Chapter V

“Nobody will know, no bouquets”

There followed a tedious hour or two, during which Grim cross-examined the three “honest men,” and took down lists of names from their dictation, getting Doctor Ticknor meanwhile to go for the police because Yussuf Dakmar might still be lurking in the neighbourhood for a chance to murder Narayan Singh. It was only after the police had carried off the prisoners to jail (where they repudiated their entire confession next morning) that Grim showed us the letter which, like a spark, had fired a powder magazine--although a smaller one than its writer intended.

“It isn’t in Feisul’s handwriting,” he said, holding the feathery Arab script up to the lamplight; “and it’s no more like his phraseology than a camel resembles a locomotive. Listen to this:

To the Pan-Arab Committee in Jerusalem, by favour of Yussuf Dakmar Bey its District President, Greeting in the name of God:

Ye know that on former occasions the foes of our land and race were overwhelmed when, relying on the aid of the Most High, and raising the green banner of the Prophet--on whom be peace--we launched our squadrons in a cause held sacred by us all.

Ye know that in that fashion, and not otherwise, the accursed conquerors were driven forth and our sacred banner was set on high over the Damascus roofs, where by Allah’s blessing may it wave for ever!

Ye know how those who claimed to be our friends have since proven themselves foes, so that the independent state for which we fought is held today in ignominious subjection by aliens, who deny the true Faith and hold their promises as nothing.

Ye know how Damascus is beset by the French, and Palestine is held by the British who, notwithstanding the oath they swore to us, are daily betraying us Arabs to the Jews.

Know now, then, that the hour has struck when, again in the name of Allah, we must finish what we formerly began and with our true swords force these infidels to yield our country to us. Nor on this occasion shall we sheathe our swords until from end to end our land is free and united under one government of our own choosing.

Know that this time there shall be no half-measures nor any compromise. It is written, Ye shall show no quarter to the infidel. Let no Jew live to boast that he has footing in the land of our ancestors. Leave ye no root of them in the earth nor seedling that can spring into a tree! Smite, and smite swiftly in the name of Him who never sleeps, who keeps all promises, whose almighty hand is ready to preserve the Faithful.

Whereunto ye are bidden to take courage. Whereunto our army of Syria stands ready. Whereunto the day has been appointed.

Know ye that the tenth day from the sending of this letter, and at dawn, is the appointed time. Therefore let all make common cause for the favour of the Most High which awaits the Faithful.

In the name of God and Mohammed the Prophet of God, on whom be blessings.”

There followed the Moslem date and the numerical signature over Feisul’s indubitable seal. Grim figured a moment and worked out the corresponding date according to our western calendar.

“Leaves six days,” he said pleasantly. “It means the French intend to attack Damascus seven days from now.”

“Let ‘em!” Jeremy exploded. “Feisul’ll give ‘em ----! All they’ve got are Algerians.”

“The French have poison gas,” Grim answered dourly. “Feisul’s men have no masks.”

“Get ‘em some!”

That was Jeremy again. Grim didn’t answer, but went on talking:

“They’re going to get Damascus. All they’ve waited for was poison gas, and now there’s no stopping ‘em. They forged this letter after the gas arrived. Now if they catch Feisul in Damascus they’ll put him on trial for his life, and they probably hope to get this letter back somehow to use as evidence against him.”

“Go slow, Jim!” Mabel objected. “Where’s your proof that the French are jockeying this? Isn’t that Feisul’s seal?”

“Yes, and it’s his paper. But not his handwriting.”

“He might have dictated it, mightn’t he?”

“Never in those words. Feisul don’t talk or write that way. The letter’s a manifest forgery, as I’ll prove by confronting Feisul with it. But there’s a little oversight that should convince you it’s a forgery. Have you a magnifying glass, doc?”

Ticknor produced one in a minute, and Grim held the letter under the lamp. On the rather wide margin, carefully rubbed out, but not so carefully that the indentation did not show, was the French word magnifique that had been written with a rather heavy hand and one of those hard pencils supplied to colonial governments by exporters from stocks that can’t be sold at home.

“That proves nothing,” Mabel insisted. “All educated Arabs talk French. Somebody on Feisul’s staff was asked for an opinion on the letter before it went. My husband’s Arab orderly told me only yesterday that a sling I made for a man in the hospital was magnifique.”

The objection was well enough taken, because it was the sort the forger of the letter would be likely to raise if brought to book. But Grim’s argument was not exhausted.

“There are other points, Mabel. For one thing, it’s blue metallic ink. Feisul’s private letters are all written with indelible black stuff made from pellets that I gave him; they’re imported from the States.”

“But if Feisul wanted to prove an alibi, he naturally wouldn’t use his special private ink,” objected Mabel.

“Then why his seal, and his special private notepaper? However, there’s another point. Feisul writes the purest kind of Arabic, and this isn’t that sort of Arabic. It was written by a foreigner--perhaps a Frenchman--possibly an Armenian--most likely a Turk--certainly one of the outer ring of politicians who have access to Feisul and seek to control him, but are not really in his confidence. Damascus is simply a network of spies of that kind--men who attached themselves to the Arab cause when it looked like winning and are now busy transferring their allegiance.

“I think I could name the man who wrote this; I think I know the man who wrote that magnifique. If I’m right, Yussuf Dakmar will notify the French tonight through their agents in Jerusalem. The man who wrote that magnifique will know before morning that the letter’s missing; and it doesn’t matter how careful I may be, it’ll be known as soon as I start for Damascus.

“They’ll dope out that our obvious course would be to confront Feisul with this letter. The only way to travel is by train; the roads are rotten--in fact, no auto could get through; they’d tip off the Bedouins, who’d murder everybody.

“So they’ll watch the trains and especially Haifa, where everyone going north has to spend the night; and they’ll stop at nothing to get the letter back, for two reasons; as long as it’s in our hands it can be used to establish proof of the plot against Feisul; once it’s back in theirs, they can keep it in their secret dossier to use against Feisul if they ever catch him and bring him to trial. You remember the Dreyfus case?

“I shall start for Damascus by the early train--probably take an auto as far as Ludd. If I want to live until I reach Damascus I shall have to prove conclusively that I haven’t that letter with me. Anyone known to be in British service is going to be suspected and, if not murdered, robbed. Ramsden has been seen about too much with me. Jeremy might juggle by but he’s already notorious, and these people are shrewd. Better hold Jeremy in reserve, and the same with Narayan Singh. A woman’s best. How about you, Mabel?”

“What d’you mean, Jim?”

“Do you know a woman in Haifa?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well enough to expect a bed for the night at a moment’s notice?”

“Certainly.”

Mabel’s eyes were growing very bright indeed. It was her husband who looked alarmed.

“Well, now, here’s the point.”

Grim leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, not looking at anybody, stating his case impersonally, as it were, which is much the shrewdest way of being personal.