Mediterranean Nights (14 page)

‘Ah know what yo want, sar—I'se sent to meet de gentlemens like yo,' with which cryptic remark he turned on his heel and walked away.

‘Now what does all this mean?' thought Wobbles. ‘He can't be an ordinary tout or he wouldn't clear off like that.' The thought flashed through his mind that the night was young—the gramophone in the Mess would be intolerable—and that in his present state of mind he would never be able to sleep. Wobbles was always an impulsive person—the negro's invitation proffered distraction of some kind, and that was what he wanted above all things.

The red fez, set at a jaunty angle on the black's curly hair, was already some twenty paces away. Without a thought as to the possible trouble in which he might be landing himself, Wobbles set off after it, down the street.

At a brisk pace, Fate, in the person of the white-robed guide, shouldered his way through the jostling crowd. Soon he turned away from the lighted streets into a labyrinth of crooked, narrow ways. Wobbles knew that he was being led into the heart of the native quarter. A fetid odour of decaying garbage and unwashed humanity came to his nostrils—he had half a mind to turn back. The man would probably only lead him to some sordid den, where drink-sodden women made the night hideous with their raucous laughter—and yet—it did seem that the fellow had been waiting there especially for him; he might, after all, lead him to some place of interest which he had not yet seen.

Glancing from time to time over his shoulder to see that Wobbles followed, the negro strode on—plunging even deeper into a maze of evil-smelling streets—jostled by black men and by brown—Copts, Armenians, Greeks, and Jews.
Now and then by the flickering light of an occasional lamp a veiled woman flitted past, silent and intent on some mysterious errand of her own.

At last the negro paused before a heavy door—beside it lay a heap of refuse making the night air foul—he knocked, and Wobbles, who had caught him up, was conscious of being carefully scrutinised by a pair of almond-shaped eyes, peering at him from behind an iron grill.

The inspection seemed satisfactory, for the door was opened by the owner of the eyes—a yellow-skinned Celestial. The negro produced the partially smoked cigar which Wobbles had thrown away, and showed it to the yellow man. Wobbles looked on with interest. Unconsciously, it seemed, he had given a secret sign, and so provoked the negro's interest. He wondered what was going to happen now, as with some misgiving he followed his guide up a flight of rickety carpetless stairs which creaked abominably.

At the top the negro pulled aside a curtain, and bowed him into a room, the magnificence of which was in striking contrast to the entrance of the house. The walls were hung with rich satin embroidered in many colours, huge golden dragons—butterflies—strange flowers, and birds, rioted and twisted in Oriental splendour; claws, teeth, and eyes were richly inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and gold set with uncut gems. One end of the room was devoted to an altar—upon it, benign and impassive, sat a golden idol, one hand upraised in the conventional attitude, ‘listening to prayer'.

He knew it to be an image of the Chinese Mother Goddess ‘Quan Yin'; before her burnt many joss-sticks and a little lamp of perfumed oil.

In the centre of this beautiful room sat three Chinamen; two were clad in wide-sleeved, blue silk blouses, the third in a gorgeous robe of crimson satin. On the breast of the robe a peacock had been embroidered in many coloured silks and gold thread. All three wore little black skull-caps, and were engaged in a game of Fan-tan.

The man in the Mandarin robe looked up for one brief second, then he placidly continued his game. Yet in that swift glance from those heavily lidded eyes, Wobbles felt that he had been weighed up, analysed and docketed in the Oriental's brain.

The negro went over to the old man and once more held out the Punch Corona. The Chinaman nodded, ran his yellow hand down his long drooping moustaches which dangled to his chest, and said in a low voice: ‘Engleesh man—plenty money—come smoke pipe.'

‘So that's the game,' thought Wobbles. To discard a cigar was to evince a desire for the pipe. Such was evidently the signal that the wealthy devotees of the poppy gave, who were staying at Sheppards', to the waiting negro outside. Well—after all, why not? He had never smoked opium before, chance had brought him to the place; it was said that under the influence of the drug all dreams came true—perhaps he would turn into a bankrupt earl—or some rotten little dago prince—just the sort of bird Mrs. Van Hoode would favour for his divine Veronica. He drew out his wallet.

