IN WHICH THE PIMPLE LEARNS HIS FUTURE LIES IN EGYPT

We started our sojourn in the Colonels’ House with a great many irons in the fire. As an essential preliminary to our main plan we had the photograph to take, and in case any of the hundred and one possible accidents happened to the films, we must provide subsidiary evidence of Kiazim’s complicity. The main plan was, of course, to escape from Turkey. Our first aim was to persuade the Turks to convey us east, southeast, or south (the exact direction and distance would depend upon their convenience, but we hoped for about 300 miles) in the search for the treasure. Once within reasonable distance of safety we could trust to our legs. In case our persuasive powers proved inadequate for this rather tough proposition, we must simultaneously develop our second alternative. We must simulate some illness which would warrant our exchange. We fixed, provisionally, on madness. A third alternative, also requiring simultaneous development, was compassionate release. If we could get pressure from without brought to bear on the Turkish Government they might, on the Fitzgerald precedent, compensate us with freedom for our absurd imprisonment.

The first thing to do was to get news to England of our trial and sentence. We calculated enquiries might be expected at earliest about the middle of May. If, up to that time, we had failed to get the Commandant to move us from Yozgad, we were prepared to swear at the first breath of investigation that his real reason in imprisoning us had been to force us to use our mediumistic powers to find the treasure. In proof, we would produce the photograph (if that was successful), say he had put us on bread and water, and show our “tortured” bodies. Indeed, we arranged to burn each other, when the time came, with red-hot coins, so as to have fresh scars to exhibit. It was a low-down plan, and we did not want to resort to it, to its full extent, until the last, but we were ready for it, if needs must and the others failed. It depended, of course, on enquiries being instituted from England.

In addition to the preparation of these three lines of escape, we had to keep up the interest of the Turks in the treasure, and to render absolute their belief in the powers of the Spook. In the event of success in this we decided, until we said good-bye to Yozgad, to assume the Commandant’s functions. We would, in the Spook’s name, take charge of the camp, increase its house-room, add to its liberties and privileges, improve its relations with the Turks, prevent parcel and money robbery, rid it of the Pimple, whom everybody cordially hated, and (as an act of poetic justice for what had been done to us) put its senior officer on parole! (All this we did.) All the time we must be eternally on the watch against making the slightest slip which would betray either the fact that we ourselves were the Spook, or that we had any ulterior motive in our spiritualism. Lastly, and most difficult of all, we had to be ready at a moment’s notice to checkmate any well-meant attempt at interference by our comrades in the camp.

An ambitious programme, perhaps, but not too ambitious. After the telepathy trial, anything ought to be possible.

The 8th of March was a busy day for Hill. As the practical man of the combine he had to manufacture a new spook-board (the old one had to be left behind in the camp) and also a semaphore apparatus, for we had arranged (should occasion arise) to signal to Matthews, who lived across the way in Posh Castle. While Hill worked I submitted for his criticism various plans by which our aims might be attained. Next day the Pimple came in and sat chatting for a couple of hours. He told us that after his effort at the trial the Commandant had suffered from a bad go of nerves, and had lain awake all night wondering what Constantinople would say, and what Colonel Maule would write in his next sealed letter to headquarters. Kiazim’s one ambition in life now was to get out of the treasure-hunt and send us mediums back to the camp. But he could not risk his own prestige by doing so.

“Pah!” said the Pimple, “he is—what you call it?—trÈs poltron!”

“I don’t know German,” said I.

“That is French,” the Pimple explained gravely. “It means what you call ‘windy beggar.‘”

This sort of thing would never do! We held a sÉance. The Spook began at once to fan Kiazim’s waning courage. It pointed out that the task of the mediums was to get thoroughly in tune one with another, but that this was quite impossible so long as the Commandant created cross-currents of thought-waves by worrying. The Commandant, the Pimple, the Cook, and the two mediums—all, in fact, who were concerned to find the treasure—must remain tranquil in mind or success would be impossible. Let their trust in the Spook be absolute, and all would be easy. Was not the Unseen working for us night and day? Whence came Gilchrist’s pÆan of praise for the verdict? Surely the Commandant recognized that it had been put into his mouth by the Spirit to act as a bar to any further protest about the conviction? Thus had Gilchrist been firmly committed as a supporter of the Commandant’s view. And so with Colonel Maule. The Spook was pained at the Commandant’s fear of Maule: for was not Maule’s mind already under control? Did Kiazim imagine that the Spook was idle except at sÉances? Why, Maule’s head had been carefully filled with ideas by the Unseen Power: he was a plaything in the Spook’s hands. It had been an easy matter to put him in the same boat as Kiazim, to get him to stop all “spooking” in the camp,^[22] to make him place Hill and Jones on parole not to telepathize or escape from Yozgad.

