Death Beneath Jerusalem Page 18

“I cannot leave you here free, young woman, nor yet take you with me, though if all goes well I may come back for you. There is only one alternative left, I fear, and for that I must apologize. It smacks of melodrama, but I must tie you up and cover your mouth so that you cannot cry out. I can take no risks, and if you were discovered, knowing so much, it might be fatal to our plans. I am therefore going to put you in a place where you are certain not to be discovered. Indeed, if by any mischance our plot fails and I am killed, it may be many many days before you are discovered. However, war is like that.”

  He seized a coil of stout cord which lay ready on the floor. “Before I start to put this on you I should like to know whether you are going to struggle or not. If you are going to struggle I shall have to hit you on the head with something first of all—but I am sure——”

  Esther held out her hands passively. She had not lost hope yet, and there was more chance of successful action conscious than unconscious. Hayson made a workman-like job of the tying-up. Continually, as he worked and tugged, fastening her wrists behind her so that they were completely immobile, he apologized for his roughness, but his consideration did not lessen his efficiency. He was taking no chances.

  Presently he stepped back a pace and surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. Esther lay trussed and utterly helpless, her feet bound as tightly as her hands. Hayson tested the tension of the cord at her wrists to see that it was safe without actually cutting the flesh.

  “I have never tied anyone up before,” he declared. “I assure you it’s not nearly so easy to do as to talk about. But I don’t think you’ll escape now.”

  He took from his pocket a large white handkerchief. “Even though you did scream I don’t suppose anyone would hear you—not from where I’m going to put you—but I think I’d better cover up your mouth as an additional safeguard. Do you mind—if you open your lips slightly it will be easier.”

  Esther’s eyes stared up at him helplessly. “I shall never forgive you for this,” she murmured. It was useless to say more—useless, indeed, to say anything.

  Hayson stood over her with the gag. “Even now,” he told her, “there is still just time for you to change your mind.”

  “Never,” said Esther, and there was an awful moan in her voice. “Never.”

  The gag descended mercilessly between her teeth, half choking her. With nimble fingers Hayson knotted it behind her head.

  He bent and touched her breast with lascivious fingers, smiling. “I’m beginning to think that this hour might have been more profitably spent,” he murmured.

  He saw the moisture in her eyes, tiny tears collecting in the corners and welling over on to her cheeks. As though he feared the sight would be too much for him, he picked her up quickly and easily and carried her into his laboratory. In a corner was the dark room. He laid his bundle on the floor and went back into the lounge to get some cushions. He opened the dark-room door, spread the cushions quickly on the stone floor, and carried Esther to the improvised bed.

  “The room is ventilated,” he said calmly. “You won’t suffocate. And if all goes well I shall come back for you. If not, good-bye.”

  Without touching her again he slammed the door, turned the key in the lock, and slipped it in his pocket. For a few minutes he busied himself about the house, preparing for his departure. Before he left he dropped a small torch and an automatic into his pocket and extinguished all lights.

  Esther, from her prison within a prison, dimly heard the front door closing as he let himself out. She was fully conscious, and determined to remain so—as long as possible. Already she craved for water, knowing that there was none for her. For a time she struggled quietly to free her wrists, but already her arms were growing numb with lying on them, and presently she had to give up the attempt. She was powerless, and there was nothing to do but conserve what strength she had and wait. Wait for what? If Hayson were right, for the sound of guns and bombs and shouting in the streets, for the wail of Jews facing massacre, for Hayson’s return. For the news that her father and Garve were dead. If that happened she was determined to shoot herself at the first opportunity that Hayson gave her. To live without Garve—to live as the forced mistress of Hayson—it was unthinkable. Her thoughts returned to the excitement of the evening before—those wonderful hours with Garve, the ambush. If only Garve had taken her with him—but it was futile to regret that now. Somehow, even in her extremity, the thought that Garve was free encouraged her to hope. She knew that as long as life was in him he would strive to find her. No doubt there was little enough he could do, but she trusted him to do something. Presently, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body, she slept.

