RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Blue Book, October 1947, with "The Bride of the Sphinx"
Now almost in our own day the Sphinx Emerald
turns up
in Cairo to work its malign magic in a memorable
drama.
I FOUND that by any standard postwar Cairo was a tough place. It was booming with gamblers, hashish-runners, wealth, Levantine riffraff of all sorts, and hatreds. Not only the half-scotched racial and religious hatreds of the old days, but the newer hatred of Pan-Arabs for Christians, of Syrians for French, of Greeks for English, and so on. As an American, and as traffic agent for the new Consolidated Airlines, I was fairly immune to these passions; but blood was shed of nights, and the fine art of murder was being carried to a 33° peak with little pretense of concealment.
Getting the local offices established for my company was a slow business, and I had plenty of time to see the sights—which of course I had seen often enough during the war, when our first tanks dropped in to lend a hand. Running into Tom Keating in Cairo was pure accident. One morning he came walking into the hotel dining-room while I was at breakfast, and recognizing me, came straight to my table.
"Jack Hawkins! Never expected to see you here again—this is simply great!" he exclaimed heartily.
I would never have known him. We had become good friends during the final Alamein campaign, when his unrivaled knowledge of the desert had been of immense value to our tank people. Tom Keating had been doing archaeological work in Upper Egypt for some years, and in those days was a stalwart, handsome giant. Now he was a frail shadow of himself, massive frame shrunken, face deeply lined and leathery, with the rapt distance-eyes of the desert-dweller. But when he dropped into a chair and we gripped hands, his radiant smile broke out in all its old charm.
"I'm glad, glad," he said. It struck me that he was lonely—a strange thing for Sahib Keating, as his English crowd used to call him. We chatted for a bit, until I asked what he was doing now. He gave me an odd unsmiling look.
"Seeking, Hawk. Just seeking. I've been tracking down something that doesn't exist, you'd say offhand; yet I've found it. Something so fantastic that they all term me a fool. Something I've now proved true, though I doubt if my findings will be accepted. That's one thing. Beyond it lies another search even more fantastic, for something I can't ever hope to find."
KEATING was very much the scholar, but he was an idealist, a
bit of a dreamer, apt at strange fancies and odd imaginings. In
the war days we had been quite close, and the momentary magic of
this unexpected meeting drew us close again, so I did not
hesitate now to put the question bluntly.
"What is it you've found, Sahib?"
He hesitated, then gave me another of his oddly intent looks.
"The other Sphinx."
"What do you mean?" I suspected some leg-pulling. "Not another Great Sphinx, surely?"
"Identical. Precisely the same, built from the same plans—"
"Built? Nonsense! The Sphinx wasn't built, but carved out of rock," I broke in.
"Partly built, Hawk. And the temple between its paws was built."
"But, Sahib! As far back as history runs, the Great Sphinx has been unique, the one and only!"
"You're mistaken, old chap," he said briefly. Then I knew he was in dead earnest, and a silence fell between us. The other Sphinx? He might as well have said the other Moon!
I am pretty well read; had another Sphinx ever existed, I would have heard about it. No such thing is mentioned by Herodotus or other ancient writers; no such thing has ever been known. Of course, both Greeks and Egyptians made small sphinxes of various kinds, with different sorts of heads, but the Great Sphinx has always stood absolutely alone.
"I know." Keating spoke abruptly, with a weary air. "You're like the rest. You think I'm mad, out of my head."
I did; there was nothing else to think. But the hurt in his eyes stung me into sharp and fervent denial.
"I don't—not for a moment! I know you too well. But I don't savvy it, Sahib. If you say it's so, okay. Lay down the cards and show me."
He warmed visibly. "Thanks, old fellow. I'll do just that. Not a very simple matter, though. There are involutions and complications."
"A woman?"
"The woman, yes. Also, an emerald that disappeared a hundred and fifty years ago, when Napoleon's army occupied Egypt. No ordinary stone, but an historic emerald, famed in legend and story—a unique thing, a freak of nature. Surely you've heard of the Sphinx Emerald?"
Poor Keating—hipped on this Sphinx notion; must be a monomania with him, I thought. Yet during thousands of years the Great Sphinx has affected the imagination of men—even the ancient Egyptians knew little more about the critter than we do—in a vital manner; so Keating was just one more victim.
"The name of the Sphinx Emerald strikes a familiar chord, somehow," I replied, "but I can't place it. Probably read about it somewhere."
He nodded. "Probably—in the pages of Plutarch's Morals, for instance. Or in Eusebius, in Agricola, in Fernand's Cleopatra, in the Lapidarium of Patkanov, in the travels of Tavernier. Richelieu bequeathed it to his niece; Coeur-de-Leon won it in the Holy Land; then Alexander took it from the scepter of Darius—I could go on endlessly about the thing!"
"Are you talking about an actual emerald?" I asked, staring at him.
"An actual emerald, an actual Sphinx," he replied. "I presume you know that a flawless ruby or emerald is practically non- existent?"
I nodded. "Of course; ain't no such animal in a beryl crystal. Corundum, either. Why?"
"What ruins other jewels makes this emerald unique. It has enormous flaws, even visible to the naked eye. Viewed from either side, these flaws take on the exact shape of the Sphinx in profile. The thing has an hypnotic effect."
"How do you know? Have you ever seen it?"
