But it was enough for Gallast. He turned a contorted face at Keith.
“Harmless, did you say. I don’t believe you! I have a quick way of dealing with such riff-raff. Watch, legionnaire, and you will learn!”
Before Keith could appreciate his intentions, Gallast had stooped over the pile of grenades. As he straightened, he held one of them high in his right hand.
Keith did not attempt further argument. He almost threw himself at Gallast. He aimed a swinging left hand jab at his kidneys. If it had connected, Gallast would have dropped. But, as the punch travelled, a Luger butt came down on his wrist. Keith’s entire arm became numb and momentarily useless.
He stood helpless as Gallast extracted the pin with his teeth.
He screeched, “Don’t… Don’t…” as Gallast hurled the grenade through the outer door. Then, instinctively, he rushed back to D’Aran’s room. The grenade had a five-second fuse. Five seconds to give warnings.
As he ran he shouted: “Get under the window…”
But, as he crashed through the doorway he saw that D’Aran was already under cover. So was Daak. They had seen the grenade land in the centre of the compound.
Keith dropped flat as a harsh explosion, like the rattling of sheet iron, tore the air.
Almost immediately there was a cacophony of hideous sounds. The screams of the tribesmen. The echoing slash of hot shrapnel against the walls. And, worst of all, a shattering of wood and-glass which told of the end of the radio.
5. Isolation
The explosive effect of a hand grenade is lateral. The jagged splinters of metal fly outwards, but only slightly upwards. For that reason the Arabs suffered remarkably few casualties. Standing as they were on the ramparts, most of the fragments spent their energy against the wall below them.
One of their number had a foot almost sliced off. Two others were less seriously wounded about the legs. The rest escaped.
Keith saw this as he peered out of the window. Then he turned to speak to D’Aran. But D’Aran was moving out of the room. His gun was in his hand. Keith followed.
Gallast was standing by the outer door, tossing a fresh grenade from hand to hand. As he watched the huddled, temporarily paralysed Arabs, his big face reflected a peculiarly brutalised satisfaction. Beneath his ostensible polish, Gallast was a typical thug. This was the type of situation which appealed to him. The murder of semi-defenceless people, supported by only the thinnest veneer of justification, naturally enabled him to forget all other matters.
He looked with some surprise at D’Aran’s gun. Then he said: “We won’t have any more trouble with that offal, lieutenant. But I think perhaps another grenade.”
Gallast broke off as he felt a point of pressure in the centre of his stomach. It was the muzzle of D’Aran’s gun.
And D’Aran said: “Put the grenade down!”
“Lieutenant, I…”
“Put it down!”
Gallast obeyed. There was a quality in D’Aran’s voice which left no choice.
Meantime, Keith stood against the wall. He, too, was holding a Luger. He glanced at Gallast’s men. But there did not seem to be much danger of interference from them. They were moving away into the shadows.
D’Aran said in a dangerous, silky way: “Do you realise that the offal, as you describe them, are French subjects?”
There was no pretence about Gallast’s astonishment.
“They are barbarians!”
“They are subjects of the French Empire. As such, they receive the same rights and protection as any person born in metropolitan France. By occupation, they are peaceful traders.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, lieutenant! They were rushing the walls.”
“Fool! They were coming in to find why this post was apparently unoccupied. Look at them, Gallast! Do they seem like warriors? Are they equipped as warriors?”
Gallast licked his lips several times. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re sure they are traders?”
“Out.”
“Then no great harm has been done. It seems that only one of them has been seriously hurt.”
D’Aran paused before saying with slow precision: “The radio cannot be repaired, Gallast. Not now. A fragment from your grenade has ruined it finally!”
From his superior height, Gallast looked down on D’Aran. The sudden tightening of the skin over his broad cheekbones was the only indication of emotion.
Then he said: “I shouldn’t worry too much about that, lieutenant,”
“Shouldn’t worry…”
D’Aran, being French, could not always conceal his feelings. He did not conceal them now. He took an involuntary backward step.
And he had a sudden weird feeling. A feeling of unforeseen insecurity. As if the earth had disintegrated beneath him. And he knew—knew from the essence of his soul—that for the past minute Gallast had been playing with him. Oui, playing! Talking to gain time. But why? Why?
As his confused brain groped for an answer, he realised that Gallast was no longer staring at him, Gallast was looking towards the ramparts.
D’Aran followed his gaze. At first he saw nothing only the huddled Arabs. And he wondered why they had not yet fled over the wall to safety. They ought to have recovered from their paralysing fright by now.
But they were still. There was not a flicker of a limb among them.
Then D’Aran saw the reason.
Four Lebels were being aimed at them. Lebels held by Gallast’s men. Two were on each side of the Arabs, some ten yards distant from them and on the ramparts, too.
The tribesmen, pressed together and armed only with their unwieldy muskets, could make no resistance without immediately being shot down.
D’Aran felt an ache in his heart as he realised what had happened. While he had been talking to Gallast the four men—acting under orders—had moved out of the rear of the building. There they had mounted the ramparts, then converged on the Arabs without being seen until the last moment.
But the original question remained,—why?
Why hold these harmless Bormones in the fort?
Gallast supplied the answer. He did it with smooth satisfaction.
“You constantly underestimate me, lieutenant,” he said. “The moment I first saw the Arabs I appreciated a vital fact. Can you guess what it is? No! Then I’m afraid your conscience is clouding your judgement. I realised that they must have arrived on horseback. And they must have supplies of water…”
He broke off to study D’Aran’s tense face. D’Aran said quietly: “Go on, Gallast.”
“There is not much more to say, is there? I intend to take their horses and water—then move on to the safety of the foothills, as planned. You, of course, will be left here—as corpses. Since we still cannot risk any damage to the instruments.”
A voice spoke to D’Aran. A nebulous, disembodied voice which seemed to come out of infinity. It said: “Lieutenant D’Aran, perhaps you can be forgiven for being a thief. But not for being a fool. You seized the advantage. Then you threw it away because you let your enemy think faster than you. Do you not remember what you were taught at St. Maixent? You were taught that tactics are the art of adapting unexpected circumstances to one’s own advantage…”