  16. Kidnapped!

  Hayson strode quickly along the short stretch of road to the Willoughbys’ drive, and in through the gate. He paused to cast a word or two of Arabic into the cactus, shortly acknowledged the reply, and marched boldly up to the front door. The Willoughbys’ Arab servant opened to him, exchanged a quick glance of understanding, and showed him into the lounge. Willoughby himself was pacing up and down: Jackson was standing by the fireplace, knocking out his pipe.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” said Hayson courteously. “Is anything wrong? I happened to be working late and was just thinking of turning in when I noticed your windows all alight. Nothing wrong with Esther, is there?”

  “It was good of you to come over,” said Willoughby. “As a matter of fact, there’s a devil of a lot wrong. Have you heard about the ambush?”

  “Ambush?” asked Hayson, and the startled surprise in his eyes was a masterpiece of simulation. “Good heavens, no! You don’t mean, sir, that Esther—she’s not hurt?”

  “No, no—at least, we hope not. She and Garve were held up on the Jericho road, so the police informed me, but they got through all right. Fairfax, who’s in charge at headquarters, told me on the phone over an hour ago that they were on their way home. It’s only a few minutes by car, but they haven’t come. I confess I’m worried.”

  Hayson nodded sympathetically. “What have you done about it?”

  “All I can. I’ve told Fairfax and he sent out a patrol at once, but they’ve reported that there’s no sign of life in the city anywhere. They think Garve may have taken her to Tel Aviv—there’s been a big explosion there to-night, you know.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard. I’ve been buried with my books all the evening. Well, that’s possible, I should think.”

  “I’m sure she would have let me know,” said Willoughby with weary irritability. “She promised to be back at the latest by two, and I told her I’d wait up for her. At the very least she would have left a message with Fairfax.”

  “One would have thought so. Have you—well, no, that’s not possible.”

  Willoughby gave him a shrewd glance. “Garve’s hotel? I rang them. He hasn’t been back.”

  “I see. In that case it looks as though there’s nothing we can do but wait, doesn’t it? Do you mind if I stay—I doubt if I could sleep till I know what’s happened.”

  “We’ll be glad to have your company,” said Willoughby heartily. “Have a drink.”

  “Thanks,” said Hayson. Actually he was feeling in need of a stimulant, and his thanks rang true. He helped himself to whisky and added the faintest splash of soda.

  “I suppose Baird has gone to Tel Aviv?” he asked casually.

  “Yes. Hundreds dead, by all accounts. Heaven knows how these Arabs think it will help their case to blow up Jewish women and children.”

  “It’s madness,” said Hayson, and swallowed his whisky at a gulp. “They should know by now that terrorism never gets any concessions out of Britain.”

  His attitude was perfect—a judicious blend of respect, affection, and concern. He spoke as though it were understood by all decent people that the Arabs were badly led children who must be handled firmly. He had never denounced them—always, when he had talked of them, he had been firm, but liberal, like Willoughby himself. They understood each other. />
  Hayson glanced at his watch—it seemed to him that he had been glancing at his watch all night. It was nearly three o’clock. “We ought to be getting news of some sort soon,” he observed. His mind was not on his words. He was thinking, “Another two minutes.”

  “The curious thing is,” declared Jackson, “that I could have sworn I heard a car stop outside the gate not much more than an hour ago. I was certain it was Miss Willoughby, but the car drove off, and she didn’t come in. I wonder——”

  What he wondered no one was ever to know. Without warning of any sort the lights went out. After that things happened so quickly that it was impossible to keep track of them. The door opened—there was a lot of movement in the big room—two shots, a groan and a fall—a sound as of someone choking, Hayson’s voice, muffled, crying, “Let go, damn you”—words in Arabic rapped out as commands—an order to hurry. Then suddenly the lights went up again.

  Hayson, with a gag in his mouth, was lying trussed up on the settee—though trussed less efficiently and ruthlessly than he had bound Esther. Opposite him, Willoughby was lying on the floor, also gagged, and helpless as a child. Three powerful Arabs stood over him, mocking his frantic glaring eyes. Two Arabs guarded Hayson. Jackson lay on the carpet by the fireplace, dying, while blood spurted from a great hole in his neck.

