WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT
"We ought to try to get inside Tokalji's house as soon as possible,
if Toutou and Hélène and the rest of them are not here yet," said
Nikka slowly. "Are you sure about that, Hugh?"
"To the extent that we haven't seen a sign of them."
"They will have been scurrying about our back-trail," I suggested.
"Our disappearance must have upset their plans."
"Probably," assented Nikka. "Yes, if we are going to profit by that
trick we must move soon. I don't believe either Jack or I could fool
that Cespedes woman. At the same time, what Hugh says about the
danger of violent tactics is very true. We should keep my uncle and
his men as a reserve. If it ever comes to a cold show-down, we are
going to need more than ourselves."
"King and I have talked it over frequently," said Hugh. "But we
haven't been able to think of a safe way of getting inside. Of
course, we could run ashore in the launch some night, and climb up
the courtyard wall that fronts on the Bosphorus, but we'd certainly
be discovered."
"It wouldn't work," asserted Nikka. "No, to get in and have
opportunity to look around for the landmarks mentioned in the
Instructions we must be accepted as friends."
"It can't be done," protested Hugh at once.
"Oh, yes, it can. Jack and I can do it--with Watkins to help us."
Watkins started up from the pack upon which he had been endeavoring
to appear comfortable.
"Oh, now, Mr. Nikka! I never 'eard the like! Your ludship, I
protest, I do! I wasn't cut out for a Gypsy. Can you see me in such
clothes? It's not decent, your ludship, for a man of my years to be
going in public dressed like a pantomime."
"We're not going to make a Gypsy out of you, Watty," returned Nikka,
waving him to silence. "You are going to be the innocent victim of
two outrageous bandits."
"That's worse," groaned Watkins. "I'll do my duty, your ludship, and
take what comes, but there's no call for all this wild talk, if I may
say so, sir, and what does it all lead to? And I'm mortal sure, your
ludship, there's bugs in this room. 'Adn't we better be getting back
to the 'Otel, sir?"
"Sit down," commanded Hugh. "Nobody's stuck you up yet. What's your
plan, Nikka?"
"Just this. When we leave here you and Watkins head for Tokalji's
house. We'll follow you at a distance. You and Watty must prowl
through the street as mysteriously as you can, looking up at the
house, examining its approaches, all that sort of thing. Make sure
the street is empty--"
"Oh, it's always empty," interrupted Hugh. "It's crescent-shaped,
with comparatively few houses opening on it, a backwater."
"That helps. Now, when you get into the street look back and you
will see us lurking after you. Pretend to be scared. Then we'll go
after you, knives out. Run. You get away, Hugh, but we catch Watty
and throw him down--"
"Yes, it 'ad to be me, gentlemen," sighed Watkins.
"--empty out his pockets, start to cut his throat--you'd better not
be wriggling about that time, Watty, or the knife might slip--and you
raise a yell for the police around the corner. We change our minds,
kick Watty on his way and run back. At the gate of Tokalji's house
we ask for admission, claiming we fear pursuit. I think--I am quite
sure--they will let us in. It is a chance we must take. They will
have seen what we did, and from what you and Wasso Mikali tell me,
Tokalji considers himself the chief of the local criminals. He will
demand a percentage of our loot, and let it go at that."
"A nice time will be 'ad by all," commented Watkins.
"It sounds simple," I said. "But what about me?"
"You are a Frenchman, an ex-Apache and deserter from the Salonika
troops. Let me do the talking. I know Gypsies. If you tell them a
bold tale, and carry a high bluff, they will take you at your own
valuation."
"It's a plan worth trying," agreed Hugh. "But you can't expect to
stay with Tokalji forever."
"I know that. We'll do the best we can."
"Start now?"
"Wait until afternoon. That will drive your shadows insane, and they
will be doubling back to the hotel on the chance of picking you up
again."
We spent the balance of the time together hashing over our
experiences, and horrifying Watkins by revealing to him the state of
our apparel. Incidentally, we arranged to have complete changes of
European clothes sent to us at the khan, so that if it became
necessary we could shift rôles inside the protecting walls of the
great caravanserai.
