by John Blaine
“But is the overseas airmail so crowded you wouldn’t trust a parcel to the regular mail system?”
Scotty shook his head. “I doubt it. What are you getting at?”
But Rick had an even better argument to bolster the case he was developing. “Christmas
mail is to and from Christians, isn’t it? Sure!Egypt is a Moslem country. Moslems don’t send Christmas cards or presents, and they don’t get them, either. The Christians inEgypt are Coptic-anyway, they don’t celebrate Christmas the same way. So why would the airmail toEgypt be jammed?”
Hassan spoke up.“It not so heavy. My brother isletter carrier, and he no work very hard on Nasrani holiday.Nasrani is what we call Christian.”
“I think you’ve got something,” Scotty agreed. “Bartouki could have mailed the cat, but for some reason he wanted a messenger . . .”
“. . . and we walked right into it,” Rick finished. “Chances are that’s why he showed us the cat in the first place.”
“Barby had the bright idea,” Scotty reminded. “Bartouki wasn’t the one who suggested it.”
“He didn’t have to,” Rick pointed out. “If she hadn’t, I’ll bet he would have led around to it some other way.”
Scotty held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll buy it. Bartouki needed a messenger. Why?”
Rick sat down on the box again. Why, indeed? He knew now why he distrusted
Bartouki, but he had no idea of the merchant’s reasons. He glared at his pal.“Kill-joy. So we get back to the basic question. What does kitty have that people want?”
He took the statue from his pocket and examined it closely, as he had done several times before. The bright sunlight disclosed nothing but a perfect bit of casting. He took out the pocket lens he carried for examination of specimens that might be useful in his hobby of microscopy, but magnification showed him nothing. It was a flawless job.
“I’m stumped,” he admitted. “Come on. Let’s stretch our legs before we get called back in to go to work.”
Scotty and Hassan joined him as he walked toward the barracks where cement was being poured to form the floor. Scotty borrowed the cat for a quick look, then handed it back. Rick stowed it in his pocket.
“Whatever kitty’s got, it’s pretty interesting to some people,” Scotty commented.
“Otherwise, why go to all the trouble of trying to get it in the bazaar, then taking the risk of searching our room?”
Rick said what had been on his mind. “I have another happy thought for you. If they really want the cat, they’ll try again.”
“Whoever ‘they’ are,” Scotty agreed. “Let me add a cheery note of my own while we’re at it. They won’t have to get the best detectives in the world to figure out that you’ve got the creature, either. If it isn’t in the hotel room, it’s on you.”
Rick mulled that one over as they watched the workmen smoothing the poured concrete in the form. Would it be better if he disposed of the cat? But how could he? He couldn’t leave it at the project, even though it was locked at night. The lock wouldn’t stop professional thieves. He couldn’t give the cat to one of the scientists, because that would expose them to the thieves, too. He could have it put in the hotel vault, but what assurance had he that it would be safe there? It occurred to him that he would have entrusted his valuables to the hotel vault with no hesitation, but the cat was different, somehow. He just didn’t want it out of his hands until he knew more about it.
Hassan said idly, “Cement color like cat.”
Rick’s thoughts snapped back to the scene before him. The dragoman was right. The concrete mix had been colored to imitate sandstone, apparently a part of the plan to make the architecture as Egyptian as possible. There was enough of the mix in the form to make a thousand cats, and more was being mixed in a portable cement mixer.
The Great Idea took shape in his mind, and suddenly he laughed outright. “Kittens!” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’t that throw them for a loop? I mean, if several Egyptian cats showed up.”
Scotty laughed with him. “It definitely would. We’ll show ‘em that it doesn’t pay to confuse us. Only how do we do it?”
Rick pointed to the office building where the plasterers were still at work. “Make a plaster cast, then use the concrete mix for the models.How about it?”
“Could work,” Scotty said quickly. “Come on.”
They rummaged around through the construction debris and found a pair of small wooden boxes that had held instruments. With Hassan as interpreter, Rick talked to the construction foreman and a plasterer was detailed to help. If the form could be prepared right away, the low desert humidity would harden it enough to use by the time they were through work.
