by Talbot Mundy
“I’ll have nothing to do with it!” Davey exploded at last. “It’s a damned outrage! Why — this tale will be all over the place. The Jews will get hold of it, and make complaints in London. Next you know, the U.S. State Department will be raising blue hell. Questions asked in Congress. Headlines in all the papers! What do you suppose our people will think of me?”
“Refer them to your wife, Davey. She’s got you out of much worse messes.”
“I’ll drive the car straight up to OETA and lodge my protest against this in less than fifteen minutes!”
“No need; Davey, old man. Goodenough will be in here presently.
Kick to him.”
Mrs. Davey went into the next room and returned with a roll of coarse cotton cloth.
“I’ve no bags, Jim, but if this stuff will do I can sew some right now.”
“Good enough, Emily, go to it.”
“D’you want to lose me my job?” demanded Davey. But his wife took up the scissors and smiled back at him.
“You know better than that. We’ve trusted Jim before.”
“Listen, Davey; this thing’s serious,” said Grim.
“I know it is! So’m I! Nothing doing!”
“You’re on the inside of an official secret.”
“Curse all official secrets! My business is oil!”
“There’ll be no oil in this man’s land for any one for fifty years if you won’t play. There’ll be a jihad instead. They’re planning to blow up the Dome of the Rock.”
“Jee-rusalem!”
“Straight goods, Davey. Two tons of TNT stolen, and our friend Scharnhoff, the Austrian, hunting for the Tomb of the Kings — digging for it day and night — conspirators waiting to run in the explosive as soon as the tunnel is complete.”
“Why not arrest ’em at once?”
“We want to catch the principals red-handed, explosive and all. We don’t know where the explosive is yet. Bag the lot, and kill the story. Otherwise, d’you see what it means, if the news leaks out? They’ll blame the attempt on the Jews. And the minute the British protect the Jews there’ll be all Moslem Asia on fire. Get me?”
“Get you? Yes, I get you. I’ll get hell from the home office, though, for meddling in politics.”
Goodenough came in then, rather a different man from the stern little martinet who had stood in the throat of the arcade. He was all smiles.
“Evening, Mrs. Davey,” he said genially. “That one man went away, Grim, and three took his place. They shan’t be disturbed. Narayan Singh has gone off duty. Now, Mrs. Davey, I’ve been told that Americans all went dry, on account of a new religion called the Volstead Act. D’you mean to say you’d tempt a thirsty soldier with a dry martini?”
Chapter Sixteen
“The Enemy is nearly always useful if you leave him free to make mistakes.”
The next item on the program was to awaken Suliman. He did not want to wake up. He had lost all interest in secret service for the time being. Even the sight of Mrs. Davey’s New York candy did not stir enthusiasm; he declared it was stuff fit for bints,* not men. [*Women]
“All right then,” Grim announced at last.
“School for you, and I’ll get another side-partner.”
That settled it. The boy, on whose lips the word dog was a foul epithet, was actually proud to share a packing-case bedroom with Julius Caesar the mess bull-dog. School, where there would be other iniquitous small boys to be led into trouble, had no particular terrors. But to lose his job and to see another boy, perhaps a Jew or a Christian, become Jimgrim’s Jack-of-all-jobs was outside the pale of inflictions that pride could tolerate.
“I am awake!” he retorted, rubbing his eyes to prove it.
“Come here, then. D’you know where to find your mother?”
“At the place where I went yesterday.”
“Take her some of Mrs. Davey’s candy. Don’t eat it on the way, mind. Get inside the place if you can. If she won’t let you in try how much you can see through the door. Ask no questions. If she asks what you’ve been doing, tell her the truth: say that you cleaned my boots and washed Julius Caesar. Then come back here and tell me all you’ve seen.”
“Sending him to spy on his own mother, Jim?” asked Mrs. Davey as Suliman left the room with candy in both fists. She paused from stitching at the cotton bags to look straight at Grim.
