by Talbot Mundy
“I — I — I — I — do not understand you. What do you mean?”
“Are you game to risk your neck decently or would you rather have the hangman put you out of pain?”
“I — I was not a conspirator, Major Grim. If I had known what they intended I would never have lent myself to such a purpose. I needed money for my excavations — it has been very difficult to draw on my bank in Vienna. Noureddin Ali represented himself to me as an enthusiastic antiquarian; and when I spoke of my need he offered money, as I told you already. I never suspected until last night that he and Abdul Ali of Damascus are French secret agents. But last night he boasted to me about Abdul Ali. He laughed at me. Then he—”
“Yes, yes,” Grim interrupted. “Will you play the man now, if I give you the chance?”
“If you will accord me opportunity, at least I will do my best.”
“Understand; you’ll not be allowed to live here afterward.
You’ll be repatriated to Austria, or wherever you come from.
All you’re offered is a chance to clean your slate morally before
you go.”
“I shall be grateful.”
“Will you obey?”
“Absolutely — to the limit of my power, that is to say. I am not an athlete — not a man of active habits.”
“Very well. Listen.” Grim turned to me again
“Take Scharnhoff to his house. You know the way. When afternoon comes, set a table in the garden and let him sit at it. He may as well read. If nothing happens before dark, take him out a lamp and some food. He mustn’t move away. He’d better change into his proper clothes first. Your job will be to keep an eye on him until I come. You’d better keep out of sight as much as possible, especially after dark. Better watch him through the window. And, by the way, take this pistol. If Scharnhoff disobeys you, shoot him.”
He turned again on Scharnhoff.
“I hope you’re not fooling yourself. I should say the chance is two or three to one that you’ll come out of this alive. If you’re killed, you may flatter yourself that’s a mighty sight cleaner than hanging. If you come out with a whole skin, you shall leave the country without even going to jail. Time to go now.”
I slipped the heavy pistol into my pocket and led the way without saying a word. Scharnhoff followed me, rather drearily, and we walked side by side toward the German Colony, he looking exactly like one of those respectable and devout educated Arabs of the old style, who teach from commentaries on the Koran. We excited no comment whatever.
“What will he do? What is his purpose?” Scharnhoff asked me after a while. “If a man is in danger of death, he likes to know the reason — the purpose of it.”
I had a better than faint glimmering of Grim’s purpose, but saw no necessity to air my views on the subject.
“I’m amused,” said I, “at the strictly unofficial status of all this. You see, I’m no more connected with this administration than you are. I’m as alien as you. You might say, I’m a stranger in Jerusalem. Yet, here I am, with a perfectly official pistol, loaded with official cartridges, under unofficial orders to shoot you at the first sign of disobedience. And — strictly unofficially, between you and me — I shan’t hesitate to do it!”
He contrived a smile out of the depths of his despondency.
“I wonder — should you shoot me — what they would do to you afterwards.”
“Something unofficial,” I suggested. “But we’ll leave that up to them. The point is—”
“Oh, don’t worry! You shall have no trouble from me.” It took a long time to reach his house, for the poor old chap was suffering from lack of sleep, and physical weariness, as well as disappointment, and I had to let him sit down by the wayside once or twice. Being in hard condition, and not much more than half his age, I had almost forgotten that I had not slept the night before. Keen curiosity as to what might happen between now and midnight was keeping me going.
He could hardly drag himself into the house. But a bath, and some food that I found in the larder restored him considerably. He helped me carry out the table. He chose a book of Schiller’s poems to take with him, but did not read it; he sat with his elbows on the table and his back toward the front door, resting his chin gloomily on both fists. He remained in that attitude all afternoon, and for all I know slept part of the time.
Between him and the window of the room I sat in were some shrubs that obscured the view considerably. I could see Scharnhoff through them easily enough, but I don’t think he could see me, and certainly no one could have seen me from the road. I felt fairly sure that no one saw me until it began to grow dark and I carried out the lamp. Even then, it was Scharnhoff who struck the match and lit it, so that I was in shadow all the time — probably unrecognizable.
It had been fairly easy to keep awake until then, but as the room grew darker and darker, and nothing happened, the yearning to fall asleep became actual agony. It was a rather large, square room, crowded up with a jumble of antiquities. The only real furniture was the window-seat on which I knelt, and an oblong table; but even the table was laid on its side to make room for a battered Roman bust standing on the floor between its legs.
I had left the door of the room wide open, in order to be able to hear anything that might happen in the house; but the only sound came from a couple of rats that gnawed and rustled interminably among the rubbish in the corner.
It must have been nearly eight o’clock, and I believe I had actually dozed off at last, kneeling in the window, when all at once it seemed to me that the rats were making a different, and greater noise than I ever heard rats make. It was pitch-black dark. I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. My first thought was to glance through the window at Scharnhoff, but something — intuition, I suppose — made me draw aside from the window instead.
Then, beyond any shadow of a doubt, I heard a man move, and the hair rose all up the back of my head. I remembered the pistol, clutched it, and found voice enough for two words: “Who’s there?”
