Once Esther discovered that she had succeeded in getting her own way, she stopped and waited for Garve to join her. Unperturbed by the sulkiness of his expression, she placed a small, exquisitely manicured hand confidingly on his arm, as though she had known him for years, and gave him a dazzling smile.
“You’re very nice,” she said softly, and in the bright sunlight she looked alluringly beautiful.
“On the contrary,” retorted Garve gruffly, “I’m a fool. Even though a crack on the head would undoubtedly do you a world of good, I ought not to let you expose yourself. However, since you’ve made up what you’re no doubt pleased to call your mind, we won’t start quarrelling again. Hi, Saud, where are we going?”
“In one hour,” said Saud tonelessly, “we can see very little.”
“Never mind that. Just take us round the streets—the main streets. He added something in Arabic which sounded like a sharp instruction, and the guide nodded gravely and went a pace or two ahead.
“Can I see the Wailing Wall?” asked Esther demurely.
“If you behave yourself,” said Garve, trying hard to look stern in face of the dancing mischief in her eyes. “But I don’t suppose there’ll be anybody wailing at this time of day. The best performance is given on Friday afternoons.”
Esther’s eager fingers again lightly touched his sleeve. “What about that place where the top of the mountain comes out into the floor of the mosque? Antony Hayson told me about it.”
Garve raised his eyebrows. “Hayson again? He seems to be a knowledgeable young man.”
“He’s very handsome,” said Esther. “There are so few presentable men in Jerusalem now—except the police.”
“Considering that you’ve been in the city quite twenty-four hours,” said Garve, abandoning once again all pretence at politeness, “you have naturally had the opportunity to comb it pretty thoroughly! Does Hayson like spoilt young women?”
“You can judge for yourself when you meet him,” retorted Esther. “Anyway, what about our mosque?”
“Closed to-day to all but Moslems,” said Garve snappily. He was beginning to feel hot, and to wonder again why he had bothered to come with her. “And you can’t get into anything except a bad temper at this unearthly hour of the morning.”
Esther laughed gaily. “I do like you,” she declared shamelessly. “You say the rudest things in the most amusing way, and I know I’m a pig. From now on I’ll really be good. Tell me some more.”
“Well,” said Garve, relenting in spite of himself, “you must have a look at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before you leave Jerusalem, but we couldn’t begin to see it in an hour. Solomon’s Quarries, under the city, are well worth a visit—but I remember now, your handsome friend, Hayson, is digging there, so he’ll probably offer to escort you. Then there’s Hezekiah’s Tunnel —a filthy old aqueduct—but I can’t recommend that, because I’m still trying to summon up enough courage to explore it myself. I think the streets will keep us occupied for to-day. The very names take you back a couple of thousand years.”
He pointed to a blue plate nailed on to an ancient slab of masonry, and Esther read the words, “Via Dolorosa.”
“You can think what you like about it,” said Garve. “Some say it is and some say it isn’t. Mind that camel!”
Esther swerved to avoid a nuzzling nose, and a spot of high colour in each cheek betrayed her excitement. As they proceeded cautiously into the heart of the city, the lanes became more and more congested. They were so narrow that in places three donkeys could not have stood abreast. They descended and climbed in a series of irregular steps, so that even by day it was necessary to walk with care. Where a plan of Jerusalem optimistically showed a street, complete with name, the wandering tourist often found nothing but a dark entry between high walls. Walls were everywhere—high walls, low walls, new clean walls, dank and dripping walls, sunlit walls, dark looming walls—all of rock as solid as the seven hills from which they have been hewn. Behind the walls, striking the imagination with terror, garrets and hovels and noisome cells crouched behind narrow unglazed windows. Some of the streets—the main arteries of this uncanny city—struck straight and true from gate to gate, but others turned and twisted as though the builders of Jerusalem had set themselves deliberately to build a maze. Half of them ended blankly and unexpectedly in a wall. One could study the map for an hour before entering this warren, and still be cursing in a cul-de-sac within five minutes.
Here and there a street ran almost entirely underground, with only an occasional round vent in the stone roof to let in light and air. Shafts of vivid sunlight pierced these holes and stabbed the gloom like searchlights. Where they struck the ground the roughly cobbled surface was revealed in all its filth. Thousands of shuffling feet had beaten the excrement of animals and the decayed remnants of green merchandise into a soft moist mat, which deadened sound. To the left and right, hollows had been carved out of the living rock to serve as shops. Inside, in incredible dimness, picturesque jewellers pored over their rings and silver filigree, greedy merchants fingered Damascus cloth, cobblers hammered with straining eyes. One street was monopolized by leather sellers; one dealt only in the tourist knick-knacks of the East; in one the way was cluttered up with heaps of oranges and lemons, and piles of uncovered fish, round which the flies buzzed unceasingly, and rings of caraway-covered bread.
