Thieves Fall Out (8 page)

She shook her head. “I am not even a singer now. But they pay me money for some reason. They seem to think the noise I make is worth money, and I take it, of course, I am very poor.”

“No family?”

“There is never any family,” she said dryly.

“Meaning?”

“That I am displaced. I am the child of Nazis, both dead. No brothers living, no sisters ever born. That is my family history.” All this without bitterness.

“You’re very young,” said Pete.

“I am twenty-one, but I feel as if I have lived through the end of the world, through Armageddon, as we say.”

“How did you come here, to Egypt?”

“I went where I could. This was fairly easy. Once I got here, I found work in a night club, and now…”

“You are rich and famous.”

“And now I have enough to keep me…independent.” Pete understood only too well what she meant by this; he didn’t like to think of all the things this girl must have been forced to do to live. It was a cruel business.

“Do you intend to live here all your life? In this country?”

She shrugged. “I have no plans. I have no idea. At the moment I am too pleased to be living at all, and on vacation.”

“In the heat.”

“I like it.” And sitting there beneath the thick greenery, the light filtered green-yellow by leaves, he found that the heat was not unbearable. But then, at that moment, Pete would have found the equator wonderful.

“Will you show me the country around here?”

“If you like.” Her voice was impersonal; there was no suggestion of coquetry in her manner. She was direct and uncomplicated, or so she seemed.

“You’re here alone?”

“I like being alone.” Then, politely: “But I don’t mind your company.”

“I don’t mind yours, either.” They smiled at one another. Then Pete asked her if she would like to take a walk now and she said that she would, that she’d show him the temple close to the river, the one he had seen from the window of his bedroom.

As they walked along, chatting to one another, Pete wondered whether or not it was merely his own loneliness that made her seem somehow wonderful, different from any other woman he had known, more exciting in her youthful way than the older, more glittering Hélène. Then, too, he felt protective about this slim blonde girl, and hopeful, very hopeful. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes as they strolled along the palm-shaded road in front of the hotel, the Nile to their right, at the foot of a rocky bluff. She lacked self-consciousness, seemed never to be aware of herself, only of him, of what she was saying to him.

“You should see the tombs tomorrow,” she said. “Or soon, anyway, because each day the heat gets worse across the river. It is all desert where the kings are buried, no shade of any kind.”

“Will you come with me?”

“You’ll need a real guide.”

“I have one—old fellow named Osman. He’ll chaperon us.”

“Yes, I’ll go, if you want me to. Here is the temple.”

It was a cube-shaped building with squat columns of brown stone and no roof. Inside, between cracks in the stone-paved floor, flowers grew. There were no houses nearby; only a grove of acacia trees separated it from the road. There was a full sweeping view of the river and the mountains beyond that. The temple was deserted.

They walked in silence through the main part, looking at the carvings on the wall, the rows of hieroglyphs. Then, on the other side, through the portico, they found a courtyard with what looked like smaller chapels built around it, to one of which she led him, a shadowy little room with no windows, only a door.

“To think how old it is!”

“How old?” asked Pete, turning to look down at her, at the lovely face pale in the shadows, the eyes shining as she looked not at him but at the tall statue of some god with the head of a hawk.

“Nearly four thousand years, Peter,” she said softly. She had said his name at last. It was like magic, like an incantation. He slipped his arm around her and slowly, carefully pulled her to him. Their lips met; he breathed the warm scent of her young body, of her hair, which brushed his face as lightly as the wind. Then, as naturally, they were separate again.

There was a long silence at the feet of the hawk-headed god. At last Anna said, “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you wanted me to.”

“Is it so easy?” and she touched her lips with the back of her hand, as though to feel the impression of his mouth with her fingertips.

“I think so…unless I was wrong.”

“Do American men always kiss women when they meet them?”

“I don’t know what they do, only what I do.”

“Do you do it often? Like this?”

“Very often,” he said, telling the truth. “But never like this, Anna.”

“You don’t know me.” And she turned away from him and pretended to examine the carvings on the wall. A man wearing the double crown of Egypt was riding in a chariot, followed by a row of captives, grotesque little figures, all in chains.

