AN OILED HAND
That is where my diary of the desert stopped; for the adventure that
ended our trip was not of the sort that mixes well with tragedies of
lambs.
Before dinner Monny had apologized for refusing my handkerchief, I
really believe because she was sorry she had misunderstood, _not_
because the rain had leaked through her tent, and she wanted me to give
her mine. In fact, she and Biddy refused pointblank at first when
Anthony and I suggested the change. They would not have told us that
the water had come in on their beds if they had thought we would
suggest such a thing. All they wished for was to have the tent-roof
somehow mended before matters got worse. But we insisted, especially
Fenton; and he is difficult to disobey. A look from him, and a drawing
together of the black eyebrows has the same effect on the mind of a
rebellious woman as an "Off with her head!" from an Arabian Nights
Sultan, while I might vainly exert my ingenuity to achieve the result
he gets by sheer mysterious magnetism.
It was bedtime when the leak showed itself, but the change of quarters
was accomplished with military quickness and precision, as Fenton's
undertakings generally are; and almost before they knew what had
happened, Monny and Brigit, who had been tent-mates during the tour,
found themselves transferred bag and baggage to our tent, with the last
clean sheets in the bedroom-Arab's possession.
Transferred, we set ourselves to making repairs, and soon patched up
the leaks. Rain at this season comes so rarely, it was not surprising
that a stitch or two had been neglected.
Only the pillows and upper blankets had had time to get wet, and we had
but to remove the coverings and turn the pillows. We both did this
simultaneously, and simultaneously exclaimed "Hullo!"
"They've left their treasures" said Anthony, not with quite the
masculine scorn of feminine weaknesses I was used to noticing in him.
Indeed, he spoke almost tenderly, as a father might speak at finding
the forgotten doll of an absent child.
Each of us stood with a wet pillow in his hand, gazing at his borrowed
bunk. In the one I had selected, lay a small chamois-skin bag, attached
to a narrow pink ribbon. In the bed chosen by Fenton, was a tiny white
enamelled watch, on a platinum chain. Both these things had been
covered by their respective owners' pillows, and forgotten in the hasty
change of quarters. The watch was Monny's. She wore it round her neck
every day--therefore the chamois-skin bag on the other bed must be
Brigit's. I told myself that in it she probably kept her pathetic store
of money, hidden under her bodice by day, her pillow by night; and
beholding this intimate souvenir of my childhood's friend, my heart
yearned over her.
"Too late to rouse them up now," said Anthony.
"Yes," said I. "We must have been twenty minutes or half an hour
getting the roof to rights. They may be asleep, and if not, they won't
worry anyhow. They'll know that their things are safe till to-morrow
morning."
Fenton agreed with this verdict, and each keeping charge of his own
treasure trove, we went to bed and to sleep.
I am a champion dreamer. So much so, that I often find the life of
dreamland rivalling in interest the life this side of sleep. I look
forward to my dreams, as some people look forward to an interesting
dinner-party; but that night I was too tired to inspect the dream-menu,
before lying down to it. The first thing I knew, a handsome Egyptian
god with crystal eyes, like those which Bill Bailey means to make the
fashion, stood by my bedside. I asked him politely whether he were Rã
or Osiris, deliberately picking the two best gods of the bunch in order
to flatter him; but without answering, he pointed a bronze hand to the
mat on which he stood. It was a white mat, and on it I read a word
which evidently he meant me to take as his name: TAM HTAB. For an
instant it seemed to me a fine name for an Egyptian god, though I
hadn't met it before. Then I burst out laughing disrespectfully. "Why,
you're only a Bath Mat wrong side out!" I heard myself sneering; and
the god disappeared as a flash of lightning comes and is gone. In
going, however, he stumbled slightly against the bed. It was a mere
touch; but that, or my own voice, half waked me up.
"TAM HTAB," I mumbled dreamily; and was just reminding myself before
dropping off to sleep again that I must tell Biddy about the new bath
god, when I realized that he had not quite gone. No, not quite gone! It
must be he who still lingered by the bed, for it could be nobody else.
Anthony would not come and hover silently at my bedside in the middle
of the night. Besides, I was almost awake now, and I could hear the
gentle, regular breathing of a man asleep: Anthony's breathing.
"Go away, TAM HTAB," I tried to say, but I was not awake enough to
speak. He was bending over the bed. His face was near to mine. I felt
rather than saw it. "How could I see in the dark?" sleepily, even
fretfully, I asked myself. And yet, _was_ the tent dark?...It had been,
I remembered that. I remembered that Anthony had got to bed first, and
I had extinguished the two candles on the washhand-stand. Afterward, I
had had to grope my way to the bed. Now, however, there was a light...a
very faint, rather curious light. There seemed to be only a square of
it, a square sloped off at the top. It was opposite my eyes, which
really were open now, I felt sure. I couldn't be dreaming this. It was
like a queer-shaped window in the blackness, a window full of
starlight, but close to the floor. Then the rain must have stopped. The
stars must be out. Yes, but how could I see that? There was no window
in the tent.
