And now, Brian’s curiosity had to be satisfied. Taking out a cigarette, he sparked his lighter and turned aside as if to guard the flame from a trifling breeze, but really so that he could glance over his shoulder.
His curiosity was satisfied.
The Honourable Peter Wellingham sat in the shade of a fine old oak tree talking animatedly to a girl whose face was shadowed by a large wide-brimmed hat but who almost certainly was Lola!
Brian turned his head quickly. He had a sudden sensation almost of nausea. Desperately he clung to the fact that he couldn’t be sure the girl was Lola; but . . . Although Wellingham had called him on several occasions this was the first time he had seen him since that fateful morning when the agreement had been signed. And Wellingham had told him only a few hours ago that he was leaving for Paris almost immediately!
His world was turning topsy-turvy. Wellingham had lied to him—unless he had missed his plane—and, unless he had made a stupid mistake, Lola was not in Nottingham!
Brian put his pen back in his pocket, stared at the long, unfinished letter. First, he must regain control of himself, then make sure that he hadn’t been mistaken about the identity of the girl with Wellingham. He must be cautious. If he had been lured into some kind of trap, if Wellingham and Lola (his heart seemed to miss a beat or two), were in league, what was their purpose?
He became calmer; listened again. He could no longer hear Wellingham’s voice. He turned cautiously and looked back.
They were walking away!
Brian jumped up and followed. Already they had a long start and were headed for the highway parallel to Rotten Row where cars could be parked. He began to run.
The graceful carriage of the girl, her figure, even the dress she wore, told him that she was Lola. The big flop hat he had never seen. But it might be worn to shade her face if they chanced to meet him.
He was still yards behind when Wellingham opened the door of a smart convertible for the girl, walked around and got into the driving seat.
The car glided off… .
Brian called Peter Wellingham’s number, but was told by a soothing female voice which he seemed to recognize as that of the Eurasian secretary, that Mr. Wellingham was not at home. He gave his name and asked where Mr. Wellingham had gone. She was so sorry, but she didn’t
know. Was there any message?
His next impulse was to call Michel’s. But Lola had been so insistent on this point all along that he hesitated. After all, even now he wasn’t sure that the girl with Wellingham had been Lola. And Lola had told him that “Madame” simply wouldn’t tolerate personal calls to members of her staff.
All his old distrust of Wellingham had swept over him again like an avalanche. Of Lola he hardly dared to think, except that he flogged his memory of the girl in the Park in search of something different about her to prove that she was not Lola.
In any case, he was committed to go to Egypt. He couldn’t allow his personal doubts and frustrations to make him break faith with Sir Denis… .
An Oxford friend invited Brian to dine with him, which revived his drooping spirits. He managed that evening to forget his problems for an hour of two, had a few drinks and felt better. He returned fairly early, remembering his four o’clock appointment and tried to hypnotize himself to sleep by conjuring up mental pictures of Cairo. But, somehow, Lola always got into the pictures. …
Chapter 3
Cairo, from the air, whilst not so breath-taking as Damascus seen from above, proved exciting enough all the same to Brian. His urge to visit the Near East had been gratified. But every human blessing has a string to it.
The string in this case was one he had knotted himself—Lola.
He had left a letter at the reception desk for her, but not the letter he had been writing in the Park. The second one had been even harder to write than the first; for although he had no positive proof that it was she he had seen with Wellingham, he remained obstinately convinced that it had been no one else.
The terms of The Times advertisement, the fact that Lola had drawn his attention to it, her words—”It read like a job created purposely for you”—added up to a dark, a horrible suspicion. Had it been created purposely for him? Was it a new variety of the old confidence trick? Until he actually met Nayland Smith he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t.
But its purpose? The money in his wallet was real enough. His fare had been paid to Cairo. Why? Could it be a case of abduction—a plot to bring about his disappearance? His father was a wealthy man… But the idea was too preposterous. He had to laugh it off.