“Does it make so much difference?” He studied her straight back. The long hair gleamed in the dim room.

“It would…if you knew.” Her voice was even.

“That you have had lovers?” He was moving boldly now, driven on not only by his desire, but by something else, by a power he had never suspected himself of possessing: a need not just for a woman, but for this woman.

“Worse.” The word was like a small explosion of bitterness.

“I don’t care.”

“But perhaps
I
do.” She turned and faced him, her dark blue eyes sad. “We won’t talk like this again, will we?” Then, before he could say anything, she pointed to the train of captives some long-dead artist had etched on the wall with a skillful hand. “Look at those poor creatures! Prisoners of war.”

“More like freaks,” said Pete, wondering if he should pursue her further or not. He decided to wait, for a time. “Like a sideshow back home. There’s even a hunchback, like—” For some reason he paused.

She looked up at him quickly, her eyes wide. “You know Le Mouche?” Her voice was tense.

“Yes, I know him.”

“It must be nearly noon,” she said, moving toward the door of the stone chamber. “We should get back to the hotel before the sun is too hot.”

And, try as he might, he could not regain that intimacy with her that had begun in the ruined temple.

At the hotel they parted in the lobby. When he suggested a later meeting, she was vague. Puzzled, angry at himself for having made a wrong move somewhere along the line, he went to his room.

* * *

The revolver was very large, of a foreign make with which he was not familiar. The way it was pointed at him, however, was unmistakable, and he put up his hands immediately.

“Don’t bother,” said the dark man. “This is not a criminal visit.” He was seated at the plain dressing table by the window. A Tauchnitz edition of an English novel lay open beside him on the table. He had obviously been reading it.

“I think this is
my
room,” said Pete, putting down his arms and walking over to the bed as casually as he could. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, with a hand made steady by an effort of will, lit a cigarette.

“I’m perfectly sure it is,” said the other agreeably. Despite his swarthy Arabic features, he spoke English with a clipped British accent.

“Make yourself at home,” said Pete.

“I’ve spent a pleasant morning reading while you were with Fräulein Mueller.”

“How did you know that?”

“How does one know anything? I have two eyes.”

“Isn’t that swell!” Pete mocked him, anger rising in spite of the ugly revolver. “I’ve got a pair, too. They were open on the train when I saw you in the dining car and they were open in Cairo when you danced with Hélène at that night club.”

The man nodded. “Very good. Very good indeed. You are not as stupid as you look.”

“If you’d like to put that gun down, Junior, I’ll show you who’s the stupid one.” Pete’s upper lip was growing dangerously tight. His muscles twitched. A store of rage had been accumulating in him ever since he’d come to Cairo. He was not afraid of the revolver; the other wouldn’t dare shoot him in his own room. He wasn’t afraid of the man’s body, either, tall and thickset as it was.

His antagonist only chuckled at his anger. “I have no intention of fighting with you on such a hot day. Where did you go with that girl?”

“None of your damned business.”

“I am from the police, Mr. Wells.”

“And I’m from Mars.”

“Here are my authorizations.” He tossed a passport-like document at Pete. In three languages it announced that the bearer was a police inspector named Mohammed Ali. There was even a photograph. Pete gave the papers back.

“I can put you in jail, Mr. Wells, whenever I choose.”

“I’m an American citizen.”

“It won’t make the slightest bit of difference. Your consulate would never hear another word about you. Our prisons are very uncomfortable, quite barbaric, if I say so myself. You would never be heard from again.”

“What do you want?”

Mohammed Ali put his revolver away and teetered his chair back. “At present, nothing, Mr. Wells—or very little. I would like to know what you and Fräulein Mueller talked about this morning, and where you went.”

“We went to the temple up the road. What we talked about couldn’t’ve interested you less.”

The policeman nodded sympathetically. “She is very attractive, of course. Many people have found her so. I am certain that if you liked, she would be only too happy to accommodate you as she has all the others.”

