CHAPTER XI HANDLE A REVOLVER

CHAPTER XI HANDLE A REVOLVER

IT was somehow a relief to me to find Brogden in a suit of civilian linen. His exotic uniform, and the tarboosh which etiquette compelled him to keep on his head throughout the evening, had increased his effect of a figure in a bad dream. Now I could realise him as my old friend—and keep him at arm’s length.

I answered his anxious enquiries by assuring him I was well. But I intended, however, to remain on guard over the abomination hidden in my room, and I made use of my supposed indisposition as an excuse for not leaving the hotel.

He, of course, wanted me to lunch or dine at his club, to meet his friends of the English Colony.

I knew that Edmund and Welfare might arrive at any moment, and the sweat broke out on me as I thought of their walking in and finding me with this man. And it was impossible to get rid of him!

Through all the gloom of my misery I saw, like a golden thread, the humour of our being there together, of my having in my hands the treasure for which he would have ransacked Egypt. Of all men he was one I would most gladly have helped; up to last night. But now I must use all my wits to foil him in his endeavour. I said the word to myself, to “betray” him! Yet I too was on theside of righteousness. I too would stop the issue of this poison. But the achievement of his ambition would destroy my brother, and drag my own name in the mire of disgrace. To deal uprightly was beyond my power now, and there were things I must learn from him.

We agreed that my indisposition must have been a “touch of the sun,” a diagnosis which in Egypt fulfils the same function that the familiar “chill” does at home, and I decided that if I could not shake Brogden off otherwise, I would have a relapse.

He wanted to talk about people and things at home, and anxiety began to make me feel genuinely unwell.

“Tell me,” I said suddenly, “do you know these two Englishmen you are after?”

He looked round uneasily, evidently disinclined to renew his confidences of the night before.

“No,” he said, “I’ve never seen them myself. Not yet.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Oh, I expect they’ve a different name in every port! They’re known to us as Montgomery and Ringrose. Don’t for God’s sake talk about them.”

“I won’t utter a word to a soul. But I’m deeply interested.”

“It is a queer business. Montgomery is said to have the manners of a gentleman. The other one is a regular old shell-back, I believe. Professes to be some kind of sea-captain. They’re both slim, though! By Jove, they’ll want handling.”

“What’s this drug worth? How much a pound?”

“Well, one can’t say exactly. The actual buyer would give ten pounds, perhaps, for a pound of it, if he could get it. But of course the fellows whobring it in don’t get all that. It has to go through the Lord knows how many hands. If they can dispose of it well, and in fairly big lots, they might clear a fiver on every pound of it. They wouldn’t take the risk for much less.”

Ten thousand pounds, I thought with horror, was represented by the load in my bedroom!

“But don’t let’s talk about the business,” Brogden continued, “it’s never safe. You never know. I’m going to have a cock-tail—the one exception to the rule of ‘no drinks before sun-down!’ Do you mind coming in the American bar?”

I went with him and sat on a high stool by the end of a marble counter on which were vast blocks of ice with soda-water bottles sticking out of them like spines.

Brogden went and busied himself in superintending the concoction of some mysterious drink which he averred was the only one suitable and wholesome for the time and place.

Behind the bar and opposite where I sat was a door which I knew opened into Van Ermengen’s private office. It was slightly open, and through the crack I heard Jakoub’s voice and Van Ermengen’s, speaking in Arabic.

If they had spoken in English I could not have heard all they said. As it was I could distinguish only a few isolated words of which I knew the meaning. I had no qualm of conscience in listening, and only envied Brogden’s knowledge of the language.

It sounded as though Jakoub were urging something and the other were demurring.

I heard the words “el moftah” (the key) repeated several times, and then I recognised “a part of it,” “our share,” and “to-night.”

I trembled lest Jakoub should come out and berecognised by Brogden, but instead there was an exclamation of annoyance or alarm, as someone hastily shut the door.

“Here you are,” cried Brogden, bringing a wine-glass filled with an amber liquor with an olive at the bottom of it. “That will do you more good than all the medicine in the chemists’ shops! Good health!”

“Good health,” I answered, tasting the liquor, which was certainly very agreeable.

“I hate leaving you alone, old man. But I can’t cut lunch at the club—or dinner to-day, and to-morrow I have to go to Cairo for a day. When does your boat sail?”

“I’ve not decided yet. I may rest here a day or two in any case.”

“Then we shall meet again, and I’ll be able to trot you round a bit when I get back.”

“Yes, I hope so. But remember if we miss each other we must not ‘lose touch’ again. We will write, and I’ll hope to come out next winter. And you must spend part of your next leave with me.”

His going to Cairo was an unspeakable relief; but I longed for an opportunity to make him some amends. So we parted very cordially.

I got wearily back to my room and counted over again the cases of hashish! They were undisturbed, but I felt more nervous of my trust than if they had been solid gold or dynamite.

I ordered my meals to be sent up to my room, sent for some papers and books which I knew I should be unable to read, and sat down once more trying to plan out my immediate future.

