Death Beneath Jerusalem Read online

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  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

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  Contents

  Roger Bax

  Author’s Note

  1. Dawn Encounter

  2. Ordeal by Bomb

  4. Hayson Proffers Advice

  5. Enter Jameel

  6. The Fight in the Tunnel

  7. A Damsel in Distress

  8. Thrust and Parry

  9. In Solomon’s Quarries

  10. Lost!

  11. A Warning—and a Precaution

  12. Dead Sea Interlude

  13. The Ambush

  14. Garve Thinks it Out

  15. Esther Refuses an Offer

  16. Kidnapped!

  17. Garve Turns Housebreaker

  18. Death Beneath Jerusalem

  Roger Bax

  Death Beneath Jerusalem

  Roger Bax

  Roger Bax is the pen name of Paul Winterton (1908–2001). He was born in Leicester and educated at the Hulme Grammar School, Manchester and Purley County School, Surrey, after which he took a degree in Economics at London University. He was on the staff of The Economist for four years, and then worked for fourteen years for the London News Chronicle as reporter, leader writer and foreign correspondent. He was assigned to Moscow from 1942–5, where he was also the correspondent of the BBC’s Overseas Service.

  After the war he turned to full-time writing of detective and adventure novels and produced more than forty-five books. His work was serialized, televised, broadcast, filmed and translated into some twenty languages. He is noted for his varied and unusual backgrounds – which have included Russia, newspaper offices, the West Indies, ocean sailing, the Australian outback, politics, mountaineering and forestry – and for never repeating a plot.

  Paul Winterton was a founder member and first joint secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association.

  Author’s Note

  Every character in this book is fictitious and no reference is made or intended to any living person. The topographical details of Solomon’s Quarries and Hezekiah’s Tunnel have been freely altered to suit the purposes of the story.

  1. Dawn Encounter

  The stars in the eastern sky were just beginning to fade into the grey of morning as Philip Garve rounded the south-east corner of the wall of Jerusalem and faced the Mount of Olives.

  He walked quickly, partly because the air was still chilly from the night, and partly because he had not yet lost the habit, formed during the last outbreak of Arab violence, of presenting the briefest possible target to an enemy.

  He made a wry face as the putrid odour of the brook Kedron filled his nostrils, and drew a long breath of relief when he had crossed over to the windward side of the stream.

  Picking his way cautiously through the incredible debris which littered the track of beaten earth, he reached at last the Tomb of the Virgin Mary, and bearing to the right past the unkempt Garden of Gethsemane, began to climb. He had met no one and heard no sound except the crowing of a cock and the occasional barking of a dog. Jerusalem was still asleep.

  As he mounted the hill, he stumbled once over a boulder in the dim light, and once thrust his face into the twisted branches of an ancient olive tree. After some ten minutes’ hard climbing, however, he reached the top without further mishap, and peered around in search of the flat yellow rock which had provided him with such an excellent observation post on a former occasion. When he found it, he saw that it was already occupied.

  During ten eventful years as Special Foreign Correspondent of the London Morning Call, he had often known surprise without showing it, but this morning on the Mount of Olives he could not suppress an exclamation of astonishment as he drew nearer and discovered that the figure silhouetted against the lightening eastern sky was that of a young woman with a most attractive profile and a highly European appearance.

  He had approached within a yard or two of her before a loose stone, clattering from under his feet, attracted her attention. When she saw him, her “Good-morning” was as unperturbed and natural as though she were welcoming a member of her family to breakfast.

  “How do you do?” said Garve, peering. “I can’t see you very well in this light, but your voice sounds English.”

  “It is,” replied the girl without moving.

  “H’m!” The disapproval in Garve’s tone was unmistakable. “In that case I wager my last piastre that your name is Esther Willoughby.”

  “Right again,” said Esther cheerfully. “How did you guess?”