The old Chinaman struck a little gong, and another Oriental, with hands tucked into wide sleeves, made his appearance—silent and cringing.

Wobbles parted with a note, and some coins to the negro guide. One of the gorgeous hangings was drawn aside, and he was led down a dark passage to a little room. It was sparsely furnished, and the cushions of the bunk which occupied one side of it were soiled and shabby. It had no windows and a stale atmosphere hung in the confined space.

Wobbles felt a sense of repulsion come over him, but he remembered that the lovers of the dream-pipe build their palaces from their imagination, so he sat down to wait on the edge of the bunk.

The Chinaman was busy rolling a pellet of the drug between his palms; deftly he picked it up on the end of a needle and held it for a moment in the flame of a lamp. He handed Wobbles the brass pipe—that magic gateway to a world of celestial brightness, where all is roses and troubles are no more—then silently he withdrew.

It was infinitely quiet in the little room. Wobbles spread his handkerchief on the pillow, stretched himself on the bunk, and inhaled a breath from the pipe. At first the fumes made him cough and splutter, but a pleasant feeling of languor began to steal over him.

He felt very tired, but some of his anger had left him—he tried the pipe again, this time with more success. He grew
drowsy—the walls seemed to be closing in on him—the tiny flame of the lamp diminished to a pin-point of light, and then suddenly increased before his eyes to a bright and lurid flame; a moment later it had almost disappeared once more—he lay still, the drug was working.

Somewhere a long way away he could hear voices very faintly—as thought they came to him from an infinite distance over a weak telephone wire. Someone seemed to be quarrelling. He cursed them for fools and wished that they would stop, he was deliciously drowsy, these bickering voices irritated him.

He picked up the pipe to draw another puff, but as he moved the voices grew much louder. He scowled at the door through which they seemed to come, and thought of shouting to them to go away—and let him sleep. With an effort he sat up. The room seemed to be going round him; he concentrated on the door, trying to focus it with his eyes and make it stay still. It occurred to his dazed mind that this was really not much fun—no dreams—no nothing—and just the same stupid feeling as if one was tight. Perhaps he hadn't taken enough—he reached again for the pipe—then he frowned in perplexity. What a row there was going on somewhere—he distinctly heard the trampling of feet and then a crash.

‘Help!' came a voice. ‘Help!'

Vaguely it dawned on Wobbles that some fellow was trying to do some other fellow in. ‘How idiotic,' he thought. Why the devil couldn't they be sensible people—smoke their rotten pipes if they wanted to and go to sleep—still—couldn't have chaps killing one another—he supposed he'd have to go and see about it.

He staggered to his feet and lurched towards the door. Lord, what a row they were making! He fumbled with the latch and the door opened with a creak.

In the passage a terrific struggle was going on; a burly middle-aged man lay stretched out on the floor—two wiry Chinese were trying to stop his shouts, and drag him back into a room close by. He was kicking for all he was worth and yelling lustily.

Wobbles' bemused mind cleared with amazing suddenness—this was no figment of a drugged imagination, two Chinese maltreating a white man, by Gad—he'd see
about that. He was still unsteady on his legs, but flung himself on the nearest Oriental.

The Chinaman slithered from his grasp, then quick as lightning whipped a long curved knife from his baggy sleeve. He crouched there—glaring, his gums drawn back, his breath made a hissing sound as he let it out—he was about to spring. Wobbles did not wait for him. He sailed right in. The knife went up, Wobbles knocked it aside—he lashed out with his right—the Chinese took it on the jaw and went down in a heap.

The elderly man was on his feet again; he puffed and gasped and struggled, and he looked about all in, but he hung on to his adversary gamely. Wobbles seized the other Chink by the back of the neck, and hauled him off—with a terrific heave he pitched him bodily into a corner. The yellow man's head hit the skirting with a thump—he lay where he had fallen, groaning.

‘Come on,' yelled Wobbles, ‘we must get out of this.' He pushed the other man before him down the passage, but as they came to the big curtain he thrust his way in front. He grasped the satin with both hands and gave a wrench—with a tearing sound it came away, crumpling in heavy folds.

