THE CAFÉ OF ABDULLAH
"Well--you got away from them all right?" began the man with the green
turban when, according to his roundabout instructions, I met him an
hour later at the café he had named, one of the principal resorts of
Cairo, where Europeans can consort with natives without attracting
remark.
"The real dragoman came and took them off my hands--at least the realer
one than you--a dreadful creature with a game eye, who murdered your
messenger last night, and gave me your letter and induced the ladies to
engage him on the strength of it. No wonder they want a 'looker' to
take the taste of him out of their mouths. And you certainly are a
'looker' in that get-up. Now kindly tell me all about it, and
everything else."
"That's what I'm here for," said Anthony, running a match-box to earth
in some mysterious Arab pocket. "But hold on, Duffer. Something you
said just then may be important. Is it true that my messenger didn't
give you the letter?"
"If you'd hung about Shepheard's Hotel ten minutes longer, you'd have
seen the fellow who did give it. Bedr el Gemály he calls himself
--Armenian Mussulman, a sickening combination, and an awful brute to look
at--said your messenger was taken suddenly ill; pretends to be a
dragoman."
"What is he like?"
"Rather like a partially decayed but decently dressed goat."
"Don't rot. This may be serious."
I described Bedr el Gemály as best I could, feature by feature. When I
had polished them off, Anthony shook his green-turbaned head. "No
portrait of him in my rogues' gallery. Just now, I'm sensitive about
spies--over-sensitive rather. Of course, you've spotted my game?"
"I confess I was conceited enough to think you'd given yourself all
this trouble with the costumier in order to take a rise out of me. But
when you speak of spies, I begin to put two and two together--your
business in Cairo--the powers that be, keeping you from me last night,
etc. I suppose it's an official job, this fancy dress affair?"
"Yes. In my own capacity, I'm not in Cairo. I turned up day before
yesterday, jolly glad to get back from Adrianople--though it was good
fun there, I can tell you, for a while; and I looked forward to
wallowing no end in the alleged delights of civilization. I reported
myself, and all seemed well. I took a room at Shepheard's where you and
I had arranged to meet, and when I'd scrubbed, I strolled over to the
Turf Club to see what the gay world would have to say to a fellow in
disgrace."
"Only silly asses swallowed that newspaper spoof! Every one in London
who knows anything about you was betting his boots that the story had
been spread on purpose to save our face with Turkey." I couldn't resist
interrupting his narrative to this extent. But Anthony merely smiled,
and watched a long-lived smokering settle like a halo over the head of
an Arab at the nearest table. He was not giving away official secrets,
but I was sure and always had been sure that he was a martyr, not a
rebel, in the matter of the Balkan incident, just closed. What the
public were led to suppose was this: that Captain Fenton had asked for
two months' leave from regimental duty at Khartum, in order to spend
the time with a relative who was seriously ill in Constantinople. That
instead of remaining at his relative's bedside, he had used his leave
for a dash to the Balkans. That this indiscretion might have been kept
a secret had he not capped it with another: a flight with a Greek
officer in an army aeroplane which had ended by crashing down in the
midst of a Turkish encampment.
What I and friends who knew him best supposed, was that the "leave" had
been a pretext--that Fenton had been sent on a secret mission of some
sort--and that he was bound to take the blame if anything went wrong.
Aeroplanes have the habits of other fierce, untamed animals: they won't
always obey their trainers. Thus Anthony and his plan had both been
upset. (Or had it really been premeditated that he should fall into
that camp?) The remainder of his "leave" was cancelled, in punishment,
and he had been "recalled" to Egypt, to be scolded in Cairo before
proceeding to Khartum.
"Queer how many silly asses one knows!" Anthony said. "Still,
considering what a mess I seem to have made of things, fellows were
jolly kind, at the Turf Club. Nobody cut me, and only a few let me
alone. Maybe there'd have been still fewer if there hadn't been a hero
present who claimed attention: an American chap, Jack Dennis, who knows
Miss Gilder and was telling the good news that she was on her way to
Egypt. He called her the Gilded Rose and said it was going to be a good
flower season in Cairo and up the Nile. All the men with one exception
seemed to have heard a lot about her and to find her an interesting
subject, and to want Dennis to introduce them."
"I can guess the 'one exception'!" said I.