  One of the Arabs went over to the fireplace and looked down at the pitiful sight. He stirred the body contemptuously with his foot. “He’ll give no more trouble,” he said.

  Three of them seized Willoughby and carried him to the front door. Two others followed with Hayson. Abdul, whom the Willoughbys had trusted, opened the door for them. They waited a moment, and a car drove to the gate. Elsewhere the city was silent. Only a minute or two after the first attack the bound men were thrust unceremoniously into the back of the car with three Arabs on top of them, and were being raced along by the silent wall, past Damascus Gate to that point of the road which was nearest the entrance to the quarries. Just inside the cave, at the place where, in more peaceful times, the pedlar sat with his stone mallets and paper-weights for sale to tourists, an Arab stood on guard. A bayonet gleamed at the muzzle of his rifle: he was equipped for war.

  The next fifteen minutes were a revelation to Willoughby. The Arab party advanced sure-footedly through the quarries, lighting their way with torches, wasting not a second. Without hesitation they singled out the passage which Garve and Hayson had taken, the one which gave such a convincing appearance of a cul-de-sac. Brusquely the helpless roped figures were forced through the narrow aperture and carried swiftly along the precipice edge. “Where ignorance is bliss,” thought Hayson, momentarily envying Willoughby, yet trusting the Arabs who had made the journey so many times before. They were clearly conscious of the vital need for speed, and one who seemed to be in charge kept muttering exhortations to further effort. The eight-foot drop which Garve and Hayson had negotiated only with the greatest difficulty was almost taken in their stride by the Arabs. Fastening a rope round the waist of each captive in turn, they lowered the two bundles unceremoniously to the bottom. The last Arab clung to the ledge with his hands, and then let himself drop, alighting with the grace and ease of a cat. In a few minutes they were approaching the central chamber.

  The aspect of the chamber had greatly altered since Hayson and Garve had last visited it. On the opposite side, and close against the precipice, twenty or thirty Arabs were seated on the ground. One or two of them wore European dress, and only their dark faces and tarbooshes proclaimed them Eastern. Others wore the robes of powerful sheikhs, and their fingers glittered with jewels. A little haze of smoke rose from the group, which was illuminated dimly by flares jammed into cracks in the rock. In the centre of the group sat an Arab sheikh, a little apart, like a leader, and when he spoke the others listened. His frame was powerful, his swarthy face strong and handsome.

  With little ceremony the two captives were marched up to the group and forced to their knees. They remained gagged. The sheikh in the centre turned slowly towards the two men and his fine features broke in a bitter smile.

  “Good-morning, gentlemen,” he said in English. He looked at Hayson, then more closely at Willoughby. “We are indeed honoured to have two such distinguished guests—a leading light in English literary circles and a famous antiquarian. You must forgive us if our reception seems a little informal. But first let me introduce myself. I am known as Ali Kemal. I do not doubt that you have heard my name, though to my knowledge we have never had the mutual pleasure of meeting.”

  Kemal lighted a gold-tipped cigarette with heavily ringed fingers and returned to the attack.

  “No doubt you will be wondering,” he said in more businesslike tones, “why you have been brought here. I will tell you. In an hour from now I am leaving Jerusalem to raise a revolt against your Government throughout Transjordan. During the course of that revolt we may find ourselves in need of money. We feel that you two gentlemen may have some value to your country. We therefore propose to take you along with us. In the event of our failure, of course—but we needn’t discuss that unpleasant and improbable contingency.” He paused. “Have you ever been to Petra, Mr. Willoughby? It is a wild, remote, and inhospitable place—a place which perhaps your friend Mr. Hayson will appreciate more than you yourself, for it is full of interesting antiquities. As your Government will not know you are there, they will not be able to make any misguided attempts to release you.”

  Kemal drew thoughtfully at his cigarette and suddenly glanced across at Hayson, whose eyelids flickered.

