by Talbot Mundy
He propped me against the wall and walked about with his lantern, doing showman. We were not in a tomb, but underneath one. Six enormous slabs of stone lay overhead, with their ends resting on a cornice hewn in the solid wall. A seventh stone, twenty feet long, about eight feet wide, and two feet thick, had either fallen or had been levered out of place, for it lay at an angle across one end of the cavern, with its upper end against the wall. Perhaps it broke in falling, for there was a crack extending from end to end; they had thrust pieces of wood into the crack, to serve as a ladder. That was to my right hand as I lay.
To my left, where the last great overhead stone fitted snugly into its appointed place, a wide, hewn tunnel began, having straight smooth sides that widened perceptibly outward. At the entrance, where the tunnel was narrow enough, the roof was neatly arched, which I suppose really puts a date to it, although I don’t know enough archaeology to lay down law on that. Grim said something or other about the date that I’ve forgotten. But the architect — for he was nothing less; he hadn’t been satisfied with merely cutting out the quartz, but had left the mark of his orderly mind on everything he touched — had been no stickler for one style. He was as utilitarian as any builder of skyscrapers on Manhattan.
As the tunnel widened and the overhead arc became too extended for safety, he had changed his system and cut nearly square, leaving finely rounded pillars down the middle of the tunnel to support the roof. He seemed to have cut the tunnel to the very edge of the quartz reef, leaving only patches of quartz here and there along the sides, where the reef had widened irregularly. “Lord knows who he was,” said Jeremy, “but I’ll bet the old son-of-a-gun had a high-bridged nose and a chin like Julius Caesar’s. He’d ha’ done for the British Army, he would! I’ll bet he inspected the finger and toe-nails of each gang as it relieved the last, and worked ’em day and night in twelve-hour shifts. Look at the holes in the walls for torches. And see this thing? It’s a knouthandle; the leather has rotted away, but there’s an iron loop in one end to tie the lashes to, and the wood’s all shiny from the sweaty fist of the overseer.
“But that’s not half of it. It puzzled me for nearly a week to find out why the polish on the floor was different on this side of the tunnel from that side; it’s all worn smooth by men’s feet — you can pretty nearly slide on it where it dips — but one side’s smoother than the other.
“I doped it out at last that the fellow with the knout stood here by the pillar directing traffic — you can even tell where a generation of the devils rubbed their elbows on the stone. The gang returning light kept down this side to the right; coming up again with quartz rock on their heads they took the other side of the tunnel and produced a finer polish on the floor because they were heavier.”
I asked him how long the tunnel was, and whether the reef showed signs of thinning out.
“Seventeen hundred paces. No, she’s shaved off square across, and there are three parallel veins. I’d hate to tell you what she’ll assay to the ton, for you’d call me a liar, and your head’s too sore to be punched at present. Notice how fresh the air is?”
You can’t notice everything at once when you’ve lain unconscious for a day or so, but now that he spoke of it the condition of the air did seem remarkable. There was even a draft.
“There’s more than a mile of old tombs along the top,” said Jeremy, “and every blooming one of ’em a ventilator! Here and there they’re close together; in places they’re a hundred yards apart; but there isn’t one that hasn’t a shaft let down through the floor as far as the tunnel, and there’s only one way they could have cut them; they must have lowered a poor devil with a pick headforemost, pulling him up by the feet when he had some loose rock. No doubt they strafed him with a knout between tricks.
“The Arabs hereabouts think those graves are holy men’s, but my guess is as good as theirs, and I believe that once in so often the gang would get an overseer with a hunk of rock, or a pick, or something and the big boss would have him planted in state along the reef. All the tombs were sealed up. I opened them. Every blooming one was built with a permanent opening toward the prevailing wind. Only a couple of inches deep from top to bottom, but two or three yards long. The tombs acted as sandboxes; most of ’em are half-full of fine stuff blown in through the ventilating slit by the simoom, but they’re so cleverly designed that hardly a ton of sand all told has got down into the tunnel in centuries.
