Affair in Araby (Spy Thriller). Talbot Mundy

that they haven’t been to see you.”

      “Wallah! Not strange at all.”

      “I see. They regard you as a man without authority, who might make trouble and leave other men to face it, eh?”

      “Who says I have no authority?”

      “Well, if you could prove you have—”

      “What then?” the man in bed demanded, trying to sit up. “Feisul, for instance, is a friend of mine, and these men with me are his friends too. You have no letter, of course, for that would be dangerous...”

      “Jimgrim, in the name of the Most High, I swear I had a letter! He who stabbed me took it. I—”

      “Was the letter from Feisul?”

      “Malaish—no matter. It was sealed, and bore a number for the signature. If you can get that letter for me, Jimgrim—but what is the use! You are a servant of the British.”

      “Tell me who stabbed you and I’ll get you the letter.”

      “No, for you are clever. You would learn too much. Better tell the doctor of this place to hurry up and heal me; then I will attend to my own affairs.”

      “I’d like to keep you out of jail, if that’s possible,” Grim answered. “You and I are old acquaintances, Sidi bin Tagim. But of course, if you’re here to sow sedition, and should there be a document at large in proof of it, which document should fall into the hands of the police— well, I couldn’t do much for you then. You’d better tell me who stabbed you, and I’ll get after him.”

      “Ah! But if you get the letter?”

      “I shall read it, of course.”

      “But to whom will you show it?”

      “Perhaps to my friends here.”

      “Are they bound by your honour?”

      “I shall hold them so.”

      There was the glint in Grim’s eye now that should warn anyone who knew him that the scent was hot; added to the fact that the rest of his expression suggested waning interest, that look of his forebode fine hunting.

      “There’s one other I might consult,” he admitted casually. “On my way here I saw one of Feisul’s staff captains driving in a cab toward the Jaffa Gate.”

      The instant effect of that remark was to throw the wounded man into a paroxysm of mingled rage and fear. He almost threw a fit. His already bloodless face grew ashy grey and livid blue alternately, and he would have screamed at Grim if the cough that began to rack his whole body would have let him. As it was, he gasped out unintelligible words and sought to make Grim understand by signs. And Grim apparently did understand.

      “Very well,” he laughed, “tell me who stabbed you and I won’t mention your name to Staff-Captain Abd el Kadir.”

      “And these men? Will they say nothing?”

      “Not a word. Who stabbed you?”

      “Yussuf Dakmar! May Allah cut him off from love and mercy!”

      “Golly!” exploded Jeremy, forgetting not to talk English. “There’s a swine for you! Yussuf Dakmar’s the son of a sea-cook who used to sell sheep to the Army four times over—drive ’em into camp and get a receipt—drive ’em out again next night—bring ’em back in the morning— get a receipt again—drive ’em off—bring ’em back—us chaps too busy shifting brother Turk to cotton on. He’ll be the boy I kicked out of camp once. Maybe remembers it too. I’ll bet his backbone’s twanging yet! Lead me to him, Grim, old cock, I’d like another piece of him!”

      But Grim was humming to himself, playing piano on the bed-sheet with his fingers.

      “Is that man not an Arab?” asked the fellow in bed, taking alarm all over again.

      “Arab your aunt!” laughed Jeremy: “I eat Arabs! I’m the only original genuine woolly bad man from way back! I’m the plumber who pulled the plug out of Arabia! You know English? Good! You know what a dose of salts is then? You’ve seen it work? Experienced it, maybe? Hah! You’ll understand me. I’m a grain of the Epsom Salt that went through Beersheba, time the Turks had all the booze in sight and we were thirsty. Muddy booze it was too—oozy booze—not fit for washing hogs! Ever heard of Anzacs? Well, I’m one of ’em. Now you know what the scorpion who stung you’s up against! You lie there and think about it, cocky; I’ll show you his shirt tomorrow morning.”

      “Suppose we go now,” suggested Grim. “I’ve got the drift of this thing. Get the rest elsewhere.”

      “You can fan that Joskins for a lot more yet,” Jeremy objected. “The plug’s pulled. He’ll flow if you let him.”

      Grim nodded.

      “Sure he would. Don’t want too much from him. Don’t want to have to arrest him. Get me?”

      “Come on then,” answered Jeremy, “I’ve promised him a shirt!”

      Beyond the screen Narayan Singh stood like a statue, deaf, dumb, immovable. Even his eyes were fixed with a blank stare on the wall opposite.

      “How much did you hear?” Grim asked him.

      “I, sahib? I am a sick man. I have been asleep.”

      “Dream anything?”

      “As your honour pleases!”

      “Hospital’s stuffy, isn’t it? Think you could recover health more rapidly outdoors? Sick-leave continued of course, but—how about a little exercise?”

      The Sikh’s eyes twinkled.

      “Sahib, you know I need exercise!”

      “I’ll speak to the doctor for you. In case he signs a new certificate, report to me tonight.”

      “Atcha, Jimgrim sahib! Atcha!”

      CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      “Hum Dekta hai”

      Like most of the quarters occupied by British officers, the house occupied by Major Roger Ticknor and his wife Mabel was “enemy property,” and its only virtue consisted in its being rent free. Grim, Jeremy, little Ticknor and his smaller wife, and I sat facing across a small deal table with a stuttering oil-lamp between us. In a house not far away some Orthodox Jews, arrayed in purple and green and orange, with fox-fur around the edges of their hats, were drunk and celebrating noisily the Feast of Esther; so you can work out the exact date if you’re curious enough. The time was nine p.m. We had talked the Anzac hurricane-drive through Palestine all over again from the beginning, taking world-known names in vain and doing honour to others that will stay unsung for lack of recognition, when one of those unaccountable pauses came, and for the sake of breaking silence, Mabel Ticknor asked a question. She was a little, plucky, pale-faced thing whom you called instinctively by her first name at the end of half an hour—a sort of little mother of loose-ended men, who can make silk purses out of sows’ ears, and wouldn’t know how to brag if she were tempted.

      “Say, Jim,” she asked, turning her head quickly like a bird toward Grim on my left, “what’s your verdict about that man from Syria that Roger took in a cab to the Sikh hospital? I’m out a new pair of riding breeches if Roger has to pay the bill for him. I want my money’s worth. Tell me his story.”

      “Go ahead and buy the breeches, Mabel. I’ll settle that bill,” he answered.

      “No, you won’t, Jim! You’re always squandering money. Half your pay goes to the scallywags you’ve landed in jail. This one’s up to Roger and me; we found him.”

      Grim laughed.

      “I