When the hour came to leave, Wasso Mikali and his young men escorted
Hugh and Watkins through the courtyard, and Nikka and I followed at
some distance. The Gypsies stopped in the gateway, and we strolled
on alone after our friends in the direction of the Bosphorus. We had
walked for upwards of an hour along the narrow lanes, up-hill and
down-hill, elbowing a passage through the sordid stream of life, when
from an elevation we glimpsed the sheen of water, and Hugh, a hundred
feet in front of us, tossed his head as if in invitation to press on.
We accepted the hint, and as they rounded an alley-corner into a
dingy lane that was over-topped midway by a wall of massive Roman
construction we were close at their heels. Now the comedy began.
Hugh played up in great shape. He drew a paper from his pocket, and
affected to stare along the wall. He counted his steps. He looked
around him fearfully. He conferred with Watkins, who manifested even
more uneasiness. It was Watty who looked behind them, and spied us,
peering around a flair of stonework. It was Watty, too, I am bound
to say, who undertook to measure the height of the wall by contrast
with his own stature--at least, he appeared to be doing so.
Afterwards he denied that he had had any thought of this. He was
only trying to get as far away as possible from us--we "fair gave 'im
the creeps."
We slunk into the alley in as hangdog a manner as we could manage.
Watty called Hugh's attention to us, as we thought, with genuine
dramatic art. We heard later that he remarked: "It ain't right, your
ludship, these carryings-on! I don't 'old for me own skin, but
there's Mister Jack and Mister Nikka little knowing what they'll be
getting theirselfs into." To which Hugh says he replied: "Steady on,
old Boot-trees! England expects every man to take his beating."
Anyhow, as Nikka whipped out his knife and ran for them, Watty
squeaked, and lit off with a considerable lead on Hugh. But Hugh
wasted no breath. He sprinted and lunged into Watkins, knocking him
against a house-wall, so that we had time to catch up. And as Hugh
reached the curve of the crescent-shaped street, Nikka overhauled
Watkins and toppled him over with every appearance of ruthless
brutality. In the next moment I added my knife to the picture, and
while I menaced the poor old chap's throat, Nikka scientifically
emptied his pockets and ripped a money-belt from under his clothes.
"Oh, Mister Nikka, sir," moaned Watkins. "Not that, sir. There
wasn't anything said about me belt, sir. Do be careful with that
knife, Mister Jack. It's me throat, sir, if I may say so. Not the
belt, Mister Nikka! Oh, dear, sir, whatever will I do about me
trousers? Torn me apart, you 'ave. Ow!"
This last as Nikka gave every indication of intending to cut his
heart out. There came a yell from Hugh around the corner, and Nikka
bounded to his feet. Between us we hoisted Watkins to his, and
propelled him from us with a couple of really brutal kicks. Collar
torn, jacket scruffed and trousers unbraced, Watkins scudded for that
corner like a swallow on the wing. But we did not wait to watch his
exit. We took to our own heels, and headed in the opposite
direction, hesitated at the far corner, and doubled back to the
closed door that was buried in the high wall of Tokalji's house.
Nikka banged the thick wood with his knife-hilt.
"Who knocks?" rumbled a voice.
"Two who fear the police."
A small wicket opened.
"We want none such here." And to one within: "Be still."
"There is something to be divided," answered Nikka.
"Where do you come from?"
"Salonika--and elsewhere."
"Tziganes both?" And again to one unseen: "I said be still, little
devil."
"My comrade is a Frank--but he is one of us."
A hinge creaked.
"Enter," growled the voice. "Quickly."
The crack was wide enough for one at a time, and we slid through like
shadows, the open leaf slamming behind us. We stood in a large
courtyard. To right and left were solid, timeworn buildings, two
stories high. In front was a broken wall, partially built over by a
structure of moldy brick, but there was a gap sufficiently large to
reveal the Bosphorus. The court was cluttered with bales of goods
and boxes and a number of men and women in Gypsy dress who were
occupied in staring at us.
But we did not spare any protracted attention for them. There were
two far more interesting characters close at hand. One was a
stalwart, black-bearded man, with a seamed, wicked face that wore an
habitual scowl. The other was a girl of perhaps eighteen, whose
lissome figure set off her ragged dress like a Paquin toilette. She
was very brown. Her hair was a tumbled heap of midnight, and her
eyes were great glowing depths of passion. Her shapely legs were
bare almost to the knee, and her flimsy bodice scarcely covered her.
