The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four

by Louis L'Amour

  Nathan Demarest left the room quietly, glanced down the hall along which Mayo had gone, and then stepped into an empty office and picked up the telephone.

  PONGA JIM WALKED SWIFTLY down the street and then stopped in a place for a drink. When he turned to leave, he saw a slim, wiry man sitting at a table near the door. The man did not look up, but something in the man’s attitude made Mayo suspicious. He would almost have sworn it was the same man he had seen loitering outside Skelton’s office as he left. He scowled. Who would want him followed in Suez?

  The quay was a litter of piled barrels and cases, of gear and bales. Ponga Jim was just passing a huge crane whose bulk forced him to the edge of the dock, when a black body catapulted from the darkness and smashed him with a shoulder, just hip high. He felt himself falling and grabbed desperately, catching his attacker by the arm. They fell, plunging into the black water with terrific force, but even as they sank Ponga Jim felt his attacker’s arm slip from his grasp, and the next instant the man had drawn a knife and lunged toward him.

  Ponga Jim dived and felt the hot blade of the knife along his shoulder. His lungs all but bursting he slammed a punch into the man’s belly. He saw his attacker’s mouth open, but the man was a veritable fiend, and he lunged again with the knife, teeth bared. Ponga Jim pushed away, kicking the man in the belly. Then they broke water.

  Instantly, the fellow took a breath and dived, but Ponga Jim went down with him. At one time Ponga Jim had been a skin diver for pearls. The swift thought flashed now that this fellow was good, and he had a knife, but—

  The man swung in the water, his body as slippery as an eel’s, and then he lunged at Ponga Jim with the knife. But Mayo was too fast. He dived again, catching the man’s wrist. Turning the arm, he jerked it down across his shoulder with terrific force.

  Then he pulled free, smashing a fist into the fellow’s belly for luck. As he swam he could see the man sinking, his teeth bared, his mouth leaving a trail of bubbles. The arm was broken.

  Ponga Jim swam to a small boat dock and scrambled from the water. For a moment he stood there, dripping and staring back, but there was nothing to be seen. He put his hand up, and it came away from his shoulder bloody.

  “Somebody,” he muttered softly, “doesn’t like me!”

  The dark shape of the Semiramis loomed not fifty feet away. He climbed the ladder to the dock and then moved warily toward the freighter. As he came up the gangway, a dark shape materialized from beside the hatch. He recognized the half-shaven head of the big Toradjas, one of his trusted crew.

  “It’s all right, Lyssy,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “Something happen astern, Captain. Somebody—” Lyssy saw Ponga Jim’s dripping clothes, and his eyes widened. “Somebody try to kill you?”

  “That’s right.” Mayo glanced back at the dock. “Keep your eyes open. Who else is on watch?”

  “Big London, he forward. Longboy aft. Sakim, he around somewhere, too.”

  “Has anyone been here?”

  “Yes, Captain. One man he come say he want to talk to you. He say very important. He say General Kernan send him.”

  “Where is he?” Ponga Jim demanded.

  “In your cabin. You say no man come aboard, this man he worry to see you. We lock him in.”

  Ponga Jim grinned. “Okay. You stay here.”

  HE QUICKLY CLIMBED the ladder to his deck and then fitted his key in the lock of his door. He swung it open—and stopped dead in his tracks. The man sitting in Jim’s chair, facing the door, had been shot above the left eyebrow.

  Slowly, Ponga Jim reached behind him and drew the door to. He circled the body, studying it with narrowed eyes. Then he stepped behind the body and sighted across the dead man’s head in line with the wound. The bullet had come through the open porthole. In line with the port was the corner of the warehouse roof. Whoever had fired the shot had stood on that corner and made a perfect job.

  Ponga Jim went out to the deck and called Lyssy.

  “Did you hear a shot?” he demanded.

  “No, Captain, nobody shoot!” Lyssy said positively.

  That meant one thing to Ponga Jim. A silencer had been used.

  “The man up there is dead,” he said. “He was shot from that warehouse roof.”

  Sakim came up, and Ponga Jim hurriedly scratched a note.

  “Take this message to Major Arnold at this address,” he instructed. “Give it to no one else. Then return here.”