In the middle of the reception room stood the old man with the peacock robe. A knife whizzed as the curtain fell, it plopped into the thick material that Wobbles held at arm's length—had he pushed the hanging aside instead of wrenching it down, the knife would have found its mark. The old man's hand flew up again—a second knife flashed through the air—it stuck, quivering, in a panel only a few inches from Wobbles' head. He dropped the curtain, rushed to the altar, seized Quan Yin, and swung her in the air. With one swift motion he flung the heavy image. The Oriental stood, rooted to the spot—horror-struck at the sacrilege—the golden figure struck him full on the chest, he fell backwards, screaming curses in a high, shrill voice.

Wobbles' companion was half-way down the stairs—Wobbles dashed after him. The yellow porter stood at the bottom. The burly man jumped the last six steps and landed on the Chink. They rolled together in the hallway—the Chinaman wriggled free and stood up; Wobbles hit him good and strong—he went down again like a felled ox. The other
struggled to his feet—a moment later they stood together in the dark and silent alley.

Panting and speechless, they walked together down the noisome court to the nearest street. Under a corner lamp Wobbles had his first opportunity of scrutinising the man he had rescued. He was in a shocking state—collar torn off, tie under ear, dusty and dishevelled; but making due allowance for that he seemed a prosperous-looking person. Directly he had regained his breath he spoke:

‘I'm almighty grateful to you, friend, for lugging me out of that joint.'

‘Oh, not at all,' murmured Wobbles in a depressed voice; with the open air the fact that he would not be able to ride with Veronica the next morning came back to him strongly.

‘Known old Loo-chi for years,' the American went on. ‘Knew him way back in 'Frisco—'fore you were born I reckon.'

Wobbles was no longer interested, but he thought it only polite to ask: ‘What was the row about then?'

The American became confidential. ‘See here, son, I'm not supposed to be in Cairo—my wife 'ud give me hell, and then some, if she knew. I'm still young at sixty—that's my trouble—but Loo-chi knows who I am. I reckon he thought he'd hold me for a roll of greenbacks when I happened on his dope-joint, doin' the rounds.'

‘Well—er—I'm glad to have helped you out,' Wobbles said vaguely. He was wondering what he could do now.

‘Say—what made you hit the pipe?' asked the stranger curiously.

Wobbles gave a tired laugh. ‘Oh, a woman—the usual story.'

‘Women is hell,' the American agreed, ‘but what's the girl find wrong with you anyway—you seem a real live man.'

‘It's not the girl,' said Wobbles quickly. ‘It's her mother. They've got masses of money, and I'm just a poor devil of an air force officer; that's the trouble. If only she was poor and I was rich—but I don't want to bore you with all this—' He sighed heavily.

‘Now that's real hard,' exclaimed the big man sympathetically. ‘Never mind, son, come and split a bottle with me
at Sheppards'—but a word to the wise young man. I'm just off the train from Alex.; the scrap you got me out of was way back at the railway station! See!'

Wobbles nodded. ‘Anything you like,' he agreed.

A few minutes later they were back in the well-lighted streets; they walked up the steps of the hotel and into the lounge side by side.

At a small table sat a charming figure, the mere sight of her made Wobbles' heart bump: her well-marked eyebrows became two bows of surprise as they approached. ‘Why, Papa,' she exclaimed, ‘I thought you were in Alex.—but what a state you're in—and how did you become acquainted with my boy friend, too?'

‘I'm right off the train, honey,' declared Mr. Van Hoode firmly. He cocked a shrewd eye at Wobbles, and found that young man gazing at his daughter with his soul in his eyes. He broke into a sudden smile. ‘You two had better get dancing while I clean up and have a word with Moma. I've a hunch your boy friend's been in luck tonight.'

Some two hours later Wobbles stood once more on the steps of Sheppards'. The patient negro was still waiting—to his great surprise he got a handsome tip. Wobbles was smoking yet another of the Van Hoode cigars, but this time he did not throw it—three parts unsmoked—away.

STORY X

I
CAN
imagine the majority of readers saying ‘Enough of this! We don't want any more immature fumblings but the sort of short story that we expected to get in a Dennis Wheatley book.' That is a reasonable demand, although whether this story will be up to expectations it is beyond my power to foresee.