Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

McCloud, in accordance with their plan, went right up to the wall and took up a position with his back against it so that he could not be seen from above. Roger remained about twenty feet away from it and, taking a handful of pebbles from his pocket, began to throw them up at the lighted window. His fourth shot struck the wooden lattice-​work with a clatter that sounded abnormally loud in the stillness of the night.

After a moment the lattice swung back and the dark silhouette of what he felt sure was a woman's head appeared. Softly he called up to her in Urdu, 'I would have speech with the Begum Gunavati.'

She did not reply and the head disappeared. With his pulses racing, he waited. He had decided against disguising himself in one of the native robes left in the big farm-​house, as its whiteness would have made him much more conspicuous when approaching the city, so the starlight might be sufficient for the woman to have seen that he was wearing European clothes. In any case, his accent must have told her that he was a foreigner and he thought it certain that she would have guessed him to be an Englishman from Gunston's force. If, after the Wazier's fall, his house had been taken over by the Rajah's people, within a few minutes men might be poking long-​barrelled guns out of the window.

Roger, standing there with his pale face upturned, knew that he would then provide a perfect sitting target. He could only hope that, if his fears were realised, the first shots would miss him. By dropping at once he meant to sham death, then, even if he were wounded, the men would after an interval leave the window, and McCloud have a fair chance of getting him away before the guard on the gate came out to collect his body.

The minutes seemed endless, but at length another head appeared at the window. No long muzzle was thrust out so he called up again. For a second time there was no reply and the head was withdrawn. Another wait ensued, but he was more hopeful now, which made it a shade less agonising. Five more minutes passed, then the same head reappeared and another wearing a turban. A voice came to him from above and with immense relief he recognised it as that of Mahmud Ali Kajar.

A quick stumbling exchange in Persian followed. Mahmud Ali left the window and reappeared at another farther along the row. Down came the rope and Roger hauled himself up it. On clambering into the room, he found that Mahmud Ali's companion was the mute in the red jacket who had rescued him from the dungeon. The latter grinned at him and, leaving the Afghan to haul up the rope, led him downstairs to the room in which he had talked with Rai-​ul-​daula. The Begum was there and rose to receive him.

Having made her a deep bow, he asked with breathless anxiety, 'My wife, your Highness? Is she safe! Is she well?'

The Begum nodded. 'Yes, she is safe.' Then, after a second's hesitation, she added, 'She is still in the harem, and being well cared for.'

'God be thanked!' he exclaimed. 'And your Highness's son, the Wazier? I heard that yesterday he had been deprived of his office. A letter was sent to him which may have caused the trouble, but that was no fault of mine. I hope… I trust… I should be terribly distressed if anything serious…'

She shook her head. 'No; my son has many powerful friends. If Jawahir-​ul-​daula decreed his death without sufficient cause from fear for their own lives they would band together and revolt. The young Prince knows that would be the end of himself. He had dared do no more than confine my son to his own house and put guards upon it.'

'He is here, then?'

'No; this is my house. His palace is two streets away. For the present he is safe there among his own people. But for how long, who can say? It is certain that the Venetian will devise some plot to make a pretext for his execution.'

'Your Highness, I am here tonight in an attempt to rescue my wife,' Roger said quickly. 'I have brave men outside who can be brought in to aid me. I owe my life to your son. If it be possible, we will rescue him too.'

'You are a young man of generous heart; also of great courage,' the old lady murmured. 'To penetrate the city is to ask for an evil death. Your wife is at least fortunate to be the object of such love. Tell me. now, how you hope to recover her?'

Roger gave a brief outline of what he proposed to do. Having heard him out she heaved a sigh. 'You may succeed in reaching her, but you will never get her away. Your men may hold the gate for a while; but you will be overwhelmed by numbers before you can get back with her to it.'

T can only pray that your Highness will prove wrong in that,' he replied gravely. 'Nothing will deter me from making the attempt. But perhaps you can suggest a better way for me to set about it?'

Her still fine eyes searched his face for a moment, striving to assess what other qualities he possessed besides courage, Then she said, 'Show me the palms of your hands.'

Obediently, he held them out to her. For a good two minutes she studied them carefully. When she looked up it was with a faint smile. I do not see death in them, yet; and you have audacity without rashness. If left to his own devices my son may overcome his enemies; but at any time he might be murdered. What neither of you could do alone, the two of you may do together. Putting my trust in your stars, I will gamble with his life tonight. By morning he, you, your wife, myself, all of us, will be either dead or safe.'

She paused for a moment, pulled at the dark hair on her upper lip, and went on, 'I have ways of sending messages to him in secret, and he to others. But that will take time.'

'You have ample,' Roger reassured her. 'My troops are not to attack until half-​an-​hour before dawn. I did not dare to risk an earlier hour from fear we would lose our way through the streets owing to darkness.'

'That was sensible. Even so, there will be great confusion. To distinguish friend from foe, there must be a password a battle cry that my son's men will shout so that your soldiers do not attack them. What shall it be?'

'Clarissa,' replied Roger, without a second's hesitation.

'Cla- rissa; Cla-​rissa,' the old lady repeated. 'That is the name of the wife of your great love. Yes, it is suitable. I will write now a letter for my son, and my clever Damaji, who brought you here from prison, will get it in to him. Mahmud Ali Kajar shall go up with you now to get your men in before the moon rises.'

For this there was now no time to lose; so, as soon as the Afghan had been summoned, Roger hurried upstairs with him. Leaning from the window, he called softly down to McCloud, 'All's well.' The Cornet called back an acknowledgement and went forward at a crouching run, a vague figure seen only for a moment in the starlight.

Ten minutes later he was back with his men spaced out at intervals behind him. Mahmud Ali had already lowered the rope. A hefty Corporal swarmed up it. After him came the eleven troopers, and finally young McCloud. The second stage of the venture had been accomplished without the alarm Roger so dreaded having sounded.

Roger told the Afghan that, as there were still five hours to go before the attack, he would like his men to be given a chance to doss down during the time of waiting. Mahmud Ali took them through the back quarters of the house, stopping at a larder, from which he handed out the best part of a cold goose, a big bowl of rice mixed with onions and sweet peppers, and a large flat dough-​cake; then he led them across a courtyard to a stable in the stalls of which several horses were dozing. Pointing to some bales of clean straw, he indicated that they should make themselves comfortable.

Having seen their men cheerfully settled at their midnight meal, Roger and McCloud accompanied Mahmud Ali back to the Begum's sanctum. After presenting McCloud to her, Roger said that they, too, would like to rest, if it was agreeable to her, until the fateful hour arrived. She agreed that his wish was a wise one, but insisted that they must first eat, and sent the Afghan back to the kitchen quarters. He returned with a dish of quails, a ragout of rice and antelope, and a copper platter on which were piled a variety of sweet cakes.