The wooden boxes were filled with soft plaster while Rick coated the Egyptian cat with
oil used to lubricate the antenna bearings. The cat was pushed into one box until only half of it showed. The plasterer smoothed the surface around the cat.
A sheet of scrap metal was used as a lid for the second box of plaster. Working quickly, the plasterer turned it upside down and held it in position while Scotty slipped the metal out of the way. The plasterer pushed it down on the cat, losing only a little plaster in the process. The little statue was now firmly embedded in plaster.
By the time the boys were summoned to the control room again, the plaster was firm enough so the plasterer could run a thin wire between the two boxes to start the process of separation. When the plaster was a little harder, he would use the wire and a long knife to separate the two halves completely.
The boys went to work, checking various elements under Winston’s direction. They kept at it until late afternoon. The sun was slanting down behind the pyramids when they were told to knock off for the day.
They hurried to the plaster mold at once. Hassan was already there, waiting, with the plasterer. The Sudanese guide pointed to a batch of concrete in a wooden tub. “We mix, more dry than for the floor, so easier to make cats. Now we start?”
“Any time,” Rick said. “Thanks, Hassan.” The resourceful dragoman had realized the concrete mix being used for the floor was too liquid for easy handling and had prepared a drier batch.
The plasterer went to work at once. He worked rapidly but skillfully, using the wire and knife to cut through the plaster until he reached the cat. Rick worried that he might cut or scratch the original, but the Egyptian was deft. In a few moments he lifted the upper box and the cat came to light, still gleaming from its coating of oil. Rick lifted it out of its plaster bed. The two boxes now contained perfect half impressions.
The boys, Hassan, and the workman shook hands all around. It was a job well done. The rest was easy. Rick oiled the form while the plasterer put the new concrete mix through a screen to remove lumps, then the two halves were filled slightly overfull and put together. Pressure was applied simply by standing on the upper box.
The workman lifted the upper box off with great care, disclosing a perfect half-cat in fresh concrete. The dry mixture kept its shape, but made great care necessary. The Egyptian workman held out both hands and Hassan turned the bottom box over.
Working gently, the plasterer released the casting from the mold. It dropped into his hands. The boys watched eagerly as he used his knife to trim the flashing from the cat replica, then he wet his fingers from a bucket and smoothed out a few rough spots. The
man grinned with pleasure, and the boys grinned back.
“Perfect,” Scotty said.
Rick added, “If I didn’t know its mother personally, I’d think this was it.”
The first kitten was put gently aside to dry while others were cast. The next two castings broke, but three perfect kittens resulted from six tries.
Rick was satisfied. “By tomorrow they’ll be hard,” he said with a grin. “Then we’ll work out a cat distribution program. I may go back to El Mouski and hand one to the phony AH Moustafa, just to see what happens.”
“Not while I’m healthy enough to stop you,” Scotty said positi
vely. Then he grinned, too. “But there’s nothing more fun than kittens, and we’ll have plenty of laughs with these. You wait and see!”
CHAPTER VII
TheEgyptianMuseum
Rick hung up the room phone and joined Scotty at the breakfast table. The ex-Marine was munching on a Lebanese tangerine and watching theNile boats below.
“Farid says to take the morning off,” Rick reported. “The scientists are about convinced that the signal isn’t internal receiver noise, but that leaves them up a tree. If part of the circuit isn’t causing the trouble, what is?”
Scotty waved his hand at the scene across theNile where a great concrete tower rose into the sky. “It’s this land. Look at it. There’s a tower for television. A couple of miles away are the pyramids. Down the street is a new office building with aluminum walls, andit’s right next to a stone mosque that’s nearly as old as the city. If you ask me,Horus orThoth or one of the old Egyptian gods is getting fed up and messing with the signal just for the fun of it.”
Rick knew exactly how Scotty felt. The remarkable blend of the very old and the ultramodern was visible everywhere inCairo . But somehow the two did not conflict, probably because the Egyptians had been wise in their choice of architecture.