Several times Esther paused in doubt as some choice piece of drapery was thrust under her nose by a highly coloured Arab, whose name, she thought, should certainly have been Ali Baba. Each time, Garve took her arm and propelled her gently but firmly outside temptation’s reach, praying that she would show no further signs of temperament.
“Another day,” he said. “We mustn’t stop.”
Once, as she squeezed her way between a nosing mule and a peasant bent double under a sack of grain, a bearded old Arab squatting in the dusk of his shop called curses after them. Esther turned sharply, startled by the menace in the words, which she did not understand, but again Garve moved her on, not letting her mind dwell on the incident.
“Jerusalem, as you see, has its own traffic problem,” he said, gently pushing a donkey’s head from her path, “but no motorists, thank heaven.”
“It’s a wonderful place,” breathed Esther ecstatically. “I could spend hours and hours here. Look at that striking fellow with the rings on his hand. I think he was nodding to you. Do you know him?”
“He was nodding to our guide,” said Garve quietly. “Saud had a word with him as he passed. A friendly salutation—I hope. If a row started here we’d be quite helpless.”
“Panic-monger,” murmured Esther. “But it’s certainly the ideal spot for a rough-house. People of so many religions and nationalities must have riots pretty often.”
“Not as often as you’d think. The city is divided up into religious areas—invisible boundaries keep Jew from Arab, and Christians from both. That’s why a guide is so useful, even if, like Saud there, he does nothing except walk on in front. He knows where we may go and where we mustn’t. Every sect has its forbidden places, and on your own you keep on meeting villainous-looking guards with raised hands and peremptory orders to return the way you came.”
“I see. I thought Saud was taking his duties very lightly.”
“I told him to go on ahead. He’s just near enough to act as a protection from other guides. If we were unescorted we should be assailed on all sides by offers of assistance. They become unpleasantly persistent, particularly when tourists are defenceless and ignorant of the city—and they can be dangerous, even in normal times. But they’re efficient when they want to be—they know their Holy Places as you know the multiplication table, though they treat them with no more respect than you would lavish on a slot machine at Brighton.”
While Garve talked, his wary eyes were constantly turning from one side of the path to the other, catching and analyzing the glances of strangers, weighing the hostility of some against the apathy of others. Presently the way became less crowded, the street narrower, the light dimmer. There were no longer shops or shoppers, and an increasing silence closed the party in. Saud was still marching along in front, his bright red tarboosh perched at a rakish angle, taking no notice of his clients, except to indicate occasionally by a dignified gesture that they were to strike on in another direction along a path which, without him, they would hardly have noticed.
“Two more turns, one right, one left, and we’ll be at the Wailing Wall,” said Garve. “It once formed part of the old temple, but it’s now the outside wall of the great Arab mosque—the one you wanted to see. There—you can just catch a glimpse of the dome across that courtyard. The orthodox Jews come and wail here for the departed glories of Israel. It’s a weird, wretched spectacle—the sight of them makes one ashamed of the human race.”
“Do they really weep?” asked Esther.
“They do that—salt tears that trickle down their cheeks. And they cry out like souls in torment. Sometimes you can see them kissing the stones and poking bits of prayers into the cracks while they chant an ancient ritual. You remember the rioting here in 1929? That was before my first visit, but, by all acounts, it was frightful. Since then there’s been a police box posted just before you get to the wall, in case of another outbreak, and during the day there’s always an officer on duty. He ought to be about somewhere. Look, you can just see the box now.”
The wooden shelter stood in the shadows. Saud gave it a hurried glance as he passed, and, suddenly quickening his pace, disappeared round the corner. Garve frowned and was about to hurry along after him when something about the interior of the deserted box caught his eye. He stopped and looked more closely. When he glanced up his face was grave. He knew now why there was no sentry to be seen.
“The policeman seems to have deserted his post …” began Esther.
“Quiet!” Garve’s tone was peremptory. “There’s something wrong! See this.” Esther peered inside. The box was quite empty except for a light service overcoat hanging from a peg, a tattered Sunday newspaper, and a telephone. Garve was pointing to a foot of useless cable which hung from the instrument, and a gleam of copper where an Arab knife had severed the wire.