"I tell you it's been lost for a hundred and fifty years," he replied irritably. "I'm giving you a consensus of the reports on it—the facts. There's legend enough besides, heaven knows! It seems to have exerted a peculiar influence on the imagination, as though merely gazing on that shadowy sphinx-image in the stone were enough to start a flow of the most fantastic thoughts imaginable."
"Auto-hypnosis," I suggested.
"Of course. Well, when last seen, the emerald was in a miserable little village out in the Mokattam hills—the empty hills south and east of the city. I've established this much. I have a camp near the spot, and come into town a couple of times a month for mail and supplies. If you like, I'll run you out there now, and show you my data on the other Sphinx. You can return this evening, or tomorrow."
I was delighted by his offer, and said so to him....
The village, El Bakri by name, was at some distance from Cairo, so Keating arranged to meet me in half an hour with his car, an old Army jeep that could negotiate the sandy tracks or even the open desert without trouble. Those desolate, empty hills overlooking the Nile valley from the eastward have not changed since Egypt was born. Upon this, we parted.
Keating had said no more about the woman in the case, and I was curious as to her connection with his mania, for so I regarded it. Here, as it chanced, luck popped up to assist me. I was asking for mail at the hotel bureau when two people paused just beside me to light cigarettes. The man was young, swarthy, rather horsy in dress and air, arrogant and with bejeweled hands. I never fancied men who wore jewels. But his companion—
If I say that she was Linda Grey, the English cinema star, it may mean little to you. Instead, I will say that she was a radiantly beautiful young woman, fresh and lovely as the dawn, with a slightly calculating eye and repulsively heavy lipstick. They passed on, and as the desk-clerk handed over my mail, I asked:
"Wasn't that the famous Linda Grey?"
"Indeed, yes," he assented. "She is occupying one of the river-suites. The gentleman with her is the big cotton broker, James Malek. His grandfather was Malek Pasha, who owned half of Upper Egypt, in his day."
I THOUGHT no more of it until, while waiting on the hotel
veranda, I saw the same couple out in front. They were getting
into a huge flashy yellow Isotta, when along came Keating. He was
driving a tiny, shapeless, colorless old jeep fitted with bulging
low-pressure tires for desert work.
He halted beside the Isotta. Obviously all three were of old acquaintance, for Linda greeted Tom Keating with intimate cordiality; I could almost see her turn on the charm full force. Malek seemed annoyed, to put it mildly. Keating ignored him and looked ten years younger as he spoke with the girl, all his heart shining in his eyes. She broke into a gay laugh, and her voice reached me briefly.
"Very well, Sahib, if you find it for me, I'll keep my word!"
"Not much, my lady," intervened Malek, almost savagely. "I'll have a thing or two to say about that!"
Linda turned to him with cool, arrogant insolence. While I did not catch her words, her look was enough; she put him in his very sulky place, and Keating grinned amiably. After a bit more talk, Malek tooled the sporty Isotta away, and I descended the steps to save Keating the trouble of parking. The encounter had left him jubilant and enthused; he chatted brightly as the old jeep bounced us out the city streets and past the Mameluke tombs, gaining the road for the hills.
I scarcely listened to him. In that encounter the tragedy of his position had been revealed to me, merely by faces and gestures and looks. Linda Grey was the woman in the case. That he had fallen for her heart and soul was only too evident; he was that type of man. But she had not fallen for him. Her half- tolerant, half-amused manner told its own story.
PROBABLY, I reasoned, she was using him to egg on this Gippo,
whose Levantine soul would be alarmed and infuriated at finding
an Englishman in his path. But the Englishman was dog-poor. The
Levantine was Croesus-rich, and was of course accepted in
Egyptian circles as a gentleman; in the eyes of Islam, all races
and colors are equal.
"I'm based at El Bakri for two reasons," Keating said, as we jounced along the road to the hills; "First, because a well at the village gives us a necessary water supply. Second, because the site of the other Sphinx was close by, and it was at El Bakri that the Sphinx Emerald was last seen."
As though to forestall any comment from me, he went on to tell about the loss of the emerald, giving it as fact.
When Napoleon's army smashed the colorful array of the Mamelukes at the Battle of the Pyramids, a dead Mameluke chief was plundered by Pierre Fabre, a junior member of the Commission of Arts and Sciences that accompanied the army; and among his loot was the emerald. It was set in a ring, which he wore. Later, one of the French savants identified the gem as the famous Sphinx Emerald, and many efforts were made to buy the ring from him, but Fabre refused to part with it. He had even refused a large sum offered by Bonaparte himself.
During the native rebellion against the French, Fabre commanded a half-dozen men stationed at the outpost of El Bakri. Attacked, they held off the Arabs for a day or two, until their ammunition ran out, then were rushed and sabered. The emerald had vanished and was not found on Fabre's body. The Arabs, who had always regarded the stone with superstitious awe, claimed to know nothing about it; and since the entire party of French had been wiped out, none remained to tell any tales.
"And that's that," Keating concluded. "I don't expect to find it, of course. It may now be on the finger of some Arab who doesn't dream what a wonder-jewel it is. It'll turn up again, as it has ere now, after a century or so, perhaps in Siam, perhaps in Russia. Well, forget it, and we'll come back to realities. The other Sphinx, at least, couldn't be lost overnight and leave no trace."
"You haven't really found it?"
He broke into a gay laugh.
"Haven't I, though—and the most wonderful woman in the world to boot! But there's El Bakri ahead. The camp is only a half-mile up the wadi."
