Page:Oriental Stories v01 n01 (1930-10).djvu/58

and boasted loudly of being, at last, a Hadji.

"The greatest day in the life of a man!" he shouted. "The day of Arafa! But I am tired. . . . I am so tired that I will kill the man who disturbs me this night!"

He threw himself down on the floor. He grunted artistically. Then he began to snore. But it was nearing midnight when the Russian moved cautiously, and strolled casually into the ribat yard. He paused there, listening and watching. But no one was awake. A sea of snoring, uncouth, unpleasant. The Russian grimaced, but the first smile for a long time creased his face. The strain had been terrible. He had good right to be proud of the way he had carried out his assignment.

He looked back. No one moving!

"Ben Mohamet will have a boastful fit," he thought. "What a kindly damned nuisance he has been! Yet he came in handy!"

He began to walk swiftly, his bare feet making hardly any sound. And he disappeared among the ancient stone houses—often five stories in height—unchanged since before William of Normandy conquered the English.

But a shadow followed the Russian.

Behind the Caaba is a narrow street in which live the real rulers of Islam, men of immense wealth. The Russian walked fast. The street was silent and deserted. Only the high old walls and the bars of the windows. And shadows. . . .

Almost directly behind the sacred place is a narrow alleyway that leads to the yard of the tall house standing there. Like a cloud the Russian melted into that alleyway. . . . And that house, as all the world knew, was the house of Abu Ali Al Hassen, the most powerful man in all Islam. . . . No wonder Bugs, blending with the dark, was startled!

His quick wits gripped at many theories, but, after all, the only way to make certain was to go and find out. But to follow the Russian was remarkably like walking into a den of hungry lions. To enter the house of Abu Ali Al Hassen uninvited at any time was dangerous. To do so in the dead of night! . . . In that house now was a secret agent of Russia. He would be welcome. That house had been his objective during all the weary nerve-racking days since the steamer left Bombay. . . .

Presently there swaggered into the narrow alleyway a truculent Afghan, with an excellent excuse on the tip of his tongue if one was needed! But would that excuse save him? His gun would not save him. He had it handy under his arm, but the first shot would bring hundreds of fanatics swarming over him like enraged hornets. . . .

It was very quiet in the alleyway. What danger lurked there? Bugs hardly breathed. The truculent Afghan had become a shadow again. . . . The yard of that mysterious old house was deserted!

And then Bugs understood. That house was safe unguarded. Its powerful owner was, as it were, tabu. Also, expecting the Russian, and desiring no curious onlookers, Abu Ali Al Hassen had given the servants who usually slept in his yard a night off. And what better night for a holiday than the night of the day of Arafa?

How exquisitely had the Russian dovetailed his movements! Only the expert can thoroughly appreciate the expert. . . . In the Russian Bugs saw a master of the Game.

But the clever arranging helped Bugs. Softly he crossed the yard. He slipped into the house!

It was no time to investigate. The Russian had probably been taken upstairs. To try to find him would be