Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

Cadiz was no exception. There was an Arab rug merchant there, Es Sayed, and it was to him that Vivian sent word, on the third day after her arrival in the city. He came, bearing a huge bundle of rugs and primed with the knowledge, obtained for a price from the Hotel Portero, that the woman who had sent for him was a wealthy Englishwoman.

He knocked on the door of her room and at her command to enter, came slowly in and dropped his bundle of rugs on the floor. He was a tall Arab, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with bony fingers and deep sunken eyes that seemed like two bits of agate set in a coffee-brown mask.

“You wish to purchase rugs,” he inquired in French.

The Lady from Hell looked at him quietly, sizing him up. Her eyes, rather heavy lidded, and green as the precious tiles set in the roof of the Mosque in Mecca, were baffling.

“Not rugs,” she said quietly, “information—”

Their eyes met, and they exchanged one long, calculating glance. The Arab seemed to be appraising the woman who lounged in the comfortable Madeira chair. The face that the Lady from Hell turned to his gaze was an expressive one... only, something that few men discovered until it was too late... it expressed exactly what its owner wished it to express, never anything more.

Es Sayed shook his head, stooped over to pick up his rugs.

“I sell only rugs,” he returned courteously.

Vivian smiled. “To those who do now know you, perhaps. But to those who come well recommended there may be other things to be had... such things for instance, as a knife and the hand to wield it from behind on a dark street; poisons... the slower the poison the higher the price. And perhaps... and the Spaniards might be interested in this... deserters from the Spanish Foreign Legion aided in their escape to French or Italian soil.”

The Arab’s face darkened. He shot a swift, hooded glance from Vivian’s impassive face to that of Wylie. “Who are you to dare to suggest that an honest rug merchant would meddle in such things as these?”

Vivian smiled again. “I have been called,” she said gently, “the Lady from Hell.”

A swift smile broke the brown mask. “Allah,” the man ejaculated. The name was familiar to him, as it was to every criminal of importance in every European country. He looked at her closely and nodded. “Forgive me for not recognizing you. I have been stupid. Who is there that does not know the reputation of the Lady from Hell? What is it that you wish?”

“I wish to check certain information that I have obtained from a guard at the prison,” Vivian said thoughtfully. “One Manuel Vivian. I have made his acquaintance... no matter how... and for some strange reason he believes that I am attracted by him. Among the bits of information that he has given me is the statement that he is the guard in the execution courtyard of the prison. I want that statement checked, and also to find if he is the only guard on duty.”

The Arab nodded. “That will be difficult. I do not know this particular guard, but such information is easily checked.” He paused a moment. “It would not be difficult to bribe a prison guard to perform a little service for you... such as smuggling in a message... but you have no guarantees that he would not turn it over to the Comandante. As for anything greater... it cannot be done. Not that they are incorruptible, but they are kept honest by fear. A guard who betrayed his trust would find himself facing a firing squad.”

“I have no intention of bribing a guard,” Vivian told him, with a grim smile. She, better than most women knew that there were lures greater than money that might be dangled before the eyes of susceptible men, and she had already considered and dismissed the possibility of smuggling in a message. “Then,” she went on evenly, “I wish this purchased and brought to my room in a bundle of rugs.” She handed him a slip of paper. “There must be nothing to connect me with the purchase.”

The Arab glanced at the slip of paper and raised protesting hands.

“It cannot be done,” he expostulated. “It is impossible. Sale of it is forbidden. Possession of it, regardless of whom, means imprisonment and possible death. What do you wish it for?”

The Lady from Hell looked at him with the unreadable, faintly slant-eyed gaze that, had he known her better, would have told him that trouble was brewing. Her voice was suddenly harsh.

“That is my business. It is your business to give me what I want... unless, of course, you would like the Spanish authorities to know of the deserters who come to you in the night and are fitted out with new clothes and false passports...”

There was behind her words a suggestion of a blade that would slice and cut if its owner loosed it. The Arab quailed before the suggestion contained in her words.

“It is a difficult thing,” he said. “But I think that I can do it. I have connections...”