“I tell you, Ramsden, old man, we don’t know how to mine gold nowadays. We’re savages! Good Lord! Why, they made old Charley Simms a lord for inventing a turbine ventilating fan that pretty nearly kills the gangs below-ground; but this old cousin of King Solomon, or whoever he was, probably got knouted for doing a ten-times-better job without a fan at all! This old codger was a sure-fire conjurer; our modern engineers are clumsy boobs!”
Under the spell of Jeremy’s enthusiasm I began to feel strong and, as a man will do with the fever on him, insisted on being shown more. And as neither Grim nor Jeremy had allopathic theories to prove whether the patient died or not they let me have my way, and leaning between them I saw a lot of the wonderful shaft before surrendering again to weakness and having to lie down. But even so, the exercise did good. I have seen it work equally well with animals and men; and, though the doctors call me a “lay theorist,” which is bad language camouflaged, I maintain that walking about, if you can do it, makes the blood function normally and reduces fever. I know it cleared my head, and although I couldn’t stand I was able to go on listening to Jeremy.
“Now, see here, Rammy old top! we’re friends, aren’t we. I got you out of a Hell of a mess once in Germany, when you wanted to fight the Prussian army” (Can you beat that?) “and I enabled you to score off the provost marshal in Cairo. You owe me a good turn. I’ve been talking to Grim, but every time I press my proposition he comes the bally major over me. I can’t argue with him man to man. The son-of-a-gun listens, and then tells me I’m a trooper.
“But you’re not in the God damned British Army, so he can’t play that game with you. We’ve got a mine here that’s worth millions any way you look at it. You talk Grim round — sit on his head when you feel a bit stronger, and punch him until he sees sense — and we three’ll be mining mates — keep it between us and clean up!”
* * * * *
I LEANED up against the wall and looked at Grim, who smiled exactly as I have seen financiers do when I wanted money for a prospect. You know the attitude? The thing looks good; they know you’re telling truth and keep your promises or bust; but they’ve got other irons in the fire — know things that you don’t know — and nothing’s doing. One of these days some fortunate billionaire is going to find Grim out of a job for the moment and hire him. There’ll be a whole new chapter then to be added to the secret chronicles of high finance.
Most of us show our hands too soon. Jeremy always does, except when he is conjuring; and I nearly always do, although I know what a mistake it is. Grim shows his, if anything, too grudgingly. But he always wins. All he chose to do just then was to point out the flaws in Jeremy’s proposal, like a banker with a would-be borrower in front of him.
“You see, Jeremy, as long as you’re a trooper you can’t do a thing.”
“But you can!”
“No. I’m in the army. I’m not allowed to engage in private business.”
“Well then, quit the army! Turn in your perishing papers! What are you doing in the British Army anyway? You’re a Yank. Get out of uniform and get rich!”
Grim shook his head.
“Can’t do that, Jeremy. The army can rub along without me, but I need the army just at present.”
“Well then, to Hell with it! Ramsden can turn the trick. Let Rammy own the mine. He’s white. We’ll divvy with him on the q.t. until we both get our discharge, and draw up a deed of partnership afterward. I’ve dollied out enough gold to finance us for a fair start. We’ll make the thing pay as it goes, and to the Devil with banks and the stock exchange
!”
You may bet that my ears were pricked. You forget a headache and a sort of foolish feeling in the stomach, when the dream of a lifetime looks like coming true. Most professional prospectors hope eternally for a gold-mine rich enough to pay its way from the start, and I’m no exception. But Grim still wore the high-financial smile.
“There’s no law in Arabia, Jeremy old man, that would let you work the mine or give you title to it. There’s no mandate here yet, and no government that could take that responsibility.”
“To Hell with all governments!” exploded Jeremy. “We’ll keep the thing secret.”
“Can’t be done,” Grim answered flatly. When some men say a thing is impossible it makes any fellow with sand in his gizzard just that much more set on accomplishment. But even Jeremy, born optimist and independent enthusiast, realized that Grim wouldn’t talk that way unless he knew whereof he spoke.
“What do you mean? Why, I can make ten times your salary at the end of this shaft single-handed! You can’t kid me there’s no way of working the thing.”
