Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “But where’s the sense of abusing us?” repeated Yerkes.

  “That’s the poor thing’s way of claiming class superiority,” said Monty. “She was born into one class, married into another, and divorced into a third. She’d likely to forget she said an unkind word the next time she meets you. Give her one chance and she’ll pretend she believes you were born to the purple — flatter you until you half believe it yourself. Later on, when it suits her at the moment, she’ll denounce you as a social impostor! It’s just habit — bad habit, I admit — comes of the life she leads. Lots of ’em like her. Few of ’em quite so well informed, though, and dangerous if you give ’em a chance.”

  “I still don’t see why you’re sweating,” said Fred.

  “It’s hot. There’s a chance she knows where the ivory is! She has money, but how? She’d have begged if she were short of cash! It’s my impression she has been in German government employ for a number of years. Possibly they have paid her to do some spy-work — in the Zanzibar court, perhaps — the Sultan’s a mere boy—”

  “Isn’t he woolly-headed?” objected Yerkes.

  “Mainly Arab. It’s a French game to send a white woman to intrigue at colored courts, but the Germans are good imitators.”

  “Isn’t she English?” asked Yerkes.

  “Her trade’s international,” said Monty dryly. “My guess is that Coutlass or Hassan told her what we’re supposed to be doing here, and she pretends to know where the ivory is in order to trap us all in some way. The net’s spread for me, but there’s no objection to catching you fellows as well.”

  “She’ll need to use sweeter bait than I’ve seen yet!” laughed Yerkes.

  “She’ll probably be sweetness itself next time she sees you. She’ll argue she’s created an impression and can afford to be gracious.”

  “Impression is good!” said Yerkes. “I mean it’s bad! She has created one, all right! What’s the likelihood of her having double-crossed the Germans? Mightn’t she have got a clue to where the stuff is, and be holding for a better market than they offer?”

  “I was coming to that,” said Monty. “Yes, it’s possible. But whatever her game is, don’t let us play it for her. Let her do the leading. If she gets hold of you fellows, one at a time or all together, for the love of heaven tell her nothing! Let her tell all she likes, but admit nothing — tell nothing — ask no questions! That’s an old rule in diplomacy (and remember, she’s a diplomat, whatever else she may be!) Old-stagers can divine the Young ones’ secrets from the nature of the questions they ask! So if you got the chance, ask her nothing! Don’t lie, either! It would take a very old hand to lie to her in such way that she couldn’t see through it!”

  “Why not be simply rude and turn our backs?” said I.

  “Best of all — provided you can do it! Remember, she’s an old hand!”

  “D’you mean,” said Yerkes, “that if she were to offer proof that she knows where that ivory is, and proposed terms, you wouldn’t talk it over?”

  “I mean let her alone!” said Monty.

  But it turned out she would not be let alone. We dine in the public room, but she had her meals sent up to her and we flattered ourselves (or I did) that her net had been laid in vain. Folk dine late in the tropics, and we dallied over coffee and cigars, so that it was going on for ten o’clock when Yerkes and I started upstairs again. Monty and Fred went out to see the waterfront by moonlight.

  We had reached our door (he and I shared one great room) when we heard terrific screams from the floor above — a woman’s — one after another, piercing, fearful, hair-raising, and so suggestive in that gloomy, grim building that a man’s very blood stood still.

  Yerkes was the first upstairs. He went like an arrow from a bow, and I after him. The screams had stopped before we reached the stairhead, but there was no doubting which her room was; the door was partly open, permitting a view of armchairs and feminine garments in some disorder. We heard a man talking loud quick Arabic, and a woman — pleading, I thought. Yerkes rapped on the door.

  “Come in!” said a voice, and I followed Yerkes in.

  We were met by her Syrian maid, a creature with gazelle eyes and timid manner, who came through the doorway leading to an inner room.

  “What’s the trouble?” demanded Yerkes, and the woman signed to us to go on in. Yerkes led the way again impulsively as any knight-errant rescuing beleaguered dames, but I looked back and saw that the Syrian woman had locked the outer door. Before I could tell Will that, he was in the next room, so I followed, and, like him, stood rather bewildered.