Here the Pimple interrupted the sÉance.

“Did you two give paroles to Colonel Maule?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, affecting surprise. “How on earth do you know? Did Maule tell you?”

“The glass has just written it,” said MoÏse triumphantly; “from the Spirit nothing is hidden.” (Then to the Spook): “Go on, sir.”

The Spook went on. As a final, though quite unnecessary, protection for the Commandant, it promised to control the mediums (Hill and myself) to write letters to England in praise of their new quarters. If the mediums did not complain of their treatment nobody else could do so with any effect. Let these letters be copied and sent through without delay in the censoring, that they might counteract any chance complaint from the camp which escaped the notice of the Spook.

The sÉance achieved its end. The Commandant had not previously realized that Gilchrist had been acting under the Spook’s influence, nor had he known about the parole. He was therefore much pleased to find that the Spook was taking so much trouble on his behalf, and had such powers of controlling people. The letters, he thought, were an excellent idea. We thought so too, and we wrote plenty of them. Every letter was loud in its praises of the Turk, but the eulogies cloaked a very pretty cipher which informed our friends at home of our absurd conviction and asked for an enquiry. And every letter went off by the first mail after it had been written—a good fortnight ahead of those of the rest of the camp which, as the Pimple confessed to us, were regularly held back at Yozgad for local censoring. We thus created an express service of our own, and by its means sowed the seeds for our “Compassionate Release” stunt. We have since learnt what happened to these letters. They reached England in good time; they were submitted to very high quarters by my father, and he was solemnly advised to take no action, on the grounds that to betray knowledge of our fate would result in making the Turks believe we had secret means of communication with England, a belief that might have awkward consequences for us! So nothing was done. Luckily we did not know, and had always the pleasure of hoping for the best, which was good for us—it kept our courage up.

We were now in smooth water again, and proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable as possible. The country was still under snow, and the charcoal brazier over which we warmed ourselves was quite inadequate for our needs. Considering we were going to present the Turks with a treasure worth, according to the Spook, £28,000, this was absurdly mean treatment. The Spook ordered us a stove—a real big one—and we got it! Donkey-loads of wood were bought for us in the bazaar, at cheap rates. The Cook was put on fatigue by the Spook, and made to chop the wood up for us, to light the fire of a morning before we were out of bed, to sweep out our rooms, to run messages to the bazaar, and generally to attend to our comfort. He was delighted to do it. He even brought us some very pleasing dishes of Turkish food, and two kerosine lamps, with an ample supply of oil. The camp had been without kerosine for a year or more. We had burned crude Afion oil—a thick and very messy vegetable oil—which gave a miserable light and made reading after dark more of a toil than a pleasure. The new lamps were a real luxury, and our enjoyment of them was not lessened by the Pimple’s explanation that the kerosine was really a Turkish Government issue for prisoners, but as its price in the market was fabulous the Commandant did not issue it to the camp. He kept it for pin money!

There is no doubt we could have obtained anything the Spook ordered, short of freedom. But we took care the Spook should not order too much. Even in Turkey there is such a thing as “obtaining money by false pretences,” and it would never do to have such motives ascribed to us, should an enquiry be held. The Spook therefore announced that after a short period our diet would be reduced to dry bread. The alleged object of the low diet was “to increase clairvoyant powers.”^[23] It promised to incite a certain officer to persuade the Commandant to stop the food from Posh Castle, so that the onus of our starvation should rest on the camp and not on the Turks. “Further,” said the Spook, “the mediums must remember to accept no monetary gain. They must pay cost price for all they receive. They should expect and accept only acts of kindness which cost nothing. Nor must they hope for a reward for their services in money or its equivalent. Their reward will come later.... When their time comes to pass over to other spheres the knowledge they have thus gained will be worth more to them than all the riches in Asia.”

“Why?” MoÏse asked. “What is the reason they cannot get money?”

“In order to confine the study to true seekers after knowledge,” the Spook explained, “there must be no arriÈre pensÉe.“

The Cook was very much interested in the fact that we were to get none of the treasure. He questioned MoÏse very carefully on the point. He was anxious to make sure that there was no possibility of a misunderstanding, and no chance of our claiming a share later. He was frankly out for business, was this “limb of Satan,” and quite openly delighted at the Spook’s orders.