“His mother is old Scharnhoff’s housekeeper,” Grim answered. “Scharnhoff wouldn’t stand for the boy, and drove him out. The mother liked Scharnhoff’s flesh-pots better than the prospects of the streets, so she stayed on, swiping stuff from Scharnhoff’s larder now and then to slip to the kid through the back door. But he was starving when I found him.”
Mrs. Davey laid her sewing down.
“D’you mean to tell me that that old butter-wouldn’t-melt-in- his-mouth professor is that child’s father?”
“No. The father was a Turkish soldier — went away with the Turkish retreat. If he’s alive he’s probably with Mustapha Kemal in Anatolia. Old Scharnhoff used to keep a regular harem under the Turks. He got rid of them to save his face when our crowd took Jerusalem. He puts up with one now. But he has the thorough-going Turk’s idea of married life.”
“And to think I had him here to tea — twice — no, three times! I liked him, too! Found him interesting.”
“He is,” said Grim.
“Very!” agreed Goodenough.
“If it weren’t for that harem habit of his,” said Grim, “some acquaintances of his would have blown up the Dome of the Rock about this time tomorrow. As it is, they won’t get away with it. Suliman came and told me one day that his mother was carrying food to Scharnhoff, taking it to a little house in a street that runs below the Haram-es-Sheriff. I looked into that. Then came news that two tons of TNT was missing, on top of a request from Scharnhoff for permission to go about at night unquestioned. After that it was only a question of putting two and two together—”
“Plus Narayan Singh,” said Goodenough. “I still don’t see, Grim, how you arrived at the conclusion that Scharnhoff is not guilty of the main intention. What’s to prove that he isn’t in the pay of Mustapha Kemal?”
“I’ll explain. All Scharnhoff cares about is some manuscripts he thinks he’ll find. He thinks he knows where they are. The Chronicles of the Kings of Israel. I expect he tried pretty hard to get the Turks to let him excavate for them. But the Turks knew better than to offend religious prejudices. And perhaps Scharnhoff couldn’t afford to bribe heavily enough; his harem very likely kept him rather short of money. Then we come along, and stop all excavation — cancel all permits — refuse to grant new ones.
“Scharnhoff’s problem is to dig without calling attention to what he’s doing. As a technical enemy alien he can’t acquire property, or even rent property without permission. But with the aid of Suliman’s mother he made the acquaintance of our friend Noureddin Ali, who has a friend, who in turn has a brother, who owns a little house in that street below the Haram-es-Sheriff.”
“Strange coincidence!” said Goodenough. “It’ll need a better argument than that to save Scharnhoff’s neck.”
“Pardon me, sir. No coincidence at all. Remember, Scharnhoff has lived in Jerusalem for fifteen years. He seems to have satisfied himself that the Tomb of the Kings is directly under the Dome of the Rock. How is he to get to it? The Dome of the Rock stands in the middle of that great courtyard, with the buildings of the Haram-es-Sheriff surrounding it on every side, and hardly a stone in the foundations weighing less than ten tons.
“He reasons it out that there must be a tunnel somewhere, leading to the tomb, if it really is under the Dome of the Rock. I have found out that he went to work, while the Turks were still here, to find the mouth of the tunnel. Remember, he’s an archaeologist. There’s very little he doesn’t know about Jerusalem. He knows who the owner is of every bit of property surrounding the Haram-es-Sheriff; he’s made it his business to find out. So when he finally decided that this li
ttle stone house stands over the mouth of the tunnel, all that remained to do was to get access to it. He couldn’t do that himself, because of the regulations. He had to approach the Arab owner secretly and indirectly. That’s where Suliman’s mother came in handy.
“She contrived the introduction to Noureddin Ali. Innocent old Scharnhoff, who is an honest thief — he wouldn’t steal money — sacrilege is Scharnhoff’s passion — was an easy mark for Noureddin Ali. Noureddin Ali is a red-minded devil, so smart at seeing possibilities that he is blind to probabilities. He is paid by the French to make trouble, and he’s the world’s long-distance double-crosser. I don’t believe the French have any hand in this job. Scharnhoff needed explosives. Noureddin Ali saw at once that if that tunnel can be found and opened up there could be an atrocity perpetrated that would produce anarchy all through the East.”
