IN WHICH THE PIMPLE LEARNS HIS FUTURE LIES IN EGYPT
We started our sojourn in the Colonels’ House with a great many irons in
the fire. As an essential preliminary to our main plan we had the
photograph to take, and in case any of the hundred and one possible
accidents happened to the films, we must provide subsidiary evidence of
Kiazim’s complicity. The main plan was, of course, to escape from
Turkey. Our first aim was to persuade the Turks to convey us east,
southeast, or south (the exact direction and distance would depend upon
their convenience, but we hoped for about 300 miles) in the search for
the treasure. Once within reasonable distance of safety we could trust
to our legs. In case our persuasive powers proved inadequate for this
rather tough proposition, we must simultaneously develop our second
alternative. We must simulate some illness which would warrant our
exchange. We fixed, provisionally, on madness. A third alternative, also
requiring simultaneous development, was compassionate release. If we
could get pressure from without brought to bear on the Turkish
Government they might, on the Fitzgerald precedent, compensate us with
freedom for our absurd imprisonment.
The first thing to do was to get news to England of our trial and
sentence. We calculated enquiries might be expected at earliest about
the middle of May. If, up to that time, we had failed to get the
Commandant to move us from Yozgad, we were prepared to swear at the
first breath of investigation that his real reason in imprisoning us had
been to force us to use our mediumistic powers to find the treasure. In
proof, we would produce the photograph (if that was successful), say he
had put us on bread and water, and show our “tortured” bodies. Indeed,
we arranged to burn each other, when the time came, with red-hot coins,
so as to have fresh scars to exhibit. It was a low-down plan, and we did
not want to resort to it, to its full extent, until the last, but we
were ready for it, if needs must and the others failed. It depended, of
course, on enquiries being instituted from England.
In addition to the preparation of these three lines of escape, we had to
keep up the interest of the Turks in the treasure, and to render
absolute their belief in the powers of the Spook. In the event of
success in this we decided, until we said good-bye to Yozgad, to assume
the Commandant’s functions. We would, in the Spook’s name, take charge
of the camp, increase its house-room, add to its liberties and
privileges, improve its relations with the Turks, prevent parcel and
money robbery, rid it of the Pimple, whom everybody cordially hated, and
(as an act of poetic justice for what had been done to us) put its
senior officer on parole! (All this we did.) All the time we must be
eternally on the watch against making the slightest slip which would
betray either the fact that we ourselves were the Spook, or that we had
any ulterior motive in our spiritualism. Lastly, and most difficult of
all, we had to be ready at a moment’s notice to checkmate any well-meant
attempt at interference by our comrades in the camp.
An ambitious programme, perhaps, but not too ambitious. After the
telepathy trial, anything ought to be possible.
The 8th of March was a busy day for Hill. As the practical man of the
combine he had to manufacture a new spook-board (the old one had to be
left behind in the camp) and also a semaphore apparatus, for we had
arranged (should occasion arise) to signal to Matthews, who lived across
the way in Posh Castle. While Hill worked I submitted for his criticism
various plans by which our aims might be attained. Next day the Pimple
came in and sat chatting for a couple of hours. He told us that after
his effort at the trial the Commandant had suffered from a bad go of
nerves, and had lain awake all night wondering what Constantinople would
say, and what Colonel Maule would write in his next sealed letter to
headquarters. Kiazim’s one ambition in life now was to get out of the
treasure-hunt and send us mediums back to the camp. But he could not
risk his own prestige by doing so.
“Pah!” said the Pimple, “he is—what you call it?—_très poltron_!”
“I don’t know German,” said I.
