by Sax Rohmer
Mr. Lyman Bostock, United States representative in Cairo, twirled a cigar between finger and thumb and stared reflectively across at Sir Nigel Richardson, his British colleague, who lay in a split-cane lounge chair with an iced drink beside him in the hollow of the chair arm provided for that purpose. Mr. Bostock’s study opened onto a balcony, and the balcony overhung a pleasant garden, shadowy on this moonless night.
“I’m only just finding it out,” Mr. Bostock remarked in his soothing drawl, “but you’re a queer bunch, you Englishmen.”
“I happen to be Scotch.”
“Maybe that’s worse. But I have to hand it to you, there’s not much about this country you don’t seem to know—including all the crooks in Cairo.”
“That’s base ingratitude, Bostock! I’ll let you in on a secret. Murdoch, whom you’ve met with me—he has confidential employment in our Embassy—was formerly an officer with the Egyptian police. That was m the days when we ran the show. And what Murdoch doesn’t know about the Cairo underworld could be put in a thimble. You asked me to find the right man. I found him.”
Mr. Bostock glanced at his watch, took a drink, and put his cigar back in his mouth.
“Agreed. I accept the responsibility.”
“You don’t have to. We’re in this thing together. If your FBI has unearthed a mare’s nest—and that’s my private opinion—there was no alternative so far as I can see. The course of action was left to you. What could you do? Neither you nor I could get a search warrant on a mere suspicion, particularly in the case of so highly respected a citizen as the Sherîf Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf.”
“That’s true. I could see no alternative to your suggestion, short of declining to act in the matter. But, with apologies to your British gift of understatement, it’s slightly illegal.”
“Illegal be damned! What do we stand to lose? Let’s examine the facts. Who knows you were asked to make this investigation?”
“Except yourself—”
“And Murdoch. I had to let him in.”
“Nobody but myself and Arkwright, who decoded the message.”
“Good. Let’s look at possible consequences. Suppose Ali gets pinched. It’s unlikely, but he might be. He has a record, not only as a cat burglar, but also for jail-breaking. He’s escaped twice, and they’re still looking for him. To lock up Ali Yahya is about as useful as to try to hold an eel by the tail. He can climb up or down almost anything, slip in and out of incredibly narrow openings. He’s a living legend among the natives, who claim he can make himself invisible. They call him Ali al-Sehlîya—Ali the Lizard.”
“I trust he lives up to it,” Bostock drawled. “But, all the same, suppose he gets… ‘pinched,’ I think you said?”
“Pinched was the word. You don’t seriously suggest he would tell the police that he was acting under instructions from the United States Embassy?”
Mr. Bostock stood up and refilled their two glasses. Sir Nigel watched him, grinning mischievously, until he sat down again.
“No,” Bostock admitted. “He’d probably choose to escape a third time and collect the price of his crime that you and I promised to pay.”
“That’s the answer.” Sir Nigel took a long drink. “Nobody knows we have seen him except Murdoch. And Murdoch provided him with a complete plan of the house of the Sherîf Mohammed.”
“Useful man, Murdoch,” Mr. Bostock murmured, looking again at his watch. “Also Scotch, no doubt?”
“Also Scotch.” Then Sir Nigel too consulted his wrist watch. “Ali is about due back.”
“He’s overdue.”
Sir Nigel shook his head, smiling. ‘Think of how far he has to come.”
“Isn’t Murdoch giving him a lift?”
Sir Nigel raised his black brows. “Really, my dear fellow. Do you want Murdoch pinched as well?”
“Meaning that Ali will have to walk here from the Mûski?”
“Ali’s methods of transport are his own secret.”
They fell into silence, each thinking his own thoughts. A faint breeze arose, rustling the palm fronds outside and making a noise like the crackling of stiff paper. A faint perfume from some night-scented flower in the garden was wafted into the study. A large bat flew past the window.
So they sat when, unheralded by any sound, a small dark figure materialized on the balcony, glided into the room, and performed a humble salaam.