"Can you? Well, I don't read newspaper gossip about heiresses. Thank
heaven, I've something better to do with my time. But the others wanted
to meet her, or pretended to, perhaps to chaff Dennis, rather a cocky
youth, though I oughtn't to say so, as he was nice to me, according to
his lights. He got Sam Blake to introduce us, when he happened to hear
my name, and went out of his way to pay me compliments, which I daresay
he thought I'd like. When there was a lull in the discussion of what
could be done to make Miss Gilder enjoy herself in Egypt--chaps
suggesting trips in their motor cars or on their camels and a lot of
rot, Dennis remarked that I was the only man who hadn't chipped into
the conversation. And hadn't I any ideas for entertaining the Golden
Girl? Naturally I said that I didn't know who she was and had never
heard of her, and even if I had, entertaining girls wasn't in my line.
They all roared, and Dennis wouldn't believe at first that I didn't
know of such an important person's existence; but the other men rotted
a bit, and described me to him according to their notions of me. So he
let me alone on the subject; and having plenty of other things to think
of, I forgot all about it till the lady in question introduced herself
this morning. Then--well, it struck me as rather amusing at first that
I, the only one in the crowd who hadn't made plans to get at her,
should have her trying to get at me. That was partly why I came up on
the terrace when she beckoned."
"Partly? For purely intellectual reasons I'm curious to know the rest.
I suppose it had nothing to do with her looks?"
"As it happened, my cynical friend, it hadn't. I've got eyes in my head
and I could see she was pretty, very pretty, though not my ideal type
at all. That little sprite of a woman in fawn colour, the one with
green eyes and a lot of black lashes, is more what I'd fall in love
with if I were frivolous. But apart from the funny side of my meeting
with Miss Golder, or Gilder, it popped into my head that I might make
her a victim in a certain cause. Don't ask me to explain yet, because
there are a lot of things that have got to be explained first, or you
couldn't understand. You were right, of course, when you thought I'd
stationed myself in front of Shepheard's to take a rise out of you. I
gave up my room there yesterday, for reasons I'll tell you. But I knew
you'd be in the hotel, and that you'd be bound to show yourself on the
terrace, in order to go out. I wanted to see if you'd recognize me, and
to have a little fun with you if you didn't. By the way, I'm not
pleased that you did. It's a poor compliment to my make-up, which I may
tell you has been warmly praised in high quarters!" "Well, you see," I
apologized, "I knew you were a nailer at that sort of thing, or you
would never have got to Mecca, and earned your green turban. I knew
you'd been pretty often called upon to disguise yourself and go about
among the natives for one thing or another. And besides, we were chums
before you had the shadow of a moustache, so I have an advantage over
the other Sherlock Holmeses! But even as it was, I couldn't be sure at
first. You must have got some fun out of my expression."
"I did. I took revenge on you for recognizing me by tormenting you as
far as I dared. Dear old boy, I knew you'd see me through to the end,
bitter or sweet!"
"Which was it?" I inquired.
"Mixed. The girl riled me, rather, so much so that I definitely decided
it would be fair play to make use of her as a cat's-paw. But it depends
on you, whether she's to lose or win her bet."
"If she loses, I get her hat. If she wins, I've engaged myself to
procure for her--your green turban."
"Did you think you could, without my consent?"
"No. I distinctly thought I couldn't. But I would have been willing to
bet the head in the turban, served up on a charger, so sure I was that
you'd refuse to come near her. I thought I knew you _au fond_, you
see."
"You do. I haven't changed. But--circumstances have changed. And that
brings me near to the stage of this business which concerns you and me.
First, before I go further though, I'll tell you a part of the reason
why I'm sporting the green turban. There's been the dickens to pay
here, about a new street that had to be made; an immensely important
and necessary street. Well, they couldn't make it, because the tomb of
a popular saint or sheikh was in the way. To move the body or even
disturb a saint's tomb would mean no end of a row. You remember or have
read enough about Mohammedans to know that. What to do, was the
question. Nobody'd been able to answer it till yesterday, when the
sight of me reminded them of a trick or two I'd brought off some time
ago, by disguising myself and hanging about the cafés. They wanted me
to try it again. Consequently Captain A. Fenton received a telegram and
had to leave Cairo at once on business. He gave up his room at
Shepheard's, and the only regrettable thing to the official mind is,
that the fellow'd been seen about town even for an hour. However, it
couldn't be helped. Luckily Ahmed Antoun is not unknown in Cairo cafés.
He's made quite an impression upon the public on several occasions
since his pilgrimage to Mecca, two years ago. And since yesterday
afternoon, he's been drinking enough coffee to give him jaundice, while
casually spreading the story of a dream he had. Our friend the Hadji
related how he had slept in the mosque of Ibn Tulun after the noon
hour, and dreamed of the sheikh whose tomb is so inconveniently placed.