In fact, he was really trying all the time to convince himself that there was nothing wrong in the business. If Lola was really Peter Wellingham’s girl friend and had merely been fooling with him, well—she wasn’t the only pretty girl who enjoyed the attentions of more than one man.
He would get over it. Anyway, he must wait and see… .
Accommodation had been reserved for him, and an Egyptian wearing hotel uniform was standing by when the plane taxied to a stop on the runway. This experienced courier brushed him through the Customs as if by magic, and in no time Brian found himself speeding along a lebbekh-lined avenue into the ancient city. The colourful crowds, the palm trees, the unfamiliar buildings, and the queer smell which peculiarly belongs to Cairo all came up to expectations.
His apartment had a balcony overlooking a busy street and the Esbekiyeh Gardens. The ruins of Shepheard’s Hotel, near by, which the driver pointed out, struck a warning note, recalling his father’s advice, but it wasn’t sufficient to depress him. Whilst he was having a shower and brush-up, a boy brought him a message. It was neatly typed on paper headed with an address in Sharia Abdin and a phone number. It said: Dear Mr. Merrick: I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you in the morning. Probably you are tired after your long journey; but if you want to do any sightseeing, please don’t go out without a reliable dragoman. Sir Denis is expected to arrive at any moment.
Yours obediently, A.J. Ahmad.
This suited Brian well enough. He was certainly tired, and beyond perhaps a stroll in the surrounding streets he had no wish to go sightseeing. He planned to hit the hay soon after dinner; which programme he carried out and turned in by ten o’clock. …
He was at breakfast when Mr. Ahmad arrived.
Mr. Ahmad, correctly dressed in European clothes, proved to be a good-looking Egyptian with a marked resemblance to Egypt’s Prime Minister. He spoke perfect English, but his phrasing was French.
“The cause of Sir Denis’s delay,” he told Brian, “is unknown. But his movements are always unpredictable. We expect him hourly. He appears like the djinn. There is a draught of air. A door opens. And Sir Denis Nayland Smith is with us!”
“That’s good fun for the staff!” Brian grinned. “I suppose the moment he appears I’m expected to report?”
Mr. Ahmad shrugged slightly. “Of course as soon as possible.”
“Of course. I mean he wouldn’t want me to hang around the hotel?”
“Most certainly not. You know him. Judge for yourself.
Provided you don’t leave Cairo, so that I can find you at short notice—it is sufficient. But, a word of warning. If you are disposed to wander in the older parts of the city——”
“Take a dragoman? Now listen, Mr Ahmad: Is that an order from Sir Denis?”
“But certainly not! It is merely a suggestion.”
“Meaning I can do as I like? You see, I don’t favour the idea of being taken in tow by a guide. I like to find my own way, go where I please and stay as long as I want to.”
Mr Ahmad smiled a dazzling smile.
“The true sentiments of your freedom-loving country! Please yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“But take care. European and American travellers are not too popular in certain districts. If any trouble should start, take cover… .”
When, later, Brian set out, brushing off the beggars, the guides, and the vendor
s of scarabs and amulets, and trying to brush off the flies, he looked up to a fleckless sky and found, paradoxically, that he was no longer unhappy.
He wondered if the atmosphere of Cairo had some magical soothing quality; for he seemed, now, to be prepared for whatever lay in store for him. He had suddenly become a fatalist. If he had been made the victim of some mysterious plot it didn’t matter. The plotters had gained nothing so far, and he was living in luxury. If Lola didn’t answer his letter, never mind. He had had a good time with her in London. He wondered if the mood would last, or if later there would be a sharp reaction.
Sauntering across the Esbekiyeh, he was deeply interested in all he saw, and went on into a street bisected by a maze of narrower streets, all teeming with noisy humanity. He was in the Muski, artery of many bazaars. Beggars, sellers of bead necklaces, scarabs and what-not buzzed around him like flies around a honey-pot. But he smilingly ignored them, which the head hall-porter had told him was the best method. From passers-by who wore European dress and therefore might speak English, he inquired the way to the Khan Khalil where (the same authority had informed him) swords, daggers, silk robes, amber mouthpieces and other colourful native products were on view.