Except for modern Government-enforced sanitary improvements, I suppose that mud-hut village had not changed in five hundred years. Remnants of an ancient wall could be seen surrounding it. Flies and naked brats and pottery abounded. There were vats of clay brought from somewhere, for the pottery-making, and a few scraggly trees surrounded the well. We passed without lingering, following a sandy track along the wadi, seeing nothing but patches of terfa, the thorny camel-fodder growth, and sand-rises.
By comparison, the tents for which we now headed looked like palatial luxury—three of them, with sunshades outspread, and a couple of deft Arab servants who knew their business. He took me to his work-tent, complete with table and camp-chairs, and we settled down. I was surprised to find how early the morning still was; and the breeze we got here put Cairo's heat to shame. Nor was any sand blowing; the day was clear.
ALONG the line of these Mokattam hills, sand blows like a
thousand devils at work; this is why the district has been an
empty waste from time out of mind, afar from travel routes a
bleak range of sand-blown hills overlooking the Nile valley.
These hills and the savage mountains behind that run clear to the
Red Sea were well known to the ancients, and sent rare stone and
marble to adorn the palaces of Rome; but the wave of Arab
conquest that destroyed everything in its path left them more
nakedly desert than ever. Roman mines and marble quarries may
still be found there, just as the workmen abandoned them.
"Now I'll give you the whole picture, Hawk." Keating slapped a dispatch-case on the table and opened it, spilling out papers, geodetic survey charts, notes and bits of papyrus in scrolls and fragments.
"About the year 1440 A.D.," he said, "the historian Al Makrizi wrote a history of the Arab conquest of Egypt; it is one of our main sources of information on the period. In it he mentions the fanatic Mahmud Saim-ed-Dahr, who hacked the features of the Sphinx to their present inept expression. He also tells how the invading Arabs found a second Great Sphinx in these hills, facing westward. The Bride of the Sphinx, they named it. Later, an emir of Sultan Ibn Kalaoun destroyed every vestige of it, seeking treasures."
He paused, got his pipe alight and resumed.
"I found these yarns in El Makrizi and believed them, and attempted to verify them, with no luck. The search became a mania with me. Then I bought from the Department of Antiquities, that oversees all the digs, this fragmentary papyrus." From the table he took the papyrus scroll and opened it. Fragmentary, yes, but silked and repaired with consummate skill.
"This," he went on, "came from the tomb of one Nefer, governor of the city of On, a highly important place in the days of Rameses the Great. They said it gave no particular information and was of negligible value. But I made my own translation."
"And struck pay dirt?" I asked.
He smiled. "It speaks of the Sphinx standing at the entrance to the hills called karath Semes—sacred to Semes. These very hills. Semes, I take it, was a primitive deity. It, like the present Great Sphinx, was built by a King Ra-nefer-ses, one of the kings who ruled before known history began."
"Herodotus made no mention of a second Sphinx," I said.
"He didn't mention any Sphinx at all. Look it up."
"Well," I ventured, "I have always thought Cheops built it."
Smiling, Keating tapped the papyrus. "He built the Great Pyramid, Hawk. The Sphinx was there long before him, but he stole the credit and left his own name as builder—a bit of larceny common to all the Pharaohs. This papyrus speaks of the Sphinx that stood here, the second one, as ruined and forgotten. Probably it was completely covered by the sand, and later, when the Arabs came along, it had been uncovered. The temple probably still exists below us," he added, pointing to the sand around.
"And the papyrus proves that a second Sphinx did exist?" I asked.
"To me, yes, but not to others. Anciently, the present or eastward-facing Sphinx was called the temple of Horus, the rising sun; this one was the temple of Horus, the setting sun—it faced westward. Remember that translations of the hieroglyphics, like those of Chinese ideographs, may differ vastly. I'm afraid excavations must be made here before my theories are accepted. Want to visit the site?"
"Absolutely!"
"We've time to spare before our guests come," Keating glanced at his bony wrist. "Pop into the jeep, and I'll have you there in ten minutes. Did I mention that we have guests for tiffin? In order to get one, I had to invite two."
I could guess. "Linda and the Levantine?"
"Levantine!" He barked a jolly laugh. "Good name for the swine. He's thoroughly bad hat, I fear, but we preserve amicable relations. He's putting important money into her next production—they're sending a company out from Elstree to do an Egyptian picture—so she's being polite to him at the moment."
WE bundled into the jeep. Poor guy! The wool was neatly pulled
over his eyes, I thought. Linda Grey was playing the millionaire
for bigger stakes than a mere contribution to her cinema record,
if I was any judge; and I wondered why she bothered dangling a
nonentity like Keating on the string. The explanation was not
long delayed.
We were east and a bit south of Cairo, on the way to the Petrified Forest; presently the jeep bounced through deep loose sand around the shoulder of a wadi and halted. El Bakri was hidden from sight. The two minarets of the Cairo citadel-mosque pricked the sky, but the plateau and hills shut out the immense view of the Nile valley that could be had from the upper hills.
"The Great Sphinx is opposite, though we can't see him from here," Keating said. "The site of his Bride is thirty feet ahead of us, where those stones show; the two faced each other. It just happens that shifting sands have exposed some of the stones; no doubt the entire Sphinx was covered at times by sand. That might account for its having been forgotten in ancient days."
WE walked to where half-buried fragments of reddish limestone
showed, wind-scooped out of the sand. A magnificent site for such
an image, certainly, and well had the Arabs named it the Bride of
the Sphinx. A few blocks of stone half emerging into
sight—nothing else remained. Keating had found no
inscriptions.
