Jimgrim Series. Talbot Mundy

please, Major Grim, to go where I please by day or night without interference. Tomb-robbers usually work at night, you know.”

      “All right,” said Grim. “I’ll try to do that.”

      “Ah! I always knew you were a man of good sense! Have more whiskey? A cigar then?”

      “Can’t promise anything, of course,” said Grim, “but you shall have an answer within twenty-four hours.”

      Outside, as we turned our faces toward Jerusalem’s gray wall, Grim opened up a little and gave me a suggestion of something in the wind.

      “Did you see what he has in that cupboard?”

      “Yes. Two Arab costumes. Two short crow-bars.”

      “Did you notice the grayish dust on the rug—three or four footprints at the corner near the cupboard?”

      “Can’t say I did.”

      “No. You wouldn’t be looking for it. These men who pose as intellectuals never believe that any one else has brains. They fool themselves. There’s one thing no man can afford to do, East of the sun or West of the moon. You can steal, slay, intrigue, burn—break all the Ten Commandments except one, and have a chance to get away with it. There’s just one thing you can’t do, and succeed. He’s done it!”

      “And the thing is?”

      “Cheat a woman!”

      “You mean his house keeper? She who answered the door?”

      Grim nodded.

      CHAPTER TWELVE.

      “YOU KNOW YOU’LL GET SCUPPERED IF YOU’RE FOUND OUT!”

       Table of Contents

      Two days passed again without my seeing Grim, although I called on him repeatedly at the “Junior Staff Officers’ Mess” below the Zionist Hospital. Suliman, the eight-year-old imp of Arab mischief, who did duty as page-boy met me on each occasion at the door and took grinning delight in disappointing me.

      He was about three and a half feet high—coal-black, with a tarboosh worn at an angle on his kinky hair and a flashing white grin across his snub-nosed face that would have made an archangel count the change out of two piastres twice. Suliman and cool cheek were as obvious team-mates as the Gemini, and I was one of a good number, that included every single member of that unofficial mess, who could never quite see what Grim found so admirable in him. Grim never explained.

      Taking the cue from his master, neither did Suliman ever explain anything to any one but Grim, who seemed to understand him perfectly.

      “Jimgrim not here. No, not coming back. Much business. Good-bye!”

      Somehow you couldn’t suspect that kid of telling the truth. However, there was nothing for it but to go away, with a conviction in the small of your back that he was grinning mischievously after you.

      Grim had found him one day starving and lousy in the archway of the Jaffa Gate, warming his fingers at a guttering candle-end preparatory to making a meal off the wax. He took him home and made Martha, the old Russian maid-of-all-work, clean him with kerosene and soft soap—gave him a big packing-case to sleep in along with Julius Cæsar the near-bull-dog mascot—and thereafter broke him in and taught him things seldom included in a school curriculum.

      In the result, Suliman adored Grim with all the concentrated zeal of hero-worship of which almost any small boy is capable; but under the shadow of Grim’s protection he feared not even “brass-hats” nor regarded civilians, although he was dreadfully afraid of devils. The devil-fear was a relic of his negroid ancestry. Some Arab Sheikh probably captured his great-grandmother on a slave-raid. Superstition lingers in dark veins longer than any other human failing.

      I think I called five times before he confessed at last reluctantly that Grim was in. That was in the morning after breakfast, and I was shown into the room with the fireplace and the deep armchairs. Grim was reading but seemed to me more than usually reserved, as if the book had been no more than a screen to think behind, that left him in a manner unprotected when he laid it down. I talked at random, and he hardly seemed to be listening.

      “Say,” he said, suddenly interrupting me, “you came out of that El-Kerak affair pretty creditably. Suppose I let you see something else from the inside. Will you promise not to shout it all over Jerusalem?”

      “Use your own judgment,” I answered.

      “You mustn’t ask questions.”

      “All right.”

      “If any one in the Administration pounces on you in the course of it, you’ll have to drop out and know nothing.”

      “Agreed.”

      “It may prove a bit more risky than the El-Kerak business.”

      “Couldn’t be,” I answered.

      “You can’t talk enough Arabic to get away with. But could you act deaf and dumb?”

      “Sure—in three languages.”

      “You understand—I’ve no authority to let you in on this. I might catch hell if I were found out doing it. But I need help, of a certain sort. I want a man who isn’t likely to be spotted by the gang I’m after. Get behind that screen—quick!”

      It was a screen that hid a door leading to the pantry and the servants’ quarters. There was a Windsor chair behind it, and it is much easier to keep absolutely still when you are fairly comfortable. I had hardly sat down when a man wearing spurs, who trod heavily, entered the room and I heard Grim get up to greet him.

      “Are we alone?” a voice asked gruffly.

      Instead of answering Grim came and looked behind the screen, opened the door leading to the pantry, closed it again, locked it, and without as much as a glance at me returned to face his visitor.

      “Well, general, what is it?”

      “This is strictly secret.”

      “I’ll bet it isn’t,” said Grim. “If it’s about missing explosives I know more than you do.”

      “My God! It’s out? Two tons of TNT intended for the air force gone without a trace? The story’s out?”

      “I know it. Catesby sent me word by messenger last night from Ludd, after you put him under arrest.”

      “Damn the man! Well, that’s what’s happened. Catesby’s fault. They’ll blame me. The truck containing the stuff was run into a siding three days ago. Through young Catesby’s negligence it was left there without a guard. Catesby will be broke for that as sure as my name is Jenkins. But, by the knell of hell’s bells, Grim, more than Catesby will lose their jobs unless we find the stuff! Two tons. Half enough to blow up Palestine!”

      “Too bad about Catesby,” said Grim.

      “Never mind, Catesby. Damn him! Consider my predicament! How can I go to the Administrator with a lame-duck story about missing TNT and nothing done about it?”

      “Nothing done? You’ve passed the buck, haven’t you? Catesby is under arrest, you say.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I know Catesby,” Grim retorted quietly. “He made that fine stand at Beersheba—when the Arabs rushed the camp, and you weren’t looking. He took the blame for your carelessness, and never squealed. You took the credit for his presence of mind, and have treated him like a dog ever since. You expect me to try to save your bacon and forget Catesby’s?”

      “Nonsense, Grim! You’re talking without your book. Here’s what happened: the stuff arrived at Ludd in a truck attached to the end of a mixed train. The R.T.O.^[13] sent me a memorandum and stalled the truck on a siding. I gave