And presently he found it. The hall-porter had advised him, if he wished to make any purchases, to consult a certain Achmed es-Salah whose shop anyone would point out. (“He sells very good cigarettes.”) It proved to resemble nothing so much as an artificial cave. The venerable Achmed sat in the entrance smoking, and at sight of a card which Brian had brought along, waved him to a chair and offered coffee and cigarettes.
Brian had a low opinion of the syrupy Arab coffee, but found the Egyptian cigarettes, with their unfamiliar aroma, a pleasant change from the American variety. He asked if he could buy some.
Achmed reached behind him, opened a drawer and produced a flat tin
box containing a hundred. Smilingly he began to explain that only from him could these cigarettes be obtained. But Achmed had lost his customer’s attention. Farther back in the shadows of the shop a female figure was vaguely visible to Brian—a girl who held a veil around the lower part of her face. She appeared to be watching him. He glanced away again. Dimly understanding what Achmed had been saying: “I’ll take the cigarettes,” he told him. “If I want more I’ll write and send dollars as you suggest.”
“I supply them to many American gentlemen,” Achmed declared, accepting the ten dollars which he claimed to be their price.
Brian concluded that many American gentlemen who visited Cairo must be wealthy gentlemen. Achmed, indicating those shops which were in sight, told him where amber goods, silk robes, authentic antique pieces, might be bought cheaply. Brian thanked him and stood up to go.
Glancing once more into the shadows, he saw that the girl’s remarkable eyes—they were amber eyes—seemed to be fixed upon him …
He looked in briefly to some of the shops Achmed had recommended, but bought nothing. Coming out of the last one (which stocked scimitars, Saracen daggers and other queer Oriental weapons) he found himself staring into a shady alley nearly opposite.
He had caught a glimpse of lustrous amber eyes!
The girl from Achmed’s had followed him! Why? Was she a Lady-of-the-Town, or had she some other purpose? Perhaps she was a member of Achmed’s household, instructed to find out if he did any business upon which Achmed could claim a commission.
He strode off at a pace which gave many of the leisurely natives a jolt and called down on him dreadful curses which, fortunately, he didn’t understand. He recovered his good humour in a street which seemed to lead to a city gate, turned right, into another, now hopelessly lost, and saw the minaret of a mosque right ahead. He glanced back quickly. There was no sign of the Arab girl.
But from behind came shouts and a sound of many running feet. This sound drew nearer. Brian wondered if he had started a riot. The word “Inglizi” sometimes rose above the roar of voices. He might be the person referred to!
He put on a spurt, passed the mosque, and looking back saw the head of what was evidently an excited mob pouring around the corner.
Just as he was clear of the mosque, out from its courtyard spurted a party of Egyptian police. He noticed an open doorway almost beside him, darted in and found it led to nowhere but a rickety staircase. Outside, came a clash. Wild shouting—fighting. Then a shot.
Brian started upstairs, as the tumult suggested that the police were being pushed back. On the first dark landing he nearly knocked over a
water jar which stood near the stairhead. But the house seemed to be inhabited only by a variety of stenches. He mounted higher. The battle, now, was raging immediately outside the door below. Went up another flight— and found himself on the flat roof!
He saw all sorts of pans, jars and indescribable litter lying about, but nobody was up there. Brian crouched and looked over the low parapet down into the street.
The rioters had been rounded up by the armed police. They were all young, wild-eyed, typical tinder for the rabble-rouser. They were falling back, three of them carrying a wounded comrade. Brian could see a second police party extended in line before the mosque. The rioters were trapped.
He sighed with relief. Slightly raising his head, he looked across the street to find out if he had been observed from there. He saw something which staggered him.
A heavy iron gate in a high wall which he remembered having noticed as he ran into the doorway below opened on the tree-shaded courtyard of a fine old Arab house. Mushrabiyeh windows overhung the courtyard on one side, but directly facing Brian were two large barred windows.