Yet he was quite jubilant. Actually he had proven nothing at all, but I refrained from saying so. Only costly excavations would afford proof that another Great Sphinx had ever stood here. To get away from the unpleasant subject, I spoke of Linda Grey, since he had already mentioned her, asking if she were interested in the discovery.
"Not in the least, but she's mad about emeralds," Keating responded, "and chiefly about the Sphinx Emerald. She's read of it and has a sketch of the gem made by Leonardo da Vinci. It came, originally, from Cleopatra's emerald mines, somewhere back in these hills. They were worked ages before Cleopatra's time, of course. Linda is convinced that I know where the stone is."
"Why, have you some clue?"
He smiled ruefully. "Not a ghost of one. I just opened my mouth too wide. You know what damned fool things a man talks when he's in love. Bits of brag and boast and so forth. Also, when I was speaking of the Sphinx, she thought I meant the Sphinx Emerald, and got all lit up about it. I didn't have the good sense to undeceive her," he added.
"Talked yourself into a jam, have you?"
He nodded. "She and Malek both believe that I know where to put my hand on the emerald, or have already located it. A sheer impossibility, of course. One thing led to another until Linda—well, she said that if I found the emerald for her, she'd take me with it. And she meant the words; she's wild about emeralds. Not very flattering, of course, but beggars can't be choosers, you know."
POOR devil—he was so infatuated that he had lost, if
ever he'd possessed, all proper focus on the cinema star. I had
read enough about Linda Grey—and my one glimpse of the gal
had confirmed it—to know, what an utterly beautiful, but
selfish, heartless angel she really was; totally self-centered,
if you like to put it that way. To her, Linda Grey was the only
person in the world who mattered a tinker's dam.
When we got back to camp, it was still early. So, as Keating was bound for the village to haul some fresh water in the jeep, I went along. Those natives, said he, had inherited a genius for pottery-making; El Bakri pottery had been famous through many generations.
"So are their faked antiquities," he warned. "So watch your step."
We drove back to the village. Sure enough, every house had its quota of pottery drying in the sun or stacked for sale. My romantic friend conjured up visions of Pierre Fabre and his companions making their last stand along the remains of the wall, and dying under the Mameluke sabers. Then he departed to the well with a couple of men to get his water supply, and I wandered about the place looking at the sights.
A HORDE of naked youngsters assailed me for baksheesh; whining
females besought me to buy their wares. With much pretense of
furtiveness, men brought out scarabs, beads, images and other
"anticas"—dealing in real antiques was illegal. I was not
having any of their fake bootleg relics; yet many of the things
were cleverly done, and a great many of the sun-baked pottery
bits looked really old. The stacks included everything from
children's toys to glazed tiles.
"Veree old, veree old," droned a voice at my elbow. I turned to see a dirty-gowned old fellow holding a tray of imitation Mameluke lamps and other trumpery. But one small piece caught my eye for its very crudity. It represented a miniature pyramid, and seeing markings on the sides, I picked it up. Then, as I read the lettering that had been scratched in the soft clay before baking, my heart jumped.
"Veree old, effendi, real antica," droned the voice. "Made here long ago. Lucky charm, cheap, one piaster."
I handed over a piaster and pocketed the little pyramid, saying nothing to Keating about it till we were back at camp, where the two servants were preparing a sumptuous repast. We settled down to await the guests, and I produced the pyramid. Keating scoffed at my folly, until I began to read the scratches to him.
"R.F. And VII—seventh year of the French Republic, or 1798, eh? Here's the word 'moriturus'—and here are initials and a name—'Fabre, P.M.' And—"
"My good Lord! Let me see that thing," burst out Keating, reaching for it. "Pierre Marie Fabre—that was his name, sure enough. What the devil!"
"Veree old antica, made here long ago," I mimicked, wickedly amused by the excited interest. "Apparently this relic has been under your nose all the time, Sahib."
"Good God—look at these scratches! 'For Hector Duroc, Membre de l'Institut'—that means the Institut d'Égypte, Bonaparte's little pet clique of savants! And this word 'moriturus'—understand? We who are about to die—why, Hawkins, Fabre made this himself! It's been kicking around the damned village ever since!"
"So what?" I demanded.
He looked up sharply.
"He must have had a reason. Lying around, waiting for the end—taking a handful of clay, shaping it into a pyramid, scratching these things on it, putting it in the sun to dry—it may even have been fired. But why? Why?"
"And you an old soldier! Just to take his mind off his troubles and to leave some memento behind when the end came, of course!" I took the relic and was inspecting it when a car honked and the Isotta hove in sight. After that, we forgot the pyramid.
LINDA GREY was quite gracious to me, deliciously intime
with Keating, and the old charm was turned on full flow. I
fancied a lurking mockery in her eye, and my suspicion was
justified by Malek's oily manner. He showed no trace of surliness
but chatted along eagerly, evincing keen interest in Keating's
work and displaying a dazzling gold front tooth in constant
smiles. So infinitely purring and agreeable was he, that it
seemed obvious he was now perfectly sure of Linda and no longer
regarded Keating as a serious rival. She must have got down to
words of one syllable with him during the morning, I reflected
cynically.