But she carried herself with the unconsciously regal air that I had
noticed in Wasso Mikali.
She regarded me almost with contempt, but her eyes fairly devoured
Nikka.
"This is the one," she cried, "he ran like that stallion we had from
the Arab of Nejd, and you should have seen him strip the old Frank.
He would have had the other one too if his friend had been as swift.
Heh, foster-father, he has the makings of a great thief!"[1]
[1] Nikka afterwards translated these conversations for me.
But the man only glowered at us, his hand on the hilt of one of the
long knives in his waist-sash.
"Be still, girl! You jabber like a crow."
"And you snarl like a wolf, Old One," she retorted. "I say I saw
them."
"Somewhat of it I saw myself," he admitted, "but is that a reason for
taking strangers in from the street? Who knows them?"
"Nobody," answered Nikka promptly. "Only our knives can speak for
us."
"Heh, many a man has a knife that talks!" The fellow's grin was
fiendish. "A talking knife! It says three words." He flashed his
own in the air. "Haugh!" It whistled down in a deadly thrust.
"Sss-sssrr-kk! And it goes home. Drip-drip! And the tale is told.
That is all a knife can say."
And he sheathed his own, still grinning.
"That is why a sure knife is valuable," returned Nikka. "A pistol,
now. That shouts aloud. But a knife only whispers, and if a knife
knows but three words, how many of its masters can have that said of
them?"
"You talk more than most, it seems," leered the bearded man. He was
quick of wit.
"I have said what I have said," stated Nikka, folding his arms. "My
comrade and I are new to Stamboul. We have heard of Beran Tokalji in
many camps. In the winter we were in Paris, the great city of the
Franks, and there, too, men spoke of Tokalji. A great thief, they
said, and one who treated his people well."
"How do you know that I am Tokalji?" demanded the bearded man,
plainly flattered by Nikka's speech.
Of course, Nikka did not know him, but he was quick to seize the
opportunity and make the most of it.
"I have often heard you described around the fires. It was enough to
see the way you handle a knife. 'As sure as the knife of Tokalji' is
the saying all along the road from Salonika to Buda and beyond into
the Frank countries."
"If you knew me and sought my help, was it wise to rob in front of my
door?" countered Tokalji, but the scowl on his face was supplanted by
a smirk.
Nikka affected embarrassment.
"Why, as to that, voivode, there is something to be said," he agreed.
"But we saw the Franks, and their looks spelt gold, and--what would
you? 'Twas a chance. Also, we thought the police would not dare to
touch us here."
"That may be true," Tokalji agreed in his turn. "But there are Frank
soldiers in Pera, and how if they came here to seize you?"
"But the Franks did not see us enter," said Nikka.
The girl thrust herself scornfully to the fore.
"Gabble, gabble, gabble," she mocked. "Are we old wives that we
mouth over everything? These men robbed, they fled unseen, they have
their loot. Foster-father, you are not so keen as you once were.
Something was said of a division."
A greedy light dawned in Tokalji's eyes.
"Yes, yes," he insisted, "that is right. So you said, my lad, and if
you would have shelter you must pay for it."
"So will I."
Nikka flung the money-belt, some loose change and a watch down on the
ground, and squatted beside them. The rest of us did the same. The
girl seized the belt, and emptied the compartments, one by one.
"English gold," she exclaimed. "This was worth taking. You are a
man of judgment, friend-- What is your name?"
"I am called Giorgi Bordu. My friend is named Jakka in the Tzigane
camps. The name he bore in his own country is buried under a
killing."
She looked at me more respectfully.
"Oh-ho, so he has killed, has he?"
"Yes, maiden. He is not a Gypsy, so with the knife--" Nikka
shrugged his shoulders in deprecation--"but with his hands, and the
pistol, now! You should see him when there is quick work to be done."
She began shifting the money into three equal piles.
"Did he have any papers, that Frank?" asked Tokalji abruptly.
"All that he had is there," replied Nikka.
