirty years her senior. She never loved him—and he never allowed her to forget that she had loved a quadroon.”

  He paused, and in a momentary silence Bimbashi Baruk heard the voices of several people who were evidently approaching by way of the bridle path. The bimbashi congratulated himself. He had detected the fact at their first meeting—a fact which must have eluded most men— that Peter Gillam had Negro ancestry.

  “I left Santo Domingo. I thought Antoinette shared her family's prejudices. I was a fool—a coward. It was more than two years later, in Mexico, that I found out my mistake. Manoel had property there, and I was silver mining. By accident we met again. I found that Tony—I mean Antoinette—was leading a hell's life. He tortured her; she was a nervous wreck. I found out something else—that she still loved me.” He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. “In plain English, we bolted.”

  “And then?”

  “Manoel, the swine—oh! I hate him no less dead than alive—got his divorce, and we were married in the States. But he used his wealth, and his influence, to try to ruin me. Time and time again, in the years that followed, he pulled wires and brought me down. Once, when I was flat out, he tried to get Tony to go back to him. I settled the matter with my bare hands, and he had evidence of assault. That made things worse. When the war started, being a quixotic lunatic, I came home, and they turned me over to the Ministry of Supply.”

  “That is why you are here?”

  “Just that. This cottage belongs to the Court Oaks estate—which was unoccupied. I leased it. A month later, Manoel bought Court Oaks!”

  A bell rang.

  “The police,” said Gillam, and looked out of the window. “Hell! Tony is with them!”

  As Gillam crossed and unlocked the door, his wife stepped in from the porch followed by Inspector Horley and a police sergeant. The bimbashi had a glimpse of a small and girlishly slight figure, quick but graceful of movement, of a vivacious face characterized by a complexion peachlike in the Oriental sense and lighted by dark blue eyes whose expression conjured up the image of a gazelle. Hair of dull gold presented a mass of close, feathery curls.

  “Peter dear!” she cried, and ran to her husband. “Whatever has happened? What do the police want to—” She broke off as Bimbashi Baruk appeared behind Gillam.

  “Major Baruk. This is my wife.”

  The bimbashi bowed, and Antoinette Gillam forced a welcoming smile, a smile so childlike that he found himself wondering at what age she had been married to Dr. Manoel, since she seemed so youthful now. He saw a bicycle leaning against the porch, a laden shopping basket strapped to it. Inspector Horley pointedly ignored the bimbashi and addressed Gillam.

  “I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Gillam, regarding the death of Dr. Manoel. After which I must request you to come with me to Moreton Harbor for further inquiries—”

  He paused. Mrs. Gillam, her delicate color fading, had tottered to a chair, supported by her husband.

  “Peter,” she whispered. “Peter!” Her dark blue eyes seemed to grow black with emotion. “Oh, my God!”

  “it appears to me, Baruk, to be a clear case.” Colonel Brown-Maple, the Chief Constable, stared gloomily from a window of his car at one of the loveliest landscapes in the West Country.

  “Here's this fellow, Gillam—brilliant at his job, and a gentleman as far as that goes; but kinked, definitely kinked. He's a dead shot. He has a rifle in his possession. He's alone in his house at the time, and his house overlooks the lily pool. So I can't really see what evidence there is for the defense. Sudden impulse, perhaps. Tragic story. The eternal triangle. Sorry for his wife. Pretty little woman. Most attractive. Fatally so.”

  Bimbashi Baruk smoked. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since the death of Juan Manoel. Peter Gillam had been detained for the crime.

  “Manoel,” the colonel went on, “was a queer fish, admittedly. But he had pots of money, and influence. Why he bought Court Oaks in order to live in two rooms I don't know. Place used to be a Canadian headquarters. When the Canadians cleared out, Manoel moved in. He was allowed to retain some firearms for dealing with vermin, although everything had been confiscated except stuff issued to Home Guards. Shot a lot, I hear. Funny notion, because we have learned that he had only a short time to live. Angina pectoris. Harley Street had warned him the next attack would be the last.”

  “Another mysterious feature,” murmured the bimbashi, “is why he asked for police protection.”

  “That should be clear enough. You're a hot man at this sort of thing. He suddenly discovered who his neighbor was! Events proved him right, too. You say you have found the bullet. Was it fired from a Lee-Enfield?”

  “I think there's no doubt of it. But I want you to form your own opinion—and here we are.”

  A police sergeant opened the door of Court Oaks and smartly saluted the Chief Constable. “Anything you want me to see inside, Baruk?”

  “Not at the moment, Colonel. Let's walk down to the pool.”

  But when, after passing through unfurnished, echoing rooms, and going out by way of a french window onto a weed-grown terrace, they began to descend the slope, Colonel Brown-Maple pulled up, shading his eyes against the sun.

  “What the devil's that stuck on a tree, Baruk?”

  Projecting from the trunk of that magnificent lime, beneath which the cane chair still stood, an object appeared which resembled a white disk— which, indeed, it was.

  “That is an alibi, Colonel.”