  He went back into his cabin and, closing the door, careful not to disturb the position of the body, he searched the murdered man’s pockets. He spread everything he found on his desk and studied the collection carefully. There was a key ring with several keys, a billfold, a fountain pen, a gun, some odd change, mostly silver, and a ticket stub indicating that the victim had but recently arrived from Alexandria. Also, there was a magnificent emerald ring, the gem being carved in the form of a scarab.

  Turning his attention to the billfold, Ponga Jim found a packet of money amounting to about eighty Egyptian pounds, around four hundred dollars. In one pocket of the billfold was a white card and on it, in neat handwriting, a name.

  ZARA HAMMEDAN

  After a few minutes thought, he pocketed the key ring, the card with the name, and the emerald ring. On second thought, he returned the ring to the table, retaining the other things he had chosen.

  CHAPTER III

  At a sudden rap on the door, Ponga Jim looked up. He opened the door to find Major Arnold, General Kernan, and Nathan Demarest awaiting him. They had come promptly in answer to Mayo’s note.

  Arnold crossed at once to the body and made a cursory examination.

  “Then this man who has been killed never managed to talk to you?” General Kernan asked.

  “No,” Ponga Jim replied. “I was delayed myself. Someone tried to add me to your list of killings.”

  Arnold looked up quickly. “I noticed you were wet. Did they shove you in?”

  Ponga Jim nodded. He was looking across the room at a mirror.

  “Yes. Good attempt, too. But I don’t kill very easy.”

  “What happened?” Demarest asked. “Did you—catch him?”

  “No. I killed him. He cut me a little, but not much.”

  “But you were in the water,” Demarest persisted. “How could you kill him?”

  “I killed him,” Ponga Jim said quietly, “in the water. He got his belly and lungs full of it.”

  Demarest’s eyes narrowed a little, and then he glanced at the body. “That man was a half-caste,” he said. “But his killers must have taken him for you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ponga Jim said. “I think the killer knew who he was shooting.”

  “So do I,” Kernan said. “This man who was shot came here with a message for you. He came to me first, learned you were here, and said he would talk to no one but you. Had some message for you.”

  Arnold straightened up. “Had you noticed something, Jim? No identification on this man. Not a thing. We can check on this ticket stub and the gun, but I’m sure they will give us nothing.”

  “What about the ring?” Ponga Jim asked.

  “Old, isn’t it?” Arnold said. “And odd looking. It might be a clue.”

  Ponga Jim picked up the ring. “Look at that again, William. Emeralds and rubies were carved into scarabs only for royalty. The emerald itself is big, the ring too heavy for ordinary wear. It’s probably a funeral ring, and probably dates back three thousand years. That ring is museum stuff. But I’ll bet it didn’t come from any museum.”

  “Why?” General Kernan asked. He examined the ring curiously.

  “Such prize archaeological specimens are too well cared for. And if anything as valuable as that were lost, everyone would have heard of it. No, this man, whoever he was, had found a tomb and had been looting it.”

  “He might have picked it up in some thieves’ market,” Demarest protested.

  “What I’m wondering,” Arnold said, “is how all
this can tie in with your mysterious battleship? A thief with a stolen ring or one looted from a tomb could scarcely have anything to do with such a thing.”

  “That battleship,” Ponga Jim suggested, “or even if I was crazy and it was only a submarine or two, must have a base. The first problem, it seems to me, is to locate that base. The fact that the ship is in the Red Sea gives us a chance to keep it here—if we can. My theory is that this dead guy may have known where the base is, and maybe that knowledge ties in with that ring.”

  MAJOR ARNOLD STAYED ON after the others had gone.

  “Go slow, Jim,” he advised. “Skelton doesn’t approve of civilians’ interfering in government affairs, and he persists in maintaining that you have no right to have an armed ship, that actually you’re a pirate.”

  “Yeah?” Ponga Jim chuckled. “Maybe he’s right. I’m an American, even though I’ve spent little time there. My shipping business is in war areas but I’m not asking America’s protection. I protect myself. But seriously, William, this business has got me going in circles. Why the rush to kill me? Who knows, except you guys, that I saw that warship? Who knows that a shipowner and skipper like myself would ever dream of investigating the thing? Why should this guy with the ring come to me?”