“Maybe we’d better burn some incense and do a chant or two,” Rick suggested. “How’s
this? Oh,Osiris , son ofIsis , please get the bugs out of our antenna.”
“That’s no fit chant,” Scotty objected. “A chant should rhyme, shouldn’t it?”
Rick searched his memory for incantations to Egyptian gods, but there had been none in the books Bartouki had given them, although the gods had been described. He
improvised quickly. “Then how’s this?”
He took a pinch of sugar from the bowl and sprinkled it on Scotty’s head as an offering to the gods, then bowed like a high priest and chanted:
“ Anubis , Horus , Amon -RS, Are you near or far away? If you’re tuned In close at hand, Clean up the H-emission band.”
The piece of hard Egyptian bread thrown by Scotty caught him just behind the ear. Rick picked it up and threw it back, grinning.
“The things I have to put up with,” Scotty exclaimed hopelessly. “I’m sorry I brought the whole thing up.”
“It didn’t help,” Rick admitted. “But it gave me an idea. How about going to
theEgyptianMuseum this morning?”
“With Hassan?”
“It’s right across the park. Hassan can take the morning off and come back after lunch to drive us to the project.”
“I’m your boy,” Scotty agreed. “If you keep your chants to yourself, that is. Try one on those old statues at the museum and they’d fall on you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rick said loftily. “Maybe those old Egyptians had a better ear for poetry than you have.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Scotty returned. “If it sounds so terrible to me, think what it would sound like to a poetry lover. Go on and make your phone call.”
Rick did. He asked the desk to relay a message to Hassan,then asked about the weather.
The clerk spent a minute apologizing profusely. It was chilly, he admitted
reluctantly.Very unusual forEgypt.Hadn’t happened since 1898.Most regrettable. And so on.
“He sounded like a Sunshine Tourist Service trouble shooter explaining that the downpour was only a heavy mist,” Rick said as he hung up. “The weather is unusual, remarkable, etc. It’s chilly.”
Scotty finished his coffee. “Okay. Let’s go. Got the kitty?”
Rick took the Egyptian cat from its nest under his mattress and put it into the inner pocket of his coat. “Couldn’t leave our pal, could we? Bad man might get ‘im”
We can’t let that happen until we find out why the animal is so appealing,” Scotty agreed.
“Spoken like a trueSpindrifter . Do we walk, or take the elevator?Walking’s faster, but the elevator is more adventurous.”
“Walk,” Scotty said. “You need the exercise.”
Outside, the air was pleasantly crisp, but the sun was shining. Rick wondered if it ever rained inCairo and made a mental note to look it up. He had brought a guidebook with him, and the map showed them the location of the museum.
They started off at a brisk pace, past the Nile Hilton Hotel, then across the heavy traffic of the bridge circle to the open park before the museum. As Rick turned to look at a statue he caught a glimpse of a figure dodging behind some shrubbery. His pulse speeded.
“Could be that we have a buddy,” he announced. “I saw someone dodge behind a bush.”
Scotty took a quick look without seeming to.“Someone there all right.A pal of our little cat?”
“It’s certainly no chum of ours, if it’s anyone who’s interested in us. Let’s hike and see how it goes.”
They strolled idly past the museum, crossed the street, and walked upKasr El Nil past theModernArt Museum and the Automobile Club. Scotty took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket. They were of the silvered one-way mirror type that cuts down light transmission much as a neutral-density filter does for a camera.
Rick watched as he put them on, took them off again, and polished them with a handkerchief, turning them from side to side as he watched for spots.
“I knew those things looked like headlights,” Rick gibed. “I didn’t know they could also serve as rear-view mirrors.”
“I may write an article on this for the Journal of the Optical Society,” Scotty said.“Works fine. Our buddy is a Sudanese, from the looks of him. Also, he has a comrade.A big, sloppy type in a black coat and a tarboosh. I’d hate to tangle with either of them.”