One thing only was certain. I must remain where I was until theAstartecame into harbour. Then I must face Edmund. I felt how much easierit would be to be the guilty one. What was I to say to him? How were we to adjust our new relationship? I was determined to insist on his coming out of this life in which he had lost his honour and his caste. I did not shrink from the notion of impoverishing myself if necessary. But even if I succeeded in restoring Edmund to his caste, how could he take his place in it?

I knew that, as a matter of practical experience, there really is no absolution without penance. Knowing Edmund as I did, I knew that he would impose the penance on himself, and refuse the absolution. How was I to persuade him that all the best of his life, which lay before him, must be lived vigorously and honourably if only to make reparation?

I feared the weakness and petulance in his character, which I knew might drive him to shirk the issue in a cowardly suicide. I determined that I would hold him by the immediate plain duty of getting rid of this present cargo of potential infamy. I began to see in the hated packing-cases the means of Edmund’s deliverance from himself.

About their destination I was clear and determined, but as to how to get them there, how even to move them from this room without exposure and disgrace, I had no idea whatever.

Of Captain Welfare I thought little. In other circumstances he would no doubt have prosperously added sand to sugar like my churchwarden at home, or have made an “honest living” out of poverty as a pawnbroker. He belonged to the class whose ideal is “respectability.” It would be wrong to expect of such a higher ethical standard than their own.

No doubt he had expected to retire on his shareof the profits of this infamy. Once I had seen the stuff destroyed I would give him his pieces of silver. He could just “put up the shutters” for the last time and appear no more in his shirt sleeves.

The long day wore itself away amid my fretting; but Edmund did not come. Once more I watched the sun set across the sea and, with the darkness, my fear of Jakoub revived.

I knew now that he was in league with Van Ermengen, that they both knew I was an enemy to their schemes. In my loneliness and sense of weakness I wished that even Brogden were back. I was in the enemy’s camp and had no means of finding even one man whom I could trust. I wondered about the fragments of their conversation I had overheard. What key was it they spoke of?

“A part of it—our share—to-night!”

I had not thought much of the words when I heard them. I was not quite certain if I had their meaning right, caught as they were in isolated fragments of a conversation I could not understand. Besides, my mind had been concentrated on the fear of Jakoub’s appearing and being recognised. But now, at the end of my day of solitary pondering, they came back into my mind, and it seemed their meaning was obvious.

The key must be the key of my own door. Jakoub must intend to steal the poison from my room, or at least as much of it as he regarded as his share—his and Van Ermengen’s.

From what I knew of its value I realised that a few cases of it would recompense him.

And the attempt was to be made to-night.

My dread of the man almost overcame me. I longed to leave the place, to escape, and let him doas he would. I do not think it was fear of any violence he might attempt against myself.

I have not tried to tell what the loss of my faith in Edmund meant to me. But I do know that I would have surrendered my life then without regret. Yet I shrank from the idea of conflict with this man. I mistrusted myself and my own will. It was exactly the same feeling I had had before my first fight at school. I was then not frightened of being hurt. But I was sick with the terror of finding myself a coward and showing it.

However, I determined I would not desert my trust.

I got out Edmund’s revolver, laid it on the table, and sat down by it to wait.

The night was hot and it was late before I heard the voices and the closing doors of other occupants of the hotel retiring. Had there been an Englishman among them I believe I should have appealed to him to share my vigil.

But they were all foreigners. I had heard nothing spoken but Italian and a language I took to be Greek. I could speak neither. To explain would be impossible.

A clock somewhere struck one, and suddenly the strain became intolerable. I reflected that they would not come at all while my light was on, and like a kind of vertigo came the desire to get the encounter over. It was the same longing that one has to throw one’s self down from a height. But could I endure the waiting in the dark?

I decided that I must.

There was a switch attached to a long cord over my bed. I placed it under my pillow. I turned the key and took it purposely from the key-hole, took the pistol in my hand, and putting out the light lay down on the bed.

I listened to my heart like a muffled drum within me, “beating its funeral march to the grave.”

And then the one thing I had not contemplated happened. I slept.

I awoke dumb with horror and the certainty that someone was in the room with me; but I had heard nothing, and there was no sound but the “funeral march” within me, beating time.

I do not know how long I listened, but at last came the unmistakable gentle sound of fingers sweeping along the wall. It is a sound that would wake no sleeper. But I can imagine no sound more terrifying to one listening in the dark.

In a spasm of terror I pressed the switch and sat up, covering Jakoub with the revolver. He stood by the wall near the end of my bed. One hand was in the bosom of his galabieh. He was not smiling, but his lips were drawn back and his teeth bared in a kind of snarl, the reaction of a man startled and disconcerted by sudden fright. Fear was like a third party between us.

“Put your weapon on the table or I’ll fire.”

I had not meant to speak, and my own words startled me.

Jakoub hesitated. The revolver was not cocked and I began to pull the trigger.

Jakoub could see the hammer rise. He laid a knife on the table.

“It was but to cut the strings, effendi,” he said with a return of his smile. I slowly relaxed my pressure on the trigger, the hammer sank again, and I cocked the thing with my thumb as Edmund had shown me how to do. Jakoub watched me.

“You know what will happen if I pull the trigger again?”

