by Talbot Mundy
“Jimgrim? Of the Intelligence?” said Bertolini.
“Does it surprise you?” Grim asked; and I saw his game now. He had given Chullunder Ghose a cue and was simply marking time until the babu had acted on it, or returned another.
“What do you imagine?” the babu asked. “That Dorje has no agents in the secret services of all the countries in the world? You must be crazy. I don’t wonder — no, indeed I don’t — that Dorje ordered you to be investigated!”
Chullunder Ghose had passed the buck back. Grim carried on:
“You have balled things badly. If I can save you, Bertolini — but how can I?”
Bertolini’s lean right hand dropped out of sight again. I saw his shoulder move; he was pressing on something, almost certainly a bell-push. “Your credentials are lacking,” he retorted. “I hear three of you. I have a hole here that has taken more than three at a time into the Nile — many more than three who could not NAME THE NAME RIGHT!” He almost screamed the last four words. Then he leaned over the right arm of the throne and there was no longer any doubt whatever that it was a bell-push he was furiously pressing with one finger after another. “NAME THE NAME!” he shouted.
“I don’t need to,” Grim answered. “Feel this.”
He walked toward him, and to do that he had to pass between the group of seven and the group of five. There was plenty of light. He let them see the small gold token that he held between finger and thumb. I heard the hammer of one revolver click to half-cock.
“Feel it!”
Bertolini took the token in his fingers. “You could have stolen that,” he answered, “Get off the platform!” With a trick of sleight of hand he made the token vanish. There was no knowing where it had gone. “Do you hear me?”
Jeff and I felt for our glass flasks, but I failed to see how we could use them without putting Grim out of business. We would have had to throw the things and beat it down the passage: even Chullunder Ghose would have been lucky to escape. And all twelve men pulled out revolvers.
“Jim’s out!” said Jeff in my ear. It was the only time I ever heard him admit that there was no hope. “Beat it while you can. I’ll stay and—”
I believe Jeff still thinks that I started to run but recovered in time to save my self-respect. What I actually did was to draw back the curtain a little and shout down the passage:
“Stand by for a rush, you fellows! If a shot’s fired, come in on the run — no waiting!”
And I contrived to drop my memorandum book behind the curtain and to kick that skidding along the stone floor of the passage. To me it did not sound in the least like lurking men, but then I knew what it was and the others did not. It served. It raised at any rate a doubt in thirteen minds, including Bertolini’s.
“So that’s why my men haven’t answered my summons!” said Bertolini. “Bring your men in here!”
I had made a mistake. Grim, as he told us afterwards, having observed that natural crack in the wall, had followed it downward with his eye until he noticed something not quite normal in the darkness on the far side of the throne on which Bertolini sat. He was wondering why they had made Chullunder Ghose sit where he could not see into the shadow beyond Bertolini, and why the lamps had been grouped so as to cast that shadow. There was no light near where Bertolini sat. Imagination aiding eyesight, he had not exactly seen, but sensed an opening in the wall beyond the throne, and his intention was to enter that, if necessary, and to hold up Bertolini and his gang by threatening to bomb them with a glass flask. He had counted on us, of course, to follow suit, and on Chullunder Ghose to save himself by getting behind us. I had ruined that move.
“Bring them in!” Bertolini repeated.
Grim switched plans in a fraction of a second.
“If I do,” he said, “you’re done for. They are your men! They’re the gang you rang that bell for! They’re the pretty boys who were to fix me! Imbecile! Do you suppose you can set yourself up as an independent without Dorje knowing it? And do you suppose he’ll know it without sending somebody to pull your plug? What do you take Dorje for? A sort of small-town politician who swaps pork for votes? — Put up those revolvers — I’ll give you thirty seconds!”
They obeyed, although the German hesitated and one Arab only stuffed his weapon under his abayi. Evidently they had had a taste or two of Dorje’s discipline.
