Jimgrim Series. Talbot Mundy

he and Grim exchanging the interminable Arab farewell formula of blessing and reply that have been in use unchanged for a thousand years.

      Then Abdul Ali produced his wallet again.

      “Major Grim,” he said, “please take this money. Keep it for yourself, and let me go. Surely I have been punished enough! Besides, you cannot—you dare not imprison me! I am a French subject. I have been seized outside the British sphere. I know you are a poor man—the pay of a British officer is a matter of common knowledge. Come now, you have done what you came to do. You have destroyed my influence at El-Kerak. Now benefit yourself. Avoid an international complication. Show mercy on me! Take this money. Say that I gave you the slip in the dark!”

      Grim smiled. He looked extremely comical without any eyebrows. The wrinkles went all the way up to the roots of his hair.

      “I’m incorruptible,” he said. “The boss, I believe, isn’t.”

      “You mean your High Commissioner? I have not enough money for him.”

      Grim laughed. “No,” he said, “he comes expensive.”

      “What then?”

      “Don’t be an ass,” said Grim. “You know what.”

      “Information?”

      “Certainly.”

      “What information?”

      “You were sent by the French,” said Grim, “to raise the devil here in Palestine—no matter why. You were trying to bring off a raid on Judaea. Who are your friends in Jerusalem who were ready to spring surprises? What surprises? Who’s your Jerusalem agent?”

      “If I tell you?”

      “I’m not the boss. But I’ll see him about it. Come on—who’s your agent?”

      “Scharnhoff.”

      Grim whistled. That he did not believe, I was almost certain, but he whistled as if totally new trains of thought had suddenly revealed themselves amid a maze of memories.

      “You shall speak to the boss,” he said after a while.

      I fell asleep then, wedged uncomfortably between two men’s legs, wakened at intervals by the noisy pleading of Mahommed ben Hamza and his men for what they called their rights in the matter of Abdul Ali’s wallet. They were still arguing the point when we ran on the beach near Jericho, where a patrol of incredulous Sikhs pounced on us and wanted to arrest Ahmed and Anazeh’s wounded men. Grim had an awful time convincing them that he was a British officer. In the end we only settled it by tramping about four miles to a guard-house, where a captain in uniform gave us breakfast and telephoned for a commisariat lorry.

      It was late in the afternoon when we reached Jerusalem and got the wounded into hospital. By the time Grim had changed into uniform and put courtplaster where his eyebrows should have been, and he, Abdul Ali and I had driven in an official Ford up the Mount of Olives to OETA, the sun was not far over the skyline.

      Grim had telephoned, so the Administrator was waiting for us. Grim went straight in. It was twenty minutes before we two were summoned into his private room, where he sat behind the desk exactly as we had left him the other morning. He looked as if he had not moved meanwhile. Everything was exactly in its place— even the vase, covering the white spot on the varnish. There was the same arrangement of too many flowers, in a vase too small to hold them.

      “Allow me to present Sheikh Abdul Ali of Damascus,” said Grim.

      The Administrator bowed rather elaborately, perhaps to hide the twinkle in his eyes. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t look tyrannical. So Abdul Ali opened on him, with all bow guns.

      “I protest! I am a French subject. I have been submitted to violence, outrage, indignity! I have been seized on foreign soil, and brought here by force against all international law! I shall claim exemplary damages! I demand apology and satisfaction!”

      Sir Louis raised his eyebrows and looked straight at Grim without even cracking a smile.

      “Is this true, Major Grim?”

      “Afraid it is, sir.”

      “Scandalous! Perfectly scandalous! And were you a witness to all this?” he asked, looking at me as if I might well be the cause of it all.

      I admitted having seen the greater part of it.

      “And you didn’t protest? What’s the world coming to? I see you’ve lost a little skin yourself. I hope you’ve not been breaking bounds and fighting?”

      “He is a most impertinent man!” said Abdul Ali, trying to take his cue, and glowering at me. “He posed as a person interested in a school for El-Kerak, and afterward helped capture me by a trick!”

      The Administrator frowned. It seemed I was going to be made the scape-goat. I did not care. I would not have taken a year of Sir Louis’ pay for those two days and nights. When he spoke again I expected something drastic addressed to me, but I was wrong.

      “An official apology is due to you, Sheikh Abdul Ali. Permit me to offer it, together with my profound regret for any slight personal inconvenience to which you may have been subjected in course of this—ah—entirely unauthorized piece of—ah— brigandage. I notice you have been bruised, too. You shall have the best medical attention at our disposal.”

      “That is not enough!” sneered Abdul Ali, throwing quite an attitude.

      “I know it isn’t. I was coming to that. An apology is also due to the French—our friends the French. I shall put it in writing, and ask you to convey it to Beirut to the French High Commissioner, with my compliments. I would send you by train, but you might be—ah—delayed at Damascus in that case. Perhaps Emir Feisal might detain you. There will be a boat going from Jaffa in two days’ time. Two days will give you a chance to recover from the outrageous experience before we escort you to the coast. A first-class passage will be reserved for you by wire, and you will be put on board with every possible courtesy. You might ask the French High Commissioner to let me know if there is anything further he would like us to do about it. Now, I’ll ring for a clerk to take you to the medical officer—under escort, so that you mayn’t be subjected to further outrage or indignity. Good evening!”

      “Anything more for me?” asked Grim, as soon as Abdul Ali had been led away.

      “Not tonight, Grim. Come and see me in the morning.” Grim saluted. The Administrator looked at me—smiled mischievously.

      “Have a good time?” he asked. “Don’t neglect those scratches. Good evening!”

      No more. Not another word. He never did say another word to me about it, although I met him afterwards a score of times. You couldn’t help but admire and like him.

      Grim led the way up the tower stairs again, and we took a last look at El-Kerak. The moon was beginning to rise above the rim of the Moab Hills. The land beyond the Dead Sea was wrapped in utter silence. Over to the south-east you could make out one dot of yellow light, to prove that men lived and moved and had their being in that stillness. Otherwise, you couldn’t believe it was real country. It looked like a vision of the home of dreams.

      “Got anything to do tonight?” asked Grim. “Can you stay awake? I know where some Jews are going to play Beethoven in an upper room in the ancient city. Care to come?”

      CHAPTER ELEVEN.

      “AND THE REST OF THE ACTS OF AHAZIAH—”

       Table of Contents

      I have no idea what Grim did during the next few days. I spent the time studying Arabic, and saw nothing of him until he walked into my room at the hotel one afternoon, sat down and came straight to the point.

      “Had enough?”

      “No.”