"The name of Forbes is common enough in your North Britain--the name
of Forbis sufficiently unusual, to put me on the scent. And--one
looks for the lady in these affairs!" purred Essenian, as he left the
house in the Rue el Farad with John Hazel--profiting by the coolness
of the evening to walk to the Aviators' Club. "Let me add, your
taste is unimpeachable. I have never seen a handsomer Englishwoman
than your friend."
Now he pursued, in his smooth, book-learned English, drawing out a
platinum cigarette case--opening and offering it to John:
"Take one. The Macedonian leaf failed last year, but not so the
crops of Shiraz, grown and ripened side by side with the
purple-petalled afiyûn. You perhaps may not know this Club..." he
added a little later, as they entered the wide, cool vestibule of a
handsome granite building in Sherif Pasha Street. "No! Well, I
anticipated you would not! ... Originally an association of mere
amateur civilians, meeting periodically to exchange experiences--the
Club has become,--since Government took over our aërodrome and
hangars--you know them!--near the Water Works due east of Aboukir
Road--a resort for Flying Officers of all grades and branches of the
Service.... Since then, if much more social--we are a damnable lot
more noisy and a good deal less exclusive.... Still, our Club
remains distinguished by its European comfort, and its excellent
_cuisine_!"
The dining-room into which a demure Levantine waiter ushered Essenian
and his companion, was perfectly ventilated by electric appliances,
and open along the whole of one side towards a sanded court
containing a fountain, a great many long cane-chairs and several
palms; and of the many small tables dotted over the spotless matting
covering the floor, the majority were empty, though apparently
reserved for diners. A few were already occupied. With the men who
sat at them,--officers of the R.F.C. from the land-stations in the
neighbourhood, and others of the R.N.A.S. from the sea-plane-stations
at Ramleh, Port Said, Wara in the Delta,--and the seaplane-carrier
anchored at the moment in the Port, Essenian exchanged nods and
salutes of smiling courtesy. Several of the younger men stood up to
greet him--though none approached the table where the Egyptian airman
sat with a long-legged private of Territorials, wearing the badges of
a London Regiment....
The temperature of the room approximated to that of London in July,
thanks to the incessant movement of the wooden ceiling-fans. The
dinner began excellently, with _hors d'œuvres_ of giant prawns,
miniature cucumbers and fresh olives, and a shell-fish of delicate
flavour, served on miniature mountains of finely pounded ice. A
Comet hock accompanied, and a clear soup was succeeded by a _turban
de turbot_, perfectly cooked, and a curry of tiny whitebait-like fish
from the Canal.
Roast lamb and duckling followed, both of remarkable succulence, and
John Hazel, who had lived for weeks on bully-beef and onions, tough
Palestine goat-mutton, and slabby rice-pudding speckled with the
bodies of defunct flies,--having--in the unavoidable absence of
these--cheerfully battened on iron rations, the bottom of a tin of
jam and a handful of sticky dates,--yielded now to the immemorial
allure of the Egyptian fleshpots; and attacking dish after dish with
the ferocity of an ogre, slaked his huge thirst with repeated
draughts of the well-iced champagne supplied....
The magnificent red roses massed in a crystal and silver rose-bowl in
the centre of their table, and the gratification of satisfying the
hunger that raged in him, prevented him from grasping a fact to which
he awakened later,--when quail from Upper Egypt with egg-plant and
quince salad, and snipe from the marshes of the Delta succeeded the
lamb and duckling, and he paused to gather breath.... For Essenian
sat smiling on the other side of the roses, before unused cutlery and
silver, and an array of wine-glasses innocent of wine.
"My hat! Pasha, what must you think of me?" John began, nearly
dropping the fork and spoon that were lifting a plump quail from the
offered dish: "This ain't your Ramadan, is it, by any chance? No, of
course, that comes in May. Has anything put you off your feed, or
don't you ever eat?"
"Have no anxiety on my account, my King of Damascus," returned
Essenian, narrowing his long eyes as he smiled upon his guest: "I am
well, and that I continue so, I owe to precautions which may seem
absurd to you. But every advantage we enjoy in this world has to be
purchased--and I purchase vigour and health at the expense of my
appetite.... Pray do justice to the quail, while I follow my usual
rule."
He clapped his hands, and an Egyptian body-servant, who had stood
immovable in the background, holding a silver tray, moved noiselessly
forwards and set before Essenian a goblet of crystal and a
long-necked crystal beaker;--together with some small covered dishes
of delicate porcelain, revealing when the covers were lifted--nothing
beyond a few fresh dates, a small, snow-white cream cheese, and a
delicate napkin, enveloping a round cake of bread.
"Distilled water and freshly-gathered fruit, with bread of the purest
sesame-flour.... Of these, in limited quantity, I may eat twice in
the day. Preferably, at dawn, and after sunset; though by religion I
am no more Moslem than I am a Christian," said Essenian, daintily
filling the crystal goblet, "or a Parsi, or a Hindu, or a Buddhist,
or a Jew...." He broke bread.... "What is this? ..." He turned
with feline suddenness on the dusky servant who stood behind him, and
said harshly, speaking in Arabic: "There is error! The sesame has
been mingled with wheaten-flour. It is impure.... I cannot eat of
it! ... Take it away at once...."