“Hee-hee!” came the answer from behind the table. “So Major Jimgrim lied about a broken leg, and thought to trap Noureddin Ali, did he! Don’t move, Major Jimgrim! Don’t move! We will have a little talk before we bid each other good-bye! I cannot last long in any case, for the cursed Sikhs are after me. I would rather that you should kill me than those Sikhs should, but I would like to kill you also. If you move before I give you leave you are a dead man, Major Jimgrim! Hee-hee! You cannot see me! Better keep still!”
If it was flattering to be mistaken for Grim in the dark, it was hardly pleasant in the circumstances. For a moment I was angry. It flashed across my mind that Grim had planned this. But on second thought I refused to believe he would deceive me about Scharnhoff and use me as a decoy without my permission. I decided to keep still and see what happened.
“Do you think you deserve to live, Major Jimgrim?” Noureddin Ali’s voice went on. I heard him shift his position. He was probably trying to see my outline against the dark wall in order to take aim. “You, a foreigner, interfering in the politics of this land? But for you there would have been an explosion today that would have liberated all the Moslem world. But for that lie about a broken leg you would have died a little after ten o’clock this morning — hee-hee — instead of now! Don’t move, Major Jimgrim! You and I will have a duel presently. There is lots of time. The Sikhs lost track of me.”
I did move. I stooped down close to the floor, so that he might fire over my head if, as I suspected, he was merely gaining time in order to take sure aim. I tried to see which end of the table he was talking from, but he was hidden completely.
“Do you think you should go free, to perpetrate more cowardly interference, after spoiling that well-laid plan? Hee-hee! You poor fool! Busy-bodies such as you invariably overreach themselves. Having tricked me two or three times, you thought, didn’t you? that you could draw me here to kill Scharnhoff, that poor old sheep. You were careful, weren’t you? to let Omar Mahm
oud go, in order that he might tell me how Scharnhoff had turned witness against us. And the Sikhs followed Omar Mahmoud, until Omar Mahmoud found me. And then they hunted me. Hee-hee! Don’t move! Was that the plan? Simultaneously then, being yourself only a fool after all, you flatter me and underestimate my intelligence. Hee-hee!
“You were right in thinking I would not submit to capture and death without first wreaking vengeance. But vengeance on such a sheep as Scharnhoff? With Major Jimgrim still alive? What possessed you? Were you mad? I satisfied myself an hour ago that Scharnhoff was the bait, which the redoubtable Major Jimgrim would be watching. Perhaps I shall deal with Scharnhoff afterwards — hee-hee! — who knows? Now — now shall we fight that duel? Are you ready?”
I supposed that meant that he could not see me and had given up hope of it. He would like to have me move first, so as to judge my exact whereabouts by sound. I reached out very cautiously, and rapped the muzzle of my pistol on the floor twice.
He fired instantly, three shots in succession. The bullets went wild to my left and brought down showers of plaster from the wall. I feared he might have seen me by the pistol-flash. I did not fire back. There was no need. Something moved swiftly like a black ghost through the open door. There was a thud — and the ring of a steel swivel — and a scream.
“Has the sahib a match?” said a gruff voice that I thought
I recognized.
I was trembling — excitement, of course — only children and women and foreigners ever feel afraid! It took me half a minute to find the match box, and the other half to strike a light.
Narayan Singh was standing by the end of the table. He was wiping blood off his bayonet with a piece of newspaper. He looked cool enough to have carried the paper in his pocket for that purpose. I got up, feeling ashamed to be seen crouching on the floor. But Narayan Singh smiled approval.
“You did well, sahib. All men are equal in the dark. Until he fired first there was nothing wise to do but hide.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Five minutes. I only waited for a sure thrust. But hah? the sahib feels like a dead man come to life again, eh? Well I know that feeling!”
The match burned my fingers. I struck another. As I did that
Grim stood in the doorway, smiling.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
“Surely, sahib. Shall I go now and get that other one — that
Omar Mahmoud?”
“No need,” said Grim. “They rounded him up five minutes after he had found Noureddin.”
“Then have I done all that was required of me?”
“No, Narayan Singh. You haven’t shaken hands with me yet.”
“Thank you, Jimgrim.”
The match went out. I struck a third one. Grim turned to me.
“Hungry?”
“Sleepy.”
“Oh, to hell with sleep! Let’s bring old Scharnhoff into the other room, dig out some eats and drinks, and get a story from him. All right, Narayan Singh; there’ll be a guard here in ten minutes to take charge of that body. After that, dismiss. I’ll report you to Colonel Goodenough for being a damned good soldier.”
“My colonel sahib knew that years ago,” the great Sikh answered quietly.
THE ‘IBLIS’ AT LUDD
Originally serialised in ‘Adventure’, January 1922
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER I
“Lead on, Jimgrim sahib. I have seen the day when stronger boars than that one bit the dust!”