  Lady Saffren Waldon sat facing us, rather triumphant, in no apparent trouble, not alone. There were four very well-dressed Arabs standing to one side. She sat in a basket chair by a door that pretty obviously led into her bedroom; and kept one foot on a pillow, although I suspected there was not much the matter with it.

  “We heard screams. Thought you were being murdered!” said Yerkes, out of breath.

  “Oh, indeed, no! Nothing of the kind! I fell and twisted my ankle — very painful, but not serious. Since you are here, sit down, won’t you?”

  “No, thanks,” said he, turning to go.

  “The maid locked the door on us!” said I, and before the words were out of my mouth three of the Arabs slipped into the outer room. There was no hint or display of weapons of any kind, but they were big men, and the folds of their garments were sufficiently voluminous to have hidden a dozen guns apiece.

  “She’ll open it!” said Will, with inflection that a fool could understand.

  “One minute, please!” said Lady Saffren Waldon. (It was no poor imitation of Queen Elizabeth ordering courtiers about.)

  “We didn’t come to talk,” said Will. “Heard screams. Made a mistake.

  Sorry. We’re off!”

  “No mistake!” she said; and the sweetness Monty prophesied began to show itself. The change in her voice was too swift and pronounced to be convincing. “I did scream. I was, in pain. It was kind of you to come. Since you are here I would like you to talk to this gentleman.”

  She glanced at the Arab, an able-looking man, with nose and eyes expressive of keen thought, and the groomed gray beard that makes an Arab always dignified.

  “Some other time,” said Will. “I’ve an engagement!” And he turned to go again.

  “No — now!” she said. “It’s no use — you can’t get out! You may as well be sensible and listen!”

  We glanced at each other and both remembered Monty’s warning. Will laughed.

  “Take seats,” she said, with a very regal gesture. She was not carelessly dressed, as she had been earlier in the day. From hair to silken hose and white kid shoes she was immaculate, and she wore rouge and powder now. In that yellow lamplight (carefully placed, no doubt) she was certainly good-looking. In fact, she was good-looking at any time, and only no longer able to face daylight with the tale of youth. Her eyes were weapons, nothing less. We remained standing.

  “This gentleman will speak to you,” she said, motioning to the Arab to commence, and he bowed — from the shoulders upward.

  “I am from His Highness the Sultan of Zanzibar” he announced, a little pompously. “A minister from His Highness.” (In announcing their own importance Arabs very seldom err in the direction of under-estimate.) “I speak about the ivory, which I am informed you propose to set out on a journey to discover.”

  “Where did you get your information?” Yerkes countered.

  “Don’t be absurd!” ordered Lady Safrren Waldon. “I gave it to him!

  Where else need he go to get it?”

  “Where did you get it, then?” he retorted.

  “Never mind! Listen to what Hamed Ibrahim has to say!”

  The Arab bowed his head slightly a second time.

  “The ivory you seek,” he said, “is said to be Tippoo Tib’s own, and he will not tell the hiding-places. It does not belong to him. Such little part of it as ever was his was long ago swallowed
by the interest on claims against him. The whole is now in truth the property of His Highness the Sultan of Zanzibar, and whoever discovers it shall receive reward from the owner. His Highness is willing, through me his minister, to make treaty in advance in writing with suitable parties intending to make search.”

  “You mean the Sultan wants to hire me to hunt for ivory for him?” Will asked, and the Arab made a gesture of impatience. At that Lady Saffren Waldon cut in, very vinegary once more.

  “You two men are prisoners! Show much more sense! Come to terms or take the consequences! Listen! Tippoo Tib buried the ivory. The Sultan of Zanzibar claims it. The German government, for reasons of its own, backs the Sultan’s claim; ivory found in German East Africa will be handed over to him in support of his claim to all the rest of it. If you — Lord Montdidier and the rest of you — care to sign an agreement with the Sultan of Zanzibar you can have facilities. You shall be supplied with guides who can lead you to the right place to start your search from—”

  “Thought you wanted Lord Montdidier to say in London that you know where it all is,” Will objected.

