“That night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never
seen before. The desert wine had gone to the lad’s brain. That was
certain. No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice. No
reminiscences of the Oxford ‘High’ clung about the manner. A man sober
and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who
had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day
and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the ‘Rendezvous des
Amis’ that night. I knew in a moment that the aumônier was right, and
that I must get the lad away at once from the intoxicant which nature
poured out over this far-away city. His eyes were shining feverishly,
and when I mentioned Mr. Ruskin in a casual way he looked unutterably
bored.
“‘Ruskin and all those fellows seem awfully slow and out of place
here,’ he exclaimed. ‘One doesn’t want to bother about them in the
Sahara.’
“I changed the subject.
“‘There doesn’t seem very much to see here,’ I said carelessly. ‘We
might get away the day after to-morrow, don’t you think?’
“He drew his brows down.
“‘The horses won’t be sufficiently rested,’ he said curtly.
“‘Oh yes; I fancy they will.’
“‘Well, I don’t fancy I shall. The long ride took it out of me.’
“‘Turn in to-night, then, directly after dinner.’
“He looked at me with sharp suspicion. I met his gaze blandly.
“‘I mean to,’ he said after a short pause.
“I knew he was telling me a lie, but I only said: ‘That’s right!’ and
resolved to keep an eye on him.
“Directly dinner was over he sprang up from the table.
“‘Good-night,’ he said.
“And before I could reply he was out of the _salle-à-manger_; and I
heard him tramp along the brick floor of the passage, go into his room,
and bang the door.
“The aumônier was getting up from his little table, and shaking the
crumbs from his soutane.
“‘You are quite right, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘I must get my friend
away.’
“‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ replied the good priest. ‘But—desert
air, desert air!’
“He shook his head, half wistfully, half laughingly, bowed, put on his
broad-brimmed black hat, and went out.
“After a moment I followed him. I stood in the doorway of the inn, and
lit a cigar. I knew Marnier was not going to bed, and meant to catch
him when he came out, and join him. In common politeness he could
scarcely refuse my company, since he had asked me as a favour to let
him come with me to Beni-Kouidar. I waited, watching the moon rise,
till my cigar was smoked out. Then I lit another. Still he did not
come. I heard the distant throb of tomtoms beyond the Bureau Arabe in
the quarter of the freed negroes. They were having a fantasia. I began
to think that I must have been mistaken, and that Marnier had really
turned in. So much the better. The ash dropped from the stump of my
second cigar, and the deserted camel market was flooded with silver
from the moon-rays. I knew there was only one door to the inn. Slowly I
lit a third cigar.
“A large cloud went over the face of the moon. A gust of wind struck my
face. Suddenly the night had changed. The moon looked forth again, and
was again obscured. A second gust struck me like a blow, and my face
was stung by a multitude of sand grains. I heard steps behind me in the
brick passage, turned swiftly, and saw the landlord.
“‘I must shut the door, m’sieu,’ he said. ‘There’s a bad sandstorm
coming up.’
“As he spoke the wind roared, and over the camel market a thick fog
seemed to fall abruptly. It was a sheet of sand from the surrounding
dunes. I threw away my cigar, stepped into the passage, and the
landlord banged the door, and drove home the heavy bolts.
“Then I went to Marnier’s room, and knocked. I felt sure, but I thought
I would make sure before going to my room.
“No answer.
“I knocked again loudly.
“Again no answer.
“Then I turned the handle, and entered.
“The room was empty. I glanced round quickly. The small window was
open. All the windows of the inn were barred, but, as I learned later,
a bar in Marnier’s had been broken, and was not yet replaced when we
arrived at Beni-Kouidar. In consequence of this it was possible to
squeeze through into the arcade outside. This was what Marnier had
done. My precise, gentlemanly, reserved, and methodical acquaintance
had deliberately given me the slip by sneaking out of a window like a
schoolboy, and creeping round the edge of the inn to the _fosse_ that
lay in the shadow of the sand dunes. As I realised this I realised his
danger.
“I ran to my room, fetched my revolver, slipped it into my pocket, and
hurried to the front door. The landlord heard me trying to undo the
bolts, and came out protesting.
“‘M’sieu cannot go out into the storm.’
“‘I must.’
“‘But m’sieu does not know what Beni-Kouidar is like when the sand
is blown on the wind. It is _enfer_. Besides, it is not safe. In the
darkness m’sieu may receive a _mauvais coup_.’
“‘Make haste, please, and open the door. I am going to fetch my friend.’
“He pulled the bolts, grumbling and swearing, and I went out into
_enfer_. For he was right. A sandstorm at night in Beni-Kouidar is hell.
“Luckily, Safti joined me mysteriously from the deuce knows where, and
we staggered to the dancing-house somehow, and struggled in, blinded,
our faces scored, our clothes heavy with sand, our pockets, our very
boots, weighed down with it.
“The tomtoms were roaring, the pipe was yelling, blown by the frantic
demon with his hood full of latch keys, the impassible, bearded faces
were watching the painted women who, in their red garments and their
golden crowns, promenaded down the earthen floor, between the divans,
fluttering their dyed fingers, smiling grotesquely like idols, bending
forward their greasy foreheads to receive the tribute of their admirers.
“I ran my eyes swiftly over the mob. Marnier was not in it. I pushed my
way towards the doorway on the left which gave on to the court of the
dancers.
“Safti caught hold of my arm.
“‘It is not safe to go in there on such a night, Sidi. There are no
lamps. It is black as a tomb. And no one can tell who may be there.
Nomads, perhaps, men of evil from the south. Many murders have been
done in the court on black nights, and no one can say who has done
them. For all the time men go in and out to the rooms of the dancers.’
“‘Nevertheless, Safti, I must⸺’
“I stopped speaking, for at this moment Batouch, the brother of the
Caïd of Beni-Kouidar, came slowly in through the doorway from the
blackness of the sand-swept court. There was a strange smile on his
handsome face, and he was caressing his black beard gently with one
delicate hand. He saw me, smiled more till I caught the gleam of his
white teeth, passed on into the dancing-house, sat down on a divan, and
called for coffee. I could not take my eyes from him. Every movement
he made fascinated me. He drew from his pale blue robe a silver box,
opened it, lifted out a pinch of tobacco, and began carefully to roll a
cigarette. And all the time he smiled.
“A glacial cold crept over my body. As he lit his cigarette I caught
hold of Safti, and hurried through the doorway into the blackness of
the whirling sand.”
* * * * *
Here I stopped.
“Well?” said young England. “Well?”
The doctor did not speak.
“Well,” I answered. “Algia danced that night. While she was dancing
we found a dead body in the court. It was Marnier’s. A knife had been
thrust into him from behind!”
“Ah!” said the doctor.
“But—” exclaimed young England, “it was that fellow? It was Batouch?”