Mr. Bostock nearly dropped a cone of cigar ash on the carpet. Sir Nigel, though equally startled, hailed the apparition in Arabic.
“Good evening, Ali Yahya.”
“Good evening, Richardson Pasha.”
“What have you to report, Ali?”
“It is true, what I was told. Someone is there.”
Mr. Bostock sprang up. “You say someone is there?”
In his excitement he used English instead of Arabic, a language that he understood better than he spoke. Ali Yahya stared blankly. He had discarded his cloak, and he presented a queer figure in that sedately appointed room in his black loincloth and turban. Mr. Bostock corrected himself hastily, and Ali said again:
“Someone is there, effendi.”
Bostock glanced at Sir Nigel. “We must get the exact facts, Richardson. You ask the questions. You’re more fluent than I. Let him sit down. The man must be tired.”
Ali accepted the invitation and dropped down, cross-legged, on the carpet. Then, speaking impassively in simple words, he described what he had found in the Sherîf’s cellar.
“You didn’t see the face of this man?” Sir Nigel asked.
“No. He slept, it seems, like a desert fox, with one eye open. I obeyed my orders and came away quickly.”
“That was wise, Ali. You did well. You relocked all doors?”
“And replaced the keys where I found them.”
“No one saw you leave?”
“No one ever sees me, Richardson Pasha, when I do not wish to be seen.”
From the drawer of a coffee table Sir Nigel took out a wad of notes fastened with an elastic band and tossed it across to Ali, who caught it deftly.
Ali Yahya salaamed so deeply that his forehead touched the carpet. “O Well of Justice!”
He tried to thrust the bundle of money into his loincloth, but had some difficulty in doing so. The “well of justice” was watching him.
“There must be many treasures in the house of the Sherîf Mohammed, Ali?”
“It is true. The Seyyîd Mohammed is very wealthy, Richardson Pasha.”
“So I believe. Tell me, Ali, what is that you have concealed?” Ali Yahya produced the little flashlight. “No, no! Something more bulky.”
Ali hesitated for one tremendous moment, his bright eyes flashing sideways to the balcony, then back again to meet the inflexible stare of Sir Nigel.
“I feared you might misjudge my motive, Richardson Pasha. For this reason I said nothing. But it seemed to me, O Wise One, that in case a window that I was unable to close properly might arouse suspicion, it would be prudent to leave evidence to show that a common sneak-thief had entered the house.”
“I see. Show us the evidence.”
With great reluctance Ali the Lizard drew put from his loincloth an object wrapped in a piece of faded silk. He opened the wrapping and held up a small incense burner, most delicately chiseled in pure gold, a museum piece for which collectors would pay a fabulous price.
“Good heavens, Richardson!” Mr. Bostock gasped. “We can’t stand for this. He must hand it over.”
Ali Yahya was rewrapping the treasure. Sir Nigel tried to hide a grin.
“Do you prefer it to be found in Ali’s possession, or in the United States Embassy?”
Mr. Bostock dropped back in his chair with a groan. Ali, obeying a silent signal from Sir Nigel, faced away, disappearing silently over the wall of the balcony. A whispered farewell came out of the darkness:
“May your night be a glad one, O Fountain of Wisdom.”
“We know what we wanted to know,” Mr. Bostock adm
itted. “But what a price to pay!”
“Forget that, Bostock. Our problem is: what are we going to do now?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Well, my boy!” Senator Merrick held Brian at arms’ length, sizing him up with shrewd hazel eyes. “You’re looking fine. If I can believe official dispatches from Cairo and the word of Sir Denis, you’ve helped to pull off something that may well prove to be a turning point in military history.”
Brian felt his cheeks flush. “I had next to nothing to do with it, Dad. All the credit belongs to Sir Denis.”
“So you say, Junior. And I like you none the less for it. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a brilliant man, and he wouldn’t have wanted you if he hadn’t had use for you. Dr. Hessian arrives at the psychological moment. If he can prove what he claims, it may be a means of stopping the President from plunging us into war.”
