CLEOPATRA'S PEARL

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 April 1938, Page 10

CLEOPATRA'S PEARL

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

STUART MARTIN.

Author of “Seven Men’s Sins,” “The Green Ghost,’ etc.

SYNOPSIS On a holiday cruise from England, MURIEL STACEY, daughter of a dealer in gems, is bound for Egypt. Accompanying her is JOHN ROBSON, her father’s most trusted assistant, who keeps Muriel such close company that ship’s gossip says he is very much in love with her.

Also in the ship is FRED BURTON, son of a shipowner, learning his trade in the Purser’s department. Much attracted by Muriel, his curiosity is aroused by the fact that she and Robson ar constantly studying old Egyptian books.

Burton also notices two rather queer passengers, MASON and FARVERY, who seem to be keeping an eye on Muriel and Robson.

When Cairo is reached, Burton goes ashore in mufti to an hotel, into which, later, come Mason and Farvery. From their conversation Burton gathers that they are planning to “get” Robson and Cleopatra’s pearl. A place on the road to the Pyramids is mentioned.

Knowing that Muriel and Robson intended to visit the Pyramids, Burton goes along the road, following Mason and Farvery. In a house he discovers Robson seriously wounded. He learns that Muriel has been taken off by two men in a car.

While he is in the house tending Robson and an Egyptian gem dealer, Burton’s taxi driver is trussed up and the taxi disabled. With difficulty, Burton is able to telephone the police and to find, in a neighbouring house, an Egyptian with a horse and buggy who will drive him. (Now read on). CHAPTER ll.—Continued. Presently the other pyramids came into view, the small ones that are not visited by tourists. There was no shape to these structures, some were merely mounds, with stone walls like the ruins of old.castles at home, their centres filled in with earth and rubble of centuries. The trail was now bearing away from the Great Pyramid and zig-zagging towards the north. They drove steadily for miles and miles. The wind rose with the setting of the moon, and the sand drove in flurries across the buggy. The farmer never once took his eyes off the car trail, but now and then he eased his horse and allowed it to walk. Once he explained his tactics in broken, terrible English.

“Carriage sink. Track. Slow.” And then a flow of curious blasphemy and swear words he had picked up somewhere.

Burton understood him to mean that if he went off the trail the horse would flounder in the soft sand and the buggy would sink too, so it was best to go slow.

They held on for a long time. The moon showed signs of going out when they began to thread their way among the ruins that were almost flat with the dunes. These ruins might have been the remains of small houses, only a yard or two of reddish wall appearing above the stale grass and staler sand that was devouring them. But round the corner of a mound higher than it neighbours Burton saw a ruin that he ought to have seen before. At least he thought he ought to have seen it previously, but then he remembered that the twistings and turnings they had taken might have kept this ancient pile at his back. He was aware that his guide was tightening the reins on the horse. The pace was now a walking one.

It was strange how this mass of stone and rubble had suddenly appeared in front of them. It rose as high as an ordinary two-storey house, tapering towards the top by sloping walls of solid stone, but there was no top in the sense that it was pointed. The appeared flat as a flat-roofed house. The walls stretched for thirty yards or so a perfect square, or seemed so, and the huge slabs of stone at the base were bigger than ordinary doors. The buggy was stopped and the farmer descended, motioning to Burton to follow. He pointed ahead and Burton followed. They went along the base of the pyramid and rounded a corner. Then Burton halted in his tracks.

. The touring car was stationed under the shadow of the wall, its hood raised and its side screens up. And as Burton stood there, breathing hard, staring at the car, hardly able to believe his eyes, night swept over the desert like a curtain and everything was shrouded in darkness. The moon had dropped behind the clouds that heralded the short Egyptian night. He became suddenly conscious that he was alone. He turned round, whispering the name of his guide.

“David! David! Are you there?” Back came a voice from a distance. “Horse!”’' And then a torrent of swear words.

“He has gone to see to the horse,’ thought Burton. "Now’s my chance." He reached the car in a short rush and peered through a side screen. He tried a door handle. The door opened easily. He thrust his head inside. The car was empty. He shut the door cautiously and moved towards the bonnet. His hands touching the scuttle and the radiator felt it hot and scalding.

He stood still, listening, his eyes glued to the solid wall of blackness that rose upward in front of him. If the car was there, it meant that Mason and Farvery were not far oil. He was at the end of the trail. He stole round the dark walls, touching the massive stones with his hands, in the velvet blackness of the night. His

ears were strained to their utmost, his eyes were roving over the stones and now and then out towards the desert. Not a sound anywhere, except the gentle swish of the night wind, and occasionally a flurry of dust. He found himself back at the spot he had started from facing the car. The horse neighed suddenly and sent a thrill through him. “David!”, he whispered again. “David!”