  “Well,” said Garve, “there aren’t many English women left in Jerusalem, you know—they’ve wisely cleared out while there’s still time—and none of those who are left would venture up here alone at daybreak to commune with nature. I heard yesterday that the famous author, Francis Willoughby, had arrived with a charming daughter —no, don’t bother to bow—so putting two and two together I arrived at the inevitable conclusion. By the way, my name is Garve—Philip Garve of the Morning Call.”

  “How do you do? I feel I ought to say, ‘No, not really,’ and ask for your autograph, but I’m afraid we always take the Telegraph, and I’ve really never heard of you.”

  Garve grinned broadly. “That’s the biggest blow my professional pride has received for years. By the way—if you’ll forgive my meeting brutal frankness with offensive curiosity—does your father know you’re here?”

  “Of course not. He’d be furious. I would have asked him to come too, but I knew he would be writing until the early hours of the morning, and it seemed a shame to drag him out.”

  Garve nodded and stood silent a moment, listening. It was a consolation to him that no one could move without noise on this stony hill. He satisfied himself that the sombre shadows contained nothing immediately menacing before he gave the girl his full attention again.

  “If rumour doesn’t lie,” he said, “your father is working on a new volume of memoirs which will place him beyond all question among the literary giants. I suppose that means that you’ll be on your own a good deal while you’re here.”

  “Well,” said Esther demurely, “it all depends. We’ve brought a young man named Jackson with us to act as chauffeur and secretary for father and escort for me. He’d tackle anything on two legs, but unfortunately he’s inclined to be chatty at the wrong time—that’s why I left him at home this morning.”

  “I see—and it wasn’t possible to get a guide right away, so you came without. You don’t let your enthusiasms die of old age, do you?”

  “I just couldn’t wait,” declared Esther, in a voice so pleading that she made Garve laugh. “We’ve been out of England all the winter, and I know I’m rather a blasé traveller; but ever since father mentioned Palestine I’ve been dreaming of the mountains of Moab and sunlight glinting on the Dead Sea. It sounded irresistibly fascinating.”

  “I’ve often had the same feeling,” Garve admitted. “I was here for six months last year, when the riots were at their height, and I must have climbed this hill a dozen times, just for the view and the quietness. So I can’t really lecture you. All the same, you’re lucky not to have had an Arab knife stuck in your back while you were
gazing so intently at the horizon.”

  Esther gave a little exclamation of annoyance. “If your idea of being sociable is to give me grandmotherly advice,” she observed coldly, “I suggest that you remove yourself to another part of the hill. And, anyway, talk about Satan rebuking Sin! I should like to know who gave you a safe conduct through the trackless wastes.”

  Garve regarded her quizzically. “There are no safe conducts for English people in Palestine to-day,” he said slowly. “It just happens that I’m paid to take risks, and I’ve grown used to them. If I stopped an Arab bullet, nobody would mind much. My few surviving relatives have all prophesied my early demise at one time or another, and they’d be so bucked at being right for once they’d forget to be sorry. The Morning Call would print a quarter column obituary, and no doubt I should be referred to as ‘poor old Garve’ in the office for a week or two. Then they’d appoint someone else to fill my job at a higher salary, and nobody would ever mention my name again.”

  Esther laughed softly, too amused to be annoyed any longer.

  “Now, if you were bumped off,” Garve continued, obviously enjoying himself, “you’d have half the British navy tearing across the Mediterranean to avenge you. They’d land a small army, blow up a few villages, arrest a couple of hundred Arabs who hadn’t done anything, in the hope of getting the one who had, and altogether make the situation in Palestine about twice as bad as it is already. They’d call it ‘pacification.’ And all because you hadn’t the sense to take reasonable care of yourself.”

  “Please!” Esther protested. “I know I’m headstrong, but I’m not a bit important. In any case, everything seems very quiet in Jerusalem at the moment.”