Evidently there must be another which he couldn’t see; for the room was well lighted.
And in this room, pacing restlessly about, he saw a tall, lean man who smoked a pipe, and who seemed to be talking angrily to someone else who wasn’t visible from Brian’s viewpoint.
For some time he lay there on the dirty roof, enthralled, unwilling to credit what he saw, but anxious to make sure that he wasn’t suffering from a strange delusion. The shouts below had merged into sullen murmurs as the young rowdies were taken in charge by the police and marched off.
Brian scarcely noticed them, now. He was watching— watching.
And at last he was sure.
The man in the barred room was Nayland Smithi *
Dr. Fu Manchu sat on a divan in the saloon of the old house near the Mosque of El-Ashraf. Beside him on an ivory and mother-o’-pearl coffee table a long-stemmed pipe with a tiny jade bowl lay beside the other equipment of an opium smoker. Before him a girl was kneeling on a rug, her long, lustrous amber eyes raised anxiously to the wonderful but evil face. She wore native dress, but no longer concealed her features with a veil.
“It was the disturbance made by the students from El-Azhar, Master. I
lost sight of him and could not get through.”
“I heard the young fools. Shouting phrases coined by aliens who are planning their destruction. Such half-moulded brains are fertile soil for the seeds of violence. All the same, you have failed me. The point at which he disappeared is one dangerously near us.”
“Master, I——”
“You shall have one more opportunity. Change into European dress.
Go to Brian Merrick’s hotel and make his acquaintance. He will be lonely.
Attach yourself to him …”
He said no more, but watched her go out, then stood up slowly and walked along the saloon to a door, opened it, and went into another lofty room furnished as a studio.
No one was at work there.
On a wooden pedestal was a life-sized head of a man modelled in clay —the most conspicuous object in the studio. A number of sketches and photographs of the same subject were pinned to the walls. It would appear that the sculptor had worked from these and not from the living model.
It was a fine, virile portrait of a masterful character; but Dr. Fu Manchu appeared to be particularly interested in the shape of the moulded nos
e. He surveyed it from every side, the all-seeing gaze of green eyes absorbed in the finer lines of the nostrils, the straight bridge. He compared the clay model with the photographs, and at last seemed to be satisfied.
He passed on. He went down a short stair and entered a fully-equipped surgery filled with a nauseating odour of anaesthetics.
A patient lay on an operating table, two surgeons bending over him.
They sprang upright as Fu Manchu appeared. He ignored them, stooped, studied the face of the man who lay there, and then turned blazing eyes upon the surgeons, one of whom was Matsukata.
“Who operated?” he demanded.
The taller surgeon turned a white, nervous face to Dr. Fu Manchu.
“I operated, Master.” He spoke in French and used the word mattre.
“I thought better of Paris surgery,” Fu Manchu told him, speaking the same language sibilantly, “There will be a scar!”
“I assure you——”
“There will be a scar were my words—and no time to rectify the error.
The consequences of this may be grave, for me—and also for you… .”
Chapter 4
The moment the narrow street was cleared of police and rioters, Brian crept downstairs, unobserved, looked cautiously left and right and then started out to try to retrace his route. At the courtyard gate of the old house in which he had seen Nayland Smith he hesitated for a moment, but then hurried on. He considered it a stroke of luck that the inhabitants of the ramshackle tenement in which he had sheltered were apparently otherwise engaged.
More by luck than good navigation he presently found himself once more in the street leading to the Khan Khalil. He looked around for a stray cab, for he was wildly impatient to solve the mystery of Sir Denis’s presence in Cairo, and in a house in the heart of the native quarter. What in the name of sanity did it mean?
He could not very well be wrong about the identity of the man in the room with barred windows. Nayland Smith’s personality was unmistakable, although Brian hadn’t seen him for two years. He had recognized some of his curious mannerisms: the way he held his briar pipe clenched between his teeth; a trick of twitching at the lobe of his ear as he talked.
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