In the dream, the saint clamoured to have his tomb moved on account of
a bad smell of drainage which he considers an insult to his own memory.
Also dogs have taken to howling round his resting-place at night, and
you know that to the true believer a dog is an unclean animal. Except
for hunting purposes, or watch-dogging in various branches, good
Mohammedans class dogs and Christians together in their mind. Well,
already the Hadji's dream is working like yeast. The news of it is
being carried from one café to another; and I hope that a few more
nights' work will do the trick. The votaries of the saint will get up a
petition to have his body moved. When it has found another abode, the
making of the new thoroughfare will be suggested."
"Very neat! I see it all, except the connection with Miss Gilder. What
has your saint got to do with her?"
"Very little, I should say, by the look in her eyes. But though a green
turban's as good as an heirloom, and extorts respect wherever it goes,
even a Hadji may have jealous detractors. I have mine. Another green
turban in this town, whose genuineness is doubted for some obscure
reason or other, has sneered at my dream."
"I say! That sounds as if you might be in danger. If one man suspects
you to-day, to-morrow------"
"Oh, it's only the dream he suspects--at present. I know all the little
prayer tricks so well, and I've invented my own history so ingeniously,
with a _patois_ to match my province, that I shall get through this
incident as I have through others of the sort. There's only one hole in
my jebbah. Last night, when my rival sprang a sudden question as to
what I was doing in Cairo (I'm supposed to be a Luxor man), on the spur
of the moment I replied that I was acting as dragoman to a rich family
of tourists. On that, the brute inquired with honeyed accents where
they were staying. I said Shepheard's, because I expected you to be
there, and thought if I were followed, you might be useful as a dummy."
"Ah, that's where Miss Gilder comes in? A gilded gingerbread lamb,
ready for the sacrifice. Why didn't you accept her offer at once, as
she seemed so providential?" "I'm coming to that. It sounds
complicated, but it isn't. For one thing, though, it may be well to
wait and find out a little more about that goat-eyed Armenian of
yours."
"He isn't mine. He's--".
"I want to know for certain whose he is. If he has anything to do with
my rival Hadji, there's more venom and wit inside that green turban
than I've given it credit for. Is there a reason, by the way, except
their riches, why one should want to 'get at' a member of the American
party?"
"By Jove!" said I, as if I had been pinched--for there was a sharp nip
in the thought Anthony's question jabbed into my mind. I had disliked
and distrusted Bedr el Gemály, but I had associated my distaste for him
with Fenton's affairs. It had not occurred to me that Biddy's fears
meant more than a nervous woman's vague forebodings. During the few
hideous years of hide-and-seek she had passed in trying to protect the
traitor, Richard O'Brien, she had no doubt had real enough reason to
dread a spy in every stranger; but I had cheerfully advised her "not to
be morbid" when she spoke of herself as a dangerous companion, or
stopped me with a gasp in the midst of what seemed an innocent question
about her stepdaughter. Could it be possible that her alarms might
after all be justified, and that the powerful association betrayed by
O'Brien would visit his sins on his widow and daughter? That American
accent of Gemály's! He admitted having been in New York. Of course, he
had made acquaintances there. My thoughts flashed back to the meeting
at the railway train. Could the fellow have found out in advance that I
was with Mrs. O'Brien, [alias Jones] and her friends? It seemed as if
such knowledge could have reached land ahead of us only by miracle. But
there was always Marconi. Perhaps news of Miss Gilder had been sent by
wireless to Alexandria, with our humbler names starred as satellites of
that bright planet. If this were so, Bedr, instructed from afar to
watch Richard O'Brien's widow, might easily have been clever enough to
suborn a messenger waiting for one Ernest Borrow.
"What are you mumbling about?" Anthony wanted to know, when I forgot to
answer. "Have I put some idea that you don't like into your head?"
"I was turning your question over in it," I explained, "and wondering
what to answer. Of course, Miss Gilder's rather important, and I
believe her father's obsession used to be when she was a child, that
she'd be kidnapped for ransom. The 'little sprite of a woman' you
admire so much, knew the Gilders in those days. She says that the
unfortunate baby used to be dragged about in a kind of caged
perambulator, and that some of her nurses were female detectives in
disguise, with revolvers under their white aprons. No wonder the girl
revels in emancipation and travel! I should think, now she's grown up
to twenty-one years and five foot eight or nine of height, without
being kidnapped, there's not much danger so long as she keeps in the
boundaries of civilization. Still, one never knows, in such a queer
world as ours, where newspapers live on happenings we'd laugh to scorn
if they came out of novel writers' brains."
