# The Broken Nose

Extracted from "Everybody's" magazine, Dec 1923, pp. 49–55. An earlier version of this story, "The Man with the Broken Nose" can be found in The Strand Magazine, 1923 March.
The Broken Nose
The Murder That Was Arranged and Was Presently to Take Place in Brook Street, Mayfair, London
By Michael Arlen
IT WAS as George Tarlyon and I turned away from Gainsborough's “Musidora Bathing Her Feet,” talking loftily about legs, that we were confronted by a tall and dark young man.
“Sir,” he addressed Tarlyon, “I would be obliged if you would tell me in which gallery hang the pictures by Manet?”
“Ah,” said Tarlyon, “one letter can make so much difference! You are sure you do not mean Monet?”
“Manet,” said the dark stranger, and looked as though he meant it.
“I am delighted to meet a man of taste,” said Tarlyon heartily. “We, too, were just about to view the Manets. We are partial to Manet. This way.”
We followed him like lambs. Tarlyon's knowledge as to where the Manets were took the form of trying every gallery in which the Manets were not. The dark stranger walked silently and firmly. He was a tall young man of slight but power ful build; his nose, which was of the patrician sort, would have been shapely had it not once been broken in such a way that forever after it must noticeably incline to one side. He carried himself with an air of determination and assurance which would, I thought, make any conversation with him rather a business. His hat, which was soft and had the elegance of the well worn, he wore cavalierly. Shoes by Lobb.
At last a picture rose before our eyes, a large picture, very blue. Now who shall describe that picture which was so blue, blue even to the grass under the soldiers' feet, the complexion of the soldiers' faces and the rifles in the soldiers' hands? Over against a blue tree stood a solitary soldier, and miserably blue was his face, while the others stood very stiffly with their backs to us, holding their rifles in a position which gave one no room to doubt that they were about to shoot the solitary soldier for some misdemeanor.
“Manet,” said Tarlyon proudly.
The dark young stranger was absorbed; he pulled his hat a little lower over his left eye, so that the light should not obtrude on his vision. j
“These things happen,” he murmured. “And they happen like that.” But it was as though he spoke to himself.
“Come on,” I whispered to Tarlyon, for we seemed to be intruding—so that I was quite startled when the stranger suddenly turned from the picture to me. i
“You see, sir,” he said gravely, “I know all about killing. I have killed many men.”
“Army Service Corps?” inquired Tarlyon.
“No, sir,” snapped the stranger. “I know nothing of your corps. I am a Zeytounli.”
“Are you, by God!” cried Tarlyon. I envied him, but could not imitate him.
“Please have patience with me,” I begged the stranger. “What is a Zeytounli?”
He regarded me with those smoldering dark eyes; and I realized vividly that his nose had been broken in some argument which had cost the other man more than a broken nose.
“Zeytoun,” he said softly, “is a fortress in Armenia. For five hundred years Zeytoun has not laid down her arms, but now she is burnt stones on the ground. The Zeytounlis, sir, are the hill-men of Armenia. I am an Armenian.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry!” Tarlyon murmured.
“Why?” snarled the Armenian.
“WeU, you've been treated pretty badly, haven't you?” said Tarlyon. “All these massacres and things——”
THE stranger glared at him, and then he laughed at him. I shall remember that laugh. So will Tarlyon. Then the stranger raised a finger and, very gently, he tapped Tarlyon's shoulder.
“Listen,” said he. “Your manner of speaking bores me. Turks have slain many Armenians. Wherefore Armenians have slain many Turks. You may take it from me that, by sticking to it year in and year out for five hundred years, Armenians have in a tactful way slain more Turks than Turks have slain Armenians. That is why I am proud of being an Armenian. And you would oblige me, gentlemen, by informing your countrymen that we have no use for their discarded trousers but would be grateful for some guns. And you would still further oblige me by trying, in future, not to talk nonsense about Armenians. Adieu, gentlemen. You will probably hear of me again.”
He left us.
“I didn't know,” I murmured, “that Armenians were like that. I have been misled about Armenians. And he speaks English very well.”
“Hum,” said Tarlyon thoughtfully. “But no one would say he was Armenian if he wasn't, would he?”