  Kemal smiled. “Your daughter, Mr. Willoughby, is already on her way to Petra. It is possible that she may prove an even more valuable hostage than yourself, and when the time comes for you to write to your Government at our dictation—without, of course, disclosing your whereabouts—the awkwardness of her situation will no doubt provide you with an added incentive.”

  He turned and gave an order in Arabic, and the captives were at once seized, carried across the cavern and placed in the mouth of one of the tunnels, their backs to opposite walls. There the Arabs left them.

  Willoughby made one or two abortive efforts to loosen his bonds and his gag, but without the slightest success. He could see nothing at all, for the angle of the tunnel cut out all light from the central chamber. Something like despair seized his mind. That Esther should be in the hands of these ruffians! He dare not let his thoughts dwell on her—that agony of imagination was too great to bear. Thinking of his daughter would drive him crazy. If he could only help her—at whatever sacrifice—but at the moment there was nothing he could do. He might have argued with Kemal—temporized, promised, had his mouth been free—promised anything; but gagged, he had been powerless. Stoically he sat motionless and stared into the darkness.

  Presently, however, he became aware that something was happening a few feet away from him. A scraping noise reached his ears, a noise which gave him hope. Hayson was trying to get loose, and, judging by the sounds, with some degree of success. His feet were rubbing on the rock as he turned and twisted. His struggles went on for perhaps five minutes. Then, to his joy, Willoughby heard a gasp from the wall opposite and Hayson spoke to him in an eager, sibilant whisper. “Mr. Willoughby—I’ve got my hands free and my gag. I think I can loosen my legs in a moment or two, but they’re a bit cramped. Wait a minute.”

  The shuffling sounds began again, and in a surprisingly short time—surprising to Willoughby—Hayson came crawling over to him out of the shadows and began to work at his gag. It took him some minutes to loosen the knot, but eventually he unfastened it with the help of his teeth.

  Willoughby gasped with relief, and Hayson gave a warning “Sh-sh!”

  “The devils!” breathed Willoughby. “What are we going to do, Hayson? We must do something. You heard what they said—they’ve got Esther. God knows what they’ll do to her.”

  “Sh-sh!” again Hayson cautioned him. “If we’re found it’s all up. Listen. If I can get your cords unfastene
d do you think you can get out the way we came in?”

  “If it’s the only way, I can try,” said Willoughby. “But have we time? I think they fastened me up too carefully.”

  “Let’s investigate,” said Hayson. With a great show of energy he set to work on the knots, heaving and straining, cursing broken finger nails. “You’re right,” he said finally. “They’ve done their job too well. It would take an hour to free you.”

  “Never mind,” Willoughby urged him. “The chief thing is to act quickly. Can you get out alone?”

  “Yes,” said Hayson. “I know every inch of the way. I can make it if there is no guard—if there is, I’ll have to slip by somehow or fight.”

  “Good man. We must get a message to the military, Hayson. There’s not a moment to lose.”

  “It ought to be written, sir—don’t you think? I might be able to send it then by messenger if I get caught or wounded. Also it’s an important matter—means diverting a whole lot of troops. They might not be willing to act on a verbal message from me.”

  “That’s true—we can take no chances.”

  Hayson groped in his pockets. “I’ve a bit of pencil,” he said finally, “no paper at all.”

  “Feel in my pocket,” said Willoughby, hoarse with excitement. “There’s a letter from my publishers—nothing important on it, but it will satisfy the authorities that the message comes from me. I think there’s enough room for a few lines of writing. Got it?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hayson. “I’ve got a flash-lamp.”

  Suddenly a faint red glow showed in the blackness of the passage—the bulb of the lamp behind Hayson’s enveloping fingers.

  “That’s better,” Hayson whispered. With difficulty he extracted a bundle of papers from Willoughby’s breast pocket through the tightly encircling ropes. Swiftly he sorted them over, flashing the uncovered light on them.

  “Careful with that light,” Willoughby called in an agonized whisper. “For God’s sake keep it covered or they’ll spot us.”