“Just what does that mean, Dad?”
“Well, it’s top secret, but there’s a request to Congress for a declaration of a state of war already drawn up, which only requires his signature. His military advisers favor it. I don’t, and I’m not alone in my opposition. This country, Brian, is dangerously open to air attack with modern missiles. We should step warily.”
Nayland Smith was talking to General Rawlins and another Air Force official, and at this moment he brought them across. Brian had already met both that morning.
I’m getting into hot water,” Sir Denis declared. “These fighting men tell me they expect orders by this week end that seem to me to mean a shooting war.”
“And to me,” Senator Merrick agreed. “But nothing’s signed yet.”
“It will be signed not later than three days from now.” General Rawlins spoke with calm confidence. “For my part, I doubt the claims of this German scientist, in spite of all we’ve heard—and that’s not much. In the first place, I don’t expect open hostilities to start. In the second place, if they do, the Air Force hasn’t been asleep.”
“The trouble about democracy,” Senator Merrick growled, “is that it speaks with too many voices all at the same time.”
“It’s no good flying off the handle, General,” Nayland Smith snapped, “because Dr. Hessian refuses to see you until his plans are complete. I warned you of this before you left Washington, so don’t blame me. He’s a genius, and he’s been through hell. He doesn’t give a damn for you or anybody else. He cursed me in German when I told him you were coming. Luckily, I don’t know much German.”
“But when,” General Rawlins demanded, “will these plans of his be complete?”
“So far as I can make out, within the next two days.”
“When he’ll graciously consent to see us?”
“His proposal is this: as soon as he’s ready to give a demonstration, he will receive a committee of responsible officers, scientists, and policymakers, to be selected by Senator Merrick, acting for the President. To me this seems fair and reasonable.”
“And the President will agree with you,” Senator Merrick declared. “World tension is reaching a peak, and I can assure you of the President’s keen concern. Well. Have I your permission, Sir Denis, to take my son to lunch?”
* * *
Out of darkness complete except for one point of green light that might have been the eye of some nocturnal animal, Fu Manchu’s voice spoke:
“It is certain that Brian Merrick, Junior, is ignorant of my purpose?”
A dull, mechanical voice replied: “There is no evidence to the contrary.”
“You have not answered my question.”
“His behavior gives cause for confidence, Excellency.”
“Explain your meaning.”
“He lunched at Senator Merrick’s club.”
“He was closely covered?”
“It was difficult. But an agent of the Order waited upon their table. He was, of course, very attentive.”
“Their conversation?”
“Chiefly concerned Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
“It was satisfactory?”
“Entirely.”
“And after lunch?”
“Brian Merrick, Junior, saw his father off. The Senator was joined by the two Air Force officers who had lunched with Sir Denis at the Babylon-Lido.”
“Retain all contacts. Report hourly.”
The Si-Fan was watching…
* * *
When Brian returned to the suite in the Babylon-Lido, he was in a queer frame of mind. Sir Denis sat writing. Looking up, he nodded.
“Good lunch, Merrick? Don’t think too well of the catering at these university clubs, myself.”
“The lunch was all right. But I didn’t like the waiter.”
Nayland Smith laid his pen down. “Why not? Did he upset your soup?”
Brian grinned, but not happily. “No. He listened to everything I said to my father.”
“Well!” Sir Denis stood up quickly. “So the Reds have agents in the best clubs! I warned you, Merrick. What were you talking about?”
“Well, I tried to keep my father off the topic of Dr. Hessian’s invention. But of course he never suspected that a club servant might be a spy.”’
“No. I see the difficulty. You’re pretty sure the man was listening?”
“Dead sure.”
Nayland Smith began to walk about in his restless way. “The climax is so near. And we have two enemies, not one—the Reds and the Si-Fan. It’s a formidable combination, Merrick. I’m backed by two governments, but I doubt if my double backing’s as good as Dr. Fu Manchu’s. We’ve worked like beavers to keep Hessian’s presence here a secret. We have failed.”