“There’s a way,” Grim agreed, “but not yet, because you can’t possibly keep it secret. You’ve been quiet, haven’t you? You’ve fooled the Arabs mighty cleverly with tales about a white stone you’re looking for and dead men talking from their graves. Yet I knew about your mine even before you sent to El-Kalil for picks and shovels. I don’t mean that I knew all the details, but I had enough information to make the trip out here worthwhile, and I’d have come in any case.”
“All right. You’re one who knew. Who else had as much as a suspicion?”
“Half a dozen people. Besides, I shall have to turn in a report on this. I’m on oath — Intelligence Department — the Administration trusts me to investigate rumors and turn in facts.”
“You mean you’re going to blab?”
Jeremy looked scandalized, and Grim laughed.
“Don’t worry! There are may be a dozen excellent reasons why the Administration won’t want this thing talked about. Imagine what it would mean if Ben Saoud in the south, or the King of the Hedjaz, or both of them got word of it. There’d be civil war within the week. Next, Mustapha Kemal, who needs money like the Devil, would horn in from the north. Then you’ve got the Zionists to think of, with all their political influence; and the whole horde of Levantine financiers, who’d start pulling Foreign Office wires. Better a million tons of TNT than a gold-mine in this part of Arabia just now!”
“But here’s the mine!” said Jeremy. “What are you going to do with it?”
“That’s up to you,” Grim answered.
“No ’tisn’t! Damnit, man, the minute I make a proposal you remind me I’m a trooper.”
“All right,” said Grim. “Suppose we drop all that — forget that either of us ever saw the army — and settle this between us three?”
“Good! Now you’re talking. Go ahead. Here’s a mine worth millions. What do you suggest?”
“Close it down. Seal it up. Forget it for a while,” Grim answered.
“What? And leave it for the first Chink or Indian or Arab who stumbles on it to jump and treat me to a ha-ha! Think I’m crazy? I’ve got two thousand pounds’ worth of the yellow stuff, won from the reef with my own two hands, that says I’m not!”
“Pull your freight, then, while you’ve got it, Jeremy. That’s my advice. You can stay here if you like, but you won’t last long; the rival interests will tear you like a pack of wolves, once the facts leak out, as they must sooner or later. Whereas Feisul—”
“Ah!” said I; for like a flash I saw Grim’s meaning, although Jeremy didn’t.
“They tell me Feisul’s down and out,” said Jeremy.
“He is and he isn’t,” Grim answered. “He’s still in Damascus, and the Syrians have proclaimed him king. But the French hate him, and are watching their chance to turn him out. They’ll do it, too. But Feisul has lots of friends, including most of us who fought behind him in the war.”
“You bet!” nodded Jeremy. “Feisul’s a white Arab. I’d fight for Feisul against the French any day of the week.”
“Well; Feisul is going to be the ruler of this part of the world before long,” Grim continued. “He’ll have to bolt from Damascus, for the French have poison gas, and Feisul’s army has no masks. But he’ll go to Europe — I know that because I’ve discussed it with him — and he’ll tell his own story where it will do the most good. The politicians will be powerless after that to do anything but keep the promises that were made to him as an inducement to come into the war on our side, because when voters know the truth the men in office have to watch their step.”
“What’ll they do, do you suppose? Order the French to reinstate him in Damascus?” asked Jeremy; and Grim and I both laughed, for that was as typical of Jeremy as anything well could be. He is a trickster with his hands, and an expert at ballyhooing the spectators of his magic, but he can never think of any but the shortest cut to whatever he considers reasonable.
“Hardly,” Grim answered. “You and I might offer to punch another fellow’s head unless he did the right thing, but nations don’t act that way after a long war. They’ll contrive to save each other’s faces.”
“What’ll they do then?”
“Find a new throne for Feisul, and there’s only one that’s possible.”
“You mean this country? Lord pity him!”
“I mean Mesopotamia. This will be an annex to it; and Feisul is the only man living who can straighten things out from the Jordan to the Persian Gulf.”
“All right,” said Jeremy. “Good luck then to Feisul. But what has all this got to do with my gold-mine?”