"That's the only incentive you can suggest for spying, unconnected with
my affairs?"
I hesitated, for Biddy's secret was not my secret, and it seemed that I
had no right to pass it on, even to my best friend. I must ask Biddy's
permission before telling Fenton that Mrs. Jones was the widow of the
informer Richard O'Brien; that she feared over-subtlety on the part of
the enemy might confuse her girl travelling companion with Esmé
O'Brien, hidden in a convent school near Monaco. "It's just credible
that there may be other incentives," I said. "But I must confess, I'd
rather believe that Armenian spies were on the track of Ahmed Antoun,
who can take care of himself, than after poor Miss Gilder or--any of
her party."
"What's the name of the laughing sprite?" suddenly asked Fenton.
"Mrs.--er--Jones. Brigit Jones."
"Where's her husband?"
"In his grave."
"Oh! Well, his widow looks ready to bubble over with the joy of life,
so I suppose we can't associate spies or anything shady with her?
That's too much to hope for?"
"Why to 'hope' for?"
"It would make her too interesting."
"Look here, my dear fellow, you can't have them both!"
The dark eyes of Antoun lit with a spark of surprise and laughter. "I
don't want either, thanks. I admire flowers, but I never gather them. I
leave them growing. However, you might tell me which one you want for
your own buttonhole?" "Really, I don't know," I mumbled, taken aback.
"All I do know is, it's not likely I can get either."
Anthony stared at me with a curious expression, then abruptly changed
the subject. "You've heard of Sir Marcus Lark?" he asked.
"Of course," said I, surprised at this question sandwiched into our
affairs. Sir Marcus Lark is a man who has had his finger in many pies,
but I didn't see how he could poke one into ours. Everybody knows Sir
M. A. Lark, given a baronetcy by the Radicals some years ago in return
for services to the party--starting and running a newspaper which must
have cost him fifty thousand pounds before it began to pay. He has
financed theatres, and vegetarian restaurants; he owns cocoa
plantations and factories, and a garden city; he has a racing yacht
which once beat the German Emperor's; he owns two hotels; he has
written a book of travel; his name as a director is sought by financial
companies; he has lent money to a distressed South American government
in the making; and though the success of his enterprises has sometimes
hung in the balance for months or years, his wonderful luck seems
invariably to triumph in the end; so much so, that "Lark's Luck" has
become a well-known heading for newspaper columns, in the middle of
which his photograph is inset. At the mention of his name, the oft-seen
picture rose before my eyes--a big man, anywhere between thirty-six and
fifty--good head, large forehead, curly hair, kind eyes, pugnacious
nose, conceited smile under waxed moustache, heavy jaw, unconquerable
chin, and prize-fighter's neck and shoulders. "What has Sir Marcus Lark
to do with us?" "He's in Egypt--in Cairo just now; and--he's got our
mountain."
"Good heavens!" I stared blankly at Anthony, seeing not his dark face
under the green turban, but that everlasting, ever-smiling newspaper
block portrait. Down toppled our castle in the air, Anthony's and
mine--the shining castle which had been the lodestone of my journey to
Egypt, the secret hope and romance of our two lives, for all those
months since Anthony first read the Ferlini papers and began
negotiations with the Egyptian Government.
"It's all up then," I said, when I felt that I could speak without
betraying palsy of the jaw. "We're done!"
"I'm not sure of that," Fenton answered. "If I had been, I shouldn't
have broken the news so brutally. It's on the cards that we may be able
to bring the thing off yet."
"But how, if that bounder has got the place for himself? He must have
found out the truth about it somehow, or he wouldn't have bothered. And
if he knows what we know--or think we know--he certainly won't give up
to us what he's grabbed for himself. A beastly shame we should have
been let in like this, after being given to understand that it would be
all right."
"Lark must have had a pull of some sort, I haven't learned what; but I
will. The one hope is, that he hasn't stumbled onto the secret."
"What! You think he hit on our pitch by a mere coincidence--an
accident?"
"No. There's not a shadow of doubt that he had a special motive for
wanting _our_ mountain and no other." "Have you formed an idea what the
motive is, if not the same as ours?"
"I've heard his version from his own lips. It's rather astounding. And
I want you to hear it from him, too."
"You've met him!"
"Yesterday at Shepheard's, before I went in for this dressing-up
business. Lark heard I had wired for a room at the hotel, and was lying
in wait for me on the terrace when I got back from the Agency. We had a
talk. I'd heard just before, the news about the mountain. But he
explained. Now he wants to see you. He's got something special to say,
and I've made an appointment for you with him at two o'clock."