AS a general rule when Major Jim Grim strode into the administrator’s office in the former German hospice, now British headquarters in Jerusalem, it was to be greeted with that kind of confident familiarity that, from his official superior, warms the fiber of a man’s being. Jim’s standing in the administrator’s favor was the cause of a good deal of jealousy; more than one British officer resented the frequent private consultations between Sir Henry Kettle and the American, although they could not prevent them.
They might have felt less jealous if they had known of the wholesale disregard of personal feelings (Jim’s especially) whenever the administrator considered him at fault.
Jim walked into the administrator’s private office three mornings after having run to ground the Dome of the Rock conspirators, rather expecting the usual smile and exchange of unusual jokes before broaching the day’s business. But Sir Henry Kettle opened on him without formality, with blazing eyes and a voice like flint.
“Look here, Grim, what the — do you mean by this? I’ve received complaint of insolence and insubordination, made against you by Brigadier-General Jenkins. It came in the morning mail from Ludd. Were you insolent to him?”
“Maybe.”
“Insubordinate?”
“That’ud be a matter of opinion, sir.”
“Do you realize that if he presses these charges there’ll be a court martial, and you’ll be broke?”
“I didn’t tell him what I thought of him because he was acting like a gentleman,” Jim answered.
“That isn’t the point. Jenkins may be a lot of things without that excusing you in the least. What I demand to know is, how dare you risk my having to court martial you and lose your services?”
There was not any answer Jim could make to that, so he said nothing.
“Are you under the impression that because an exception was made in your case, and you were recognized as an American citizen when given a commission in the British Army, that therefore you’re at liberty to ignore all precedent and be insolent to whom you please? If so, I’ll disillusion you!”
Jim knew his man. He wanted none of that kind of disillusionment. He continued to hold his tongue, standing bolt upright in front of the administrator’s desk.
“Apply your own standards if you like. How long would insolence from major to brigadier be tolerated in the United States Army?”
That was another of those questions that are best left alone, like dud shells and sleeping TNT.
“Jenkins writes that you gave him the lie direct. Is that true?”
“No. I asked him a question he couldn’t answer without telling a lie, or else retracting what he’d said.”
“He says he offered to fight him.”
“Not quite. He was afraid to go to you with a lame story, and wanted me to help soak Catesby with all the blame for losing that TNT. I know Catesby — know him well. I told Jenkins that if it’ud make him like himself any better he might put the gloves on with me any time he sees fit. It was unofficial — not in front of witnesses — and it stands. He took me up; said he’d give me the thrashing of my life. He also promised not to make a goat of Catesby.”
“Well, he has charged Captain Catesby with neglect of duty in permitting those two tons of TNT to be stolen from a truck on a railway siding. Catesby is under arrest.”
“May I say what I think about that, just between you and me?”
“Certainly not! But for your insolence to Jenkins I could have brought him to book over this business.
“Do you see the predicament you’ve put me in? This isn’t the first time Jenkins has covered his own shortcomings by putting blame on a subordinate. I’ve been watching my chance to turn you loose on him. He gives it to me by accusing Catesby, and you spoil it! You’re the one man Jenkins is afraid of; but how can I send you to investigate him now without upholding a breach of discipline?”
“I’ll do anything to make amends that you would do, sir, if you stood in my shoes,” said Jim.
“I can’t imagine myself in your shoes,” Kettle retorted. “I was never guilty of insubordination in my
life.”
“Maybe you never had reason,” Jim answered. “What I said to him was in private. There were no witnesses, but he promised not to make a goat of Catesby. It’s his word against mine, and if he dares press that charge against me I shall call him a liar in open court, and take the consequences.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You’ll go to Ludd at once, clear Captain Catesby if you can, find the real culprit, and do your utmost to whitewash Jenkins in the process.
“I’m leaving for Ludd by motor in twenty minutes myself. I shall see Jenkins and arrange that he’ll accept an apology, which you will make to him the moment you arrive. Do you understand me?”
“I understand I’m to apologize. Yes, I’ll do that, since you wish it.”
“Stay at Ludd until you’ve cleaned up,” the administration added deliberately. “There has been a lot of thieving down there that looks like organized conspiracy. Dig to the bottom of it. That’s all.”
* * * * *
Outside the room Jim lit a cigarette and chuckled to himself. If there was one man on earth whom he despised and hated it was Brigadier-General Jenkins.
Nor was he alone in that particular. He more than suspected that the administrator shared his feelings; and he knew for a fact that half the British Army in Palestine loathed the man for his blatant self-advertising.
So to be told to go to work to whitewash Jenkins appealed to his sense of humor, the more so as he divined that underneath the administrator’s actual words there lay another meaning. Jim and Sir Henry Kettle understood each other pretty accurately as a rule. Discipline was to be upheld at all costs. Well and good; he would apologize. But since half-measures formed no part of Jim’s philosophy, he decided to carry out the administrator’s instructions to the letter and to find some way of giving Jenkins such an elegant coat of white as should embarrass even that praise-hungry brigadier.
Fair play and Sir Henry Kettle were synonymous terms. Therefore there was more in this than met the eye. Therefore— “Forward, march!”