"_La yâ Sidi--Allâh yisallimak!_" the man protested, paling under his
chocolate skin.
But Essenian had sniffed the bread-cake remotely and delicately as a
fox might sniff at some slily-poisoned titbit, and now replaced it on
the dish, and thrust the dish away....
"Carry it to the cook and inquire into the matter!" He said to
Hazel, as the servant removed the dish and vanished straightway: "Do
not be disturbed on my account! To one so well schooled in
abstinence as myself, it would matter little if the meal consisted
only of dates. Mixed in a draught of this pure water, a few drops of
an excellent tonic (to the virtues of which I am a living testimony)
will more than supply the deficiency.... Meanwhile, do not neglect
our _chef's_ excellent _omelette soufflée_. Or the _bombe glace_ of
custard-apple on which he prides himself.... And then--since I know
better than to offer cheese to a man who has been 'fed to the wide,'
with that as an article of Army rations,--I will join you in a cup of
Arabian coffee, black, thick and bitter as the nectar of Mocha should
be."
He took from a front pocket of his Service jacket a little case of
shining yellow metal, and opening it, showed three slender crystal
vials, reposing in a velvet bed. He unstoppered one,--tinging the
air laden with the savour of meats and viands--with a whiff of
something delicately pungent--rather suggesting the fragrance of
lemon-plant to John.... Then with dainty, scrupulous care, he
dropped seven drops into the goblet of distilled water; re-stoppered
the vial, wiped the lip with a green leaf, returned the vial to its
bed, and pocketed the case,--watching through narrowed eyelids the
turbid changes taking place in the clear liquid, until as it deepened
from cloudy red to clearest ruby, he glanced across the rose-bowl to
encounter Hazel's eyes....
"A pretty colour, is it not?" he said critically, holding up the
goblet. "Now I will drink, and you must join me. I hope you do not
find fault with our Club champagne? ..." He continued, signing to
the attendant, who stood ready with another napkined bottle: "That
you have been drinking came from von Falkenhayn's Headquarters in
Transylvania,--when we bombed him out of them in the summer of
1916.... That defeat of the Vulkan Pass must have been a crushing
blow to the Emperor's magnificent favourite,--coming after the
tremendous failure of the Second Attack on Verdun."
To the rout of the Vulkan Pass, John knew, Essenian's prowess had
contributed. When Roumania had joined the Allies in the August of
1916, and massed her Army on the Carpathian frontier for an invasion
of Transylvania, Essenian had acted as Wing Commander of a squadron
of Allied Aircraft, acting in concert with a Roumanian Army
Corps,--and for his services had been distinguished with the Order of
the Roumanian Crown. At Salonika, later on,--for the first time
meeting Essenian--John had encountered the French observer who had
accompanied the Egyptian's flights.
"They are greatly strong in artillery, the Austro-Germans of von
Falkenhayn! ... We are not so.... The Roumanians are only strong in
men. As we march on they retreat,--for two weeks it is a triumph....
Then their von Falkenhayn gives the signal, and their guns begin to
play on us.... I who speak have been under fire!--was I not in the
advanced trenches at Verdun with my storming-party, before I joined
the _Service Aëronautique_! But this was super-gunnery--a torrent of
steel and fire and German High Explosive, sweeping--as with the
Devil's broom--the mountain-passes clear! All through October
continues the fight--every day we are flying! In fog, and rain--zut!
rain of shrapnel and fog of poison-gas--we never cease to fly....
When we are not observing--we are bombing! Or making more rain on
the Austro-German Divisions--a rain of steel _flechettes_! Me, I am
no coward! but whenever M. Essenian Pasha says to me: 'Prunier, this,
day or night, my friend, you accompany me in my _avion_....' I say
to myself as we used to say with my storming-party at Verdun: '_Ça va
barda, mon ami! Prepare ton matricule!_' For M. le Major will fly
with a broken wing, or a bullet through the petrol-tank, and all the
juice running! ... _C'est un as!_ ... He puts in me the fear of
God--that man who has none at all! ..."
Meanwhile Essenian ate of dates and cheese sparingly, sipped his
tonic drink appreciatively, and waited for the man on the other side
of the crimson roses to talk.