Pete got to his feet slowly, moved two paces forward, and then, with the quick left hook that made him the champion of his division, sent the other man reeling. Mohammed Ali fell to the floor with a crash. Pete stood over him, mechanically massaging the knuckles of his left hand.

“You hit very hard,” said the policeman, pulling himself to his feet, one hand held to his jaw. His eyes were suddenly swollen with pain and his face was dark red.

“If you make another crack about Anna I’ll do it again,” said Pete in a low voice, his body tingling with rage, with this sudden release.

“You don’t seem to realize, Mr. Wells, that I can kill you.”

“I’m waiting,” said Pete, and deliberately he turned his back on the other and retrieved his cigarette, which had fallen, lighted, to the floor; but there was no shot, no attack.

“You’re a brave man,” said Mohammed Ali, when Pete again faced him. “I should hate to see you killed, because there are so few in the world. I am sincere about that, believe me.”

“Thanks.”

The policeman straightened his collar. Pete saw, with satisfaction, a livid welt on the man’s cheek. “But I am not going to kill you yet, Mr. Wells, as much as I should like to. We will take care of that later on.”

“Any particular reason? Or do you just like the idea of shooting American tourists?”

Mohammed Ali sat down again on the chair at the table. “Ah, Mr. Wells, if one were to shoot all the American tourists one would like to shoot, the Nile would be red with blood. No, my reasons for shortening your life have to do with your real mission in these parts. You are not here to look at the temples.”

“Tell me more.” Pete was beginning to relax. He was sure that sooner or later he would have to pay for his flare-up, but meanwhile he felt wonderful, like a man again. For a few minutes, at least, he enjoyed the sensation of being in charge of his own destiny.

“I must tell you right off that I am on the best of terms with the lady who sent you here.”

“Sent me?”

The policeman sighed. “I am doing you the courtesy of being fairly honest with you; at least don’t try to deny facts that are known to me. I know that she sent you here. I know why you are here and what you must do.”

“What is that?” Pete was curious to know.

“There is no point in discussing it. I take the view that the Countess’s dealings are outside my province, at least in these matters. She and I long ago reached an understanding. I will not interfere. But others may.”

“That’s real interesting,” said Pete, undoing his shirt; he had begun to sweat and the cloth was sticking to his back. He peeled the shirt off and tossed it on the bed, aware that the other was sizing him up like a boxer, gauging power, looking for a soft spot. “Excuse me,” he said mockingly. He swung his feet up on the bed and stretched out, still keeping his body poised for action, prepared to spring like a wire coil at any unexpected move on the other’s part.

But Mohammed Ali was not contemplating violence, for the moment. “Hélène chose well,” he said.

“Those are kind words.”

The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “You are strong and you are certainly courageous, but you are a fool, Mr. Wells. You are deliberately antagonizing an official of the police in a country where the police have wide, extremely wide powers.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Pete. “But I figure that you’re playing a game yourself. You’re fairly anxious to use me—for a while, at least. When I get the picture, I’ll act differently.” He said this coolly, realizing all too well the phoniness of his bluff. But it worked.

“Very realistic, very realistic, Mr. Wells.” The policeman nodded approvingly. “It will be an honor to know you. Then let me put the case to you directly. I should like to know when you are planning to go back to Cairo. I will know, in any case, but I should be happier if I could have your co-operation. Second, I strongly advise you not to become involved with Fräulein Mueller.”

“Any particular reason?”

“She is involved with someone else. I can’t tell you more. If you are not careful, you will offend that someone, and then Allah help you.”

“Did he send you to me?” asked Pete innocently, knowing perfectly well who “he” was, but pretending ignorance.

“Certainly not. I pass this information on to you only in the spirit of friendship.”

To which Pete said, “Ah.”

“I may say that I do more than pass the word along. I must warn you not to see her. If you disregard my warning, then I will be forced to deal severely with you, and I should hate to do that.”

“I’m going to do as I please,” said Pete pleasantly. “If you interfere in what is none of the police’s business, I’ll get in touch with a good friend of mine at the American Consulate and he’ll make trouble for
you.”