“As bad as all that?” asked Mrs. Davey.
“That’s no exaggeration,” Goodenough answered. “I’ve lived twenty-five years in India, commanding Sikh and Moslem troops. The Sikhs are not interested in the Moslem religion in any way, but they’d make common cause with Moslems if that place were blown up and the blame could be attached to Jews. It’s the second most sacred place in Asia. Even the Hindus would be stirred to their depths by it; they’d feel that their own sacred places were insecure, and that whoever destroyed them would be protected afterwards by us.”
“Gosh! Who’d be an Englishman!” laughed Davey.
“I don’t see that it’s proved yet that the idea of an explosion wasn’t Sharnhoff’s in the first place,” Goodenough objected.
“For one thing, he wouldn’t want to destroy antiquities,” said Grim. “They’re his obsession. He worships ancient history and all its monuments. No, Noureddin Ali thought of the explosion. He knew that Scharnhoff needed money, so he gave him French money, knowing that would put old Scharnhoff completely in his power. Then he tipped off some one down at Ludd to watch for a chance to steal some TNT. He had better luck than he expected. He got two tons of it. He didn’t have all the luck, though. His plan, I believe, was to time the fireworks simultaneously with a French-instigated raid from El-Kerak. But the raid didn’t come off.”
“Scharnhoff will hang!” said Goodenough.
“I think not, sir. He’ll prove as meek as an old sheep when we land on him.”
“There, will the bags do?” asked Mrs. Davey.
“What are they for?” Goodenough asked.
“We’re supposed to have a slush fund in this room of a hundred thousand dollars,” Davey answered dourly. “My Oil Company is supposed to be buying up Mustapha Kemal! I see my finish, if news of this ever reaches the States — or unless my version of it gets there first!”
Grim turned to me.
“We’ve got to find two people to take your place and mine in the car tomorrow morning. Perhaps you’d better go in any case; you’ll enjoy the ride as far as Haifa — stay there a day or two, and come back when you feel like it. We’ll find some officer to masquerade as me.”
But there I rebelled — flat, downright mutiny.
“If I haven’t made good so far,” I said, “I’ll consider myself fired, and hold my tongue. Otherwise, I see this thing through! Send some one else on the joy-ride.”
“Good for you!” said Davey.
“Dammit, man!” said Goodenough, staring at me through his monocle. “The rest of us get paid for taking chances. The only tangible reward you can possibly get will be a knife in your back. Better be sensible and take the ride to Haifa.”
“My bet is down,” said I.
“Good,” Grim nodded. “It goes. All the same, you get a joy- ride. Can’t take too many chances. Tell you about that later. Meanwhile, will you detail an officer to come and spend the night in this hotel and masquerade as me at dawn, sir? He can wear this uniform that I’ve got on — somebody about my height.”
“Turner will do that. What are you going to put in the bags?” asked Goodenough.
“Cartridges. They’re heavy. You might tell Turner over the phone to bring them with him.”
At that point Suliman returned, sooner than expected, with news that made Grim whistle. Suliman had not been inside the place where his mother was. She would not let him. But he had seen around her skirts as she stood in the partly opened door.
“There was a hole in the floor,” said Suliman, “and a great stone laid beside it. Also much gray dust. And I think there was a light a long way down in the hole.”
But that was not what made Grim whistle.
“What else? Did your mother say anything?”
“She was ill-tempered.”
“That Scharnhoff had beaten her.”
“I knew he’d make a bad break sooner or later. What did he beat her for?”
“Because she was afraid.”
“That’s a fine reason. Afraid of what?”
“He says she is to sell oranges. Four wooden benches have been brought, and tomorrow they are to be set outside the door in the street. Oranges and raisins have been bought, and she is to sit outside the door and sell them. She is afraid.”
“Fruit bought already? Can’t be. Was it inside there?”
“No. It is to come tomorrow. She says she does not know how to sell fruit, and is afraid of the police.”
Grim and Goodenough exchanged glances.
“She says that if the police come everybody will be killed, and that I am to keep watch in the street in the morning and give warning of the police.”