“If you keep quiet about the mine, old man, and Feisul is made ruler of Mesopotamia, he’ll be the fellow who can give you title to the mine.”
Jeremy brought his open palm down on his thigh with a slap like a gun going off.
“Don’t you believe it! I’m no hand at politics, but I know better than that! If they make Feisul king, they’ll send him back here hog-tied with agreements to give the oil concessions to this financial gang, the gold to that one, and the railways and rivers to someone else. Good-by me and any chance I might have had of getting title to as much as a tomb to be buried in!”
Jeremy’s good-natured face was now a picture of chagrin. He was much too intelligent not to see the truth of Grim’s contention, but that did nothing to dull the edge of disappointment. What with my headache, and liking Jeremy so much — to say nothing of the glamour of that mine, which is a glamour that gets you harder the oftener you experience it — I could almost have wept for him. You know, a fellow gets weak and foolish when his head has been beaten a good deal with a dagger-hilt.
But there was an expression on Grim’s face that I had learned to recognize, and I knew we hadn’t got the last of his opinion yet. What he had said so far was by way of barrage laid down in preparation for assault; he would unpack the punch in a minute. I felt sure of it, and as it turned out was right. So I shed no idle tears in Jeremy’s behalf.
“Don’t forget, old man, that Feisul’s white, Grim said, with his eyes fixed steadily on Jeremy’s.
“He might be an angel, without being to beat those politicians!” Jeremy retorted. “Didn’t you say you know where there’s dynamite hidden? I’m going to blow the blasted mine to Kingdom come!”
“How about giving it to Feisul?” Grim suggested.
“What? Say that again!”
“Just now you promised to give it to Ramsden and trust him to divvy up afterwards. Why not treat Feisul that way instead?”
“What? Me partners with a king?”
“You and Ramsden. Why not?”
“Say; now you’re talking again! D’you suppose — Oh, but what’s the use of kidding at a time like this? Let’s blow the mine up. How much dynamite is there in that cache of yours?”
“You see,” Grim went on, “if you and Ramsden were to go to Damascus and see Feisul — I’d give you an introduction �
� and if you were to tell him about this mine of yours and make him an offer, his hand would be a whole lot stronger when the time comes to deal with those political financiers in Europe. He won’t have to give concessions in return for cash, or bargain away a shred of independence.
“What’s more, if he has this mine to draw on he won’t have to tax the Mesopotamian Arabs to the point where they rebel. And I know Feisul. He’s a fellow you can bet on. All you’d need do is to get his signature to an agreement giving you the right to work this mine on royalty, and when he’s made king he won’t go back on it.
“It’s the only chance you’ve got, but it’s a chance to do more than make a pot of money. You’ll be helping put the right man in the right place, and you’ll spike the guns of half the money-pirates of Europe.”
“And I’d rather do that than eat!” said Jeremy piously.”
Well?” Grim answered. “What about it? It’s up to you, as I said in the first place.”
Jeremy crossed his legs in front of him and knitted his brows, rather like a terrier puzzled by a blank wall. He thought, and scratched his head, and smiled for several minutes, and chuckled finally, as I had seen him do years before when a more than usually smart performer did a sleight-of-hand trick better than Jeremy’s own.
“But who’s going to engineer the closing of the mine?” he asked at last. There was a new-old light in his eye now, and Grim not only detected it, but understood it.
“You,” Grim answered. “Who else?”
“Um-m-m! Might be done. Can do, as the chinks say. How much cyanide did you bring?”
“A whole drum. A hundred pounds of it,” said I.
“Well, see here; if that fellow Feisul comes the king at me, and tries to treat me as a trooper, Lord love him, for he’ll need it! I’ll close the mine, and make Feisul a fair offer. If he accepts it, well and good. If he says no, I’ll come back here and play a lone hand. But if he tries to trick me with promises and fair words, or gives me as much as a suspicion that he means to jump my claim when the time comes, I’ll kick his royal backbone out through the jewels in the crown he wears for a hat, and they’ll have to round up another emperor for Mespot. Rammy, old top, you and I once kicked a Prussian colonel; will you double up with me again and hold a king while I put my boot into him?”
