Jimgrim Series. Talbot Mundy

a black hole, sending his voice ahead of him:

      “Grim! Hullo! Jim Grim! Hullo, Uncle Sam, are you there? The reserves are coming, Grim—hold on!”

      Suliman was next into the hole, charging under the Sikh’s legs and pulling out his kukri as he scrambled, yelling too:

      “Oh Jimgrim! Taib (all right) Jimgrim! All right, Jimgrim! Coming! We are here!”

      They plunged forward into utter darkness; and because Suliman was to busy shouting to think of warning them about the tricks of the place they all three took a header down a four-foot drop into the echoing home of blackness.

      Narayan Singh proved heavy, for it is bone and thew that weigh, not fat. It took Catesby two minutes to recover breath, and then at last he struck a match. He held it high over his head, and the light showed all four walls of a cavern.

      “Grim! Where are you?”

      The cavern, with a row of sepulchers hewn into the walls, was empty. The echoes mocked them. Catesby struck match after match, and they peered together into every niche and cranny, finding nothing but a dollop of candle- grease to prove that anyone had ever been in there.

      Catesby burned his fingers with his last match, and the blackness of the womb of darkness shut them in again.

      “Too late? Surely not too late?” muttered Narayan Singh.

      Then Suliman lifted up his voice and yelled:

      “He is gone! Oh, Jimgrim! Prince of men! That iblis has eaten him! Curse the iblis! Curse his religion and his mother and his eyes and his belly and his teeth! In the name of Allah, may his soul be flung into the fire that burns. May devils torture him forever. Oh, my Jimgrim! Oh-oh—ai-ee- ee!”

      He flung himself face down and beat the floor of the cavern with his fists, sobbing his heart out for his vanished hero.

      CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      “Thieves again!”

      The worst part of scheming for your own advancement is that sooner or later, and generally sooner, you are forced to employ paid assistance; and in the very nature of things such men as will assist are all self-seekers on their own account. The only safe ambition for even the cleverest men is on behalf of an ideal.

      There are plenty of instances. Napoleon obsessed with the thought of lifting France out of the ruck of misery and restoring his country to her right place in the sun was invincible. Napoleon on a throne, scheming to make himself an ancestor of kings, was only dangerous. And Brigadier-General Jenkins was an immeasurable way behind Napoleon, without ever having possessed high ideals of any kind, although he could talk about them in a florid way that deceived some folk.

      At about the time when Jim left camp on the trail of the iblis Jenkins was burning overtime oil in the wooden shack that did duty for office, with a corner of one window left uncovered in order that the world might appreciate his devotion to duty.

      But he had given up sitting at the desk and rummaging through papers. Papers were the bane of his existence. Covering it under an air of lordly military scorn for trifles, he had been afflicted all his life with carelessness at odd moments, such as would account, for instance, for the R.T.O.’s confidence in washing his hands of the stolen TNT. Jenkins had received a memorandum about that explosive and mislaid it; now he had lost another paper, and this time there was no one else on whom he dared lay blame.

      If it had been an official document he could certainly have pounced his clerk, but unfortunately it was something about which it was to be hoped the clerk knew nothing. If the clerk did know, then the sooner that unfortunate should leave for far-off parts the better. The worst of it was that he was expecting a visit that evening from the man who had signed the paper, and he had reasons for needing it to flourish under that individual’s nose.

      He paced up and down the narrow office, casting huge shadows that made his mustache seem like a tea-pot handle and annoyed him, for he was vain of personal appearance as of everything else. Every now and then he paused to rap his forehead with a clenched fist, as if to shake into action that magnificent memory of which he boasted. Then the pacing was resumed, while his lower lip sucked at the corner of the red mustache to present the offending shadow.

      One incident kept recurring to mind that he hoped explained the loss away, but he would have given a month’s pay to be sure of it. He remembered a soiled, creased, dog-eared hundred-piaster note that had come in halves and had to be stuck together. He had sat at his desk—he remembered that distinctly—clipped a strip of paper with the shears, gummed the strip and joined the two halves of the note.

      In all likelihood he had crumpled up the remainder of the piece of paper and thrown it into the box that did duty for waste-basket, but of that he could not be certain. It was possible that was the missing document. And he could not for the life of him remember to whom or for what purpose he had paid out the banknote, repaired with a strip of paper that might have Arabic handwriting on it.

      He might have paid a mess-bill with it, or settled a bridge account—although he very rarely lost at cards—in which case the note was probably long ago in circulation far enough away to be out of danger. That was to be hoped, but hope is often a fidgety weakling.

      An incident nagged his memory. He had paid one hundred piasters on a recent occasion to the man who was coming to see him tonight—the very man under whose nose he wanted to brandish the lost signature.

      As he turned for another worried beat up and down the room a Sikh sentry rapped on the door to announce his visitor. He went behind the desk and studied his appearance in the little canteen store looking-glass for a minute before answering, twisting his mustache straight and practicing a couple of grimaces. He believed as thoroughly in advertisement as any manufacturer of patent pills, and never overlooked the cover of the capsule.

      * * * * *

      For an Arab the visitor seemed overconfident. He was a little man, dressed in expensive European clothes, but with a tarboosh at least a size too small for him so that it sat jauntily on a head that grew very suddenly narrow above the ears; and like many little men he walked mincingly, suggesting an insect—but an insect with a sting, for his smile did not succeed in hiding malice. He was the sort of man one would instinctively keep at a distance. But his voice was like oil on troubled waters.

      “I have nothing but good news for your honor,” he began, smiling jubilantly. “I confess myself more than ever amazed at your genius that suggested this plan to organize Arab thieves and blame their thefts on the Zionists. It works! Never was such a thieving—tee-hee-hee! And a fair proportion of the plunder is already stowed in a place owned by the Zionist Committee—hee-hee!—such a joke!—isn’t it exquisite?”

      “Sit down! And listen to me, Charkas. How many times have I to tell you that I’ve nothing to do with your plans? I won’t have you as much as suggest it, even in private. Do you understand me?”

      Ibrahim Charkas folded one hand on the other, chose the edge of an uncomfortable chair and sat down facing him. The corners of his mouth looked meek, and his eyes immensely mischievous.

      “I’m willing to help you Arabs, sub rosa, so to speak. And I’m willing that it should be known in the right quarter at the right time that I have been your friend all along. But nothing indiscreet—you understand me?”

      “Certainly. Yes, indeed. And when the time comes you may rest assured we shall show ourselves most grateful—practically grateful.”

      “Um-m-m! By the way Charkas, do you remember a hundred-piaster note I gave you the other day for expenses? There was a hundred, and I think four fifties and ten tens.”

      “Yes, indeed. You have been most generous. I was wondering tonight whether I might not ask—”

      “D’you happen to have that hundred