This thought dragged the last film of sleep off my tired brain, like a
veil snatched away by impatient fingers on an unseen hand.
Odd! Those very words said over themselves in my head: "Fingers on an
unseen hand." And that was because a hand was being slipped cautiously,
inch by inch, under my pillow. It was the Egyptian god's hand. But I
knew suddenly that the dream-god had turned into a thief: that the
silver-glimmering square of light was one of the tent flaps unbuttoned
and turned back. That the man must stealthily have pulled up a peg or
two while we slept our heavy sleep, must have crept into the tent,
soft-footed over the thick rugs, and now here he was, trying to steal.
After that, I did not go on with the thought. My dull reasoning snapped
off as short as a dry stick. I made a grab for the hand under my
pillow, seized a wrist, held it for an instant in a grip which must
have hurt, then had the shame and disappointment of feeling it slip out
of my grasp, like a greased snake. There was a stifled exclamation of
pain or surprise, scarcely louder than a sigh, and I was out of bed and
after a shadow that ran for the low square of starlight. Something
caught and tripped me as I reached the opening. What it was I did not
know then and don't know now, but I had a vague impression that it was
warm. If I had stumbled against a bare leg thrust out to stop me, it
would have felt like that. Yet it could not have been the leg of the
man running away. He was using both his, and must have used them well,
for I was up and out from under the lifted tent flap which had fallen
on top of me as I tumbled, before I could have counted five. Very wide
awake now, I stood in the rough, sandy grass, under a sky encrusted
with stars, and could see no one. Barefooted, I pattered this way and
that, searching every shadow, but the whole camp seemed an abode of
peace. There was not a sound or movement even in the black ring of
sleeping camels. Rain had driven to shelter the roving dogs which had
troubled us last night. The camp lanterns burned clear and strong,
yellow and crude in the silver flood of starlight which dulled their
radiance. The smell of earth and grass after the heavy shower was like
the fragrance of tea roses. Could it be that an evil, stealthy presence
had but just broken this sweet serenity with its vile intention, or had
the whole incident been after all a singularly vivid dream? I should
have believed so, if my hand which had clutched that other hand, had
not been slippery with oil.
No, I had not dreamed. And suddenly a troubling thought leaped into my
mind. "Biddy!" The name sprang to my lips and spoke itself aloud.
If this were for her! I had laughed at her forebodings. Sensational
revenges such as she feared seemed so incongruous, so utterly unsuited
to those laughing, long-lashed eyes of hers! Yet she had in her past
life lived side by side with fear and tragedy for more years than I
liked to count. And as she said, men such as those whom Richard O'Brien
had betrayed had been known to reach out very far to take revenge.
Biddy had done nothing. Surely they owed her no grudge. But she had
known things. Perhaps they thought that she knew even more than she did
know. Their organization was rich as well as powerful. It had many
branches. Yet why should men use its power to hurt the widow of a dead
enemy, now that they--or fate--had put him underground?
In a flash I remembered the chamois-skin bag, which she had forgotten
under the pillow: and lifting the loosened canvas flap with its
dangling pegs, I stooped to go back into the tent. Inside, I expected
to find darkness, but instead I found light; Anthony up, setting a
match to a candle wick, and looking a tall, dark silhouette in his
pyjamas.
"What's the row?" he calmly wanted to know--too calmly to suit my
ruffled mood.
"A thief, that's all," I answered, hastily searching under the pillow
where the unseen hand had been. Sheet and pillow-case were slimy with
oil, yet the chamois-skin bag was safe. "But he didn't get what he
wanted!" I finished.
"Good," said Anthony, who had lighted both candles. "Let's go look for
him."
"I've been, and couldn't see anything."
"I know. I heard a sound. I sang out, and you didn't answer, so I
thought something must be up. Let's have another try. I've got Miss
Gilder's watch."
I slipped Biddy's bag into the pocket of my pyjamas, and pulling on our
boots we went out into the night.
"It's _their_ tent I'm thinking of," I said, though I'd never talked of
Brigit O'Brien's affairs to Fenton. "If some one had planned to rob
them, not knowing of the change we made at the last minute--"
"All our Arabs did know--"
"I'm not talking of them. We've been here two days. Any one could have
spied on us enough to find out which tent was Mrs. Jones' and Miss
Gilder's."
"You're thinking of Bedr?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I am. Biddy never believed they were Germans."
"Who, those chaps in checked clothes he had in tow? By Jove! yes--I
heard her speak of a scar on the forehead of one."
"She thought he might have been Burke, the fellow in the street row,
that night at the House of the Crocodile."
"These things happen to heiresses in old-fashioned story books," said
Anthony. "But there's nothing that happens in a story which can't
happen in real life, I suppose--especially to _such_ a girl. She--"
"Oh, but I wasn't thinking of her!" I began, then stopped, shocked
because it was true, and also because I was unwilling to tell why my
thoughts had turned to "Mrs. Jones."
"We must find out if they're safe," I went on. "The thieves seem to
have got clear away and we're not likely to find them, unless they've
gone to our old tent--"
"Come along," said Anthony. "We'll slip on something, and call the
ladies as softly as we can, not to disturb the others and have the
whole camp buzzing like a beehive. When we're sure _they're_ all right,
we can attend to such details as searching for tracks."