And now an incident occurred which both amused and impressed the Commandant. One of the most capable officers in the camp got an idea which he no doubt fondly imagined would regain us our liberty. He acted on it with the promptitude for which he was renowned. He informed the Commandant, through the Interpreter, that Jones and Hill were a pair of infernal practical jokers, that they were lazy beggars who disliked cooking and had thrown the trouble of it on the camp in general and Posh Castle in particular, and that therefore they were confounded nuisances. There was no manner of doubt, he said, but that they were simply pulling the Commandant’s leg in order to live a life of ease, and his obvious plan was to send them back to the camp and let their fellow-prisoners deal with them as they deserved, or to make them do their own cooking.

Had the Commandant not been “in the know” our friend’s tactics might well have resulted in our being sent back to the camp. As it was, Kiazim Bey was vastly tickled at the theory of a leg-pull against himself, and pointed out to us with immense joy that the boot was on the other foot, and that he had successfully pulled the camp’s leg. Moreover, the episode redounded to the credit of the Spook, who had promised to send this very officer to complain about the trouble of sending us food. (We had received a hint that he might do so, but of that hint the Turks were, of course, in complete ignorance.) The Commandant was firmly convinced that his visitor had been acting under the Spirit’s control, as promised, and he was correspondingly impressed. When questioned about it the Spook modestly admitted responsibility, but explained that from now on It wished to do as little as possible of this “outside control work” in order to avoid “loss of force” which would be more usefully employed in finding the treasure.

At the end of the second sÉance, which also was devoted to soothing the Commandant’s difficulties and fears, there was a scene. The Pimple announced that he also had some private difficulties on which he wished to consult the Spook. So private were they that he had written them out, and would not utter them aloud. The Spirit would no doubt read the paper and answer them privately. Before I could formulate an excuse Hill, to my surprise, assented, and asked MoÏse to place the paper of questions under the spook-board in the usual way. MoÏse put his hand in his pocket, and then sprang to his feet in wild excitement, and began a search through all his pockets.

“Mon Dieu!” he cried. “I am spooked! It is gone!” He rushed about the room, looking under the table, in the cupboards, in the teapot—everywhere possible and impossible. Then he went through his pockets again and sank half hysterical on to my bed.

“Oh, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” he cried. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“What on earth’s the matter?” I was completely puzzled.

“My questions! Oh, my questions! They are gone! I am spooked!”

It was a difficult task not to laugh. I knew Hill was sitting with a face like a blank wall, but I dared not look at him.

“Are you sure you brought them?” I asked.

The Pimple jumped up again. “I wrote them in the office,” he cried, dancing with excitement, “and then I came here! Certainly I brought them!”

There was a sudden crash and two distinct thumps on the landing outside. The noise sounded very loud in the empty house. We all looked at one another.

“What was that?” the Pimple whispered.

“It’s the Spooks, I think,” said I. “We often hear noises at night. But I’ll see.” I took up a spare candle and lit it.

“Be careful!” said Hill solemnly.

“Oh, be careful!” echoed the Pimple, who was badly scared.

I knew no more than the others what the noise could be, and I felt curiously nervous as I opened the door. The Pimple’s fear was infectious.

Outside on the landing we had a high shelf where we kept our bread. Owing to some unknown cause—it may have been the Pimple’s agitated dancing in our room—a loaf had fallen off the shelf and bumped down two of the steps of our wooden stair. I picked it up and replaced it quietly.

“There was nobody to see,” I said very solemnly, coming back into the room, “but one thing I know and will swear—that noise was not human! There’s danger abroad tonight!”

“I knew I was spooked,” groaned the Pimple. “Oh, what shall I do?”

“You may have left your questions in the office, where you wrote them,” Hill suggested.

This scared the Pimple worse than ever. He grabbed his Enver cap and started for the door. The blackness of the night outside stopped him. He came back and looked at us appealingly.

“You say there is danger abroad tonight: would you mind—do you think you could——”

“Come with you, MoÏse? Certainly!” I picked up the candle and went with him as far as the gate, whence he legged it for the office as fast as he could go. I returned to our room, and Hill.

“He won’t be back tonight,” I said. “The poor little fellow is frightened half out of his wits.”

“Say, Bones, what was the noise? How did you work it?”

“I didn’t—it worked itself. A most inhuman loaf!” I told him about it, and we laughed together, and discussed the sÉance.

“I wonder what was in those questions he was so excited about?” I said at last.