“Also,” said I, “he is the most aggressive young man I have ever met. Manet, indeed!”
“So would you be aggressive,” Tarlyon snorted, “if you had been massacred and made an atrocity of ever since you were a slip of a boy, and had spent your holidays being chased round Lake Van by roaring Turks and hairy Kurds with scimitars dripping with e blood of Circassian children.”
“All the same,” I suggested, “it must be pretty restless for the Turks living in the same suburbs with a crowd of young men like that. I would go a long way round on a dark night to avoid meeting that young man, just in case he might be in a bad temper.”
If any one told me the tale of our second meeting with the Zeytounli that very night, and of its consequences, I might humor him, but I would not believe him. But this is what actually happened, toward midnight of that very day, within a stone's throw of Claridge's Hotel, in Brook Street, Mayfair.
George Tarlyon and I had been of the same company for dinner and then bridge at a house in Brook Street. Toward midnight, a gap in the bridge allowed us to slip away, which we did, refusing a last glass of barley-water with passionate restraint. Tarlyon had parked his car outside Claridge's, and thither we walked. Brook Street, at that hour, is undecided between a state of coma and one of glittering abandon; which means that the deathly silence is every now and then shattered by rich automobiles hurling themselves and lovely ladies all covered in pearls and chrysoprase into the bosom of Grosvenor Square. Claridge's, of course, hath music, so that youth may dance. But of pedestrians along Brook Street there are less than a few, and of young men in gents' evening wear running furiously after limousines there is a noticeable scarcity.
He simply tore past us, that young man, in the middle of the road, a few yards behind a swiftly going car. The car stopped near Grosvenor Square. We were more than fifty yards away, and could not determine whether it was a man or a woman who emerged from the car and entered the house, but it looked like a fat little man. Then the car slid away. The pursuing young man had disappeared.
“He can't have been doing it for fun,” said Tarlyon.
“Perhaps he's gone to have a bath,” I suggested. For it was a very warm night, and running after motor-cars must have been a wet business.
“We'll see,” said Tarlyon. We retraced our steps up Brook Street, and passed the house into which the occupant of the car had disappeared. It was a house like an other, dark and silent; and as it stood almost at the comer, we went round the corner into Grosvenor Square; at least we were rounding the comer when a young man in a great hurry collided with us.
“Ah!” said Tarlyon.
“SORRY,” said the stranger. I was right about the running—it had made his face very wet.
“So it's you!” said Tarlyon.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the Armenian, with a sort of furious courtesy. “If you will excuse me, I am in a hurry.” He made to pass us.
“We noticed it,” said Tarlyon. “In fact we noticed nothing else.”
“Damn!” snapped the Armenian. “So you saw me running!”
“So did he,” I murmured, looking up Brook Street. A policeman was sauntering toward us.
“If you don't want to be asked any questions by the arm of the law,” Tarlyon suggested, “you had better take a turn round the square with us.”
“I won't move,” the stranger cried passionately. “I have found him at last—I won't move.”
“But neither will he,” I soothed him. “He's gone into the house.”
“Did you see him go in?”
We nodded.
“Ah, but his excellency is clever!” said the Armenian viciously.
We grabbed hold of him and hauled him round the square. He never even pretended that he liked our company.
“I suppose,” said Tarlyon, “you've got bombs all over you.”
“Sir,” said e Armenian, “you are a fool. Do I look the kind of man to carry bombs? I favor the revolver.”
“Oh, do you?” said I. Sarcastic I was, you understand.
“And one shot is always enough.”
I gave up.
“And where,” asked Tarlyon reasonably, “does his excellency come in?”
“He won't come in anywhere after to-night. His excellency is going to die.” And with that the Armenian suddenly stopped in his unwilling stride and looked from one to the other of us. His broken nose made fantasy of his dark face, but I remember thinking it must once have been a handsome enough face of its kind, for not even a broken nose made him ugly. He was as tall as Tarlyon, but much slighter; his was a dangerous thinness. He ad dressed Tarlyon.
