Jimgrim - The Spy Thrillers Series. Talbot Mundy

      “Aye, but I have the ear-rings,” the old fox answered, and showed them in the hollow of his hand.

      Well, it doesn’t take much to make you laugh on some occasions. Most of us have giggled in church or at a funeral. The thought of that old rascal being clever enough to steal such loot in the circumstances under the eyes of a hundred and forty bandits was a straw that tickled overstrung nerves past control. Narayan Singh and I sat back on our camel’s rumps and roared with laughter until the tears came. I believe old Ali Baba thought us mad; there was nothing remarkable about the incident to him, barring professional pride.

      “What does this mean about Jimgrim and Ali Higg?” he asked when we left off laughing for lack of breath. “What does the sore Lion think he will accomplish by calling himself Jimgrim?”

      But we could not enlighten him on that score, and he shook his head forebodingly.

      “If this were my expedition, by Allah, I would call it off!” he exclaimed. “The thieves are too much disturbed for an honest man to make a profit. I like the thought of El-Kalil. However, those dogs of Ibrahim ben Ah’s will catch me unless I hurry. Go ye to Ibrahim with them, and tell him any tale you please, so be you keep them off my trail until I reach our Jimgrim. Hark! I hear their voices.”

      He was up and away with astonishing agility, riding at top speed up the ravine in search of a better track to escape by. I think if I had been alone I would have followed him, for it didn’t look like wisdom or necessity to “take tea” just then with Ibrahim ben Ah. Our old fox had the news, and until Grim had a chance to pass judgment on it there was nothing much to be gained that I could see by running further risks. But though I’ve often met men who pretended to no yellow streak, and have sometimes envied their ability to fool themselves, I’m disagreeably aware of a phase of fear that has got me into more tight places at different times than I care to recall. Perfectly aware of what was actuating me, I didn’t care, nevertheless, to appear afraid before Narayan Singh.

      “We’d better get a move on,” I suggested.

      He eyed me sharply once, and whatever his own thought process was, I’m pretty sure he was aware of mine.

      “Why not?” he answered, laughing. “As our old king of thieves keeps on saying: ‘Allah makes all things easy.’”

      So we rode side by side down the wady to meet Ibrahim’s men, and they weren’t pleased when they came on us and were assured that old Ali Baba had given them the slip. They swore outrageously. Their fear of returning without the old man provided an uncomfortable insight into the character of the other old man we would presently be forced to meet.

      But swearing did not get them anywhere, and to have killed us on the spot, much though that would have suited their temper, might have got them into even worse trouble with their irascible commander. They were as tough a crowd of hard-faced cut-throats as ever praised Allah thrice a day, and they hadn’t a camel between them that was half as good as either of our two.

      So when they had failed by dint of threats to extort from us the slightest hint as to the direction old Ali Baba had taken, they made up their minds to do the next best thing and ordered us to trade camels with them. But I think I’ve hinted once or twice that I like to make a profit on most transactions. I like to swing my strength into anything that comes along, take my chances with the next man, and get well paid for it. There was nothing that appealed to me in the suggestion to trade two magnificent Syrian riding-camels for a couple of mangy baggage-beasts, especially since the good ones did not belong to me in any case. So I waxed exceeding wrathy. Long experience has taught me to be slow-spoken in anger, giving each abusive word full room and weight, in a voice like a good top-sergeant’s to an awkward squad.

      “In the name of the Prophet, on whom be peace,” I thundered, “I can smite nine or ten such dogs as you! As many of you as are left afterwards can return to Ibrahim ben Ah and tell him you met two friends of the Lion of Petra, who proved that jackals are no match for them! Come on!” said I. “Try to take the camels. Ye call yourselves the Lion’s followers. Alley-dogs! Eaters of ullage! Try what the Lion’s friends are like!”

      A speech like that might not get you farther than the hospital, if you tried it in a railway round-house in the States, or even on a soap-box, say, on Fourteenth Street, New York, where the rag-tag and bobtail of the universe foregather. But in the desert, where every contour of the landscape is a threat that must be taken seriously—and above all in a company whose leader’s threats mean business—the voice of arrogance is likelier listened to than argument or whining. Add to that that we were two big men, well-armed—that my shaven head and sprouting beard suggested the darwaish and a form of religious sanctity— that we hadn’t betrayed the slightest inclination to run away at any stage in the proceedings—and you can judge their predicament. They had their choice between calling the bluff or mending their manners, and the latter being easiest they chose it.

      On top of that I turned another trick, as old as politics. If you want at least the appearance of obedience, order a man to do what he wants to do. Knowing what they wanted, I didn’t give them time to make demands, but announced mine high-handedly.

      “Lead the way to Ibrahim ben Ah!” I commanded, and then added for the sake of sweet amenity: “Let us see what he has to tell us about changing camels!”

      The situation was reversed forthwith. They began to be very friendly —almost obsequious. They addressed me as “Your Honors,” and Narayan Singh as “Prince,” he being ostensibly a Pathan, a nation that does not run to princes, but likes flattery almost as much as fighting. But they took the precaution of placing us in their midst before starting out of that infernal wady, and there were moments while we made the difficult ascent when it was mighty comforting to know that Narayan Singh was on the camel next behind. He had eyes in the back of his head.

      Once out of the ravine, we lit out for the horizon at a clip too fast for conversation; and when they wanted to halt half-way and ask me questions, I refused. Our destination was a low, long, flat-topped hill scattered with boulders that looked like warts on the back of a rhinoceros. The green of a few date-palms at the right-hand end announced an oasis and the water that constitutes the key to all desert strategy. Whoever holds the wells commands that situation, and can oblige his adversary to fight in that place first.

      We slowed down as we drew near the encampment, and Narayan Singh poured out the vials of his military scorn compared to which the scorn of one religious sect for another is as mere nursery stuff.

      “Who could make a nation of such people!” he exclaimed. “Not a picket! Not an outpost! Not a sentry marking the camp limit! No wonder a tribe is strong one year and paying tribute the next! The very pick-pockets of India know better than to sleep without mounting a guard!”

      But in spite of his contempt we were seen from a long way off, and although there was no guard turned out to receive us, the word had been passed to the commander several minutes before we reached the camp that two strangers were being brought in.

      He was the only one who had a tent—a pretty obviously stolen one, for it bore all the earmarks of the U.S. Near East Relief Commission. He did not come outside it to receive us. We could see him from a quarter of a mile away, seated on a pile of cushions, looking like an Old Testament king with his iron-grey beard and long robes.

      As soon as we came within range of his eyes through the open tent-front our escort tried to stage what the armies call “eyewash,” but failed to get away with it. They closed in on us, seeking to give the impression that we were prisoners. However, eyewash, which is after all but the name of a sub-species of bluff, was all that Narayan Singh and I had to depend on; so we halted promptly, and used our tongues and camel sticks.

      “Fathers of a bad smell!” I roared at them. “Shall we approach Ibrahim ben Ah stinking like unwashed village dogs! Keep clear of us! Keep behind!”

      And because of the likelihood of retribution if they should be seen handling us roughly, in the possible event of our finding favour, they obeyed and hauled off.

      So we rode alone in advance, looking more like