“That is French,” the Pimple explained gravely. “It means what you call
‘windy beggar.‘”
This sort of thing would never do! We held a séance. The Spook began at
once to fan Kiazim’s waning courage. It pointed out that the task of the
mediums was to get thoroughly in tune one with another, but that this
was quite impossible so long as the Commandant created cross-currents of
thought-waves by worrying. The Commandant, the Pimple, the Cook, and the
two mediums—all, in fact, who were concerned to find the treasure—_must_
remain tranquil in mind or success would be impossible. Let their trust
in the Spook be absolute, and all would be easy. Was not the Unseen
working for us night and day? Whence came Gilchrist’s pæan of praise for
the verdict? Surely the Commandant recognized that it had been put into
his mouth by the Spirit to act as a bar to any further protest about the
conviction? Thus had Gilchrist been firmly committed as a supporter of
the Commandant’s view. And so with Colonel Maule. The Spook was pained
at the Commandant’s fear of Maule: for was not Maule’s mind already
under control? Did Kiazim imagine that the Spook was idle except at
séances? Why, Maule’s head had been carefully filled with ideas by the
Unseen Power: he was a plaything in the Spook’s hands. It had been an
easy matter to put him in the same boat as Kiazim, to get him to stop
all “spooking” in the camp,[22] to make him place Hill and Jones on
parole not to telepathize or escape from Yozgad.
Here the Pimple interrupted the séance.
“Did you two give paroles to Colonel Maule?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, affecting surprise. “How on earth do you know? Did Maule
tell you?”
“The glass has just written it,” said Moïse triumphantly; “from the
Spirit nothing is hidden.” (Then to the Spook): “Go on, sir.”
The Spook went on. As a final, though quite unnecessary, protection for
the Commandant, it promised to control the mediums (Hill and myself) to
write letters to England in praise of their new quarters. If the
_mediums_ did not complain of their treatment nobody else could do so
with any effect. Let these letters be copied and sent through without
delay in the censoring, that they might counteract any chance complaint
from the camp which escaped the notice of the Spook.
The séance achieved its end. The Commandant had not previously realized
that Gilchrist had been acting under the Spook’s influence, nor had he
known about the parole. He was therefore much pleased to find that the
Spook was taking so much trouble on his behalf, and had such powers of
controlling people. The letters, he thought, were an excellent idea. We
thought so too, and we wrote plenty of them. Every letter was loud in
its praises of the Turk, but the eulogies cloaked a very pretty cipher
which informed our friends at home of our absurd conviction and asked
for an enquiry. And every letter went off by the first mail after it had
been written—a good fortnight ahead of those of the rest of the camp
which, as the Pimple confessed to us, were regularly held back at Yozgad
for local censoring. We thus created an express service of our own, and
by its means sowed the seeds for our “Compassionate Release” stunt. We
have since learnt what happened to these letters. They reached England
in good time; they were submitted to very high quarters by my father,
and he was solemnly advised to take no action, on the grounds that to
betray knowledge of our fate would result in making the Turks believe we
had secret means of communication with England, a belief that might have
awkward consequences for us! So nothing was done. Luckily we did not
know, and had always the pleasure of hoping for the best, which was good
for us—it kept our courage up.
We were now in smooth water again, and proceeded to make ourselves as
comfortable as possible. The country was still under snow, and the
charcoal brazier over which we warmed ourselves was quite inadequate for
our needs. Considering we were going to present the Turks with a
treasure worth, according to the Spook, £28,000, this was absurdly mean
treatment. The Spook ordered us a stove—a real big one—and we got it!
Donkey-loads of wood were bought for us in the bazaar, at cheap rates.
The Cook was put on fatigue by the Spook, and made to chop the wood up
for us, to light the fire of a morning before we were out of bed, to
sweep out our rooms, to run messages to the bazaar, and generally to
attend to our comfort. He was delighted to do it. He even brought us
some very pleasing dishes of Turkish food, and two kerosine lamps, with
an ample supply of oil. The camp had been without kerosine for a year or
more. We had burned crude Afion oil—a thick and very messy vegetable
oil—which gave a miserable light and made reading after dark more of a
toil than a pleasure. The new lamps were a real luxury, and our
enjoyment of them was not lessened by the Pimple’s explanation that the
kerosine was really a Turkish Government issue for prisoners, but as its
price in the market was fabulous the Commandant did not issue it to the
camp. He kept it for pin money!
There is no doubt we could have obtained anything the Spook ordered,
short of freedom. But we took care the Spook should not order too much.