“Sir,” he said—an Armenian habit, I suppose, that “sir”—“you have intruded your company on me, but I have accepted you. I have trusted you. I have treated you as gentlemen, being by nature an optimist, and I take it for granted that you will neither betray me nor try to deter me. You will understand the strength of my intention when I say that a young girl is concerned in this, that I have sworn a vow, and that if you were in my position you would do what I am going to do. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Hold on,” cried Tarlyon. “What on earth were you chasing that car for? And who the devil is his excellency? We'd like to know, you see, so as to be able to pick him out from among the other murders in to-morrow's papers.”
“Achmed Jzzit Pasha, the Young Turk,” said the Armenian softly.
“Ah!” said George Tarlyon. “I see. Enver Pasha, Talaat Pasha, and Achmed Jzzit Pasha of the Committee of Union and Progress. I see. Talaat Pasha has already been killed, hasn't he?”
“Three of us,” said the Armenian somberly, “set out from Armenia last year, and each of us had a mission of revenge. One of us—you will remember?—shot and killed Talaat Pasha in a street in Berlin some months ago. Enver Pasha has fled to Bokhara. A murder has been arranged, and will shortly take place in Bokhara. And I, at last, have found Achmed Jzzit, the foulest murderer of all. There is not an Armenian in the world who would not shoot Achmed Jzzit Pasha on sight if he had the chance—but Armenians who come to Western countries at once acquire the nasty Western habit of money-grubbing and forget the glory there is in killing. But I, a Zeytounli, have never forgotten it.”
“Were you,” I asked, “educated at an English public-school?”
“That is a matter of opinion. But even an English public-school could not make me forget that I am an Armenian, and that an Armenian's first business is to kill Turks; failing Turks, he can, of course, kill Kurds or ravish Circassian maidens——”
“Oh, not Circassian!” I pleaded.
“Well, Albanian,” he allowed me. “During the war I fought through the siege and destruction of Zeytoun, and then as an irregular under Andranik; and since the war I have pursued Achmed Jzzit Pasha—and to-night I have found him. He has been here in London for some months, but under an assumed name, for he knows that he is marked by the Dashnakists and the Henchakists, and he is afraid. I will cure him of his fear forever.”
And with a wrench his arms were free of our gently restraining hands and he was off down the square. But Tarlyon was swift, very swift; I panted up just as he was again “intruding himself” on the Armenian.
“YOU don't seem to realize,” breathed Tarlyon, “that you can't enter a house in Brook Street, kill a pasha, and get away——”
“I don't care if I get away or not,” the other broke in fiercely. “Besides, my friend who killed Talaat in Berlin was acquitted. So will you please excuse me, sir?”
It was marvelous what venom that broken-nosed young man could put into a simple question!
“I've taken rather a fancy to you,” murmured Tarlyon, “and I hate to think of your going off murdering pashas. Come and have a drink instead, there's a good fellow.”
“If I tell you,” snapped the Armenian, “that there is a girl in that house, and that I must rescue that girl, then you will perhaps see your way to minding your own business.”
“Has the pasha got your girl?” I asked kindly.
“She is my sister, O fool,” he said wearily. “And do you think I can allow my little sister to stay in that loathsome old creature's house one night more than I can help?”
“Collar him,” said Tarlyon to me; and I grabbed the young man's other arm, though I didn't in the least want to, and we began hauling him round the square again. As I walked close to him I could feel a solid bulky thing in his hip pocket, and I did not like the feeling.
“Now,” said Tarlyon, very business-like, “what's all this about your sister?”
The Armenian almost screamed with impatience.
“Have I not told you all along that if you were in my position you would do exactly what I am going to do? Must I explain to you that my little sister was carried away by that old lecher before my eyes? Must I tell you how Zeytoun on the hill was at last shelled to dust by the batteries of two army corps under Achmed Jzzit Pasha, and how the Turks entered the smoking town and gave no quarter to man, woman or child? Must I, just to satisfy your useless and asinine curiosity, ravage my heart with retelling how my father and mother were bayoneted before my eyes, and how I escaped only because they thought me already dead?
