of his mere say-so. As a general rule you can’t get past that suave screen the British use to camouflage their real thoughts, without a guide whom they know and trust; but when you’re in, you’re in.
De Crespigny was nothing unusual; clean-shaven, almost always laughing about something, looking about twenty although really twenty-six, probably not brilliant, but capable of swift judgment and astounding impudence in tight places. Obviously one of those well-bred young gentlemen, who have kept an empire’s borders by daring and straight dealing while the politicians did the bragging and the profiteers made hay. He wore several ribbons for distinguished service, but the only thing he seemed really proud of was a mixture he called a Hebron cocktail, made without ice from a recipe of his own invention.
It was a comfortable room we entered, for the Germans had left their furniture behind them and the walls were hung besides with deadly weapons taken away from the local cut-throats by this de Crespigny child, his one assistant, the one bold native policeman and the “nine with the wind up them.”
The assistant came in while we watched the secret ritual of cocktail shaking in an ex-beer bottle; another boy, two years younger than his chief and, barring the tooth-ache, even more amused by the certainty that mass-murder was afoot. You could sum him up instantly. When a man thinks of his job first, and tooth-ache merely as a handicap, bet on him. Besides his name was Jones and that is a well-known label.
“Just come from the jail,” he announced. “Had to put Ali ben Hamza in a cell by himself; he was propaganding among the other prisoners. Perfectly friendly, though; assured me that you and I will both be dead before morning and offered to pull my tooth out with his fingers. Said he hated to see me suffer and that having your throat cut doesn’t hurt a bit.”
“Thought you were going to the doctor,” said de Crespigny.
“No time. He has his hands full anyhow. Hospital’s chock-a- block, and no one to help him operate. Any news?”
“Wire’s down.”
“Oh, good! That means Jerusalem can’t interfere and tell us not to do things. But—” glancing at Grim and me ”— are you still in charge, ‘Crep?”
“I’ve no orders to take over,” Grim assured him. “De Crespigny may pass the buck when he sees fit.”
“Pretty decent of you.”
“Suppose you fellows put me wise, though,” Grim suggested. “We’ll call it unofficial, but in case of need it might be wholesome for me to know the facts.”
“It’s all very simple,” said de Crespigny. “Aaron Cohen came here with a scheme for exporting Arabs to your country to make room for Jews. He offers to buy out their holdings for cash, to arrange their passage to the States, get passports for them and all that, and provide them with good land to settle on at the other end on easy terms. Perfectly fair and above-board if they wanted to do it, but they don’t.
“On top of that, the Jews in this place are Orthodox and hate the Zionists worse than they do pork. They made the mistake of telling the Arabs that Cohen was no good, whereas he’s quite a decent fellow really, if it weren’t for his infernal cheek. No need to tell you what the Moslems of this place are like. They stole Cohen’s watch for a joke and he said what he thought of them. They admit the truth of all he said— you know how engagingly frank they are about themselves—but take exception to criticism by any kind of Jew.
“Now they say that the Orthodox Jews put Cohen up to it and only went back on him afterwards because they were afraid. They say it’s really the Orthodox Jews of this place who are planning to get their holdings; and as most of them owe money to the Jews they propose to make short work of the lot of them. They’ve cut the wire to prevent our phoning for Sikhs and machine guns and the game is probably scheduled to begin tonight.”
Before de Crespigny had finished speaking two men came into the room and one of them, obviously a middle-aged Scotsman, sat down without waiting to be invited. The other, an Arab long past middle age, remained standing. Grim made a sign to me that I interpreted as a call to behave in keeping with the Arab costumes we were wearing and I hid my face as much as I reasonably could in the folds of the kufiyi.
”Allah ysabbak bilkhair! (God give you a happy morning!)” the old Arab began as soon as he could get a word in.
”Ahlan wasah’lan! (A thousand times welcome!)” said de Crespigny. “What is it, Yussuf?”
“You young men go! Go to your mothers! Go home and marry wives!”
“Why this sudden interest in our future, Yussuf?”
“It is not sudden. I am an old man, and have seen many young men die. I have yet to see the good that came of killing them. Go home.”
“Men die when their time comes,” said de Crespigny. “Moreover, they don’t marry wives in my land until the woman is willing. I’ve got no money and the girls won’t look at me.”
“It is not good to answer with jests when an old man speaks in earnest. I, who must see death soon in the natural course of things, advise you as a father speaking to his sons. Go home. It is better to beget sons than to die young.”
“You old raven! What are you croaking about?”
The Arab stroked his gray beard and thought a minute before he answered. Then:
“I have seen the blood flow in the runnels of the streets of El- Kalil like red storm-water. I was here when the Turks took vengeance on the city for certain matters. I have seen the seven districts of the city at war with one another and the executions afterwards. All those are as nothing in comparison to what comes! It is written that not one Jew shall remain alive in El-Kalil!”
“Any date to that prophecy?” asked de Crespigny quite calmly.
“They are whetting the swords now!”
“They’ll have us to reckon with before they begin on the Jews.”
“Truly, my son. Therefore go, before the sacrifice begins! What can you few do against so many? Can you send for help? I think not. I am told the wire is cut. Could a horseman or man on foot get through to Jerusalem alive? Not he! They would let you escape, but not your messenger; and if you stay, you die!”
“Supposing I chose to run away, they’d be fools to let me,” de Crespigny answered. “There’d be lorry-loads of Sikhs here two or three hours after I reached Jerusalem.”
“And the Sikhs will bury the dead Jews! Listen, my son. You British are not Turks. Who in this place is afraid of British vengeance, after living under the Turk’s heel so many years? The Sikhs will come and shoot a handful. There will be a trial, at which every witness will tell lies. Those who have the fewest friends will be convicted; some will be hanged and some imprisoned. For four thousand Jews slain will forty Moslems hang? Better go before the sacrifice begins!”
“You go back into the city,” said de Crespigny, as calmly as if he were ordering the streets cleaned, “and tell your friends this: There’s only one authority in this place, and that’s me! Say they have me to deal with before they can start on the Jews!”
“You and these few and ten policemen!” The old Arab smiled and spread out his hands in a gesture of something like despair. “They will go first to the jail, pillage it and set the prisoners free. Next they
