The Sword of Fate (26 page)

People have an idea that it is difficult to commit murder without being found out, but I don’t think that is necessarily so. Murder in itself is easy enough, but where ninety-nine out of a hundred murderers fall down is that they have an obvious motive for their crime which there is no possible way of concealing. The first rule of police procedure is to go into the history of the family concerned and find out who, among the associates of the victim, would be likely to benefit from the deed or derive satisfaction from it. Then every tiny detail as to the way in which anyone against whom there is the remotest suspicion spent their time during the hours, days or even weeks preceding the murder is checked up.

From such a system it is almost impossible for the murderer to escape, however skilfully he may have plotted the crime and even when he has what appears to be a watertight alibi. To provide himself with an alibi he has to lie and one lie leads to another. Sooner or later the painstaking questioning of the detectives catches him out. In the great majority of cases the police are virtually certain within a few hours as to who did the job, purely on grounds of motive. Their real hard work consists in trapping the murderer into some admission and collecting sufficient evidence against him to convince a jury that he is guilty.

But it is an altogether different matter when a murder is committed by someone of whose existence the friends of the
victim are not even aware. Then there is nothing whatever for the police to go upon and, providing the murderer exercises reasonable caution in doing the actual job, the chances are a hundred to one in favour of his getting away.

That, I felt, was my own situation. Even if Mondragora’s associates were in Egypt, none of them knew that I had set eyes on him during the past four years, so they certainly would not suspect me of his murder. He had not seen me himself, so there-was no risk of his having told anybody else that I was on his track or of his leaving a written message to the effect that he had recognised me that night and was dreading that I might endeavour to take my revenge.

When his death was discovered there would be nothing whatever to connect me with the crime. No one had seen me leave the Cecil or enter Ambassador Court. Even if the porter at the Cecil came forward to state that
I
had asked him what address Mondragora had given the driver of the taxi when leaving the hotel, which was most unlikely, it would transpire that I had only mistaken him for somebody else and had made no attempt to follow him, but had gone straight up to bed.

I foresaw the danger of being seen if I attempted to re-enter the Cecil in the middle of the night so I had already made up my mind to go for a long walk right out of the city after the job was done, then stroll back into the Cecil at about half past nine. I was never called in the morning, so if I was seen going up to my room it would be assumed that I had slept there all night but already been out, and no one would be able to prove the contrary.

The only real risk that I ran was being caught while still in Ambassador Court just after having committed the crime, and that, too, appeared to be almost negligible. Mondragora’s flat was on the top floor, and since the air raids of the previous autumn top-floor flats had not been popular in Alexandria. In addition it was still winter, and Alexandria, apart from its business activities, is a summer town. Between the past air raids and the season of the year it was most improbable that any of the other three flats on the top floor of the building were occupied at the moment, and as the night porter was in the hall, seven storeys below, he certainly would not hear the shot at that distance.

I felt perfectly calm and collected, and it even struck me while I tiptoed past the front door of Number 42, along the broad landing to its solitary window, how very curious it was that I could be thrown into a state of the most appalling jitters by the mere presence of Daphnis, whereas now that I was about deliberately
to deprive another human being of his life, I did not seem to be possessed of any nerves at all.

On reaching the landing window I drew on a pair of gloves, slipped back the catch, gently pushed it open and looked out. It was as I had hoped when I first viewed the big block from the street: this modern steel-and-concrete building had a balcony on each floor running for the whole length of its frontage.

I wriggled over the window-sill on to the balcony. The night was fresh and I paused for a moment to take in a deep lungful of the salt air as I thought what a splendid view the front windows of these luxury flats must have over the bay in daytime. The sound of the surf rolling on the beach far below and the faint white line of the creaming breakers were just perceptible through the darkness.

Turning, I made my way stealthily along the balcony until I came to the windows which I knew must belong to Mondragora’s flat. Faint chinks of light came from one long row of them, but it was impossible to see anything inside as they had all been carefully blacked out; then I came to a solitary window a little further on which was half-open.