  The Chief Constable faced Bimbashi Baruk, and his prominent eyes seemed to be more prominent than usual.

  “An alibi! What the deuce do you mean?”

  “Allow me to explain.”

  Walking to the tree, while Colonel Brown-Maple favored him with suspicious side glances, the bimbashi pointed. “A round piece of wood, about the diameter of a human skull, and painted white. It is attached to the side of the tree by means of a rod. This rod fits into a slot which I found already cut in the bark.”

  “You say you found a slot there?”

  “Yes. I assumed that some similar device had been used before, and so I extemporized this target. Its position, immediately over the chair, corresponds to the head of a man seated there—and the chair, as you can judge from the marks in the turf, always stood on the same spot.”

  “But you are merely confusing me, Baruk. Do you mean to say that—hullo!” He adjusted his monocle. “Your target is holed!”

  “I know,” said the bimbashi. “I fired a shot through it this morning.”

  “What the devil for?”

  “Let's walk around the pool and I will show you.”

  In a frame of mind between mystif
ication and annoyance, the Chief Constable followed Bimbashi Baruk to the trunk of one of several fine conifers which rose, mastlike, from the further bank of the pool. A cardboard target was pinned to this tree, pierced by a single shotmark.

  “Outer—six o'clock,” muttered the colonel. “Isn't this the bullet that passed through the wooden disk over there?”

  “The same. And now, note the tree trunk as I found it before I attached my target.”

  He removed the square of cardboard. The bark behind it was pock-marked with bullet holes over an area of no more than ten inches in diameter!

  “What the devil—”

  “On finding this, I knew thatsomeone had been practicing rifle-shooting from a range of little more than a hundred yards, to judge from the penetration. Now, if you will note the general direction of the bullet holes and then glance back up the slope, it will occur to you that if one of those bullets is that which passed through Dr. Manoel's brain, it could not very well have been fired from Quarry Cottage.”

  Solemnly now the colonel inspected the marks, then turned and stared up the slope toward Court Oaks. It was possible from this point to see Quarry Cottage, but fairly obvious that it lay outside the line of fire. He spoke in a low voice.

  “How did you find that?”

  “When Dr. Manoel died, I heard the thud of the bullet striking, but I was uncertain of the exact point of impact. Having obtained your permission, after Horley had detained Gillam, I came and searched. Then I remembered the blackbird-shooting of which Gillam had spoken. The servant, Jose, told me that it took place from Dr. Manoel's bedroom window at the top of the east wing. After several experiments, I fixed the wooden disk in its present position; and from the open window of the east wing, with a borrowed rifle, I fired a shot through it. You saw where my shot registered on the tree.”

  “Baruk,” said the colonel, “I believe you have saved the life of an innocent man. But—who is the guilty man?”

  The bimbashi watched him for a moment, and his regard grew dreamy; then, “Dr. Manoel,” he replied.

  “Dr. Manoel! But—”

  “Remember his record, Colonel: his contempt of the colored races; his insensate cruelty; his perverted pride. Then, remember that he was robbed of his wife, whom he tortured mentally, by a man with black blood in his veins. I believe his latter years were entirely devoted to that man's ruin, and the ruin of the woman who had married him. Let's return to the house.”

  “But—”

  “Remember—it is important for us to understand his motives—that he knew he had only a short time to live. When Gillam took Quarry Cottage, Dr. Manoel, who probably had Gillam's movements watched, immediately bought Court Oaks. What for? To be conveniently placed for his purpose.”

  “But, damn it! whatwas his purpose?”

  “To bring Gillam to the scaffold.”

  “What do you say?”

  They had reached the terrace, and Bimbashi Baruk pushed open a french window. “If you will be good enough to follow, Colonel, I will lead the way to the room from which Dr. Manoel carried out his target practice.”

  The room at the corner of the east wing had evidently been used as a bedroom. There was no carpet, but it contained a camp bed, a heavy kitchen table on which lay some carpenter's tools, an armchair, and little else except a number of books piled on old shelves which lined the walls. Those works which were not religious dealt chiefly with psychology. One window commanded a view of the hillside. Staring out of it, Colonel Brown-Maple saw a policeman apparently searching for something in the little garden of Quarry Cottage. The other window overlooked the lawn sloping down to the lily pool. Both windows were partially obscured by masses of untrimmed ivy which had climbed as high as the roof. A rifle lay on the window ledge of the southern window—Court Oaks had stone walls of dungeonlike thickness. The only other object on the ledge was a cheap alarm clock.

  “So this was the shooting gallery, eh?”

  “Yes, this was it, Colonel. Whether Manoel shot blackbirds because he hated them or just as a blind, I don't know. But from here he did his serious target practice.”

  The colonel examined the rifle, and then turned to Bimbashi Baruk. “Was this the weapon used?”

  “No. That is the one I borrowed for my experiment. My discovery of the weapon used was due to a lucky accident. Since Manoel had a resident servant, I wondered why he wanted an alarm clock. Trying to pick up the clock, I found that it was screwed to the ledge. The problem became more odd than ever. Next I discovered that some sort of attachment went down through the base. Accordingly I borrowed tools and removed the oak panel below the ledge. I will lift it out and show you what I found there.”