Even in Turkey there is such a thing as “obtaining money by false
pretences,” and it would never do to have such motives ascribed to us,
should an enquiry be held. The Spook therefore announced that after a
short period our diet would be reduced to dry bread. The alleged object
of the low diet was “to increase clairvoyant powers.”[23] It promised to
incite a certain officer to persuade the Commandant to stop the food
from Posh Castle, so that the onus of our starvation should rest on the
camp and not on the Turks. “Further,” said the Spook, “the mediums must
remember to accept no monetary gain. They must pay cost price for all
they receive. They should expect and accept only acts of kindness which
cost nothing. Nor must they hope for a reward for their services in
money or its equivalent. Their reward will come later.... When their
time comes to pass over to other spheres the knowledge they have thus
gained will be worth more to them than all the riches in Asia.”
“Why?” Moïse asked. “What is the reason they cannot get money?”
“In order to confine the study to true seekers after knowledge,” the
Spook explained, “there must be no _arrière pensée_.“
The Cook was very much interested in the fact that we were to get none
of the treasure. He questioned Moïse very carefully on the point. He was
anxious to make sure that there was no possibility of a
misunderstanding, and no chance of our claiming a share later. He was
frankly out for business, was this “limb of Satan,” and quite openly
delighted at the Spook’s orders.
And now an incident occurred which both amused and impressed the
Commandant. One of the most capable officers in the camp got an idea
which he no doubt fondly imagined would regain us our liberty. He acted
on it with the promptitude for which he was renowned. He informed the
Commandant, through the Interpreter, that Jones and Hill were a pair of
infernal practical jokers, that they were lazy beggars who disliked
cooking and had thrown the trouble of it on the camp in general and Posh
Castle in particular, and that therefore they were confounded nuisances.
There was no manner of doubt, he said, but that they were simply pulling
the Commandant’s leg in order to live a life of ease, and his obvious
plan was to send them back to the camp and let their fellow-prisoners
deal with them as they deserved, or to make them do their own cooking.
Had the Commandant not been “in the know” our friend’s tactics might
well have resulted in our being sent back to the camp. As it was, Kiazim
Bey was vastly tickled at the theory of a leg-pull against himself, and
pointed out to us with immense joy that the boot was on the other foot,
and that _he_ had successfully pulled the camp’s leg. Moreover, the
episode redounded to the credit of the Spook, who had promised to send
this very officer to complain about the trouble of sending us food. (We
had received a hint that he might do so, but of that hint the Turks
were, of course, in complete ignorance.) The Commandant was firmly
convinced that his visitor had been acting under the Spirit’s control,
as promised, and he was correspondingly impressed. When questioned about
it the Spook modestly admitted responsibility, but explained that from
now on It wished to do as little as possible of this “outside control
work” in order to avoid “loss of force” which would be more usefully
employed in finding the treasure.
At the end of the second séance, which also was devoted to soothing the
Commandant’s difficulties and fears, there was a scene. The Pimple
announced that he also had some private difficulties on which he wished
to consult the Spook. So private were they that he had written them out,
and would not utter them aloud. The Spirit would no doubt read the paper
and answer them privately. Before I could formulate an excuse Hill, to
my surprise, assented, and asked Moïse to place the paper of questions
under the spook-board in the usual way. Moïse put his hand in his
pocket, and then sprang to his feet in wild excitement, and began a
search through all his pockets.
“_Mon Dieu!_” he cried. “I am spooked! It is gone!” He rushed about the
room, looking under the table, in the cupboards, in the
teapot—everywhere possible and impossible. Then he went through his
pockets again and sank half hysterical on to my bed.
“Oh, _mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_” he cried. “What shall I do? What shall I
do?”
“What on earth’s the matter?” I was completely puzzled.
“My questions! Oh, my questions! They are gone! I am spooked!”
It was a difficult task not to laugh. I knew Hill was sitting with a
face like a blank wall, but I dared not look at him.
“Are you sure you brought them?” I asked.
The Pimple jumped up again. “I wrote them in the office,” he cried,
dancing with excitement, “and then I came here! Certainly I brought
them!”