This, too, was curtained, but I gingerly eased the curtain aside until I could see that the room was in darkness. I put my hand in and carefully felt along the sill. It came in contact with a large cut-glass jar, then with some small bottles. As I had suspected from the single window, it was, I now felt sure, the bathroom.

One by one I took the bottles off the ledge and placed them out of the way down on the balcony. Having lifted out the large jar, which proved to contain bath-salts, I opened the window to its full extent, thrust one leg over the sill, levered myself up and felt about cautiously with my foot until it came in contact with a lavatory seat. Placing my foot firmly, I lowered myself into the room without making a sound.

As soon as I was inside I caught the murmur of voices and realised to my intense chagrin that Mondragora was not alone. A light was shining under the bathroom door and through its keyhole. Crawling forward on hands and knees with the utmost caution, I peered through the keyhole and found that I could glimpse a small section of the lighted apartment. I could not see very far from side to side, but by raising my head I could peer down towards the carpet, and by lowering it I could look up as far as the edge of the ceiling, so what it really amounted to was that I could observe a tall narrow slice of the room.

About two yards from the door, on my right, there was a long pair of legs and feet. The legs were crossed, but my view of them was cut short just above the knee. The trousers were of a black material and I felt fairly confident that they belonged to Mondragora, as he had been wearing a dinner jacket when I had seen him at the Cecil.

Opposite to me was seated a man I did not know, although there was something about him which was vaguely familiar. He was a high-caste Arab of about fifty, but he was dressed in European clothes. I could not see any portion of any other human beings, but I was aware that there were others in the room, as a voice was speaking rather monotonously in Arabic, and the man I could see was evidently watching the speaker as his eyes were turned away from the pair of legs.

My first reaction on discovering that Mondragora had company was bitter disappointment. It had been getting on for midnight when he left the Cecil, and as he had sent the woman with whom he was off alone in a taxi it had been reasonable to assume that he was going straight home to bed. I had expected to find him about to settle down for the night, whereas here he was holding some sort of conference with at least two companions. Any idea of murdering him was now entirely out of the question, at least for the time being, but I felt it was quite on the cards that as a consolation I might be rewarded for my efforts by overhearing some piece of dirty business against Britain. With luck I should be able to foil that, and an opportunity for settling my score with the Portuguese might present itself later.

It was then that I began to study more closely the features of the Arab who was seated opposite the keyhole. They were certainly familiar. Suddenly I got it. I had never seen him in the flesh before, but I had seen his photograph often enough in the Egyptian papers. He was the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem.

I was so thrilled with the discovery that I very nearly lost my balance and fell over sideways. The Grand Mufti has for many years been one of Britain’s most deadly enemies. Unfortunately his position as one of the heads of the Mohammedan Church gives him considerable influence in the Arab world, and he had used it to cause every sort of trouble for us in Palestine. The Baldwin-Chamberlain Government had not had the guts to arrest this ace trouble-maker when they had the chance, and by the time the decision to do so had virtually been forced upon them by events, he had escaped in disguise to Iraq. Since the outbreak of the war little had been heard of him, but it was quite certain
that this intelligent, active and ambitious man was not sitting idle and that by now he was hand in glove with the Nazis.

He had been barred from Egypt as well as Palestine, so only business of the greatest importance, in which go-betweens could not be trusted, could have caused him to risk arrest by this secret visit to Alex. Even as I was thinking what a grand job it would be if I could succeed in getting this unscrupulous intriguer pinched by the police, another voice cut into the conversation.

It was a guttural voice which had a staccato note from the habit of command and, though I might not have recognised it had I heard it in other circumstances, I was instantly certain that it belonged to Mondragora’s German colleague, the Baron Feldmar von Hentzen.

My excitement redoubled. In a single night two of my five remaining enemies had again appeared on my horizon. The problem now was how could I best bring about their immediate discomfiture and eventual deaths?