He seemed as eager as I was, to know that the two women were safe; but
there was no sign to tell me about which one he chiefly concerned
himself.
A minute transformed him from a pyjamaed Englishman into a robed
Egyptian of that old-fashioned order which despises things European.
Only, he forgot to put on his turban. I didn't think of the omission
myself at the time, but I recalled it later.
Going to the tent which had been ours, I scratched on the tight drawn
canvas near the spot where I knew one of the folding iron bedsteads was
placed. "Biddy--Biddy!" I called gently, and after a few repetitions I
heard her voice, rather sleepy, a little anxious, cry, "Is that you,
Duffer?"
"Yes," I whispered, seeing the tent quiver in the region of some big
cushiony buttons. "'Antoun' and I are both here. But don't be scared.
Could you come and peep out from under the door flap a minute?"
"Yes," said she. "Go round there, and I'll come."
There was not much delay, for Biddy's crinkled black hair needs no
night disfigurements by way of patent curlers. In a few seconds the
door flap waved, and Biddy looked out into the starlight, the yellow
glimmer of a candle flame within the tent silhouetting the Japanesey
little figure wrapped in a kimono. Behind her dark head and above it,
floated a mist of bronzy gold, which I took to be Miss Gilder's hair.
There seemed to be quantities of it, and I should have been feverishly
interested in wondering how long it was, if I had had time to think of
anything but my thankfulness that Biddy and Monny were both safe.
"Are either of you ill?" asked the creamy Irish voice which had never
sounded half so sweet as now, in the starlight and fragrance of this
strange night. "Because if you are, I've some lovely medicine--"
"I wouldn't frighten them any more than I could help, if I were you," I
heard Fenton mumbling advice in muffled tones at my back.
For obvious reasons I made no audible answer; but I had just been
resolving not to tell Biddy my suspicions unless it were necessary to
do so.
"No, we're not ill," I assured her. "But there's been a silly sort of
scare about a sneak thief: may have been a false alarm, and we won't
say anything about it to-morrow, if others don't. We're horribly sorry
to disturb you and Miss Gilder, but we couldn't rest without making
sure you hadn't been worried."
"_You_ heard nothing, did you, Monny?" Brigit threw a question over her
shoulder to the floating mist of gold.
"No, and I wasn't asleep either," Miss Gilder's voice answered. "I was
lying awake thinking about its being our last night--and lots of
things."
"I was lying half awake, too, thinking of 'lots of things,'" Biddy
mimicked her friend, "or I shouldn't have heard you so easily when you
scratched on the canvas. Oh, by the way, Duffer, did you or Antoun
Effendi find a little chamois-skin bag under the pillow?"
"I found it," said I, and this gave me a chance I had been wanting but
hadn't quite known how to snatch. "I was rather worried over the
responsibility. Of course you knew that we'd take care of your
treasures."
"It's all my money, and--and just _one_ other thing!" Biddy answered,
with an odd little hesitation in her manner and a catch in her voice.
"I should hate to have anybody open that bag. I'm thankful it's safe.
With you, I know it's _sacred_. All the same, I'd like to have it, if
you don't mind the bother."
"You oughtn't to carry the thing about with you, if it's so important,"
I scolded her. "Why not leave your secret treasure, whatever it is, and
most of your money, in Cairo, when you come off on an expedition like
this?"
"I don't know," she mumbled evasively. "I'm used to having this thing
with me. I can't think how I forgot it under my pillow. I never have
before. It isn't the sort of--of valuable one keeps in a bank. Monny
embroidered the bag when she was a little girl. It was her first work.
I taught her how to do it, and she gave it to me for a birthday
present. I wouldn't lose it for the world."
"You shan't," I said soothingly. I had heard what I had been afraid to
hear; but why should Biddy's trip be spoiled by another worry if I
could shield her? We could not _know_ that the oiled hand had been
groping for that bag; and I resolved not to distress Brigit by putting
the idea into her head at present. "Go to sleep again in peace, both of
you," I went on. "All's well, since _you_ are well. Probably some
prowler has been sneaking round the kitchen-tent."
"Yes. The news of the lamb has gone forth!" said Biddy. "Good night!"
"Good night!" I answered.
Down went the tent flap, and hid the sparkle of eyes in starsheen, and
mist of gold in wavering candle-light. We trusted that the two had
crept back into their beds; but we did not return to ours. We took one
of the camp lanterns and searched for footprints--those which were
freshest after the rain. The rough grass growing sparsely out of the
sandy earth was not favourable to such attempts, however; and even at
dawn, when we looked again before the camp was stirring, we made no
notable discoveries such as amateur detectives make, in books.
Our next expedition, as soon as light came, was to the town, where we
inquired at the few hotels, and put questions to the police. Nobody
answering the description of Bedr and his two companions had been seen
in Medinet, and we had to go back to camp baffled.
There was our adventure; and when we reached Cairo by train, the
mystery of the oiled hand was still unsolved.