The luncheon was enjoyable. We were nearly through the meal when Linda mentioned cigarettes—a special Khedivial brand that she fancied, most expensive too. Keating announced that he had fetched a box especially for her and had left the package in the jeep. So, being on the off-tent side of the awning, I jumped up and went to get it. The jeep was behind the tents. I hurried to it, not without an angry thought about spoiled brats who were born to gaspers and now had to be served with Gippo brands made for royalty. Just as I came to the jeep, I turned my ankle in loose sand.
Thrown off balance, I was flung heavily against the car. My hip received a sharp bruise as something smashed in my coat pocket. Recovering, I thrust hand in pocket and swore in dismay. The miniature pyramid was now only a jumble of dust and clay particles.
Drawing out my fist, filled with the ruined handiwork of the late Pierre Fabre, I stared at the crumbled pieces. I looked again, made certain of what I had glimpsed, then hurriedly pocketed the debris. Seizing the package of cigarettes from the jeep, I strode back to the tents and, with an effort, calmly resumed my seat.
"But I say, old chap," Malek was saying in his oily way, "you promised to show us a real discovery if we ran out to tiffin! What's up, eh?"
Keating took the package, opened the tin of cigarettes, and placed them at Linda's elbow. He meant to show them the site of the other Sphinx, of course.
"Well," he began, "I've gone over the story with Hawkins, and—"
"The truth is," I cut in quickly, "he did have a big surprise to show all of us, but took it to a jeweler this morning to have it cleaned, and can't get it back until we return to Cairo later today. So we can't display it until tonight."
"A surprise?" repeated Linda, smiling at me, while Keating regarded me uncertainly. "Something he has discovered?"
"A real find," I assented. "Did you ever hear of a Lieutenant Fabre, who was killed here in Bonaparte's time—"
"Mr. Hawkins!" Linda fairly let out a whoop. "You can't mean—you're not talking about the Sphinx Emerald? It hasn't been found?"
"Oh, yes," I rejoined. "The Sahib, here, found it. You'll see it tonight if you wish."
The careless words certainly raised hell with all hands. Tom Keating was shocked and utterly aghast. Linda turned to him with a bubbly froth of excited questions, and the thing I saw unveiled in her eyes, the sharp cupidity and avid desire, was ugly. The dark features of Malek, however, became darker and flashed with sudden passion. I was amazed by the anger and suppressed fury aglow in his eyes. The active force of hatred, so vividly alive in the man, was startling to see.
KEATING was knocked off his pins by my words. He stammered
desperately under Linda's fire of questions until I came to his
rescue. I assured her that we really had the Sphinx Emerald in
hand and said we would be glad to show her the stone that
evening.
Malek intervened. "But we are going to the palace—King Farouk's reception, Linda! And you're to be guest of honor—"
"Bother the King's reception!" she cried. She was all on fire; the avid thing in her eyes was nakedly revealed. "That's unimportant—this is something wonderful! Oh, I know you went to a lot of trouble arranging it, James; I'm grateful, really—but this is greater than anything. What time can we get away from the palace?"
"Not before eleven," Malek said, sulky and lowering.
"All right! Sahib, where can we meet you then?"
"Wherever you say." Keating was not happy about it, and gave me a look that meant trouble. "You and Hawkins are both stopping at the Nile Palace—why not there?"
She clapped her hands. "Good! Good! We'll come right back there after the reception—meet in my suite at eleven- fifteen!"
It being thus settled, tongues clicked fast; she and Malek both wanting to hear about the discovery of the gem. On the plea that other parties must be protected and we could not talk until certain arrangements were made, I promised them the full story that evening. This was no brilliant invention but it placated them; Malek, I perceived, had a deep interest in the emerald himself.
Our excited guests departed, and no sooner had the yellow Isotta got under way than Keating charged at me in a tumult of angry dismay.
"What in hell's name d'you mean by it, Hawk? If this is your Yankee notion of a joke it's in deuced bad taste—"
For reply, I emptied my jacket pocket, dumping dust and clay fragments on the table. I stirred the pile with my finger while he looked; then, with a sharp exclamation, he swooped upon the green glitter that showed amid the dust.
"Go back to our friend Pierre M. Fabre," I said. "He knew the end was at hand, and therefore he made that little pyramid. Into the soft mud, completely hiding it, he pressed the emerald he had taken from the ring—then left the thing to dry. If he lived, he could some day regain the jewel. If not, he would keep the Arabs from getting it. He may have had further reasons, but—"
Right there, I think, a wild excitement gripped us both—for the miracle was a fact. It was true. I was looking at the jewel for the first time. Gems themselves have never meant a thing to me, but now the thrill of my own discovery was really something. I liked it.
Tom Keating produced a jeweler's glass, screwed it into his eye, examined the stone, and caught his breath. It was not a large emerald. It was a perfect cabochon the size of a small garden pea. The color was not deep, nor was the stone particularly handsome. And yet—
"My Lord!" said Keating in an awed voice.
"It's not the Sphinx Emerald?" I asked. "Looks mighty small."
"Hold it up and look at it with, not against, the light," he said.
Almost reluctantly, he handed me the emerald and the lens; his face bore a rapt, ecstatic look.
One's first glimpse into the heart of an emerald, with such a glass, is memorable. Flashing glints, odd contours, strange shapes, appear; light itself assumes form and color; a pinpoint becomes a landscape of fantasy. With the stone in my palm, I found myself viewing green fields and precipices; then the enlarged flaws loomed up. I saw the Sphinx standing there, and the wonder grew.