  The bimbashi did so, and Colonel Brown-Maple stooped, peering into a deep cavity at the end of which a certain amount of light was visible.

  “Formerly a ventilating shaft, but the grille has been taken out.” The bimbashi directed the ray of a torch into the gap. “A Lee-Enfield, clamped down to an oak beam. There is a simple counterweight fixture attached to the striker of the clock above. The rifle is trained accurately on the target you saw just now, and its barrel is concealed by the ivy.”

  He stood upright; so did Colonel Brown-Maple. The two men stared silently at one another for a moment.

  “Unlikely to be discovered,” the bimbashi added, “until Gillam had paid the penalty. From this window, Manoel could watch all that occurred at Quarry Cottage and choose his time. His preoccupation with an afterlife may have been real or merely another pose. The clock was set to strike at three—”

  “But he was actually shot—”

  “Two minutes later? Quite so. I understand, now, the agony of suspense in which I found him. By some oversight which we cannot hope to explain, he forgot to put the clock right. It is just two minutes slow.”

  9. Adventure in the Libyan Desert

  IN THE ADVENTUROUS LIFE of Margaret Starkie, special correspondent of the PhiladelphiaGlobe, a certain mysterious hiatus occurred. Since Margaret Starkie has faithfully uncovered even the more intimate episodes of her private life for public consideration, no doubt in her long-promised, or perhaps one should say, long-threatened, volume of memoirs, full particulars of these missing incidents will be given to the world. Therefore, there can be no objection to this preview of a matter which provoked wide comment at the time. The scene appropriately opens in the Libyan desert during the final phase of that sparring and shadow boxing which preceded Rommel's final drive, and it introduces two men mounted upon camels, two men deeply concerned in the affair. Along an ancient caravan road in that dreary wilderness the camels plodded, tirelessly, but not patiently: patience is a word undiscoverable in the camel dictionary.

  They were highly serviceable brutes of the type used by the Camel Corps, and capable of much endurance. Upon the first, for they proceeded in single file, rode an imposing sheikh, spectacled, but having a fiercely brushed mustache, and wearing the green turban of a hadji. Although he bore himself with a martial air, he carried no visible weapon. The second rider, a scrubby-looking person, with a round, bearded face and small, fierce, intolerant eyes, shared his camel with a load of baggage which rose up behind him craggily.

  This intolerance may have been occasioned by the character of the prospect, consisting as it did of a seemingly endless expanse of sand, rock and wreckage. It was a point many miles inside the Nazi lines—so far as that term can be applied to the kind of desert warfare invented during the Libyan campaigns. Engagements, advances, retreats, leave grim testimonials behind; and this inland caravan route had been contested again and again. Sunset was an hour away, and the sky resembled a dirty copper bowl. One who knew this dreary waste might have surmised that the Arabs were bound for Bir Rumba, a well not far ahead at which they planned to camp for the night.

  An angry sun, which sometimes sent red spears hurtling along their path when an opening in grim hills allowed of it, seemed to promise a dust storm at almost any moment. But in silence the sheikh and his
servant rode forward.

  In such a sudden blaze of light, as they emerged from a patch of shadow, an armored car appeared, bearing down upon them. Twenty yards away it was pulled up, and a sergeant of the Afrika Korps sprang out, followed by two armed men.

  “Halt!” He raised his hand peremptorily.

  The camel ridden by the hadji had continued upon its stately way.

  “Usbur!” the German shouted angrily.

  The leading camel came slowly to a halt, and that behind gratefully followed suit. The hadji gazed sternly down at the sergeant, who advanced, one hand on a holster.

  “Your name, your papers!” he demanded in German.

  The eyes of the sheikh regarded him fiercely and unmoved. Appealing angrily to a man at his elbow, the German ordered: “Tell him in his own beastly language.”

  “Ismak eh?”

  At this, the hadji, from a bag at his girdle, produced a document in a cover, and without perceptibly altering his pose offered it to the sergeant, who now stood beside the camel. This failure to shrink before a member of the New Order was distasteful to the sergeant.

  “Heil Hitler!” he snapped, snatching the papers.

  The dignified Arab regarded him as a visitor might regard an unusual specimen in a zoo. The sergeant, fingering the cover impatiently, spoke again to the man at his elbow.

  “Tell him what I said.”

  “It is impossible, my sergeant.”

  The sergeant turned, glared—and then gave it up.

  Opening the folder, he glanced over a permit which it contained. This stated, in due form, that the Sheikh Mahdi Abdel Beyda, accompanied by his servant, Ismail Habun, were proceeding under safe conduct from General Rommel, to visit the sheikh's brother at Benghazi. This was all in order, and the sergeant merely thrust the permit back into the extended hand—a small, muscular but nervous hand, denoting that this brown brute was of good family—and waved his arm to indicate that the caravan of two might proceed.