  Arnold nodded. “I’ve thought of that,” he said. “Frankly, Jim, other people have, too. Skelton even hinted that you might have sunk that convoy.”

  “What?” Ponga Jim’s face hardened. “Some day that guy’s going to make me sore.”

  “But see his angle. You have guns. There were two destroyers with that convoy, but what would prevent you from giving one of them a salvo at close quarters when they expected nothing of the kind? And then the other?”

  “There’s something in that,” Ponga Jim admitted. “But you and I know it’s baloney. And where does this killing me come in? Only one way I can see it. These babies have an espionage system that reaches right to the top here in Egypt. They know about me coming through; they know about my plan to go on.”

  Arnold was thoughtful. “Jim,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a hunch. You’ve knocked around a lot. Suppose you were right, and this isn’t a Nazi deal? Who or what could it be? My hunch is that you know, and somebody knows you know, and is afraid you might talk.”

  Ponga Jim frowned. “I know? What d’you mean?”

  “Suppose that while knocking around—you used to be in Africa—you stumbled across some person or place connected with this. You have forgotten, but someone in this plot hasn’t.”

  Mayo nodded. “Might be something to it. But what?”

  “Think it over. In the meanwhile, we’ll have this body taken off your hands.”

  When Arnold had gone Ponga Jim walked out on deck and called Selim and Sakim.

  “Listen,” he said. “You boys used to be wise to everything that happened in the Red Sea. I want you to go out into the bazaars, anywhere, and I want the gossip. I want to know more about this warship we saw. I want to know about the guy that was killed in my cabin. Above all, I want to know something about a woman named Zara Hammedan!”

  The two Afridis stiffened.

  “Who, Nakhoda?” Selim said. “Did you say Zara Hammedan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But, Nakhoda, we know who she is!” Selim hesitated. Then: “I will tell you, Nakhoda. This is a secret among Moslems, but you are our protector and friend. There is among Moslems a young movement, a sect of those who are fanatics who would draw together all Moslem countries in a huge empire. These men have chosen Zara Hammedan for their spiritual leader: She is scarcely more than a girl, Nakhoda, but she is of amazing beauty.”

  “Who is she? An Arab?”

  Selim shrugged. “Perhaps. It is said she is of the family of the Sultan of Kishin, leader of the powerful Mahra tribe, whose territory extends along the coast from Museinaa to Damkut.”

  Slug Brophy came up as the two were leaving.

  “Any orders, Skipper? We’ll have her empty an hour after daybreak.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ponga Jim talked slowly for several minutes, and Slug nodded.

  “Can you swing it?” he asked finally.

  “Sure.” Brophy hitched up his trousers. “This is going to be good….”

  A FEW MINUTES after daybreak, Ponga Jim went ashore and headed for Golmar Street. As he disappeared, Brophy stepped out on deck. With him was Big London.

  “That’s the lay,” Slug said briefly. “The chief ’s going alone. You follow him, see? But keep that ugly mug of yours out of sight. I got a hunch he’s sticking his neck out, and I want you close by if he does. He’d raise the roof if he knew it, so keep your head down.”

  The giant black man nodded eagerly and then went ashore. Brophy looked after him, grinning.

  “Well, Skipper,” he muttered, “if you do get into it, you can use that guy.”

  FOR THREE HOURS, Ponga Jim was busy. He dropped into various bars, consumed a few drinks, ate breakfast, and lounged about. In his white-topped peaked cap with its captain’s insignia, his faded khaki suit, and woven leather sandals, he was not conspicuous. Only the unusual breadth of his shoulders and his sun-browned face somehow stood out. The bulge under his left shoulder was barely noticeable.

  The streets of Suez were jammed. War had brought prosperity to the port, and the ships that came up from around the Cape of Good Hope were mostly docking here. Hundreds of soldiers were about the streets. Ghurkas, Sikhs, and Punjabis from India, stalwart Australians and New Zealanders, occasional Scotsmen, and a number of R.A.F. flyers. And there were seamen from all the seven seas, thronging ashore for a night or a day and then off to sea again. There was a stirring in the bazaars, and rumors were rife of new activity in Libya, of fighting to break out in Iraq once more, of German aggression in Turkey.