Garve’s fingers tightened like a steel band on Esther’s arm. “Stay inside the box,” he said in an undertone. “Don’t move or make a sound. I won’t be a minute.” Flattening his body against the wall, he glided swiftly to the corner and peered round. His gun was ready in his right hand, but there was nothing to shoot at. He gazed steadily at the unpleasant scene, took a long, deep breath, and, with tightened lips, began slowly to creep back.
A cold shiver ran down Esther’s spine as she watched him, for she knew he had bad news, and feared to hear it.
“Is the policeman there?” she called in an anxious whisper.
“He is,” said “Garve slowly, wiping from his forehead the drops of sweat which had suddenly gathered there. “Lying on his face against the wall with six inches of knife between his shoulder blades. He’s as dead as Methuselah.”
Even as Garve debated the chances of their own safety, and the best way to secure it, he could not help admiring the manner in which Esther took the blow. Only a faint pallor and the quickness of her breathing betrayed the effort she was making not to seem afraid.
“Isn’t it possible to join this wire up again?” she asked tremulously.
Garve shook his head. “They’ve taken a piece away—cut it right out. They’re very thorough and very well instructed. Well, we’ll have to get out of here somehow. If we hug the wall there’ll be less for them to shoot at. Keep close behind me.”
They had not moved two yards, however, before the crash came. A small black missile hurtled over the wall behind them, dropped behind the sentry box, and exploded with a flash and a concussion that seemed to split the earth. Garve, hurled off his feet, hit the opposite side of the street with a thud which racked every bone and muscle in his body. For a second or two he lay winded and in agony, struggling with nausea and faintness, oppressed by the knowledge that he must get up and do something. By sheer effort of will he forced himself up—lifted himself up, up—with his fingers scraping in the niches of the wall. The air was thick with acrid smoke and heavy with dust. As it cleared he saw that Esther was resting on one knee, not far from him, her face buried in her arms, her shoulders heaving.
Garve was no coward, but now his courage almost failed him, for he saw that her hands were red with blood, and the thought of what her face might be appalled him. He had seen a child once, in Madrid, after a rebel air raid …! Tortured by every movement, he groped his way across the few feet that separated them, and, with his arm round her shoulders, drew her hands away.
“Thank God,” he breathed, not knowing even that he said it. Blood was still streaming from a cut over her left eye, but it was neither deep nor dangerous. Dazed, she allowed him to tie his handkerchief round her head.
Automatically he retrieved his gun, which was lying at her feet, and slipped it into his pocket. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked anxiously. “Take it easy, but try to stand up. Arms, legs feel all right? By God, we’ve been lucky.”
“Are you all right?” asked Esther faintly.
“Just bruised and cut about a bit,” said Garve, gazing dejectedly at the knuckles of his left hand, which must have scraped the wall as he was thrown against it.
“The sentry box seems to have suffered most,” said Esther, pointing to a mass of splintered wreckage strewn over the street.
“It probably saved our lives,” said Garve. “I should think the bomb was home-made—they mostly are in these individual attacks. If it hadn’t been, we’d both be twanging harps by now.”
“Ugh! Well, what do we do next?”
“Stay right here until the police come. That explosion must have been heard for miles, and directly they find they can’t get through on the phone, they won’t lose a minute.”
“Do you think Saud threw the bomb?”
“Probably, but we’ve no evidence—it might have been anybody.”
“Was it you they were trying to get—or me?”
“If I had been with any other woman I should have said me. As it is, I don’t know. They were given a golden opportunity to bring off a double event, and they did not waste it.”
They waited silently now. Each moment that passed seemed like an hour, but, as Garve had anticipated, the police arrived speedily. Esther, plucking excitedly at his sleeve, first drew his attention to the sound of running footsteps. His own eardrums had not yet recovered from the shock of the explosion. He was a little fearful that the runners might be Arabs, and not the police at all, but the clatter of heavy boots on stone was reassuring. In a few moments two young men in the uniform of the Palestine force rounded the corner at the double, service revolvers ready in their hands. Immeasurably relieved that the responsibility was no longer his alone, Garve sank down heavily against the wall to nurse his bruises and console himself with his briar.
“Glad to see you, Phillips,” he said, nodding to the taller of the two men, whom he recognized from a previous encounter. “It’s been pretty exciting here the last few minutes.”
Phillips, a muscular young giant with a sandy moustache and a gallant manner, was already bending anxiously over Esther, who had joined Garve against the wall.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated. “Miss Willoughby! What on earth are you doing here?” He was unrolling a length of bandage from his kit as he spoke, and with a few deft movements had slipped off Garve’s blood-soaked handkerchief and made a workmanlike job of Esther’s head. “Better?” he asked solicitously.