There was a sudden crash and two distinct thumps on the landing outside.
The noise sounded very loud in the empty house. We all looked at one
another.
“What was that?” the Pimple whispered.
“It’s the Spooks, I think,” said I. “We often hear noises at night. But
I’ll see.” I took up a spare candle and lit it.
“Be careful!” said Hill solemnly.
“Oh, be careful!” echoed the Pimple, who was badly scared.
I knew no more than the others what the noise could be, and I felt
curiously nervous as I opened the door. The Pimple’s fear was
infectious.
Outside on the landing we had a high shelf where we kept our bread.
Owing to some unknown cause—it may have been the Pimple’s agitated
dancing in our room—a loaf had fallen off the shelf and bumped down two
of the steps of our wooden stair. I picked it up and replaced it
quietly.
“There was nobody to see,” I said very solemnly, coming back into the
room, “but one thing I know and will swear—that noise was not human!
There’s danger abroad tonight!”
“I _knew_ I was spooked,” groaned the Pimple. “Oh, what shall I do?”
“You may have left your questions in the office, where you wrote them,”
Hill suggested.
This scared the Pimple worse than ever. He grabbed his Enver cap and
started for the door. The blackness of the night outside stopped him. He
came back and looked at us appealingly.
“You say there is danger abroad tonight: would you mind—do you think you
could——”
“Come with you, Moïse? Certainly!” I picked up the candle and went with
him as far as the gate, whence he legged it for the office as fast as he
could go. I returned to our room, and Hill.
“He won’t be back tonight,” I said. “The poor little fellow is
frightened half out of his wits.”
“Say, Bones, what was the noise? How did you work it?”
“I didn’t—it worked itself. A most inhuman loaf!” I told him about it,
and we laughed together, and discussed the séance.
“I wonder what was in those questions he was so excited about?” I said
at last.
Hill grinned at me.
“Read ‘em for yourself,” said he, handing me a slip of paper.
“How the dickens did you know he had ‘em?” I gasped.
“Saw him fidgetin‘ with a bit of paper early in the evening—picked his
pocket when I got the chance. Read it!”
This is what I read as soon as I recovered from my surprise:
“Répondez-moi si vous voulez par la même voie miraculeuse que la lettre
écrite sur ma tête. Les questions que j’ai vous poser et dont je suis
anxieux d’avoir les réponses sont les suivants:
“1^o. La difficulté que j’ai eu avec A——[24] à propos de sa femme
mercredi matin dernier en êtes vous la cause?
“2^o. Quelles sont les pensées ou sentiments du Commandant à mon égard?
“3^o. Aurai-je encore des histoires au sujet de la femme d’ A——?[24]
“4^o. A propos de la dame de B——[24] aurai-je des histoires?
“5^o. Je suis sans profession ou connaissances pratiques quelconques;
j’ai le désir de devenir quelqu’un ou quelquechose; je suis prêt à
entreprendre l’étude que vous préferez me convenir; vous êtes d’une
intelligence remarquable, merveilleuse. Veuillez me conseiller sur la
carrière que vous croyez être meilleure pour moi et sur les moyens de
travailler ou à parvenir à me créer une destination. Je vous prie
aidez-moi.
MOÏSE TOKENAY.”
“Pardonnez-moi si parfois j’oublie d’éxécuter vos ordres tout de suite;
ce n’est nullement par désobeisance mais par étourderie ou désaccord
avec mon chef.”
I copied out the questions for filing in our secret records, made a tiny
mark on the back of the original so as to be able to recognize it when
met with, and handed it back to Hill.
“Your job, Mr. Sikes,” I said, “is to get that back into the Pimple’s
possession without his knowing we have seen it.”
Hill thought for a moment. “Will it do if he gets it before he comes in
tomorrow?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly!” I said. “Shove it back in his pocket when he calls
tomorrow morning. You can’t do it before that, with the place ringed
with sentries.”
“Can’t I?” said Hill. He held the paper of questions under my nose. “Now
you see it—_houp là_—now you don’t!” It had vanished. “Where is it?”