  And the grapevine of the Orient was at work, with stories from all the Near East drifting here. To a man who knew his way around, things were to be learned in the bazaars.

  Ponga Jim went on to Port Said, flying over and later flying back. At four in the afternoon, he presented himself at Skelton’s office.

  He was admitted at once. Demarest, Kernan, Arnold, Woodbern, and Skelton himself were there.

  “Glad you dropped in, Mayo,” Skelton said abruptly. “I was about to send for you. Our destroyers wirelessed that they could find only wreckage. Two more destroyers coming up from Aden effected a junction with the same report. What have you to say to that?”

  “The warship could have hidden,” Ponga Jim said quietly. “You would scarcely expect it to wait for you.”

  “Hidden? In the Red Sea?” Skelton smiled coldly. “Captain Mayo, a warship could not be concealed in the Red Sea. No ship could be.”

  “No?” Ponga Jim smiled in turn.

  “No,” Skelton said. “Furthermore, Captain Mayo, I have deemed it wise to order your ship interned until we can investigate further. I am a little curious as to those guns you carry. I also hear you carry a pocket submarine and an amphibian plane. Strange equipment for an honest freighter.”

  “The spoils of war,” Mayo assured him, still smiling. “I captured them and have found them of use. And I hate to disappoint you, Skelton, but I’m afraid if you expect to intern the Semiramis you are a bit late.”

  “What do you mean?” Skelton snapped.

  “The Semiramis,” Ponga Jim said softly, “finished discharging shortly after daybreak this morning. She left port immediately!”

  “What!”

  Skelton was on his feet, his face white with anger. The other men tensed. But out of the corner of his eye, Ponga Jim could see a twinkle in General Kernan’s eyes.

  “No doubt you’ll find the Semiramis,” Ponga Jim said coolly, “since you say no ship can be concealed in the Red Sea. Good hunting, Skelton!”

  He turned and started for the door.

  A BUZZER SOUNDED, and behind him he heard Skelton lift the phone.

  “What?” Skelton shouted. “Both of them?” The telephone dr
opped back into the cradle. “Gentlemen,” Skelton said sharply, “the destroyers sent from this base to investigate Captain Mayo’s report have both been sunk. A partial message was received, telling how they had been attacked. Captain Mayo, you are under arrest!”

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” Mayo said, “but I can’t wait!”

  He swung the door open and sprang into the hall.

  “Stop him!” Skelton roared.

  A burly soldier leaped from his position by the wall, grabbing at Mayo with both hands. Ponga Jim grabbed the big man by the wrist and hurled him over his back in a flying mare that sent the big fellow crashing into the opposite wall. Then he was down the hall, out into the street, and with one jump, was into the crowd.

  Another soldier rushed from the building and started down the steps close on Ponga Jim’s heels. A Herculean black man, lounging near the door, deftly thrust his foot in the way, and the soldier spilled head over heels into the crowd at the foot of the stone steps.

  Rounding a corner, Ponga Jim slipped into a crowded bazaar. He stopped briefly at a stall, and when he left he was wrapped in a long Arab cloak, or aba, and on his head was a headcloth bound with an aghal. With his dark skin and his black hair he looked like a native.

  He walked on, mingling with the people of the bazaar. Twice soldiers passed him, their eyes scanning the bazaar, but none looked at him.

  But as Ponga Jim drifted slowly from the bazaar and out into the less crowded streets, a slim, hawk-featured man was close behind. And a little further back, Big London, his mighty muscles concealed by his own aba, trailed along, watching with jungle-trained cunning the two men in the crowd ahead.

  CHAPTER IV

  The marketplaces of the East teem with gossip, and stories are told over the buying of leather or the selling of fruit or in the harems.

  To hear them, many an intelligence officer would pay a full year’s salary.

  During the morning, Ponga Jim had heard much. Now, in his simple disguise and with his easy, natural flow of Arabic, he heard more. A discreet comment or two added to his information.