"Here is the port." He added as the servant filled Hazel's glass
from a cobwebbed and ancient-looking bottle: "Don't drink yet. Let
us follow the ancient fashion, the first glass of the bottle to a
lady's health! ... I propose: 'The beautiful Miss Forbis! ...' What,
do you break the glass?"--for John had nodded, and his huge brown
fingers had snapped the stem of the wineglass like a match-stick as
they set it, emptied, down. "Take a fresh one,--finish the
bottle,--and meanwhile try those cheroots.... Or the
others--excellent Havanas, though I smoke cigarettes for my own part,
or else the water-pipe--our Egyptian _ârgili_. Ah, here is the
coffee," said Essenian pleasantly, as the Egyptian servant previously
dismissed, re-appeared at his elbow with another tray. "Black as the
eyes and perfumed as the breath of the brides who lead the sons of
Islam into the green pavilions of Paradise. Though," he smiled
amiably at John over the cigarette he was lighting, as the attendant
removed the empty bottle and placed a flask of Benedictine with the
coffee beside the guest--"your personal predilection leans to
something statelier and less seductive than the gazelle-eyed,
moon-faced _haura_ of the glorious Koran.... What says our Saadi:
'The tresses of Beautiful Ones are chains upon the Feet of Prudence,
and a snare upon the wings of the Bird of Wisdom..... We Easterners
hardly credit the existence of Friendship between those of opposite
sexes," pursued the Egyptian, letting the sentences trickle over his
smooth lips as though they had been honey, "and yet, subsisting
between an intellectual man, and a mentally-superior woman, it may be
productive of more lasting gratification than the merely sensual tie."
"What are you getting at, Essenian Pasha?" asked his guest, bluntly.
Essenian had paused as though inviting a reply, and this was the
response forthcoming. A faint line showed between his smooth black
eyebrows and his tones were less sweet and liquid as he resumed:
"But this,--that such a union between man and woman might lead to
great discoveries--in those psychological regions which we are
beginning to explore. Two such adventurers, mutually keen, mutually
gifted with spiritual perception, bound by sympathies unblunted by
the earthly passion of love, might pass back along paths long buried
beneath the _débris_ of extinct civilisations--trodden by the
footsteps of generations who went before them, to the furthermost
limits of the Mysterious Unknown."
He waited. This latest opening proved no whit more successful than
others previously given. John Hazel continued to drink, and smoke,
and answered nothing. To pry out the diamond hidden in this lump of
living clay,--to wrench open the rugged valves of this human mollusc
housing the pearl of priceless knowledge,--was going to be more
difficult than Essenian had thought....
"Your friend, Miss Forbis," he resumed, and now the heavy eyes were
on him, "strikes me as possessing an unusual degree of psychic force
and energy, in combination with her remarkable physical beauty and
charm. That she is less handsome than her brother, one would be
disinclined to credit, were her own testimony not corroborated by the
evidence of T.R.S. 43."
"And who might the gentleman you mention be, and what the--what does
he know about it?" demanded John Hazel, regarding his host with a
decided scowl, and speaking in an aggressive tone.
"T.R.S. is a Turkish Renegade Spy whom I recently met and interviewed
at the B.S.I. Office Ismailia," returned Essenian smoothly, "on a
subject of vital interest to your attractive English friend....
'Describe,' I said, 'this British priest who lies in prison at
Shechem,' and the man answered '_Mashallah!_' Describe the Archangel
Jibrail when he came from the Ninth Heaven to announce to Mary the
Pure One the Miraculous Birth of the Messiah--between Whom and the
touch of Satan, at the moment of His Nativity--the Lord of Creation
interposed a veil!' He was quite serious--Turks are idolaters of
physical perfection.... Incidentally, he wound up with a few details
concerning the--disposition, and predilections distinguishing the
Turkish Lieutenant-General of gendarmerie who is at present
Commandant of the Prison Camp at Shechem,--which throw a rather lurid
light upon the conditions there...."
He chafed his delicate finger-tips softly against each other as he
leaned both elbows on the cloth and smiled over the roses into
Hazel's gloomy eyes.
"Hamid is a--let us say a protégé of the notorious Djemal Pasha, once
Turkish Minister of Marine--now Commander of the Fourth and Eighth
Turkish Army Corps. Of mean birth, a Turk from Crete--he bids fair
to out-Djemal Djemal.... I need not remind you that Crete is--the
country of the Minotaur! ..."
The speaker's beryl eyes shone green in the light of the electric
globe-lamps. His voice had a little poisonous hiss through its
delicate silkiness.
"Since the prison camps of Beersheba were shifted to Shechem, their
Commandant has a narrower field for the exercise of his peculiar
bent.... According to my Turkish spy, he has what you would call 'a
down' upon your friend's brother,--whose refusal to be removed from
the Barracks to the wired camp set apart for the officer-prisoners
has offended the Bey.... Perhaps the presence of the priest is a
check upon his usage of the soldiers, whom Father Forbis nurses in
fever and other sickness, and for whom he has obtained consular funds
for the purchase of medicines, charcoal for fires, meat for broth,
and so on...."
He satisfied himself by a swift glance that John was absorbed in
listening, and resumed: "Turks are--Turks!" He made as though to
spit, but checked himself, and went on: "You have said to me: 'We
Hazaëls have an old score to settle up with Hamid....' Two years
have not changed the Bey. He is still the Minotaur! ... And unless
Fortune, or," he shrugged "the favour of Heaven, operate in the
interests of this brother of your friend, his may yet be the fate
from which self-slaughter saved your Cousin Jacob--Catholics being
forbidden that last resource of the desperate.... Escape from
torture or degradation by the Gate of Suicide...."