  She colored slightly, and glared.

  “Perhaps I am one of the guides,” she said darkly. “I know more than I need tell for the sake of this argument! The point is, you can have facilities if you sign an agreement with the Sultan. Otherwise, you will be dogged wherever you go! Whatever you should find would be claimed! Every difficulty will be made for you — every treachery conceivable practised on you. Lord Montdidier can get influential backing, but not influence among the natives! He can not get good men and true information by pulling wires in London. The British government once offered ten per cent. of the value of the ivory found. The Sultan of Zanzibar offers twenty per cent.—”

  “Twenty-five per cent.,” corrected Hamed Ibrahim.

  “Yes, but I should want five per cent. for my commission!”

  “This sounds like a different yarn to the one you told on the stairs this afternoon,” said Will. “See Monty and tell it to him.”

  “It is for you to tell Lord Montdidier. He runs away from me!”

  “I refuse to tell him a word!” said Will, with a laugh like that of a boy about to plunge into a swimming pool — sort of “Here goes!”

  “You are extremely ill advised!”

  “Do your worst! Monty’ll be hunting for us two in about a minute.

  We’re prisoners, are we? Suit yourself!”

  “You are prisoners while I choose! You could be killed in this room, removed in sacks, thrown to the sharks in the roadstead, and nobody the wiser! But I have no intention of killing you. As it happens, that would not suit my purpose!”

  We both glanced behind us involuntarily. It may be that we both heard a footstep, but it is always difficult to say certainly after the event. At any rate, while in the act of turning our heads, two of the three Arabs, who had previously left the room, threw nooses over them and bound our arms to our sides with the jiffy-swiftness only sailors know. The third man put the finishing touches, and presently adjusted gags with a neatness and solicitude worthy of the Inquisition.

  “Throw them!” she ordered, and in a second our heels were struck from under us and I was half stunned by the impact of my head against the solid floor (for all the floors of that great place were built to resist eternity).

  “Now!” she said. “Show them knives!”

  We were shown forthwith the ugliest, most suggestive weapons I have ever seen — long sliver-thin blades sharper than razors. The Arabs knelt on our chests (their knees were harder and more merciless than wooden clubs) and laid the blades, edge-upward, on the skin of our throats.

  “Let them feel!” she ordered.

  I felt a sharp cut, and the warm blood trickled down over my jugular to the floor. I knew it was only a skin-cut, but did not pretend to myself I was enjoying the ordeal.

  “Now!” she said.

  The Arabs stepped away and she came and stood between us, looking down at one and then the other.

  “There isn’t a place in Africa,” she said, “that you can hide in where the Sultan’s men can’t find you! There isn’t a British officer in Africa who would believe you if you told what has happened in this room tonight! Yet Lord Montdidier will believe you — he knows you presumably, and certainly he knows me! So tell Lord Montdidier exactly what has happened! Assure him with my compliments that his throat and yours shall be cut as surely as you dare set out after that ivory without signing my agreement first. Tell Lord Montdidier he may be friends with me if he cares to. As his friend I will help make him rich for life! As his enemy, I will make Africa too hot and dangerous to hold him! Let him choose!”

  She stepped back and, without troubling to turn away, put powder on her nose and chin.

  “Now let them up!” she said.

  The Arabs lifted us to our feet.

  “Loose them!”

  The expert of the three slipped the knots like a wizard doing parlor tricks; but I noticed that the other two held their knives extremely cautiously. We should have been dead men if we had made a pugnacious motion.

  “Now you may go! Unless Lord Montdidier agrees with me, the only safety for any of you is away from Africa! Go and tell him! Go!”

  “I’ll give you your answer now!” said Will.

  “No, you don’t!” said I, remembering Monty’s urgent admonition to tell her nothing and ask no questions. “Come away, Will! There’s nothing to be gained by talking back!”