  “It depends where you are,” said Garve grimly, “and how long you’ve been here. The train from Haifa to Jerusalem was bombed a fortnight ago as it was leaving Galgylia and eleven people were blown to pulp. The night before last a Jewish policeman was ambushed, shot, and mutilated on the Nablus road. It wasn’t so quiet for him—not till he was dead, anyway.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Esther in a subdued voice. “The atmosphere of Jerusalem seemed so normal yesterday. People were going about their business laughing and chatting just as usual, as though there were no such thing as politics in the world. Why, I remember thinking that the innocent air of the place seemed almost too good to be true after all the fuss there’s been in the papers.”

  “Exactly. That’s why the Morning Call has sent me back. The quietness is too good to be true. The feeling is widespread among the police, the military, and the Jews, that something is going to happen soon—something big and very terrible—but nobody knows what or when.”

  “How thrilling,” cried Esther, excited by his tone. “Tell me—that is, if I’m not being too curious—what are you doing in Jerusalem, besides looking at sunrises. Do you ‘snoop’? Journalists on the films always seem to snoop.”

  “I don’t like the word,” said Garve. “It offends my sense of professional dignity—but I suppose that’s just about what I do. Mostly at night. In the daytime I’m having all my work cut out keeping out of harm’s way. You see, my paper is strongly anti-Arab, and during the troubles last year it was constantly urging the Government to send out more reinforcements and take what they called a ‘firm line’ with the terrorists. If my news stories didn’t square with policy, the stories were spiked. Once or twice they were actually altered by sub–editors, who didn’t realize that every word I sent was weighed like gold, and that a change of nuance might cost me my life. I kicked up hell’s own row about that, but the damage was done, and the Arab leaders blamed me for everything the paper said about them. I had several narrow escapes, and my departure from Jerusalem was accompanied by a frenzy of curses in the Arab Press. Now that I’ve come back I anticipate the same thing starting all over again. As you observed so succinctly, it’s thrilling.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound girlish,” said Esther, all contrition once more. “It must be perfectly beastly for you. Oh, I say, look!”

  In silence they stood side by side watching the spectacle of the sky. Great shafts of light were striking up fanlike from the horizon as though the grim mountains of Transjordan were in blazing eruption. Dawn was coming now at a run, storming the heavens with burning spears. In a few moments, as though thrown by some gigantic juggler, the sun came hurtling into the sky. First the highest points of Jerusalem caught the yellow light, while the walls stood dark in sombre shadow, and then the warm flood came sweeping down the slope of the Kedron Valley and up the other side, till it lapped the feet of the watchers and passed over them.

  As Esther emerged from the concealing gloom, Garve saw for the first time that the face which had so delighted him in profile was set in a mass of warm, chestnut curls, dazzling in the sun’s rays.

  “How incredibly lovely,” cried the girl, gazing in ecstasy at the revealed city.

  “Wonderful,” breathed Garve, gazing at her hair.

  She turned sharply at something in his tone, saw that he was looking at her, and smiled tolerantly as at a foolish boy.

  “In the circumstances, I’ll forgive you for being personal,” she said.

  “What circumstances?” asked Garve bluntly.

  “Well, I’ve had my share of empty compliments, but this is the first time that a man of the world—and a hard-boiled journalist at that—has ever climbed a steep hill to see a sunrise and looked at me instead!”

  Garve eyed her disapprovingly, for her flippant, not to say flirtatious, remark clashed with his mood.

  “My exclamation was quite impersonal,” he assured her. “The sun makes everything beautiful, and for a moment your hair looked like a halo.” He pointed to the glittering domes of Jerusalem, glad to change the subject. “In case you’ve ever wondered,” he said, “you can see now why they call this place ‘Jerusalem the Golden.’”

  Esther nodded. As her eyes took in the dry and stony panorama, she suddenly gave a little shiver.

  “Cold still?” asked Garve. “Here, take my scarf.”