“Self,” remarked Chullunder Ghose, “am under the influence of Dorje so much that am Dorje-minded, absolutely. Don’t give a damn who dies, who lives. Notwithstanding which, our Jimmy Jimgrim, being of the secret service, is of much more use to Dorje than yourselves. And Dorje oils good tools. You’d better listen.”
Grim was signalling to Jeff. They have a private code of not more than a dozen hardly observable gestures, indicating such essentials as “safe for the time being”— “stand by, dangerous”— “leave it to me”— “go to it.” I know seven of the signals. That one meant “Now! Go the limit!” and Jeff’s limit is nothing that anyone else can predict; it includes everything except cats and elevators. Calmly, almost casually, in a low voice he remarked to me:
“You’d better show ’em one flask. One’s enough.”
So I drew the flask out of my pocket and held it high where everyone could see it. Jeff strode forward until he reached the nearest of the group of seven. It was the German.
“You first. Lay your gun on that stone altar!”
Bertolini jumped up. “What is happening?”
“We’re being sensible,” said Grim. “My orders are to spare you all if possible — particularly you.”
“Obey him!” said Bertolini and sat down again.
The German eyed my flask and Jeff’s fist bulging in the right hip pocket. Then he got up and laid his automatic on the stone.
“Both guns!” Jeff commanded. The German drew a smaller automatic from an inside pocket. He laid it alongside the first one.
“Now your knife!”
“Wahrhaftig, ich habe keins!”
“Get back there then. You next.”
Psychologically speaking they were knocked out. Even the Arab who had stuffed a revolver under his abayi obeyed orders, although he called the others cowards and “worms in the bellies of dogs,” in spluttering Arabic that told the whole tale of the state of his nerves. Unloading one by one, Jeff let the shells fall on the floor and tossed the empty weapons into the corner. Chullunder Ghose, who was watching Grim, did not even dodge the pistols as they curved in a long, low parabola over his head. Perhaps Jeff meant it as an inspiration to him. If it was a hint, he took it.
“As was saying antecedently to disarmament conference, at which am happy to observe that minority sentiment received magnanimous consideration, am expertly dubious about your understanding of the secret code. Am otherwise at loss to explain how such mistakes have happened. Will resume interrogation.”
“Have I gone mad?” asked Bertolini.
“That is what this committee of investigation wishes to discover,” said the babu.
Bertolini almost staggered to his feet. He stood swaying, pressing both hands to his blind eyes. He was a madman if ever I saw one — incurable, with egomania embittered by a consciousness of creeping weakness of the will. One reason why we had disarmed that crowd so easily was that they had already lost faith in the blind despot; they could see the sick will waning even faster than the outworn body and nerves.
“Repeat to me the cipher. Then explain it.” said the babu. “I bet you I will spot the mistake in half a jiffy. Who knows it? Potzblitz! Donnerwetter! You first!”
“None of us knows it,” said the German. “Only he does. We must come to him for—”
Sounds interrupted him. There were footsteps approaching along the passage by which we had entered.
CHAPTER 24. “Gad, what a team she’d have made with her twin!”
Grim signalled it was my job. Fully expecting that the men we gassed had come to life and at last were answering Bertolini’s electric bell, I parted the
horse-hide curtain and stepped through swiftly. No use hesitating. There was no one in the passage. I saw the door at the end shut silently. So it was all to do over again, and I was in doubt whether to creep up and spring the latch so that no one could enter, or whether to take all chances.
There was perfume in the air — faint, but it stirred memory, and in some strange way it stopped the skin from crawling up my spine. I did not realize how scared I had been until I suddenly felt less scared. I decided caution was as useless as guesswork and went straight ahead — jerked the door open — and then wasted no more time whatever. Baltis — with her throat in a Chinaman’s fingers! He had her down on her knees and her hands were wrenching at his wrists. He tried to turn on me. He could not free himself. He went down like a steer under the pole-axe when I hit him. Then, before I even thought of stopping her — I was watching to see whether the Chinaman was actually out or not — she did something to the bracelet on her left wrist, knelt, and struck him with it on the neck. While I helped her to her feet she readjusted the bracelet.