  “Right you are!” he said, laughing like a boy again — this time like a boy whose fight has been broken off without his seeking or consent. Like me, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped blood from his neck. The sight of his own blood — even such a little trickle as that — has peculiar effect an a man.

  “By Jiminy, she has scratched the wrong dog’s ear!” he growled to me as we went to the door together.

  “They’re all in there!” I said excitedly, when the door slammed shut behind us. “Hurry down and get me a gun! I’ll hold the door while you run for police and have ’em arrested!”

  “Piffle!” he said. “Come on! Three Sultan’s witnesses and two lone white women against us two — come away! Come away!”

  Monty and Fred were still out, so we went to our own room.

  “I’m wondering,” I said, “what Monty will say.”

  “I’m not!” said Will. “I’m not troubling, either! I’m not going to tell Monty a blessed word! See here — she thinks she knows where some o’ that ivory is. Maybe the government of German East Africa is in on the deal, and maybe not; that makes no present difference. She thinks she’s wise. And she has fixed up with the Sultan to have him claim it when found, so’s she’ll get a fat slice of the melon. There’s a scheme on to get the stuff, when who should come on the scene but our little party, and that makes ’em all nervous, ‘cause Monty’s a bad man to be up against. Remember: she claimed that she knows Monty and he knows her. She means by that that he knows she’s a desperado, and she thinks he’ll draw the line at a trip that promises murder and blackmail and such like dirty work. So she puts a scare into us with a view to our throwing a scare into him. If I scare any one, it’s going to be that dame herself. I’ll not tell Monty a thing!”

  “How about Coutlass the Greek?” said I. “D’you suppose he’s her accomplice?”

  “Maybe! One of her dupes perhaps! I suspect she’ll suck him dry of information and cast him off like a lemon rind. I dare bet she’s using him. She can’t use me! Shall you tell Monty?”

  “No,” I said. “Not unless we both agreed.”

  He nodded. “You and I weren’t born to what they call the purple.

  We’re no diplomatists; but we get each other’s meaning.”

  “Here come Monty and Fred,” said I. “Is my neck still bloody? No, yours doesn’t show.”

  We met them at the stairhead, and Monty did not seem to notice anything.

  “Fred has composed a song to the moonlight on Zanziba
r roadstead while you fellows were merely after-dinner mundane. D’you suppose the landlord ‘ud make trouble if we let him sing it?”

  “Let’s hope so!” said Will. “I’m itching for a row like they say drovers in Monty’s country itch for mile-stones! Let Fred warble. I’ll fight whoever comes!”

  Monty eyed him and me swiftly, but made no comment.

  “Bill’s homesick!” said Fred. “The U. S. eagle wants its Bowery! We’ll soothe the fowl with thoughts of other things — where’s the concertina?”

  “No, no, Fred, that’ll be too much din!”

  Monty made a grab for the instrument, but Fred raised it above his head and brought it down between his knees with chords that crashed like wedding bells. Then he changed to softer, languorous music, and when he had picked out an air to suit his mood, sat down and turned art loose to do her worst.

  He has a good voice. If he would only not pull such faces, or make so sure that folk within a dozen blocks can hear him, he might pass for a professional.

  “Music suggestive of moonlight!” he said, and began:

  “The sentry palms stand motionless. Masts move against the sky.

  With measured creak of curving spars dhows gently to the

  jeweled stars

  Rock out a lullaby.

  “Silver and black sleeps Zanzibar. The moonlit ripples croon

  Soft songs of loves that perfect are, long tales of

  red-lipped spoils of war,

  And you — you smile, you moon!

  For I think that beam on the placid sea

  That splashes, and spreads, and dips, and gleams,

  That dances and glides till it comes to me

  Out of infinite sky, is the path of dreams,

  And down that lane the memories run

  Of all that’s wild beneath the sun!”

  “You fellows like that one? Anybody coming? Nobody for Will to fight yet? Too bad! Well — we’ll try a-gain! There’s no chorus. It’s all poetic stuff, too gentle to be yowled by three such cannibals as you! Listen!