  “It’s not that,” said Esther. “You’d think that a city that was bathed in sunshine all day would look friendly, but it makes me feel afraid. It’s so hard and glaring, and the shady bits look so black against the rest. It’s all striped—like—like a tiger that may spring on you at any moment.”

  Garve looked at her curiously and with a new interest. “So it affects you like that, does it?” he said. “In that case I’ve blamed my Fleet Street upbringing unnecessarily. Sometimes in the white heat of the day I’ve had the impression that the Kedron Valley was grinning at me, and showing its teeth like a bleached skull. But then the Morning Call pays me to imagine things like that, and they look well on paper as a background for riots and sudden death.”

  “I bet ‘menacing’ is the word you use,” said Esther teasingly. “And, please, why is the valley such a mass of stones? It looks an awful rubbish heap.”

  “It’s an old Jewish burial-ground,” Garve told her. “The Arabs and the Jews both think that on the Day of Resurrection the Almighty will conduct the Last Judgment here. I believe that’s why the Arabs had the Golden Gate blocked up—you see it over there on the left? It leads straight into their mosque, the Dome of the Rock, and they didn’t want hordes of resurrected Jewish spirits marching in to take possession. So the story goes, anyway, but it’s probably apocryphal.”

  “Never mind—it’s quite a good one. What a terrifying place the valley would be to cross at night—alone.”

  “A bit spooky,” Garve agreed. “In the moonlight the stones look just like old bones. But ghosts apart, the valley is probably safety itself compared with the old city—that’s all the part inside the walls. It looks clean and bright from here, even if it is hard, but when you get inside it closes in on you. It’s dark and smelly, and if yon haven’t a guide you find yourself wandering into terrifying hovels hewn out of rock and inhabited by cut-throats and religious fanatics of innumerable denominations. But it’s a
fascinating place all the same, and grips the imagination because of its age and associations, and incredible mixture of peoples.”

  “I’m dying to explore,” said Esther. “I met a man last night at a party—Anthony Hayson, do you know him?—said he was an archaeologist. He told me I should hate all the religious associations because they’ve been so commercialized.”

  “Hayson?—yes, I’ve heard of him—fellow from Oxford, isn’t he? He’s right, of course. It’s a nauseating spectacle to see the way half a dozen Churches squabble over the holy places and exploit them. If you were looking for Christian charity in the world’s capitals, you’d be wise to come to Jerusalem last of all.”

  “It’s a pity. A lot of people must be bitterly disappointed.”

  “Lord, yes. Many of them come for the wrong thing, anyway—they make the mistake of trying to strengthen their faith in the miracles by providing them with a background of local colour—and it doesn’t work. It’s much easier to believe that Christ ascended into heaven when you read it in the Bible than when you’re rooted to the alleged spot by the well-known law of gravity. But there’s plenty of Bible atmosphere if you know where to look for it. There’s more up here, for instance, than in the city. After you’ve been inside the walls you begin to understand why Christ came up into the Mount of Olives to pray. The feeling of relief hasn’t changed in two thousand years. I daresay some of those trees on the hillsides were standing in Christ’s time, and you don’t have to pay two piastres to look at them! He may easily have walked on the very stone we’re standing on. The hills were the same, and those purple mountains over in Moab that look like the mountains of the moon—they haven’t changed.”

  The girl’s eyes were shining with excitement, but she said nothing.

  “This country comes to life in the most unexpected way,” Garve went on. “Last time I was in Palestine I went fishing on the Sea of Galilee. I couldn’t have fed five thousand on what I caught, I don’t mind telling you, but then I’m no angler. It was as smooth as a sheet of glass, and seemed so small you simply couldn’t believe the Bible story about the tempest. But next morning when I walked down to the shore after breakfast there was a stiff wind blowing down the valley, and in some peculiar way it had taken the surface of that lake and whipped it up into great waves that smashed on the jetty with a noise like an artillery bombardment. A small boat couldn’t have lived five minutes out in the open.”