A shadow came close to him, and a hand touched his shoulder. It was the driver of the buggy, but his lack of knowledge of English made it impossible for Burton to know the whisper that ’reached his ears. Yet he tried to convey to the man the need for caution.

“Horse,” he said, in a low tone, close to the driver’s ear. “Horse makes noise. Cover his head.” But “David” could not understand and kept touching Burton’s arm persuasively. Now he was tugging Burton’s sleeve. “What is it?” breathed Burton.

The tugging became more insistent. “David” wanted him to move somewhere. He obeyed the voiceless instruction.

The driver slid without noise along the sloping wail, which inclined inward and upward so sharply that they were learning at an awkward angle as they moved, their feet shuffling in the sand and their hands feeling along the stones. They went round a corner and along another side of the pyramid, then turned another corner. The wind was now in their faces, they felt the sand spraying up in gusts and swilling past them as waves swill along the sloping side of a ship. “David” was in advance, moving like a snake in the gloom. Now he stopped and his fingers tapped Burton’s shoulder. “What is it?” The driver’s fingers gripped Burton’s sleeve again and pulled him another step forward. The man’s head was within a few inches of Burton’s. At this moment the horse neighed again, an eerie sound in the darkness. By pantomime gestures the driver indicated that he wanted Burton to hold the edge of a large sloping stone. His own hands gripped it as a man who intends to tear it from its position. “Slow!”

“It was one word the Egyptian knew and he uttered it warningly. His own arms were straining at the stone. Burton wondered what the man was about trying to move a stone that must have weighed half a ton at least. But an idea occurred to him as he stood there. The driver was pantomiming that the stone was hollow. He was tapping it with his knuckles, grunting some words as he did so. There was no mistaking that. “David” was telling him that the stone was covering a. hollow, that it must be moved.

Burton gripped the rough edge of the stone in earnest. Together they strained and tugged. But their efforts were useless. The stone did not budge. They tried again and again, with the same result. And all the time the driver was muttering to himself and swearing blasphemously. Burton ceased to tug and leaned against the block while he wiped his brow. But he never finished wiping his brow. He felt the stone give under his weight. It was tilting backward on its base. He jerked himself straight up and swung round, grabbing the driver’s arm. “It doesn’t slide,” he whispered. “It falls. Inward.” Together they put their hands on the stone and pushed. It seemed to wobble, then it began to give. Slowly, slowly, it fell away before their united efforts. “David” gave utterance to a chuckle. Another effort and the stone tipped over and Burton fell on top of it and sprawled into a passage into a passage as black as the pit. He was up on his feet at once, his hands stretched wide to feel his position. His fingers touched stone on either side of him. He saw the figure of the driver by the entrance, standing very stiff and very alert. All was silent as the grave. Burton realised what had happened and why the block had given way. Its bas was much narrowed than its top. It was a huge wedge which had been standing on its thin edge. But that was not all. As he turned to look into the pyramid he saw, or thought he saw, some distance ahead, a gleam of light though a crack in the masonry. He motioned to “David to follow and stepped cautiously inward. “David” came at his heels, breathing hard and muttering. Dark as it was in the open desert, it was darker in that passage, but the fallen stone allowed the desert gloom to relieve the blackness. Burton stepped forward, his hands on either side of the wall. His feet were on a level floor, a stone floor, hard and firm. ' He advanced towards the crack where he had seen the bleam. It was there still, a broken thread of yellow; and there came to their sense the smell of oil. A lamp was burning somewhere within that ancient tomb. They had advanced about twenty yards and still the gleam was ahead of them. It was difficult to guess how far off, so tiny was the yellow thread. Burton's nerves were taut, every sense strained. As he stood to consider the situation he felt the driver’s hand touch, a sort of patting, as much as to say, “Now don’t get scared.” “David” brushed past him and moved ahead. That, thought Burton, was a brave thing to do. It was braver than he had given the man credit for. He followed, He came upon the driver suddenly.