“It is for myself I wear this. Where is Jeemgreem?”
“Poison?” I asked.
She nodded. “Where is Jeemgreem?”
“Give that to me. You might use it on Grim.”
“It is for myself I keep it. Where is Jeemgreem?”
She was rubbing her throat with her right hand; the man had almost torn her muscles out, and her voice was hoarse-choked. But she had the vitality of an animal, and the pluck of one besides; in addition, she had taken some sort of stimulant since I last saw her. Her eyes betrayed that. She could stand unaided, so I turned to push open the door into the passage. It was locked. I suppose when I opened it I had accidentally released the pin that held the bolt back.
It was hard to know what to do then. If I should hammer on the door, of course, Jeff or the babu would come and open it, but that would leave only two to handle thirteen men and well might be the signal for a stampede. On the other hand, if I waited that might worry them. I might be badly needed in there.
I decided to wait. That would give them, at any rate, opportunity to take their own time about coming to look for me.
“How did you get here?” I demanded. I took her arm and led her toward the hanging lantern, to examine her throat. The skin was lacerated by the man’s long nails, and it was likely the bruises would swell, so that she wouldn’t be able to talk much presently. It seemed a good idea to get her to talk while the going was good. Mercurochrome was all I could do for her; I had a phial of that in my silver pocket-case and I used lots of it.
“You laugh at me?”
In that uncertain lantern-light the red stuff made her neck look comically ghastly.
“Yes,” I said. “I see you really were Anne Boleyn. You’ve the headman’s trademark. But how did you get here? Weren’t you at the hotel?”
She glanced down at the Chinaman and I stopped to examine him. He was stone dead; whatever poison she had in that bracelet was as quick as cyanide, but there was none of the characteristic crushed-almond cyanide smell.
“Tell me,” I said, “or I’ll take that bracelet from you.”
“Yes, I was at the hotel. That fat Indian left me there. I went to Suite A. I was filthy. A hotel servant, staring very much, unlocked for me the door. I bathed. I drank champagne with cognac.” (She had also taken something stronger, but that was her affair.) “I went to bed. I could not sleep. So I got up again and dressed myself, wondering what I should do. And in my mirror I saw that Chinaman. Through the window he entered, very silently. There was a glass flask in his hand.”
“This Chinaman?”
“Yes, that one. And I guessed that flask held some of Dorje’s stuff. So I knew they think I am my sister and someone — Bertolini very likely — has said ‘Kill her!’ That stuff turns into fluffy vapor — no smell — no noise. It kills. It leaves no mark — no trace. It vanishes. And then the doctors say ‘Heart failure,’ or perhaps ‘A blood clot’; because its effect may differ, although its action is always the same.”
“You have seen it used?”
She nodded. “In the war, but not often. There is very little of it. Even Dorje can only make it in small quantities and it is dreadfully expensive. It is known as Catalyst A — because it is the catalyst that causes death most swiftly to combine with anything that breathes. I knew what that Chinaman had in the flask. And he knew that I had seen him in the mirror. So he stepped back, and his foot slipped on something outside, so that there was a moment before he could recover. Then he threw the flask and smashed it on the bedroom floor. But by that time I had reached the door, and was outside in the sitting-room, where I had time to snatch this dress out of a closet; and I put it on out in the corridor. I hoped the Chinaman would think I was dead.”
“Did you summon anyone?”
“Of course not. If I had made a fuss they would have kept me there answering questions and I could not have found Jeemgreem to warn him; I decided if I am on Dorje’s death list there is no longer the least doubt in my mind as to whose side I am on. So I left the hotel to look for Jeemgreem. It was already daylight. I saw Colonel McGowan’s car. The chauffeur recognized me. I ordered him to drive me to wherever it was that he had taken Bertolini and that fat Indian. He obeyed, driving very swiftly.”
“How did you get in?” I asked her.