"Humph!" The Gypsy thought for a moment. "It was strange that you
attacked those two, Giorgi Bordu. I do not want them sneaking around
here. They are after something that I want myself."
Nikka, sitting back on his heels, produced his tobacco-box and rolled
a cigarette.
"Perhaps a strange thief and his friend might be of aid to you," he
suggested.
"Perhaps they might. I don't know-- You are smart fellows, I can
see that. And I need men like you. But I am not alone in this.
There are others, do you see? I must consult them. Still, you
should be better than the two I am using just now."
"Are they Tziganes?" inquired Nikka politely.
"Of a sort. But they have lived too long with the Franks. They are
not so ready as they once were, and I find they do not bring me the
information I require. I make no promises, but suppose I--"
The girl screamed, and I twisted on my haunches to see that Nikka had
seized her wrist.
"Let me go, pig," she hissed, and reached for her knife with her free
hand; but Nikka caught that, too.
Tokalji stared at them both unpleasantly.
"What is this?" he barked. "Do you assail my people already before
you are accepted a member of my tribe?"
"I am protecting your purse and mine from this little thief,"
answered Nikka calmly. "While we talked, she stole."
"He lies," spat the girl. "There is the money."
She stretched a slim brown foot toward the three little piles on the
sunken flagstones. Tokalji drew his knife.
"If you take liberties with me I will carve out your bowels," he
warned savagely.
Nikka's reply was to rake open the girl's bodice with his hooked
fingers. A stream of coins tinkled on the pavement. He released
her, and she leaped back out of his reach, staring down at him with a
puzzled look in her eyes, entirely regardless of her nakedness.
Tokalji burst out laughing, and resheathed his knife.
"She is a rare one. You are the first to catch her so."
"And he will be the last!" she said in a low, tense voice.
A wave of color suffused her from breast to forehead. But it was
from rage, not modesty. She ripped a dagger from her waist.
"Now, we shall see if you can fight or only boast," she rasped,
crouching forward.
Nikka shook his head.
"I don't fight with women," he said.
"You'd better fight with her," said Tokalji philosophically, "or she
will kill you. She has a swifter blade than any man of my tribe."
Nikka sank back on his haunches.
"I will not draw my knife," he said.
"Then you will die," she hissed, and charged.
I rose, and made to intervene, but Tokalji drew his knife again and
came between us.
"Let her have her chance, man," he ordered in his snarling voice, and
before I could pass him she struck.
But her knife was stayed in mid air. Nikka's arm darted out, his
fingers clutched her wrist, there was a wrench--and the knife
clattered beside the stolen coins. He forced her down by his side,
picked up the knife and handed it to her. Then turned his back, and
resumed his conversation with Tokalji.
"You were speaking of information you required," he said.
Tokalji eyed him in amazement.
"Do you wear the death-shirt that you care so little for death?" he
asked.
"Death comes when it is ready," returned Nikka impassively. "Is a
man to fear a maiden?"
"Many men fear that maiden," retorted Tokalji grimly. "Heh, you are
a fighter. We will accept your comrade for whatever he is. You I
know I can use. Kara!"
The girl looked at him sullenly.
"Take the strangers to Mother Kathene. Tell her to bed them with the
young men."
She stood up, her half-clad Dryad's body shining a golden bronze hue.
"I am not afraid of you, Giorgi Bordu," she said, humbly fearless.
"You turned aside my knife with your bare hand, and my life is yours.
Will you take it?"
As she spoke, she pulled aside what scanty rags remained of her
bodice, and exposed her breast for his knife. Nikka regarded her
curiously, and a light I had never seen there before gleamed
momentarily in his eyes.
"Your life is your own, maiden," he answered. "But remember I steal
from others. Others do not steal from me."
"That is as it should be," she said. "You are a voivode, a chief. I
knew you were no ordinary man when I saw you hunt down the old Frank
in the street. I said to myself: 'That man is a great thief. He
must be the king of a tribe.' To-night," she added royally, "I will
pay ransom for my life. I will dance for you."
Tokalji emitted a peculiar gurgling sound which was intended for
laughter.
"Heh, Giorgi Bordu, have you by chance been a bear-tamer?" he asked
as he swept up his pile of gold and turned away.