“Must I tell you how my little sister was carried away to the harem of Achmed Jzzit Pasha, who, on beholding her, straightway swore a mighty oath that he would not rest from disemboweling Christians until he had ravished her? Did she give way? The slaying went on, day by day and night by night, so that a count of the leaves of the trees in your Green Park would make but a fraction of the number of the dead bodies that lay rotting in the plain of Mush. An expert killer was Achmed Jzzit Pasha; and whether or not the natural blood-lust of the Osmanli was heightened by his oath to ravish my sister, I do not know, but I do know that there has not been such a tale of dead Christians since Timur passed through the land to meet Bajazet.
“And that is the man who holds my sister in that house, while you detain me here with vain questions and idiotic comments. I followed him to Paris, but he escaped me. I found him in Bournemouth, but again I withheld my hand while I planned some way of rescuing Anaïs—fool that I was! But the idea in my head was that I must first get the girl to some place of safety—and then come back, kill him, and pay whatever is the penalty in your country for killing a loathsome animal. But now I have realized that there is no other way of rescuing Anaïs but by killing him first. Always, wherever he goes, he keeps her locked in a room next to his, and thus it must be in this house. Bestial fancies seethe in his brain, and he sleeps lightly. And while the night is dwindling, here I stand satisfying your idle curiosity. You really must excuse me now, gentlemen.”
“But hold on!” cried Tarlyon. “Why kill the wretched man at all? Why not rescue your sister with the charming name and let him go on being a pasha until he dies a horrible death by reason of those bestial fancies which you mentioned? He won't dare come after her—and I don't see much point in getting your sister back if you have got to swing for it more or less at once. Eh, Ralph?”
“QUITE right,” said 1. “Let's drink it over.”
“This is no time for drink,” snapped the Armenian. “The night is dwindling—and how can I desist from killing him when, as I have told you, I cannot get into her room without awaking him? And it stands to reason that as soon as I see him I shall also see red, and kill—as I must, by reason of my vow and by order of the Dashnakists. As I have told you I would have preferred to have got Anaïs out of the house first, but that seems impossible.”
Tarlyon opened his mouth, and he closed it I knew what was passing in Tarlyon's mind, and I thought I would let it pass, so that he might think again. But then he reopened his mouth, and this is what he said:
“My friend and I,” he said, “might perhaps consider giving you a little assistance, if in return you gave us a promise——”
“I promise nothing.”
“Don't be silly,” said Tarlyon. “What I wish to point out is that, if my friend and I help you to get your sister out of that house, you must drop this killing business. We will contrive some way of keeping his excellency quiet while you rescue your sister—but you must give your word of honor, or some efficient substitute, that you will not come back and murder the wretched pasha. Now I want no back-chat about it—either you will or you will not.”
“But I am bound to the Dashnakists!” cried the Armenian; rather regretfully, I thought.
“Blast the Dashnakists,” said Tarlyon. “Yes or no?”
“I promise,” said the Armenian suddenly.
Reasonable noises issued from me.
“You seem to take it for granted that we just walk into the house. How do we get in?”
“This cuts windows like a knife,” said the Armenian, showing us in the palm o( his hand a glittering little thing like a toy dagger. “A German invention.”
“The matter will be further facilitated,” said Tarlyon, “by our first getting my car, which is opposite Claridge's, and driving in it to the front door. No policeman would dare suspect anything wrong in a house while a Rolls-Royce is stand outside it. Especially, Ralph, when you are sitting in it.”
“I shall be in the house,” I said firmly. Not that I wanted to be—but one says those things, and one always says them firmly.
“Perhaps that would be better,” said the Armenian. “It will certainly take the two of you to keep Achmed Jzzit quiet while I break in the first locked door I see and get Anais. And a Rolls-Royce car is even more impressive empty than when some one is in it—people make it seem possible.”
Thus and thus, we got the car and drove bravely to the house. We passed two policemen at the comer of Davies Street, but they were not interested in us. I must say burglary is easy when one has a large and rich car to do it from.
Like all Mayfair houses this had a tradesmen's entrance; through a little gate, on the right of the few steps to the front door, down some steps, and into a little area where was the kitchen door and a window.
“Wait in the car,” said the dark young man, and vanished down to the area. We heard a very faint scratching, one little wicked word, a little more scratching; and then the lights blazed up through the glass above the front door, and it was opened. The Armenian stood in the lighted doorway as though he owned the house. I admired him.
