by Sax Rohmer
A moon of mother-of-pearl looked down into the misty mirror of the Tigris when he and Bimbashi Baruk appeared on its bank. Ancient Baghdad, although so near, showed only as a mysterious phosphorescent glow, like that of some vast opal, behind them. By a clump of trees, where a landing stage sent up liquid whisperings from the stream, they paused.
“There lies theLily Queen,” said Madden. Bimbashi Baruk stared across to where a vessel lay at anchor. “An old Thames paddle steamer which has been a feature of the landscape for some forty years. Tradition says she crossed under her own steam, but I don't vouch for it. Anyway, MacMurdoch, her chief, is a good friend of mine.”
A sort of large, flat-bottomed craft and also a leaky boat fretted against the landing stage, and in the boat they pulled out to theLily Queen. They found MacMurdoch, a big-boned, gray and untidy Caledonian, sharing a small cabin with a large black cat and a bottle of whisky. Apparently no one else was on board.
“Scots wha hae,” he observed, when the bimbashi had been introduced and two more tumblers taken from a locker. “I never heard tell of the Clan Baruk, but man, ye'd look grand in the kilt. Mrs. MacMurdoch would divorce her bonny man Jock if she kenned he was in the blackbirding trade. Here's to you and here's to her.”
“When do they come aboard, Mac?” asked Madden. “I don't want them to see me.”
“See you!” cried MacMurdoch. “Man, Pop, they'llsmell you from the shore! Regard poor Rob Roy.” He indicated the black cat. “Robbie never could abide camels, and the poor wee beastie is going on deck a'ready.” This was true; the animal went slinking out with sidelong glances of disfavor directed toward Madden. “Any minute now our saloon passengers should come off.”
In fact, a few moments later there stole across silent waters a sound which struck a discordant note, coming as it did from the banks of a river kissed by memories of Arabian romance; it was that which can be made only by a number of motor buses.
“Here they are,” said MacMurdoch. “What do you want to do?”
“We rather wanted to check them,” the bimbashi replied. “These Irak authorities—”
“Follow me. Don't mention Irak authorities. It's my own pet subject. I'll have to bid ye good night. We pull out at sun-up and I have a major operation to perform on my engines before I can turn a paddle over.”
From the bridge, Bimbashi Baruk and Madden watched the flat-bottomed boat make several journeys from landing stage toLily Queen, laden with manacled “catches” of the three preceding days, under a military police escort. The Lily Queen in her old age had become a prison ship. These potential quislings would ultimately reach Basra, and from Basra be shipped elsewhere for the duration. Madden checked the numbers and proclaimed, “All present and correct, sir.” At which moment it was that a swift disturbance broke out.
There came a scuffle, a shouting, a rattle of irons —and a man burst onto the forward deck, paused, looking right and left, and then began to run aft. Hot on his heels came an armed guard; but he in turn paused on reaching the darkened deck and so missed his quarry. Active as a monkey, the escaped prisoner swarmed up to the bridge, found himself confronted by two figures in the cloudy moonlight, sprang to the port wing and dived overboard.
“Smart lad,” murmured the bimbashi, “but I am wondering if he recognized us.”
They were still discussing this point, and its possible bearing upon future plans, when they regained their quarters, a stable which also accommodated two donkeys. An imperfect lantern afforded the only light, but, faint as it was, the bimbashi observed a door being slowly and noiselessly opened. He reached it in one long leap, jerking it forward so that the eavesdropper all but fell into the stable. The spy was the Grand Imam, and he wore an evil grin.
EL-KASR, ALTHOUGH a small town (Ismail ed-Din owned it) was of great antiquity, and boasted two mosques, generally known as the Old Mosque and the New Mosque. The New Mosque was three hundred years of age, and the Old Mosque dated back to the First Crusade; indeed, some skeleton pennants, warped lances and fragments of armor belonging to knights of Godefroi de Bouillon decorated its walls. Reluctantly, Ismail ed-Din had consented to permit the Grand Imam of Khorassan to speak there.
Frantic anxiety regarding Bimbashi Baruk no doubt explained Yasmina's daring; but, following earnest discussion with Aida, she had determined to be present. One thing which she had learned had given her greater confidence: neither her father nor the cautious Raschid Azem would attend, for this would have amounted to official recognition of the evangelist.
Nevertheless, when the time came to steal out of the little postern, her heart beat furiously. She had often impersonated an old woman in order to meet messengers, but had never gone into the town after dusk, nor had she, hitherto, attempted the part of a young man. Aida had produced from somewhere an abayeh, or black woolen cloak, and certain necessary undergarments, also a pair of flat-heeled shoes, atarbush and a white cloth to wind around it. Yasmina had darkened her complexion with water color and had traced a faint mustache above her lip. Finally, wearing a pair of spectacles which magnified enormously, borrowed (without permission) from Mohammed Ibriz, her father's secretary, she had felt that she might pass for a studious youth of the middle class; at least, she sincerely hoped so.