“Quite all right now, thanks,” said Esther “Just a headache. I think Mr. Garve has had a bad knock, though.”
“Not a thing wrong with me,” insisted Garve, puffing stolidly with relaxed muscles.
“We’ll see about that. Give him the once over, Featherstone.”
The second officer made a superficial examination despite Garve’s protests, and announced that, so far as he could judge, no bones were broken.
Phillips nodded. “Glad we were in time, old man,” he said to Garve.
“For us, yes.” Garve indicated the Wailing Wall with a movement of his thumb. “You’ll find your man over there with a knife in his back. Looks like Simpson. He doesn’t need help any more.”
“Christ!” said the young policeman soberly. “The swine—the infernal swine. That’s the fourth this week.” His worried gaze returned to Esther. “We’d better get you out of this right away, Miss Willoughby. Can you walk, do you think?”
“We’d better not try and get through the city again,” Garve interposed. “I suggest you send Featherstone back to Willoughby’s house for a car as quickly as he can go. He can tell someone else to collect the corpse. We’ll pick up the car near the French Consulate. We can slip out through Dung Gate and walk round outside the wall. It will only take us ten minutes …” He moved, and a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder. “Well, perhaps twenty minutes. If you come with us we’ll have two guns, in case they feel like finishing the job.”
Phillips, who had had many dealings with Garve, and knew him for a man of sense, nodded and passed on the instruction to Featherstone.
While Phillips made the necessary arrangements, Esther struggled with an awakening conscience. She noted the pallor of Garve’s thin bronzed face, and felt suddenly very humble.
“Are you angry?” she asked softly.
“With myself,” said Garve. “Very! I was a fool. I knew perfectly well that I ought to have stopped you.”
“I was very stupid and selfish,” said Esther contritely, and he saw with horror that her dark lashes were glistening with tears.
“Don’t you worry,” said Garve awkwardly. “Here, have a cigarette.” Fumblingly, he struck a match for her and hurled the burnt stump petulantly away. It annoyed him that after all his experience in handling people and situations he should feel he had bungled this one so badly.
He scrambled so his feet. “Ready, Phillips? Give Miss Willoughby a hand, will you? I’ll bring up the rear. And for the love of God take it easy or you’ll lose me.”
That short journey was one of the most trying that Garve had ever known. By now the sun was beating down unmercifully on the hard, dry ground, and waves of hot air made breathing uncomfortable and walking a penance. The smell of the brook Kedron was fouler than ever in the heat. As the little party passed slowly and painfully along the undulating path leading from Dung Gate, Garve saw that the whole southern-side of the wall was deserted, as though the Arab population had been warned to keep away.
Phillips, brisk and smart, alone appeared to be enjoying himself. He had taken Esther’s weight upon his arm, and kept up an even flow of light conversation during the whole journey. Garve, worried and aching, turned over the events of the morning in his mind, trying to link them somehow with what he knew of the growing Arab conspiracy. In the end he gave it up, and contented himself with thinking out the opening paragraph of the “story” he would cable to London that afternoon.
As they neared the Consulate he saw with relief that a big black saloon was already waiting. Featherstone had clearly lost no time. Two men were hurrying down the steep uneven path to meet them, and one—the one, strangely, who gave the greatest impression of haste—had a limping gait. It was Francis Willoughby, called unexpectedly from his breakfast, and jolting and slipping among the stones as though he set no value at all on his neck.
Esther ran to meet him, grave-faced and repentant. “I’m sorry, father,” she said, as his hands rested on her shoulders and he looked her anxiously up and down. “Please don’t look so worried—I’m quite all right.”
“It’s more than you deserve,” declared Willoughby, but his eyes were moist with thankfulness, and belied the brusqueness of his tone. “Who’s this young man?”
“Phillip Garve—he’s the Palestine correspondent of the Morning Call. Mr. Garve—my father.”
Willoughby gave Garve a searching look from under spectacularly red eyebrows, and held out his hand.
“I wish we’d met in pleasanter circumstances, Mr. Garve. Anyway, let’s get home and discuss the matter in comfort. I’m sure you can’t have had breakfast yet.”
Garve bowed his thanks. He had read a good deal of Willoughby’s stuff and admired his prose style. “It will be a pleasure,” he said. He turned to Willoughby’s companion with an inquiring glance at Esther.
“Of course,” she said sweetly, “I forgot you two haven’t met. Mr. Antony Hayson—Mr. Philip Garve of the London Morning Call.”