The perfect Sphinx in profile, yes, lit by unearthly splendor of sunlight striking across the corundum structure—a beauty uncanny and magnificent. More, the green depths suggested further things to the imagination, but I refused the tempting lure, because a sense of something repellent grew upon me.
Far from admiring the scene opening to me, I was inspired with acute dislike and even fear; why, I cannot say, but I felt a distinct repulsion that made me shiver.
"Isn't it the most marvelous thing you ever saw?" Keating demanded enthusiastically.
"No," I replied, and looked again to verify my feelings.
"Eh? What's wrong with your eyes, Hawk?"
"Nothing. The stone holds evil of some kind—that's the word for it—evil!" I removed the glass and gave it back to him, with the stone. I felt a horror of it.
"You're in earnest?" He stared at me in surprise. "That's odd; but I told you it sparks the imagination. By all reports, no two people feel the same way about it. You damned lucky beggar! What'll you do with it?"
"Me? Not a thing. It's yours, not mine."
"I say, be sensible! I've nothing to do with the stone. It's your find."
As I looked at the shimmering green thing, I shivered again.
"The hell with it, Sahib! I wouldn't have it as a gift," I retorted. "You keep it. You're welcome to it. I tell you, the devil's in it! Somehow the very feel of it's like poison—ugh! I didn't see anything special in it, yet it filled me with horror, past any explanation. Keep it, throw it away, sell it, give it to Linda—anything you like. I never did have any feeling for jewels. They don't attract me, and this repels me."
"Here, now." From the tin of special cigarettes Keating jerked the rice-paper lining, spilling fat Egyptians all over the table. Putting the emerald on it, he twisted the paper into a knot and thrust it at me. "Take it. Keep it, look at it again and again. Take the glass too. If by tonight you don't change your mind, very well; put a price on it and I'll buy it from you. Good Lord, Hawk, don't you get my angle? I can't take advantage of a momentary whim on your part!"
"Don't you want it?" I demanded.
"Of course. More than you dream. But I want it fairly, honestly, not at your expense. The find was yours alone. It's an historic, wonderful stone. So do as I ask, for my sake. You mustn't tempt me."
I saw his point. With a nod of assent, I pocketed the paper twist.
"Very well. I'll not change my mind, so let's return to Cairo now and get it valued. After all, we may be kidding ourselves. May be just a piece of glass."
"Impossible. Anyhow, let's do it. I'm too excited to potter around here now."
He was all in a dither, certainly, and knowing the reason I did not wonder; but I did not mention Linda's name, or the thing I had seen in her eyes, or the hatred in the dark features of Malek. I was afraid and depressed. After my discovery-thrill had come reaction. There must be a curse of some kind on the stone, I told myself.
"I don't understand it at all," Keating said, while we were bouncing back on the city road, the citadel of Saladin looming against the sky ahead.
"Don't understand what?"
"The size of the emerald. It's only about three carats, I judge. Richelieu's will says it was five and a half. Da Vinci's account says it was eight. Earlier mentions make it much larger. Yet it must be the same stone. No two could have those identical flaws, that strange inner design and magnificent distance—"
"Probably it's been changed or re-cut in course of time," I suggested, and he nodded.
"Might explain it. There'll be trouble with Malek over this. He'll kick up a fat row if Linda—Well, never mind. He can't force me to sell it to him, anyhow."
So Malek wanted the stone—probably wanted to give it to Linda himself! However, we dropped the subject. Once in the city, we went directly to a jeweler Keating knew, in the Shari el- Majiakh.
He gave the emerald a cursory examination and smiled.
"An Egyptian stone, I'd say. Poor color and oddly cut, with pronounced flaws. Its value? Merely nominal—a few hundred piasters. Yet there's something fascinating about the thing. Let me take another look—"
He once more bent over his bench with the gem, and Keating gave me a significant glance. This man, too, felt the weirdly compelling power of the stone, though obviously he had never heard of the Sphinx Emerald. Indeed, he asked to keep it until the morrow, saying he would like to make various tests, but Keating refused and we left the shop.
WE made plans for the rest of the afternoon. Keating, who had
errands, promised to join me at the hotel for dinner, about
seven.
"You do as I asked, now," he said earnestly, before we parted. "Don't go off half-cocked. Give the emerald a fair chance, examine it carefully, before coming to any decision."
"All right, Sahib," I promised. "See you tonight, then."
In my own room, after a cleanup, I sat down, put the glass in my eye, and resolved to examine the emerald with an impartial mind.
For a long while I searched the green depths, the curious light-filled valleys and hills of flawed corundum which surrounded that weirdly dominant sphinx-figure. Strange fancies drifted across my thought. The riddle of the Sphinx—was it not the mind of man, still an unsolved mystery? Hours of the sunrise, gazing eternally eastward, searching for his nameless Bride; the old primitive gods of the desert lands, spiritual forces of good and evil still at work; the strange ways of destiny that would entangle such a man as Keating with a heartless beauty like Linda Grey—such various threads of thought floated before me, with loose ends and no tie-up.
But the longer I looked, the more surely returned upon me that same causeless horror and repulsion. This Sphinx among the ghostly green hills had an ethereal beauty, yes, but also conveyed a sense of intolerable depression—a nameless sadness and even loathing. Why? Impossible to say. Just a mental quirk; something wrong with me, perhaps, since others did not get the same feeling from it. Perhaps some premonition or foreboding. At all events, I laid aside the glass almost with hatred, returned the emerald to its twist of paper, and resolved definitely to be rid of it the moment Keating appeared. I was afraid of it.