“Up your sleeve, or something. Go to bed,” said I.
“Wrong again.” Hill laughed, and rolled up his sleeves for inspection.
“You’ll find out tomorrow where it is.”
The night was already far spent. We turned in.
“Which is the Spook going to make him—a _quelqu’un_ or a
_quelquechose_?” asked Hill, as he snuggled under the blankets.
“Take your choice,” said I. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor——”
“Silk, satin, muslin, rags,” Hill murmured; “we’ll count the spuds we
get for dinner tomorrow.”
“What for?” I asked sleepily.
“The end of the War. This year, next year, some time, never! Good-night,
old chap.”
Some hours later I woke. Hill’s bed was empty. I wondered drowsily what
he was up to, and went to sleep again.
When next I opened my eyes it was morning. Hill was sleeping in his bed,
very soundly. I reached for a book and read for half an hour, then the
Pimple came in. He was humming a French song to himself, and sounded
very happy.
“Ach, Hill, you _grand paresseux_! Awake!”
Hill opened one eye.
“I have good news for you both,” the Pimple went on. “The questions—I
have them!”—he tapped his pocket—“and I am glad! To have lost them would
have been dangersome. They are most private.” Then he went on to talk of
other matters.
“Has he really got the questions?” I asked Hill, after the Pimple had
gone.
“Oh yes,” laughed Hill.
“How did you do it, old chap? I noticed your bed was empty about 2 ac
emma.”
“Very simple!” he chortled. “I—no, I won’t tell you. S’pose you find out
for yourself. Of course,” he added maliciously, “you can ask the Spook
if you like.”
And there the matter rested. It is Hill’s secret. Perhaps the reader can
solve it?
At the next séance the Pimple produced his questions. We recognized our
identification mark on the paper as he slipped it under the board, and
took the risk that he had not altered anything inside.
“Now, sir,” said the Pimple to the Spook, “answer, please.”
He got his answers, and thought we were ignorant of what was said. Here
they are:
“1. No.
“2. Be careful.
“3. Be careful.
“4. Be most careful.
“5. Your ambition is praiseworthy. Study languages and the Art of
Government. Your greatest opportunity lies in Egypt. Seize the first
chance you get of going there. Either Jones or Hill can lead you to fame
if you earn their joint friendship. By _my_ help Jones’s father raised
Lloyd George to his present supreme position. He started more humbly
than you.”
The Pimple refused to tell us about the questions or answers. He did not
for a moment suspect that we knew anything of either. But at the end of
the séance, after a great deal of _camouflage_ talk about the camp and
the War and other matters, he led the conversation round, cleverly
enough, to Lloyd George, by telling us that an Irishman had attempted to
assassinate him. He asked if I knew him. This was what we wanted. I
showed him a photograph of the Prime Minister and my father together.
The Pimple examined it with minute care.
“Your father—he is a spooker, too?” the Pimple asked.
“All Welshmen are, more or less,” said I, “and he used to be top-hole at
it. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if perhaps he and Lloyd George had ever experimented
together.”
“They’re continually at it,” said I.
“Ha!” (the Pimple was quite excited) “and what was Lloyd George to begin
with, when your father first knew him?”
“I believe he was what some people call a ‘pettifogging attorney.’”
“And by spooking your father did much for him perhaps?”
“I much regret, Moïse, I can’t tell you.”
“It’s a secret, perhaps?”
“Very much so,” said I. “Let’s talk of something else.”
Then the Pimple told us about the Armenian massacres at Yozgad. He was a
clever little rascal in his way! For in five minutes he was telling us
how a few families had escaped to Egypt which, he had always heard, was
a wonderful country. Was it not so? Did we know anything of Egypt?
We didn’t—but we told him quite a lot about the country of his “greatest
opportunity.” He went away very happy.
“He has swallowed the pill without winking,” said Hill, “and what’s
more, it is working! But what’ll Lloyd George think of it? How did you
get that photograph? Does he really know your father?”
It was my turn to be malicious.
“S’pose you find out for yourself,” said I. “Of course, you can ask the
Spook, if you like.”