Hill grinned at me.

“Read ‘em for yourself,” said he, handing me a slip of paper.

“How the dickens did you know he had ‘em?” I gasped.

“Saw him fidgetin‘ with a bit of paper early in the evening—picked his pocket when I got the chance. Read it!”

This is what I read as soon as I recovered from my surprise:

I copied out the questions for filing in our secret records, made a tiny mark on the back of the original so as to be able to recognize it when met with, and handed it back to Hill.

“Your job, Mr. Sikes,” I said, “is to get that back into the Pimple’s possession without his knowing we have seen it.”

Hill thought for a moment. “Will it do if he gets it before he comes in tomorrow?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly!” I said. “Shove it back in his pocket when he calls tomorrow morning. You can’t do it before that, with the place ringed with sentries.”

“Can’t I?” said Hill. He held the paper of questions under my nose. “Now you see it—houp lÀ—now you don’t!” It had vanished. “Where is it?”

“Up your sleeve, or something. Go to bed,” said I.

“Wrong again.” Hill laughed, and rolled up his sleeves for inspection. “You’ll find out tomorrow where it is.”

The night was already far spent. We turned in.

“Which is the Spook going to make him—a quelqu’un or a quelquechose?” asked Hill, as he snuggled under the blankets.

“Take your choice,” said I. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor——”

“Silk, satin, muslin, rags,” Hill murmured; “we’ll count the spuds we get for dinner tomorrow.”

“What for?” I asked sleepily.

“The end of the War. This year, next year, some time, never! Good-night, old chap.”

Some hours later I woke. Hill’s bed was empty. I wondered drowsily what he was up to, and went to sleep again.

When next I opened my eyes it was morning. Hill was sleeping in his bed, very soundly. I reached for a book and read for half an hour, then the Pimple came in. He was humming a French song to himself, and sounded very happy.

“Ach, Hill, you grand paresseux! Awake!”

Hill opened one eye.

“I have good news for you both,” the Pimple went on. “The questions—I have them!”—he tapped his pocket—“and I am glad! To have lost them would have been dangersome. They are most private.” Then he went on to talk of other matters.

“Has he really got the questions?” I asked Hill, after the Pimple had gone.

“Oh yes,” laughed Hill.

“How did you do it, old chap? I noticed your bed was empty about 2 ac emma.”

“Very simple!” he chortled. “I—no, I won’t tell you. S’pose you find out for yourself. Of course,” he added maliciously, “you can ask the Spook if you like.”

And there the matter rested. It is Hill’s secret. Perhaps the reader can solve it?

At the next sÉance the Pimple produced his questions. We recognized our identification mark on the paper as he slipped it under the board, and took the risk that he had not altered anything inside.

“Now, sir,” said the Pimple to the Spook, “answer, please.”

He got his answers, and thought we were ignorant of what was said. Here they are:

The Pimple refused to tell us about the questions or answers. He did not for a moment suspect that we knew anything of either. But at the end of the sÉance, after a great deal of camouflage talk about the camp and the War and other matters, he led the conversation round, cleverly enough, to Lloyd George, by telling us that an Irishman had attempted to assassinate him. He asked if I knew him. This was what we wanted. I showed him a photograph of the Prime Minister and my father together. The Pimple examined it with minute care.

“Your father—he is a spooker, too?” the Pimple asked.

“All Welshmen are, more or less,” said I, “and he used to be top-hole at it. Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if perhaps he and Lloyd George had ever experimented together.”

“They’re continually at it,” said I.

“Ha!” (the Pimple was quite excited) “and what was Lloyd George to begin with, when your father first knew him?”

“I believe he was what some people call a ‘pettifogging attorney.’”

“And by spooking your father did much for him perhaps?”

“I much regret, MoÏse, I can’t tell you.”

“It’s a secret, perhaps?”

“Very much so,” said I. “Let’s talk of something else.”

Then the Pimple told us about the Armenian massacres at Yozgad. He was a clever little rascal in his way! For in five minutes he was telling us how a few families had escaped to Egypt which, he had always heard, was a wonderful country. Was it not so? Did we know anything of Egypt?

We didn’t—but we told him quite a lot about the country of his “greatest opportunity.” He went away very happy.

“He has swallowed the pill without winking,” said Hill, “and what’s more, it is working! But what’ll Lloyd George think of it? How did you get that photograph? Does he really know your father?”

It was my turn to be malicious.

“S’pose you find out for yourself,” said I. “Of course, you can ask the Spook, if you like.”