“I have used a revolver,” he sneered.

“Sit down on that chair at the end of the table.”

He obeyed, and I took a chair at the near end. I propped the pistol on a pile of books, so that it was impossible to miss him if he moved.

“Why do you threaten me, effendi? I mean you no harm.”

“Why have you stolen into my room at night?”

“I have but come for my property. You have taken it from me unjustly. I knew you would not give it to me. I wished for peace to be between us. I am a very good, very peaceful Arab.”

In spite of myself I smiled at his remark, and at my smiling I saw to my surprise a new respect and fear of me awaken in Jakoub’s eyes.

It was as though he knew our Irish proverb, “Beware of the front of a bull, the heels of a horse, the teeth of a dog,and the smile of an Englishman.”

An immense relief swept over me as I realised that fear had changed places across that table. I no longer dreaded my own cowardice.

“Let me go now, effendi, and I will await my share till the Captain come. It is now morning, he will be here to-day.”

“If you move, I will fire.”

I was aware of an extraordinary feeling within me. It was an intense desire to pull that trigger and kill him. It was blood-lust. It had never visited me before, and I felt it now as an intolerable temptation.

Jakoub saw it in my face. I saw it reflected by the terror in his eyes.

“Do not, effendi,” he moaned, and I pitied him. The desire for his life faded out.

“In an hour it will be day,” he argued. “The people will awake. If I am found here there will be plenty questions. It is not wise, effendi!”

I reached out with my left hand and took his knife from the table.

“To cut strings only,” he repeated.

It was true that if he were found there, questions might be asked, and talk might arise that would ruin everything. I was at a loss how to end the situation.

“Jakoub,” I said, “I know now what is in those cases.”

“Of course the effendi knows. Are they not his?”

“No they are not mine. I did not know what was in them until I came here the other night.”

Jakoub’s face told me what I wanted to know. He understood it was a time for truth between us, and I saw that he was surprised. He had evidently believed that I was all along privy to the conspiracy. I suppose his manifest contempt for me was due to some idea that I was willing to accept less than my proper share of the profits.

“I did not know what was in those cases,” I repeated. “I did not understand that this was a scheme to poison your own people and make money out of their misery. I knew nothing about your accursed trade. Now, I tell you, I know; and as long as I live not one ounce of that stuff shall be sold. I will pay you for your services to me, but you shall not get one piastre of profit from your drug.”

The man’s avarice almost overcame his self-control. He started forward in his chair.

I raised the revolver an inch or two, and he sank back.

“It is my property, my share of it. Even the poor Arab cannot be robbed always. I have paid for what I have there. I will see the Captain. Who are you to take from me my goods?”

“I know the man who is hunting you, Jakoub. He is very close on your heels. If I speak to him to-day, you will be in prison to-night.”

“If I am,Ispeak! What then for you and the others? We’re all in one ship.”

“I am not. I knew nothing of the business, and I can prove it to my friend who is looking for you—only for you, mind. The others can take care of themselves. They have deceived me.”

I watched him closely to see if he believed my last statement. I gathered from his look of discouragement that he did. I suppose from his point of view, there was nothing surprising in it.

“If you wish to see Captain Welfare again, you may see him here, in my presence, when he comes. I will let you live till then. I will not answer for Montgomery Effendi.” He showed no surprise at my mention of this name, and I hoped that perhaps he knew no other.

“Have you complaint of me for him? Have I not served you?”

“You served me well on the journey. I shall not forget to say so. But he will be angry when he learns what I know. You will not understand, perhaps, but he will not be just. This is his pistol. If he were here holding it now, you would be dead, Jakoub.”

“I do not fear him or any man.”

“All right. You can go now. I shall not lock my door. But I think you will not try again to take your property. See, there is the daylight.”

I rose and opened the shutters. I had to risk the movement because my forearm ached so with holding the revolver that I knew I could bear it no longer.

The amber light of morning filled the large bareroom, revealing the feebleness of the electric lights which before had seemed so brilliant. They glowed now as points of light without power to illuminate anything.

Jakoub looked yellow-skinned and old. I saw points of grey in his black hair that I had not noticed before. I felt as if I looked a hundred years old, and knew that whether he went or not I must sleep.

He was standing with his hands folded before him looking at the ugly pile of packing-cases.

“Effendi,” he said, “it is many thousands of pounds. We have worked hard and suffered much. We have paid much money to bring it here.”

“Go away,” I answered petulantly. I was rocking on my feet with the desire to sleep. The man simply bored me now, like a guest that will not depart.

“It is no good,” I added. “You cannot have it. You cannot have any of it.”

“All my life I have dreamed of such a chance, and now you rob me. Why?”

“If you don’t get out of this I’ll—I’ll ring the bell.”

I was conscious of bathos in this threat, but somehow the ordinariness of daylight made it impossible to threaten him with the revolver. I was a clergyman again, longing to get into my pyjamas.

Jakoub went sorrowfully out of the room.

I undressed and lay down, leaving the door ajar.

I knew there was something more potent than gunpowder protecting me and my charge, and I slept secure under the ægis of my own will.

I had overcome Jakoub and I was proud of it.

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