“That should teach you, young man, never to take a woman into your confidence — eh, Mrs. Davey?” said Goodenough.
“We’re certainly the slow-witted sex,” she answered, piling the finished bags one on top of the other on the table.
Grim took me after that to the hotel roof, whence you can see the whole of Jerusalem. It was just before moonrise. The ancient city lay in shadow, with the Dome of the Rock looming above it, mysterious and silent. Down below us in the street, where a gasoline light threw a greenish-white glare, three Arabs in native costume were squatting with their backs against the low wall facing the hotel.
“Noureddin Ali’s men,” said Grim, chuckling. “They’ll help us to prove our alibi. The enemy is nearly always useful if you leave him free to make mistakes. You may have to spend the whole night in the mosque — you and Suliman. I’ll take you there presently. Two of those men are pretty sure to follow us. One will probably follow me back here again. The other will stay to keep an eye on you. About an hour before dawn, in case nothing happens before that, you and Suliman come back here to the hotel. The car shall be here half-an-hour before daylight. You and Turner pile into it, and those three men watch you drive away. They’ll hurry off to tell Noureddin Ali that Staff-Captain Ali Mirza and the deaf-and-dumb man have really started for Damascus, bags of gold and all.
“Turner must remember to drop a couple of bags and pick them up again, to call attention to them. There’ll be a change of clothes in the car for you. When you’ve gone a mile or so, get into the other clothes and walk back. If I don’t meet you by the Jaffa Gate, Suliman will, or else Narayan Singh. Things are liable to happen pretty fast tomorrow morning. Let’s go.
“I’m supposed to have found out somehow that you’re awful religious and want to pray, so it’s the Dome of the Rock for yours. Any Moslem who wants to may sleep there, you know. But any Christian caught kidding them he’s a Moslem would be for it — short shrift. He’d be dead before the sheikh of the place could hand him over to the authorities. If the TNT were really in place underneath you, which I’m pretty sure it won’t be for a few hours yet, that would be lots safer than the other chance you’re taking. So peel your wits. Let Suliman sleep if he wants to, but you’ll have to keep awake all night.”
“But what am I to do in there? What’s likely to happen?”
“Just listen. The tunnel isn’t through to the end yet, I’m sure of it. If it were, they’d have taken in the TNT, for it must be ticklish work kee
ping it hidden elsewhere, with scores of Sikhs watching day and night. But they’re very near the end of the tunnel, or they wouldn’t be opening up that fruit stand. You’ll hear them break through. When you’re absolutely sure of that, come out of the mosque and say Atcha — just that one word — to the Sikh sentry you’ll see standing under the archway through which we’ll enter the courtyard presently. That sentry will be Narayan Singh, and he’ll know what to do.”
“What shall I do after that?”
“Suit yourself. Either return to the mosque and go to sleep, if you can trust yourself to wake in time, or come and sit on the hotel step until morning. Have you got it all clear? It’s a piece of good luck having you to do all this. No real Moslem would ever be able to hold his tongue about it. They’re superstitious about the Dome of the Rock. But ask questions now, if you’re not clear; you mustn’t be seen speaking in the street or in the mosque, remember. All plain sailing? Come along, then. If you’re alive tomorrow you’ll have had an adventure.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Poor old Scharnhoff’s in the soup.”
We ate a scratch dinner with the Daveys in their room and started forth. Grim as usual had his nerve with him. He led me and Suliman straight up to the three spies who were squatting against the wall, and asked whether there were any special regulations that would prevent my being left for the night in the famous mosque. On top of that he asked one of the men to show him the shortest way. So two of them elected to come with us, walking just ahead, and the third man stayed where he was, presumably in case Noureddin Ali should send to make enquiries.
You must walk through Jerusalem by night, with the moon just rising, if you want really to get the glamour of eastern tales and understand how true to life those stories are of old Haroun- al-Raschid. It is almost the only city left with its ancient walls all standing, with its ancient streets intact. At that time, in 1920, there was nothing whatever new to mar the setting. No new buildings. The city was only cleaner than it was under the Turks.
