World War II Thriller Collection (25 page)

“Sit down.”

“Thank you.” She sat.

“Who is ‘he'?”

“Alex Wolff, the man you
tried
to beat up tonight.”

“And who is Alex Wolff?”

“A wealthy patron of the Cha-Cha Club.”

“How long have you known him?”

She looked at her watch. “Five hours.”

“What is your relationship with him?”

She shrugged. “He was a date.”

“How did you meet?”

“The usual way. After my act, a waiter brought a message inviting me to sit at Mr. Wolff's table.”

“Which one?”

“Which table?”

“Which waiter.”

“I don't remember.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Wolff gave me a glass of champagne and asked me to have dinner with him. I accepted, we went to the restaurant, and you know the rest.”

“Do you usually sit with members of the audience after your act?”

“Yes, it's a custom.”

“Do you usually go to dinner with them?”

“Occasionally.”

“Why did you accept this time?”

“Mr. Wolff seemed like an unusual sort of man.” She looked at Vandam's bandage again, and grinned. “He was an unusual sort of man.”

“What is your full name?”

“Sonja el-Aram.”

“Address?”

“
Jihan
, Zamalek. It's a houseboat.”

“Age?”

“How discourteous.”

“Age?”

“I refuse to answer.”

“You're on dangerous ground—”

“No,
you
are on dangerous ground.” Suddenly she startled Vandam by letting her feelings show, and he realized that all this time she had been suppressing a fury. She wagged a finger in his face. “At least ten people saw your uniformed bullies arrest me in the restaurant. By midday tomorrow half of Cairo will know that the British have put Sonja in jail. If I don't appear at the Cha-Cha tomorrow night there will be a riot. My people will burn the city. You'll have to bring troops back from the desert to deal with it. And if I leave here with a single bruise or scratch, I'll show it to the world onstage tomorrow night, and the result will be the same. No, mister, it isn't me who's on dangerous ground.”

Vandam looked at her blankly throughout the tirade, then spoke as if she had said nothing extraordinary. He had to ignore what she said, because she was right, and he could not deny it. “Let's go over this again,” he said mildly. “You say you met Wolff at the Cha-Cha—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I won't go over it again. I'll cooperate with you, and I'll answer questions, but I will not be interrogated.” She stood up, turned her chair around, and sat down with her back to Vandam.

Vandam stared at the back of her head for a moment. She had well and truly outmaneuvered him. He was angry with himself for letting it happen, but his anger was mixed with a sneaking admiration for her for the way she had done it. Abruptly, he got up and left the room. Jakes followed.

Out in the corridor Jakes said: “What do you think?”

“We'll have to let her go.”

Jakes went to give instructions. While he waited, Vandam thought about Sonja. He wondered from what source she had been drawing the strength to defy him. Whether her story was true or false, she should have been frightened, confused, intimidated and ultimately compliant. It was true that her fame gave her some protection; but, in threatening him with her fame, she ought to have been blustering, unsure and a little desperate, for an isolation cell normally frightened anyone—especially celebrities, because the sudden excommunication from the familiar glittering world made them wonder even more than usually whether that familiar glittering world could possibly be real.

What gave her strength? He ran over the conversation in his mind. The question she had balked at had been the one about her age. Clearly her talent had enabled her to keep going past the age at which run-of-the-mill dancers retired, so perhaps she was living in fear of the passing years. No clues there. Otherwise she had been calm, expressionless and blank, except when she had smiled at his wound. Then, at the end she had allowed herself to explode, but even then she had used her fury, she had not been controlled by it. He called to mind her face as she had raged at him. What had he seen there? Not just anger. Not fear.

Then he had it. It had been hatred.

She hated him. But he was nothing to her, nothing but a British officer. Therefore she hated the British. And her hatred had given her strength.

Suddenly Vandam was tired. He sat down heavily on a bench in the corridor. From where was he to draw strength? It was easy to be strong if you were insane, and in Sonja's hatred there had been a hint of something a little crazy. He had no such refuge. Calmly, rationally, he considered what was at stake. He imagined the Nazis marching into Cairo; the Gestapo in the streets; the Egyptian Jews herded into concentration camps; the Fascist propaganda on the wireless . . .

People like Sonja looked at Egypt under British rule and felt that the Nazis had already arrived. It was not true, but if one tried for a moment to see the British through Sonja's eyes it had a certain plausibility: the Nazis said that Jews were subhuman, and the British said that blacks were like children; there was no freedom of the press in Germany, but there was none in Egypt either; and the British, like the Germans, had their political police. Before the war Vandam had sometimes heard Hitler's politics warmly endorsed in the officers' mess: they disliked him, not because he was a Fascist, but because he had been a corporal in the Army and a house painter in civilian life. There were brutes everywhere, and sometimes they got into power, and then you had to fight them.