Although I was armed it would have been madness to attempt any form of coup on my own. There were at least four, and possibly more, men in that room, and I felt certain that Count Emilo and the Baron Feldmar would be carrying guns. The presence of the Grand Mufti further complicated the problem as it was clearly my duty to secure his arrest if possible. If I called the police in it was as good as certain that anyone found with him would also be held, at least for questioning. That would prevent my two personal enemies seeking safety in flight, and as von Hentzen was a German officer he would automatically be interned for the duration. Mondragora, as a neutral, would doubtless have to be released unless any special evidence came to light against him; but now that I was stationed in Alex I should probably be able to ascertain what the authorities intended to do with him and take further measures accordingly.

While these thoughts had been flitting through my mind I had been trying to follow the conversation. Practically all the talking was being done by von Hentzen and the Arab that I could not see, but unfortunately the Arab spoke in such a low voice that I could catch very little of what he said. They seemed to be discussing the practicability of invading some place by air, and while von Hentzen maintained that this could be done, providing one had sufficient troop-carriers and dive-bombers, the Arab disagreed with him. The conference had presumably been going on for some time before my arrival, as the Grand Mufti suddenly intervened and I heard him say in a clear cultured voice:

“My dear Masry, it is pointless to discuss that angle of it further. If von Hentzen says that the Luftwaffe can do it you may be assured that it will be done. As a soldier you are quite right to anticipate difficulties, but in this case the landings should be absurdly easy. The British Minister is a shrewd and able man, but he has been left entirely unsupported by his Government, and the English are so slow and stupid that they will not even think of sending troops there until it is too late. Therefore where is this opposition of tanks and ground defences of which you speak to come from? You may leave the local forces to me, Pasha; I already have two-thirds of their high officers in my pocket. Let us pass to the matter of money.” He looked towards where I knew von Hentzen to be seated and added, “Have you brought it with you?”

“No, Eminence,” the Baron replied quickly. “We felt that such a large sum would only embarrass you on your return journey. It is all in English five-pound, French mille and Indian one hundred rupee notes; but even so the bundles are so bulky that they would fill a large suitcase. I therefore gave directions that they should be sent through the Italian legation; on your return you will find that they have already arrived.”

“Is it the sum for which I asked?” inquired the Grand Mufti suspiciously.

I could almost hear the smile in von Hentzen’s voice as he purred back: “Eminence, I am well aware that bribery is an expensive business, and we Germans believe in getting results, whatever the cost in men or money. Herr Deputy
Fuehrer
Rudolf Hess is the final authority in such matters, and I spoke to him personally. He ordered the equivalent of a further five million marks to be added to the sum that you suggested.”

This pretty little speech made it obvious that something really big was on foot. At pre-war rates five million marks would be somewhere in the neighbourhood of four hundred thousand pounds, and Hitler’s right-hand man had apparently added that tidy little sum as a bonus to the cash that the Grand Mufti was to receive by way of expenses for organising some wide-scale revolt. The name Masry Pasha also sounded familiar in a military connection, and after a moment I remembered where I had heard it. Up to a few months ago Aziz Masry Pasha had been the chief of the Egyptian General Staff, but soon after Italy had entered the war he had been sacked on account of his violently pro-Axis leanings. Having held such a key position he must have known innumerable important secrets with regard to Britain’s
proposed defence of Egypt, and one would imagine that common prudence would have demanded that he should be locked up as a highly dangerous Fifth Columnist.

Doubtless some high official in Whitehall, who was frightfully good at ‘cricker’ or ‘hocker’ felt that it wouldn’t be quite the decent thing to lock up an ex-Chief of the Egyptian General Staff, because, after all, although the Gyppies hadn’t exactly come in with us, we weren’t fighting them and they might think it a bit high-hat, don’t you know! Yet here was this pro-Nazi General calmly discussing, as far as I could gather, a plan for a German air-borne invasion of Egypt.