“The gate was shut and no one opened it, although I rang the bell. The chauffeur wished to drive me away again, saying he must return at once to wait for Colonel McGowan; but he also told me that Jeemgreem and you and Jeff Ramsden are somewhere in this place. So I sent him away. I did not wish him to see me climb the wall. And then I could not climb it, so I did not know what to do. And that Chinaman came and found me vainly trying to lift that great gate off its hinges.”
“Did he go for you?”
“Not he. I think he thought I did not recognize him. He unlocked the gate. I went in with him. He was very civil. He unlocked the house door. And he told me to wait in the hall while he went for someone. He looked first in one room — then another — then another. Then he went upstairs. So I, too, began opening doors. I found my way down here. I had opened that door. I was listening in the passage from behind a leather curtain, when that Chinaman came on me from behind and seized my throat. He put a hand over my mouth. I bit him, but I could make no sound; and he dragged me out here, where he tried to kill me. That is all. Then you came.”
Jeff opened the door abruptly. “What’s up?” He stared at Baltis, thinking the mess on her neck was blood. “Better carry her in here. Seen McGowan?”
“Where is Jeemgreem?” She went ahead of us into the passage. Jeff looked worried.
“Bertolini,” he said, “has cracked badly. If we don’t look out his brain will go completely before Grim gets him to explain that cipher. Chullunder Ghose is almost at the bottom of his bag of tricks. It’s, a blank wall.”
Baltis heard him. She waited for us and demanded to be helped, but refused to be carried. She put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. From behind I put my hands under her arms, but she shook me off. The passion, that had made her stab the Chinaman in the neck like a she-cobra, was still raging in her and she struck at whatever irritated; it was probably lucky for me that she had covered up the deadly fang of her bracelet.
“Jeemgreem learns the cipher, does he? Bertolini tells him? And they put ME on the death list!”
Physically she was weakening. Emotionally she had flared up, and there was no guessing how far that indignant heat would carry her. When we had passed through the horse-hide curtain she tried to stand alone but had to cling again to Jeff’s arm, and in the stronger light her face looked ghastly; cunning and desperation fought with almost overwhelming weakness.
“Jeemgreem!” she said — and then stared at the crew who were still on the prayer-mats with their backs to the wall. One by one she studied them, until at last her eyes sought Bertolini and she clung to Jeff’s arm with both hands as if to economize her strength and
have plenty to launch at the blind man. She reminded me of a beaten boxer saving himself for the clang of the bell and hoping to land meanwhile with one venomous punch. Instinct governed her. “Jeemgreem, if you wish to understand that cipher, let me speak with Bertolini.”
Grim nodded. Jeff passed her to me, his instinct, habit, training keeping him at his post as guardian of the exit. She protested, but she could hardly stagger unaided, so she took my arm and I led her toward the platform. Bertolini was muttering like a drunken man, with his chin on his chest, and Grim was listening but evidently making nothing of it.
I had to lift her to the platform; there was no step. As I did that I tried to get her bracelet, but there was no pulling it off over her hand and Grim shook his head when I held out her wrist toward him.
“Poison,” I explained.
“Yes,” he said, “most snakes have that.”
The sneer enraged her. He added insult: “It’s all they’re good for.”
Chullunder Ghose sprang to his feet and backed away toward where Jeff stood near the entrance.
I suppose I was standing too close to her to see the signal she made; my attention was divided, too; I had noticed what Grim must have seen when he first approached the platform — a square hole in the wall no higher than the seat of Bertolini’s throne; one could only see it by looking around the throne, and I may have been doing that. At any rate, I did not see her signal, but Chullunder Ghose did and he divined its purpose instantly.
Out went a light with a crash as the German smashed it. He wasted no time at all; he charged straight for the horsehide curtain, kicking over another lantern on his way and lowering his head to butt Jeff in the solar plexus. Jeff took care of him of course; but he knocked him sideways; the German crashed into the babu, who was caught off balance, and the two went down in a flailing heap together, punching at each other.