SIX o'clock passed, seven came and went; day darkened into
night—and no Keating showed up. My watch-hands crept on,
and I was hungry. When the phone rang, I jumped for it hastily. A
strange voice spoke, with faint accent.
"Mr. Hawkins, sar?"
"Yes."
"I am speaking for Keating Effendi, sar. I am Inspector Ayub Hassan of the Salt Department and live in the El Faggala quarter. Mr. Keating was slightly hurt in a street accident this evening and was brought into my house. He asked me to come here and get you. I have engaged a car and am now downstairs—"
"Down in two minutes," I replied, and moved fast, spurred by alarm.
Inspector Hassan was a swarthy, suave Gippo who, as soon as we met, hurried me out to the street. He said that Keating had merely been hit by a car and knocked about slightly and was not badly injured. Before I knew it he was handing me into a smelly little Citroen, himself got under the wheel and was sending the outsize bathtub dashing forth into the night life of Cairo like an insane doodlebug.
I had not the slightest idea of where we were when my driver halted before a narrow crooked house in a crooked narrow street and said we had arrived. We piled out and the Inspector led me through a gate that opened on the street. This took us into a walled and tiled patio. On the left, stairs ascended to balconies above. Before us, orange trees grouped about a tiled fountain and paper lanterns bobbed on invisible wires. My guide vanished, and to my amazement James Malek came forward with a suave greeting. He was in evening attire and wore the ribbon of some decoration across his shirt-front.
"Good evening, Mr. Hawkins," he said, showing his gold front tooth. "I am glad to—"
"Where's Keating?" I broke in.
He looked astonished.
"Keating? How should I know?"
"But he's here—he's hurt—that's why I came! Here, Inspector—"
I turned, but there was no Inspector. I was alone with Malek, who smiled and rubbed his plump hands.
"Some mistake, what?" he said. "An odd sort of cove, Keating. He'd scarcely be here; the neighborhood is a very bad one. And now, please, the emerald. I have no desire to rob you, so name your price and there will be no trouble."
He produced a fat wad of white Bank of England notes and began to thumb them.
"You're out of soundings, Malek," I said, a trifle bewildered. "I came to get Keating. The emerald is not for sale."
"It is you who are in error, my dear sir," he rejoined pleasantly. "As they say in Chicago, give, and give fast. Come through. The emerald, and at your price!"
By this time the sense of his words, his meaning, had reached my dumb brain. I was slow to realize the fact, but I was in a jam, a bad one. I had been decoyed here by this smirking Levantine, who wanted the emerald, one way or another.
"No use," I said, thinking fast for a change. "Keating has it."
"There's no green in my eye, old chap." He lost his smile and looked ugly. "We've tried him already, so give! Loosen up, and quick about it! Here, Abdul! Yacub!"
To put it flatly, I was now scared stiff. This Gippo version of Al Capone had me on the spot. When, at his call, shadowy figures moved on the far side of the orange trees, I acted not as a hero but in sheer blind panic. He was still calling them when I slid forward on the tiles and sunk my fist into Malek's bulging cummerbund, then whirled and ducked for the gateway and the street.
A tarbooshed figure blocked my way with a mean-looking knife a foot long, but I was too frightened to take the hint and stop. So I just put down my head, butted him, a trick taught me by a disreputable pal in the tanks. He went flat and I went at the gate. A pistol barked, a bullet whistled past, and Yacub and Abdul were on my heels as I got the gate open. It slammed in their faces—I was out on the cobbles; and then I just ran like hell.
VAGUELY I remember excited Arabs, jabbering Gippos, tumultuous
bazaars, kilted Scotch soldiers, and finally a room in a palatial
police station. A polite, friendly official in evening dress
heard my story, gave me a highball and a six-inch cigarette, and
finally escorted me to my hotel room. Here he sat down to the
telephone to get reports on the matter. He talked on the phone,
made some notes, and turned to me.
"My dear Mr. Hawkins, I have very sad news for you," he said, with tears in his voice. "Your friend Keating Effendi, who is of course very well known, was taken from the river near the Bulak bridge half an hour ago, drowned."
"Then it's that damned Malek fellow!" I cried furiously. "He boasted to me that he had tried to rob Keating—I want him arrested at once!"
"Malek Effendi is an important man, a man of position. Let me look into it a bit," he replied, and began to jabber into the phone anew.
The shock hit me all of a sudden with numbing force—dead! Sahib Keating dead! He had been murdered when the emerald was not found on him—murdered for the damned stone, by Malek! I was getting the impact of this when my good friend the official turned from the phone again and lit one of his long cigarettes. He shook his head sadly.
"My dear sir, I cannot comprehend this murder charge, or your story of assault," he said kindly, in tones of deepest sympathy. "I have just established that Malek Effendi is now present at a reception at the palace and has been there all evening, a guest of His Majesty. Allow me to observe, Mr. Hawkins, with the greatest respect, that it is inadvisable to visit places where hashish is used—"
Well, at least I did not fly into a rage and make an utter ass of myself; we talked on, calmly. Poor Keating was dead, robbed and dropped into the river. Malek had a regal alibi, and was too respected a gentleman to be mixed up in such a crime anyway. There was no Inspector Hassan in the Salt Department, nor did any such person live in the El Faggala quarter. No one here at the hotel remembered him calling for me, either. No house, such as I described, with patio and orange trees, was known.