From times even earlier than those of Crusaders, the main, or western, gate of el-Kasr had been closed at sunset; but the smaller eastern gate remained open. Through grain fields and orchards Yasmina approached this gate and entered el-Kasr unnoticed. The town had been built on a hillside, and its narrow, crooked streets from the east gate descended jaggedly with unexpected flights of steps to add variety to their perils. Lighting was absent, but at a point where a miniature square embraced a fountain, lanterns splashed dim rays upon the doors of the Old Mosque. Yasmina went in, shed her shoes, performed perfunctory washing in the vestibule and entered that ancient building.
She discovered the Grand Imam in the act of addressing a group of some twenty listeners. Two only of the mosque lamps had been lighted, and mystic shadows raised ghosts. Yasmina slipped silently to the side of a small man who smelled vilely; she knelt down on uneven paving which once had formed part of a Roman temple.
European interference, a bellowing voice proclaimed, accounted for all the troubles of Syria. “Western ways, Western machinery and Western politics must go...”
This was, all but word for word, the address which the imam had delivered in Kermanshah, which indeed he delivered everywhere. If Hitler could do it, why not the Grand Imam of Khorassan? His black beard, shorter than Yasmina had expected it to be from descriptions overheard at her listening post, stuck forward truculently when he spoke; the tones were those of a cracked trumpet; light, fierce eyes glittered behind his spectacles.
When names of Believers “earnest to do Allah's work” were called for, the man who smelled like a camel and who had been watching Yasmina furtively, rose and suddenly grasped her arm. She stifled a cry: he had a grip like a carpenter's vice. With his disengaged hand he took up from the pavement a large book, an inkpot and a vessel containing pens.
“My little master,” he said, using accent and intonation of a cultured Syrian, “your testimony to the Prophet (may God be good to him) is required.”
She found herself one of a group of seven who had come forward. Even in her desperate fear, she tried to memorize the faces of the others. The small man released her arm, seated himself on a step of the pulpit and began to enter names. Yasmina was unable to catch those names. The Grand Imam looked down from above, growling a deep blessing upon each of his new disciples and dismissing them. Yasmina's heart throbbed so wildly that she knew she was a woman and that, soon, these men would know—for now she was alone with them. The katib beckoned her forward; she was shrinking in shadow.
“Bit of a problem here, B.B.,” he reported. “This is a girl. I'm wondering what we should do with her.”
The Grand Imam descended at a run. His hornrimmed glasses he cast aside. His eyes were fired with a light w
hich seemed to shine from within. He grasped Yasmina, firmly but fondly, took off the spectacles of Mohammed Ibriz, stared into those disguised features—and continued to grasp Yasmina.
“Pool-o'-the-Moon,” he said, “how truly wonderful you are.”
“YOU SEE,” Madden explained—Bimbashi Baruk had called upon him to do so—“the Grand Imam spotted our game in Baghdad. An escaped prisoner brought him the glad tidings. It was touch and go. I laid him out with a tummy punch—and he wasn't built to stand it. I speak to you, my dear, as man to man—Pop to A 14, so to speak. Delighted to meet you. I had nail scissors and shaving gear hidden in the baggage, and we shaved him, didn't we, B.B.?”
“We did,” said Bimbashi Baruk. “Beard and mustache became memories.”
“Of course, he was trussed up,” Madden added. “One of the donkeys who shared our suite raised hell for some reason, but that was by the way. We dressed the imam in odds and ends and then we got out the old Buick and drove down to the river. MacMurdoch, who's chief, and only, engineer of theLily Queen, agreed to add him to the 'catch.' We told Mac the man was half-blind (we had pinched his specs), quite mad and likely to claim to be anybody from General Wavel to Abraham Lincoln. Then the fun started. You don't know the chief personally, A 14; but our plan was hardly the kind of thing he would O.K.”
“It was the sort of plan,” said Bimbashi Baruk, “that he would, most definitely, have scotched. I claim no credit for it, Yasmina; it was Madden's plan. You see, my beard had produced a fair crop during the weeks which had elapsed, and aided by padding—highly inconvenient—and the imam's spectacles, I was in a position to continue the tour and to complete the list of crooks willing to work for the Nazis. It was a chance in a million. It has worked perfectly. I have not dared to report to Cairo—nor have I been able to write to you—since I became the Grand Imam of Khorassan, but Pop and I have some names to send in to G.H.Q. which may surprise them.”
Major Baruk and Captain Madden escorted Yasmina as far as the postern in that high wall which surrounded the house of Ismail ed-Din, at which point Captain Madden fell back slightly in order that? he might be in a position to deal with possible enemy movements on either flank or from the rear.
Table of Contents
Beginning
Sax Rohmer
1. Mystery Strikes at Ragstaff Hill
2. The Bimbashi Meets Up with A 14
3. Murder Strikes in Lychgate
4. The Laughing Buddha Finds a
5. Warning from Rose of the Desert
6. Lotus Yuan Loses Her Vanity Case
7. The Scarab of Lapis Lazuli
8. Vengeance at the Lily Pool
9. Adventure in the Libyan Desert
10. Pool-o'-the-Moon Sees Bimbashi