Tarlyon's first words when we were in the hall of the house were: “Give me your gun.”
The Armenian surrendered his revolver without a word, but he sighed. Then he marshaled us.
“VERY quiet,” he whispered. “And very quick. We must try the upstairs rooms to see which is his bedroom. One touch on the door will awaken him, so you must muffle him at once, else he will awaken the servants. In the meanwhile I will find my sister; then I will take her straight out of the house and we will await you in your car—and I will blow your horn twice, gently, to show that I am awaiting you. It will kind of you, then, to drive us to Mr. Ritz's hotel in Piccadilly where, perhaps, with your influence, we may get my sister a lodging for the night. But, remember, keep a tight hold on Achmed Jzzit until I blow the horn—muffle him straightway and let him not open his mouth, else he will bring the whole neighborhood down on us. Let us begin.”
We began with a bit of luck—or so it seemed. Having tiptoed up to the first landing, the very first door we touched held the lightly sleeping pasha. We knew he was there by the howl that followed our touching the door knob—indeed he was a light sleeper, that man of bestial fancies! But we gave him no time to make a real noise; we leaped into the room; I switched on the light, Tarlyon leaped on the bed and him, I leaped after Tarlyon, and in a second we held him making smothered howling noises under the bedclothes. We had not even had time to see if he was young or old, but the shape of him suggested a certain age. His was, however, an active and rest less shape. We were very gentle with him, almost too gentle, for once a distinct howl issued from somewhere under the sheets.
“Steady,” said George Tarlyon to the restless shape. “You'll throttle yourself,” he added.
To prevent that we, with a sudden and well-concerted movement, unscrewed his head and muffled him with a handkerchief. We looked upon his face for the first time.
“YOU'RE a nasty, cruel old man,” said George Tarlyon.
Achmed Jzzit Pasha looked all that the Armenian had said he was, and more. A fierce old face it was that looked murder at us. His eyes, under white, bushy eye brows, were frantic and furious, and never for a second did he cease to struggle. I thought of that fine old Turkish warrior of the last century, the man of Plevna, Osman Pasha; this old man was of the same breed, I thought.
We had so far heard nothing of the Armenian; but that Achmed Jzzit Pasha realized that we two were only accessories was evident, for not even his struggling with us concealed the fact that he was listening, listening intently.
A slight noise, as of a drawer hastily banged, came from the next room. It was only a small noise but it had a mighty effect on the old slayer of men. His eyes simply tore at us, his fat little body heaved frantically, he bit my finger in trying to howl—he went quite mad, that violent old Turk. But neither Tarlyon nor I am a small man, and we managed to hold him.
“He's an infernally long time about it,” grumbled Tarlyon at last—and at that very moment the horn outside blew twice. We welcomed it.
“Now,” said Tarlyon to the heaving old man, “we are about to release you. Your girl has flown, so it's too late for you to make a noise. So don't.” And for form's sake he showed the revolver, though I never saw a man who looked less likely to use it. “You may not realize it,” he added severely, “but we have saved your life. After the first shock has worn off you will thank two disinterested men for having saved you from the wrath of an Armenian.”
With another sudden and well-concerted movement we let go. The pasha did not make a noise. It was evident he realized that it was too late. But in the next few seconds he revealed, for a Turk, an astonishing knowledge of the baser words and idioms of the English language. Then he leaped out of bed, a funny little creature in pink flannel pajamas, and rushed out of the room. Breathless, we found him in the next room.
Now, I have very little acquaintance with girls' bedrooms, but a glance was sufficient to show me that no girl alive could have a bedroom like that. There was no bed in it, and very little else: just a thing like a tallboy, but made of steel, or so it looked; and that had certainly been ravaged. Then the old man really began to howl, and we hadn't the heart to stop him. He howled himself back to the bedroom, and we followed him, looking and feeling like all the things he said we were.
“But aren't you Achmed Jzzit Pasha?” I pleaded. But the life had suddenly gone out of him; he sat on the edge of the bed.
