Re-enter Fu-Manchu (13 page)

Motionless, he lay where he had dropped. There was no sound. From his loincloth he pulled out a small flashlight. He lighted it for a moment. He was looking for the door. He found it.

In a matter of seconds he was out on a tiled corridor. Again he stood still, listening. He moved to the left, attracted by a sound of snoring. He peered into an anteroom richly furnished. It had a large window and the starlight was strong enough to enable this strangely endowed visitor to see all he wanted to see.

A fat man lay asleep on a cushioned divan—the man who had first come to the gate when Brian called to demand an interview with the Sherîf Mohammed.

The keen eyes of the little dark man detected a doorway on the right of the anteroom. He crossed to it, went through, and found a descending stair. It led to another corridor.

After cautiously opening several doors, he found what he was looking for: another stairway. He went down at extraordinary speed for one running in the dark, and found himself in the paved entrance hall of the house.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, he could evidently see as clearly as a cat. And he seemed to know just what he was looking for.

With complete assurance, and making no sound, he moved around the walls, and presently, near the door that opened on the courtyard, he found what he sought. At the back of a small room intended for a porter’s lodge there was a strong teak door, iron-studded, the wood bleached with age. A bunch of old-fashioned Arab keys hung on a hook beside it. The largest of these fitted the ancient lock.

A stone stair led the midnight intruder to the cellars. Here he used his flashlight, without hesitation. He found stores of various kinds, including casks of wine that no true believer would expect to find in the cellars of a descendant of the Prophet.

Pressing on farther, he came to a smaller cellar, long and narrow. There was nothing in it, but on one side were two more of the heavy iron-studded teak doors. They differed from that at the top of the stair in one respect: Each had an iron grille in it. He had thrust, the bunch of keys inside, his accommodating loincloth; he was about to pull them out when he stopped dead, as if stricken motionless—a trick of many wild animals when surprised.

Quite still he stood, and listened.

The sound was very faint, but this man’s senses were supernormal. Someone was sleeping behind one of the doors.

He remained still for nearly a minute, debating what he should do. Then he crossed to the grille from behind which the sound came, peered in, could see nothing, and so shone a momentary ray from his flashlight into the blackness.

An instant challenge came. “Who’s there?”

The little man switched the light off and glided from the cellar, silent as a phantom. He fled up to the porter’s lodge, relocked the door as he had found it, making more noise than he cared to, and went out into the entrance hall.

Here be stood still again to listen. There was no sound.

In niches of the mosaic-covered wall were many rare porcelain pots and other beautiful objects. On some of those the little man shone brief, flashes from his light.

He began to examine the several windows facing onto the courtyard, selected one of them, opened it slightly, and slipped through like a lizard. Once outside, he succeeded in partly closing it again.

He was over the gate and across the street to the doorway where he had left his cloak with a silent agility more like that of a nocturnal animal than of any human being.

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
over
due.”

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 admitted. “But what a price to pay!”

“Forget that, Bostock. Our problem is: what are we going to do now?”

“
W
ell, 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.”