The man was standing very still. They were within a yard of the crack in the masonry. It looked as if it was the ancient lime that had crumbled between the blocks of stone; but it was impossible to get a squint of what was beyond. The cut of the blocks slanted and did not give a straight view. Again “David” caught Burton’s arm. His hand slid down until it covered Burton’s hand. It guided the hand to the wall. Burton felt his fingers touching wood. He was next to a door. He felt the uprights and the lintel. He felt the panels and the handle. His fingers gripped the handle and turned it noiselessly. As he did so he looked back along the passage. It was solid black there now. Not a star, not a cloud could be seen through the open space where the block at the entrance had fallen. He had a sudden suspicion that the block had been raised again; that they were shut in; that some power, some agency, was behind them. H did not do more than allow the thought to pass in a fish. His fingers thrust the door he was holding aside. He burst into an apartment, the driver following close behind.

A strange sight met his gaze. Seated on the flagged floor of a square chamber were several Arabs, dressed in Bedouin costume, burnouses and white draperies. They were crosslegged, and were drinking coffee. They turned their heads at his entry, but pot one rose.

A shuffle behind Burton made him swing round. Three other Arabs were behind him. They had entered the door as he had advanced into the room. But in their hands they each held a gun, and in their belts were the curved knives of the Bedouin. “David” was standing easily, his shoulder against a wall, a queer smile on his face.

Across the room a curtain that hung down a wall was thrown aside. Mason, the squint-eyed man, appeared, and Farvery came too. Mason had a revolver in his right hand. “That was good work, David,” he said in his usual Cockney. “Very good work, David. You got him where we want him.”

He squinted towards Burton and began to hum. “I’m a college-bred man, I am, I am.” “That will be enough of that,” snapped Burton. “I trailed you and demand to know where Miss Stacey is.” “Rats to that,” said Mason. “You never trailed us. We set the trap and you walked right in, me old college pal. Walked right in, you did. Miss Stacey is here, all merry and bright. And don’t you cross me, assistant purser, or you’ll both never see daylight again. You’re treading on the edge of eternity now. Here’s the girl—and we’ll call a palaver.’ He lifted the curtain. There, clad in the suit and panama hat in which she had disembarked, stood Muriel Stacey, facing the crowd of men, and showing signs of her ordeal. CHAPTER HI. “Make room there for the lady,” said Mason, waving his hand to the Arabs who sat on the floor. “Get a stool, somebody. We’ve got to do this comfortable.” A Bedouin brought a stool from somewhere and the squint-eyed man placed it by the wall. The Bedouins rose from the floor and stood lined up on either side, placing their coffee cups on another stool.

The buggy driver took out a small tobacco pouch and languidly began to roll a cigarette with his left hand, a trick Burton had seen often attempted but seldom done successfully. Muriel Stacey had not opened his lips, but she kept her eyes on Burton. She was pale, but there was a defiance in her attitude and manner that was impressive even in that situation. “Don’t get down-hearted, Miss Stacey,” said Burton quietly. “This is a hold-up, but you’ll be all right soon. The police are notified. I notified them.”

Mason, who had been lighting a cigar, dropped his match. “You did that, old pal?” he asked fiercely. “I did. I gave your names, too. Mason and Farvery, those were the names I gave, charging you both with attempted murder and robbery.” It transpires, however, that Burton has walked into a trap. It was anticipated that he would hire the buggy and the driver has been bribed. The result is that he finds himself trussed in an old tomb, listening to the taunts of Mason and Farvery. , From an inner chamber they produce another prisoner—Muriel Stacey. “I told you not to shoot,” interjected Farvery, with vehemence, swinging round to Mason. “I told you.” At the mention of the police a change came over the taller of the two men. For all his gaunt looks and his narrow eyes and evil face, Farvery was evidently not the more dangerous of the two. It was curious that little Mason, with the squint, little voluble Mason, who was ruddy and stout, was the greater villain of the piece. Their appearance would have led observers to think the opposite. But Mason took no notice of his confederate’s remonstrance. He lit his cigar and stuck it in the side of his mouth. “Attempted murder!” he smiled. “Attempted murder. So I didn't finish the big galoot. Thanks for the tip. pal. I'm a college-bred man. I won't make that mistake again. Not me. Assistant pursers get my gall.” He considered the red end of his cigar a moment, then puffed it to a red glow. “And how did you manage to telephone the cops, old pal? Wasn't from David's farm, was it?” Burton heard the farmer's feet scrape the ground suddenly. The man had drawn himself together as if to meet an accusation. “It was from David's farm,” said Burton. “One against David. He's a good trailer, I’ll say that; but I've told him often he ain't got no use for a telephone, although he says he needs it for ordering stuff. Here, you, David, how'd he come to use your telephone?” (To be continued.)