Jimgrim - The Spy Thrillers Series. Talbot Mundy

Now—now shall we fight that duel? Are you ready?”

      I supposed that meant that he could not see me and had given up hope of it. He would like to have me move first, so as to judge my exact whereabouts by sound. I reached out very cautiously, and rapped the muzzle of my pistol on the floor twice.

      He fired instantly, three shots in succession. The bullets went wild to my left and brought down showers of plaster from the wall. I feared he might have seen me by the pistol-flash. I did not fire back. There was no need. Something moved swiftly like a black ghost through the open door. There was a thud—and the ring of a steel swivel—and a scream.

      “Has the sahib a match?” said a gruff voice that I thought I recognized.

      I was trembling—excitement, of course—only children and women and foreigners ever feel afraid! It took me half a minute to find the match box, and the other half to strike a light.

      Narayan Singh was standing by the end of the table. He was wiping blood off his bayonet with a piece of newspaper. He looked cool enough to have carried the paper in his pocket for that purpose. I got up, feeling ashamed to be seen crouching on the floor. But Narayan Singh smiled approval.

      “You did well, sahib. All men are equal in the dark. Until he fired first there was nothing wise to do but hide.”

      “How long have you been here?” I asked.

      “Five minutes. I only waited for a sure thrust. But hah? the sahib feels like a dead man come to life again, eh? Well I know that feeling!”

      The match burned my fingers. I struck another. As I did that Grim stood in the doorway, smiling.

      “Is he dead?” he asked.

      “Surely, sahib. Shall I go now and get that other one—that Omar Mahmoud?”

      “No need,” said Grim. “They rounded him up five minutes after he had found Noureddin.”

      “Then have I done all that was required of me?”

      “No, Narayan Singh. You haven’t shaken hands with me yet.”

      “Thank you, Jimgrim.”

      The match went out. I struck a third one. Grim turned to me.

      “Hungry?”

      “Sleepy.”

      “Oh, to hell with sleep! Let’s bring old Scharnhoff into the other room, dig out some eats and drinks, and get a story from him. All right, Narayan Singh; there’ll be a guard here in ten minutes to take charge of that body. After that, dismiss. I’ll report you to Colonel Goodenough for being a damned good soldier.”

      “My colonel sahib knew that years ago,” the great Sikh answered quietly.

      FOOTNOTES

       Table of Contents

      [1] Long-sleeved outer cloak.

      [2] President of the American College at Beirut. Died 1920, probably more respected throughout the Near East than any ten men of any other nationality.

      [3] Headquarters: Occupied Enemy Territory Administration.

      [4] This is no exaggeration. There are actually millions, and on more than one continent, whose dearest wish, could they have it, would be to see Jerusalem before they die.

      [5] Hurry up.

      [6] Anglice—canteen cigarette.

      [7] Council

      [8] Poor devil

      [9] A Moslem priest who recites prayers.

      [10] Unbelievers.

      [11] All right.

      [12] Run like the devil.

      [13] Railway Traffic Officer.

      [14] The religious head of the Moslem community.

      [15] No brains!

      [16] Mad!

      [17] Head-dress that hangs down over the shoulders.

      [18] Bazaar

      [19] Coffe-pot

      [20] How should I know?

      [21] Coffee-shops

      [22] I dont know.

      [23] Holy war.

      [24] Women

      [25] All right.

      [26] The smallest coin of the country.

      The “Iblis” at Ludd

       Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      “Lead on, Jimgrim sahib. I have seen the day when stronger boars than that one bit the dust!”

      As a general rule when Major Jim Grim strode into the administrator’s office in the former German hospice, now British headquarters in Jerusalem, it was to be greeted with that kind of confident familiarity that, from his official superior, warms the fiber of a man’s being. Jim’s standing in the administrator’s favor was the cause of a good deal of jealousy; more than one British officer resented the frequent private consultations between Sir Henry Kettle and the American, although they could not prevent them.

      They might have felt less jealous if they had known of the wholesale disregard of personal feelings (Jim’s especially) whenever the administrator considered him at fault.

      Jim walked into the administrator’s private office three mornings after having run to ground the Dome of the Rock conspirators, rather expecting the usual smile and exchange of unusual jokes before broaching the day’s business. But Sir Henry Kettle opened on him without