Rick thought of Scotty’s comment that it wouldn’t take much of a detective to realize he had the cat on him.
Scotty added, “Some distance behind are two other types, intarbooshes . They’re striding along at the same pace we are, and keeping their distance. I’m flattered. Looks as if ‘they’ figured it would take four to handle us.”
“Maybe they sent one for us and three for the cat,” Rick said hopefully. “Cats are good scrappers.Any bright ideas,ol ’ chum?”
“Yep.Let’s go to the museum. They can’t touch us in a public place. Got the map?”
They consulted it, letting the trailers see what was going on. The street they were on formed one side of a triangle, with its apex at the square in front of the museum. The next left turn, and another left a block farther on, would bring them to the front of the museum throughGarniSharkas andShampelion streets.
Rick wondered if the latter was the Arab-English equivalent of the name of the man who had translated the hieroglyphics on the famous Rosetta stone and is considered the father of Egyptology. He knew from his study of cryptography that the first man to read the strange Egyptian written language was JeanFrangoisChampollion . Or maybe the map maker had made a mistake by misspelling the name. He looked for a street sign in English when they reached the street, but he saw none.
He had to grin to himself at the strange turns his mind sometimes took. He should be concentrating on a plan of escape, not wondering about a strange spelling of a Frenchman’s name. “See anything?” he asked Scotty.
“They’re still with us.All four.”
“Probably the second pair is in case the first pair loses us,” Rick guessed. “Let’s keep out of deserted alleys. They must be just waiting for an opportunity to grab us.”
“I hear you talking,” Scotty agreed. “And I believe everyBrantish word of it.”
They turned into the museum grounds, waving off guides who came running. Normally, they might have hired a museum guide, but they were suspicious now of all strangers.
Rick produced somepiastres and paid their entrance fee. He noticed a sign at the window that said all parcels must be checked. He was glad kitty was hidden in his pocket.
Inside, they paused at the sudden spectacle of great stone figures and huge stone sarcophagi. There was a great hall filled with giant
statuary straight ahead, and on each side, wide staircases led to the upper floor.
“Topside,” Scotty said. “Then we can look down and see if any familiar faces come through the door.”
They walked up the left-hand staircase, past rows of ancient wooden mummy cases, and came to the upper landing. A few minutes were spent inspecting the last resting place of a one-time Egyptian lord, with frequent glances toward the entrance.
“They don’t need to follow us in,” Rick pointed out finally. “Sooner or later we’ll have to go out, and they’ll be waiting.”
“Sure. But it’s wise to be careful. If one had followed us in here, we’d have been forced to keep an eye on him. Me, I want to see this museum.”
They wandered through the countless rooms of the upper floor, each filled with antique treasures that were impossible to identify. There were few cards of explanation. One room was crowded with alabaster carvings, any one of which would have rated a whole room to itself in a modern American museum. The great building was literally jammed with rare objects, many of them thousands of years old. Uniformed guards were posted at every corner, obviously to protect the myriad treasures.
“The police are keeping an eye on us,” Rick muttered.
“What else are they here for?” Scotty commented. “Don’t try to carry off one of those ten-ton statues and they won’t bother you.”
Rick paused before a collection of brightly painted miniature clay soldiers, created to serve as a phantom army for some forgotten nobleman. “This stuff is priceless. I’ll bet they really do need guards.”
As the boys walked into a small room containing shelves of assorted clay and stone
dishes and utensils, Scotty exclaimed, “Look, on the third shelf!”
Rick searched until he saw what Scotty’s quick eyes had spotted. It was partly hidden behind a clay jug. An Egyptian cat!
Closer inspection showed that it was not the mate to the one he carried. The museum cat was darker, obviously older. It was more stylized and slightly larger. There was no identifying card.
The Egyptian cat returned his gaze with dark stone eyes. “Wonder if they’d like to have you, too?” Rick said to himself. Four men wanted the one in his pocket. He wished it was as safe as the antique before him. Suddenly he let out a pleased chuckle. He had the solution.