Yes, I got it all right, and took it standing up. It was after ten o'clock when my sympathetic and friendly police official gently patted my hand, warned me again about the delusions caused by hashish, and bowed himself out. Ferash Bey, I think his name was.
I sat down, held my head in my hands, and after a time glimpsed the twist of paper holding the emerald, on the writing- desk where I had left it. When I thought of Tom Keating my heart burned. I cursed that bit of green corundum most heartily; then I pocketed it and the lens, brushed up a trifle, and left the room. It was a little after eleven when I reached the hotel desk and inquired whether Miss Grey had returned. She had not.
I went out on the wide veranda and waited. The hotel was a postwar luxury spot, converted from a Mameluke palace. Instead of having gardens on the river side, one wing was actually over the water when, as now, the river was at the yearly flood.
WHAT I awaited was vague; I had no particular
intentions—just that deep heartburn. I had no particular
animus against Malek. He was merely a Gippo halfcaste and had
acted according to his nature. Linda Grey was the real murderer
of Tom Keating.
My second cigarette was nearly finished when the yellow Isotta swept up to the steps. Malek accompanied Linda in, then departed at once and hastily. I left my chair and stepped in, and joined Linda at the desk. She turned to me in surprise.
"You didn't expect the rendezvous to be kept?" I said.
"I was told Sahib had left town," she rejoined, "but I'm delighted to see you, of course."
"You may well be. I've brought what you want to see. Malek couldn't get it."
She laughed. Her eyes glittered. Suddenly she was all life and animation, and swept me along to the lift with her. She knew the truth and did not care a hang. She would welcome me or Malek or anyone who brought her the Sphinx Emerald, and there would be no question of price. This was clear enough from her abrupt intimacy of manner. She put all her beauty at my disposal, and that short ascent in the lift was a passionate interlude of promise that could not be mistaken.
Her maid admitted us to her suite. Linda shed her wonderful wraps and dismissed the maid, then led me out to the balcony. It was a sweet place, directly over the river, unscreened but luxuriously furnished; the night air was cool, redolent of gardens.
Linda was ablaze with jewels. It seemed absurd that a woman wearing the gems of queens would care tuppence about the bit of green corundum in my pocket; yet there was avid expectancy in her manner, in her look, as we settled down. I sat at a small table close to the iron grille at the edge of the balcony; in the center of the table stood a lamp. I switched it on; its light was shaded but brilliant.
"Well?" she demanded without pretense.
"Better sit here where you can examine it," I said. I made no pretense either and she had to bring up her own chair to the table, opposite me.
I put the jeweler's glass before her, got out the twist of paper, and set the emerald in her palm. Then I sat back, watching her with relish.
Glass in eye, she looked into the emerald, caught her breath, then began to examine it with rapt attention. She continued to look for a long time, shifting the stone about to get different lights upon it. At last a deep, slow breath escaped her, she took the glass from her eye and set it down, and put the emerald beside it. Then she sat silently, staring down at the stone.
Her lovely features were suffused with emotion, her eyes soft and liquid; she was so deeply stirred that she quite forgot she was Linda Grey. All her heart was plain to see. When at length she spoke, the words were almost a gasp.
"Exquisite! There's nothing in the world like it. It does things to you—it speaks to the very soul!" she murmured. Indeed, she had never looked so beautiful, so abandoned to a sheer ecstasy. "Why, it's incredible! All the stories about it, even the wildest ones, are not half the truth; it simply takes possession of you!"
"Glad you feel that way about it; I don't, but I'm exceptional," I said coldly. "So you like it?"
"Like it?" She loosed her pent breath. "I adore it! I must have it. I can't live without it, now that I've seen it. It's wonderful—above words! No, I just couldn't live without it."
"You'd be surprised," I said, and got out a cigarette and lit it. As I laid down the match she put out her hand and set it on mine. Her voice came like a chord of soft music.
"And you've brought it to me?"
"No. Keating would have brought it to you. I just brought it to show to you."
She laughed amusedly, richly, but her eyes lost some of their rapt ecstasy.
"You're delightful! Well, tell me what you want for it."
"All right, let's talk business," I said, "and in plain words, no sparring. What did you promise Keating for it, if he got it for you?"
"Anything," she said simply, quietly, without evasion.
"And you promised Malek the same thing. You'd pay me the same thing. Anything. Whatever I asked."
"Yes," she breathed, her eyes on mine.
"The trouble with you, Linda," I said, "is that you think your beauty is currency that no one can resist. You're wrong. Give me what I ask, and the emerald is yours."
"Done. Name it."
"The life of Tom Keating."
She straightened up a trifle, with a shocked expression.
I went on coolly:
"He's dead. You know it. Your boy friend did for him, but you actually killed him—you and your playing around, juggling life and death and devotion. That's why I'm here. That's why I brought the stone. And you want it so badly you'd give anything for it."
"I don't know why you're talking this way," she began.
"You'll know in a minute. Hold out your hand, darling."
PERPLEXED, uncomprehending, she stretched out her hand to me.
I turned it palm up, picked up the emerald, and set it on her
pink palm. It looked very lovely there. Then I caught back my
second finger with my thumb, and, as one flicks away a cigarette
stub, flicked the emerald from her hand—out over the
balcony rail, out into the darkness and the river below us.
A cry of actual agony escaped her. Then she sat stupefied, trying to realize what had happened. I rose and bowed to her.
"Good night, beautiful; pleasant dreams," I said, and left her.