Jimgrim - The Spy Thrillers Series. Talbot Mundy

we could, kept stumbling over the falling masonry; and once, when he fell headlong, I heard him swear titanically in a foreign tongue. I called back to whoever it was to crawl unless he wanted to be shot, but probably the words were all mixed up in the tunnel echoes, for he came on as before.

      Then all at once Goodenough flashed on the light for a fraction of a second and the shirt showed like a phantom out of blackness. The instant answer to that was a regular volley of shots from in front. The flash of several pistols lit up the tunnel, and bullets rattled off the walls and roof. The shirt fell, shot loose from its moorings, and the leading Sikhs gave a shout as they started to rush forward.

      We all surged after them, but there was a sudden check, followed by a babel worse than when a dozen pi-dogs fight over a rubbish-heap. You couldn’t make head or tail of it, except that something desperate was happening in front, until suddenly a man with a knife in his hand, too wild with fear to use it, came leaping and scrambling over the backs of Sikhs, like a forward bucking the line. The Sikh in front of me knelt upright and collared him round the knees. The two went down together, I on top of both of them with blood running down my arm, for the man had started to use his knife at last, slashing out at random, and I rather think that slight cut he gave me saved the Sikh’s life. But you can make any kind of calculation afterwards, about what took place in absolute darkness, without the least fear of being proven wrong. And since the Sikh and I agreed on that point no other opinion matters.

      I think that between the two of us we had that man about nonplused, although we couldn’t see. I had his knife, and the Sikh was kneeling on his stomach, when a hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle catapulted at us from the rear and sprawled on us headlong, saved by only a miracle from skewering some one with a bayonet as he fell.

      He laughed while he fought, this newcomer, and even asked questions in the Sikh tongue. He had my arm in a grip like a vise and wrenched at it until I cursed him. Then he found a leg in the dark and nearly broke that, only to discover it was the other Sikh’s. Still laughing, as if blindfolded fighting was his meat and drink, he reached again, and this time his fingers closed on enemy flesh. Judging by the yells, they hurt, too.

      There must have been at least another minute of cat-and-dog-fight struggling—hands being stepped on and throats clutched—before Goodenough rolled himself free from an antagonist in front and, groping for the flashlight, found it and flashed it on. The first thing I recognized by its light was the face of Narayan Singh, with wonderful white teeth grinning through his black beard within six inches of my nose.

      “Damn you!” I laughed. “You weigh a ton. Get off—you nearly killed me!”

      “Nearly, in war-time, means a whole new life to lose, sahib. Be pleased to make the most of it!” he answered.

      Within two minutes after that we had eight prisoners disarmed and subdued, some of them rather the worse for battery. The amazing thing was that we hadn’t a serious casualty among the lot of us. We could have totaled a square yard of skin, no doubt, and a bushel of bruises (if that is the way you measure them) but mine was the only knife-wound. I felt beastly proud.

      By the light of the electric torch we dragged and prodded the prisoners back whence they had come, and presently Grim or somebody found a lantern and lit it. We found ourselves in a square cavern—a perfect cube it looked like—about thirty feet wide each way.

      In the midst was a plain stone coffer with its lid removed and set on end against it. In the coffer lay a tall man’s skeleton, with the chin still bound in linen browned with age. There were other fragments of linen here and there, but the skeleton’s bones had been disturbed and had fallen more or less apart.

      Over in one corner were two large bundles done up in modern gunny-bags, and Grim went over to examine them.

      “Hello!” he said. “Here’s Scharnhoff and his lady friend!”

      He ripped the lashings of both bundles and disclosed the Austrian and the woman, gagged and tied, both almost unconscious from inability to breathe, but not much hurt otherwise.

      The Sikhs herded the prisoners, old alligator-eyes among them, into another corner. Grim tore my shirt into strips to bandage my arm with. Goodenough talked with Narayan Singh, while we waited for Scharnhoff to recover full consciousness.

      “Those murderers!” he gasped at last. “Schweinehunde!”

      “Better spill the beans, old boy,” Grim said, smiling down at him. “You’ll hang at the same time they do, if you can’t tell a straight story.”

      “Ach! I do not care! There were no manuscripts—nothing! I don’t know whose skeleton that is—some old king David, perhaps; for that is not David’s real tomb that the guides show. Hang those murderers and I am satisfied!”

      “Your story may help hang them. Come on, out with it!”

      “Have you caught Noureddin Ali?”

      “Never mind!”

      “But I do mind! And you should mind!”

      Scharnhoff sat up excitedly. He was dressed in the Arab garments I had seen in his cupboard that day when Grim and I called on him, with a scholar’s turban that made him look very distinguished in spite of his disarray.

      “That Noureddin Ali is a devil! Together we would look for the Tomb of the Kings. Together we would smuggle out the manuscripts —translate them together—publish the result together. He lent me money. He promised to bring explosives. Oh, he was full of enthusiasm! It was not until last night, when I had broken that last obstruction down and discovered nothing but this coffin, that I learned his real plan. The devil intended all along to fill this tomb with high explosive and to destroy the mosque above, with everybody in it! Curse him!”

      “Never mind cursing him,” said Grim, “tell us the story.”

      “He sent oranges here, all marked with the labels of a Zionist colony. When I told him that the explosive would arrive too late, he said I should use it to smash these walls and find another tomb. He himself disappeared, and when I questioned his men they told me the explosive would be brought in hidden under fruit in baskets. I waited then in the hope of killing him myself—”

      “Hah-hah!” laughed Grim.

      “That is true! But they bound me, and later on bound the woman, and laid us here to be blown up together with the mosque.”

      Grim turned to Goodenough, who had been listening.

      “Do I win the bet, sir?”

      “Ten piastoes!” said Goodenough. “Yes. Narayan Singh says Noureddin Ali was gone by the time they reached the wall.”

      “Sure, or he’d have brought Noureddin Ali. I’ve been thinking, sir. We’ve one chance left to bag that buzzard. Will you give me carte blanche?”

      “Yes. Go ahead.”

      Grim crossed the place to the corner where old alligator-eyes stood herded with the other prisoners.

      “Are you guilty?” he demanded.

      “No. Guilty of nothing. I came out of curiosity to see what was happening here.”

      “Thought so. Can you hold your tongue? Then go! Get out of here!”

      Alligator-eyes didn’t wait for a second urging, nor stay to question his good luck, but went off in a shambling hurry.

      “You are mad!” exclaimed Scharnhoff. “That man is the next-worst!”

      “Grim, are you sure that’s wise?” asked Goodenough.

      “We can get him any time we want him, sir,” Grim answered. “He lacks Noureddin Ali’s gift of slipperiness.”

      He turned to Narayan Singh.

      “Follow that man, but don’t let him know he’s followed. He’ll show you where Noureddin Ali is. Get him this time!”

      “Dead or alive, sahib?”

      “Either.”