Brian thought for a minute. “It seems to me that it wasn’t to be expected we could do that, Sir Denis. As I see it, all we have to do is make sure he’s safe. And on that point I have something to say.”
Nayland Smith darted one of his swift glances at Brian.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Sometimes when I’ve been alone here, I’ve heard someone being admitted through the penthouse door. And I hear all sorts of footsteps overhead. If this suite is supposed to be a sort of guardroom, and we’re responsible for Dr. Hessian’s safety, shouldn’t we be advised of who is being allowed to go up?”
Nayland Smith knocked out his pipe, then produced the old pouch. He began to stuff tobacco into the cracked brier bowl.
“A good point,” he said. “We are responsible. But the FBI operative attached to Hessian has authority to admit visitors whose identity we don’t know. I’m not disputing his integrity. Fact remains, responsibility is ours. I’ll see to this, Merrick. You’re right.” Sir Denis lighted his pipe and walked out.
But when he had gone, Brian remained uncomfortably ill at ease. Up to the time of their arrival at the Babylon-Lido, Nayland Smith had seemed to be firmly in charge of operations. Now something was lacking.
Had his phenomenal success in smuggling the German scientist through the Iron Curtain, in getting him from Cairo to New York, induced Sir Denis to relax too soon? It didn’t seem to fit in with the man’s dynamic character. Surely, now was the crucial hour—in fact, he had said so. What was wrong?
In his very bones, Brian had a foreboding that something was pending that he didn’t understand. He was conscious of a longing to talk it all over with some reliable and sympathetic friend, someone he could trust.
Lola was both reliable and sympathetic… but he was bound to secrecy.
Brian walked about for some time in an unhappy frame of mind; he smoked countless cigarettes. Once, hearing faint footsteps that seemed to pause at the far end of the corridor, he crossed the foyer and quietly opened the door.
He was just in time to see the door to the penthouse stairs closing.
“Damn!” he muttered. He had caught not even a glimpse of the person who had gone in.
Listening intently, he detected the unmistakable click of a key being turned in a lock.
This irritated him unreasonably. His job, so far as he could see
, remained that of an attendant, a sort of paid companion for Nayland Smith. Plots and counterplots involving the security of the United States seethed around, him, but he had no part to play. Never once had he entered the penthouse since Dr. Hessian had taken up residence there, nor had he set eyes upon him from the time of their arrival to the present moment.
The phone on the big desk rang.
“Hullo!” he called.
“Oh, Brian, I’m so glad I caught you!” It was Lola “When do you expect to be free? I can be in the Paris Bar around cocktail time. Any hope?”
“Where are you now, Lola?”
“At Michel’s. But for mercy’s sake, don’t call me back here. I’ll wait downstairs until seven, Brian. Do try.”
And she hung up.
Brian glanced at his watch. Five o’clock. Then he stood quite still, listening. French windows that opened on a balcony were partly open, and he could hear, voices from above. Someone was talking on the terrace of the penthouse.
He opened the windows fully and stepped out.
A strange voice, alternately guttural and sibilant, spoke slowly, with impressive pauses. Something in the voices touched a chord of memory, but so faintly that no idea of the speaker’s identity was conjured up. It bore a vague resemblance to the rarely heard speech of Dr. Hessian, but the language was neither German nor English. It was a language that Brian knew he had never heard before.
There were occasional replies, monosyllables in the same tongue.
Once, Brian was almost sure, the name Nayland Smith was introduced into the otherwise unintelligible jargon. But he knew he might be mistaken, for if it had in fact been that name, it was so mispronounced as to be barely recognizable.
The conversation ended abruptly. He heard a shuffle of footsteps, and knew that the speakers had gone in.
“You made it, Brian!” Lola stood up to greet him as he hurried into the Paris Bar. “I nearly gave up hope. I’m on my second drink. Did the Big Chief have a heart, after all?”
Brian dropped into a chair facing her. He longed to have her in his arms, but this was not the time. And he felt oddly dispirited.