“My name is Wagstaffe,” he said weakly, “and I have the finest collection of Roman coins in the country.- Or rather I had. My son, Michael Wagstaffe, has them now—thanks to you two idiots!”
We had heard of Michael Wagstaffe—bankrupt twice, a well-known war correspondent, and a V. C. What can you do with a man like that?
Tarlyon had an idea, which took him to the window; I had the same idea, and followed him. We looked down upon the face of Brook Street, and behold! it was empty. Never was a Rolls-Royce car with lamps alight so invisible. We went back to Mr. Wagstaffe on the edge of the bed.
“WE ARE sorry,” I muttered, but he seemed not to hear us. George Tarlyon is usually a fine, upstanding fellow, and some people have thought him handsome, but now he looked as though he had been trodden on all over.
Mr. Wagstaffe was whispering, almost to himself: “Two years ago, when I drove him out of the house, he swore that one day he would steal my coins. And now he has stolen my coins. I always knew he would keep his word, for he is a devil. And he always knew that, come what might, I would not prosecute my son for a thief. My Roman coins!” And Mr. Wagstaffe wept.
We explained our position to him. We gave him a brief outline of the facts. We begged him to understand. We pelted out that if his son really had been an Armenian and if he had really been Achmed Jzzit Pasha we had undoubtedly saved his life. I couldn't help thinking that he ought to be grateful to us, but I didn't say that.
He seemed to find a little solace in our discomfiture.
“Ah, he's a clever boy, Michael,” sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. “He is always on the lookout for what he calls the mugs. I gather that you two gentlemen are mugs—the same, perhaps, as what are known in America as guys. But I, his hither, can assure you that he is not an Armenian; nor has he ever been nearer to Armenia than the Bankruptcy Court, but he's been there twice.
“He calls himself the cavalier of the streets, but when he is up to any of his tricks he disguises himself as an Armenian—the disguise consisting merely of his saying he is an Armenian. It's so simple, he says, for the mugs believe him at once, on the ground that no one would say he was an Armenian if he wasn't. I have only been back from America a week, and he must have been searching all London for me. He probably saw me at the theater this evening, and was going to raid my house alone when you two intelligent gentlemen got in his way. But he is not a bad boy really—he's got ideas, that's what it is, and also mugs have an irresistible fascination for him.
“Take your case, for instance. I have no doubt but that he will be ready to return me my coins in exchange for a check—though, of course, that depends on the check. And I can see, gentlemen, that you are eager to show your regret for breaking into my house and assaulting my person by offering to pay the check yourselves. I thank you; though, indeed, it is the least you can do, and an infinitely more convenient way of settling the matter than wearisome arguments in a police-court—provided, of course, that housebreaking and assault are matters for argument.”
1 giggled. I simply couldn't help it.
“That's all very well,” said Tarlyon, “but what about my car?”
“What is the matter with your car?” asked Mr. Wagstaffe gently.
“There's so damn little the matter with it,” snapped Tarlyon, “that it's probably half-way down the Dover road by now.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Wtaffe wearily, “I see. Cars have an irresistible fascination for Michael. I am sorry. Was it a good car?”
Tarlyon's answer left no room for doubt.
“Pity,” said Mr. Wagstaffe. “A great pity. He may, of course, return it. He may. Yon cannot, of course, compel him to, for it would be difficult for you, in your position, to put the police on him. But he may return it on his own. Michael is not a bad boy really. He will, I am sure, communicate with me as to what I will offer for the return of my coins. I will then give him the check which you have so kindly promised to post to me to-night, and perhaps he will soften also as regards your car and return it to you. Naturally, he will expect your check to approximate to the value of your car—say, half its value. Michael is something of an expert about the value of cars. That's why I said it was a pity, sir, a pity that your car was not a cheap car. But I am sure you will have no difficulty in finding a taxicab home. They are so abundant in Grosvenor Square that my sleep is often disturbed by them.”
The rest of the story is not at all interesting. George Tarlyon's car was finally returned, and George Tarlyon is sorry that Mr. Michael Wagstaffe's nose is already broken.
Another story by Michael Arlen, “The Lark Among Crows,” will appear in January Everybody's, out December 15th.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1956, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 68 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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