It was a more rational philosophy than Sonja's, but it just was not inspirational.

The anesthetic in his face was wearing off. He could feel a sharp, clear line of pain across his cheek, like a new burn. He realized he also had a headache. He hoped Jakes would be a long time arranging Sonja's release, so that he could sit on the bench a little while longer.

He thought of Billy. He did not want the boy to miss him at breakfast. Perhaps I'll stay awake until morning, then take him to school, then go home and sleep, he thought. What would Billy's life be like under the Nazis? They would teach him to despise the Arabs. His present teachers were no great admirers of African culture, but at least Vandam could do a little to make his son realize that people who were different were not necessarily stupid. What would happen in the Nazi classroom when he put up his hand and said: “Please, sir, my dad says a dumb Englishman is no smarter than a dumb Arab”?

He thought of Elene. Now she was a kept woman, but at least she could choose her lovers, and if she didn't like what they wanted to do in bed she could kick them out. In the brothel of a concentration camp she would have no such choice . . . He shuddered.

Yes. We're not very admirable, especially in our colonies, but the Nazis are worse, whether the Egyptians know it or not. It is worth fighting. In England decency is making slow progress; in Germany it's taking a big step backward. Think about the people you love, and the issues become clearer.

Draw strength from that. Stay awake a little longer. Stand up.

He stood up.

Jakes came back.

Vandam said: “She's an Anglophobe.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Sonja. She hates the British. I don't believe Wolff was a casual pickup. Let's go.”

They walked out of the building together. Outside it was still dark. Jakes said: “Sir, you're very tired—”

“Yes. I'm very tired. But I'm still thinking straight, Jakes. Take me to the main police station.”

“Sir.”

They pulled away. Vandam handed his cigarette case and lighter to Jakes, who drove one-handed while he lit Vandam's cigarette. Vandam had trouble sucking: he could hold the cigarette between his lips and breathe the smoke, but he could not draw on it hard enough to light it. Jakes handed him the lit cigarette. Vandam thought: I'd like a martini to go with it.

Jakes stopped the car outside police headquarters. Vandam said: “We want the chief of detectives, whatever they call him.”

“I shouldn't think he'll be there at this hour—”

“No. Get his address. We'll wake him up.”

Jakes went into the building. Vandam stared ahead through the windshield. Dawn was on its way. The stars had winked out, and now the sky was gray rather than black. There were a few people about. He saw a man leading two donkeys loaded with vegetables, presumably going to market. The muezzins had not yet called the first prayer of the day.

Jakes came back. “Gezira,” he said as he put the car in gear and let in the clutch.

Vandam thought about Jakes. Someone had told Vandam that Jakes had a terrific sense of humor. Vandam had always found him pleasant and cheerful, but he had never seen any evidence of actual humor. Am I such a tyrant, Vandam thought, that my staff are terrified of cracking a joke in my presence? Nobody makes me laugh, he thought.

Except Elene.

“You never tell me jokes, Jakes.”

“Sir?”

“They say you have a terrific sense of humor, but you never tell me jokes.”

“No, sir.”

“Would you care to be candid for a moment and tell me why?”

There was a pause, then Jakes said: “You don't invite familiarity, sir.”

Vandam nodded. How would they know how much he liked to throw back his head and roar with laughter? He said: “Very tactfully put, Jakes. The subject is closed.”

The Wolff business is getting to me, he thought. I wonder whether perhaps I've never really been any good at my job, and then I wonder if I'm any good for anything at all. And my face hurts.

They crossed the bridge to the island. The sky turned from slategray to pearl. Jakes said: “I'd like to say, sir, that, if you'll pardon me, you're far and away the best superior officer I've ever had.”

“Oh.” Vandam was quite taken aback. “Good Lord. Well, thank you, Jakes. Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir. We're there.”

He stopped the car outside a small, pretty single-story house with a well-watered garden. Vandam guessed that the chief of detectives was doing well enough out of his bribes, but not too well. A cautious man, perhaps: it was a good sign.

They walked up the path and hammered on the door. After a couple of minutes a head looked out of a window and spoke in Arabic.

Jakes put on his sergeant major's voice. “Military Intelligence—open up the bloody door!”

A minute later a small, handsome Arab opened up, still belting his trousers. He said in English: “What's going on?”

Vandam took charge. “An emergency. Let us in, will you?”

“Of course.” The detective stood aside and they entered. He led them into a small living room. “What has happened?” He seemed frightened, and Vandam thought: Who wouldn't be? The knock on the door in the middle of the night . . .

Vandam said: “There's nothing to panic about, but we want you to set up a surveillance, and we need it right away.”

“Of course. Please sit down.” The detective found a notebook and pencil. “Who is the subject?”

“Sonja el-Aram.”

“The dancer?”

“Yes. I want you to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her home, which is a houseboat called
Jihan
in Zamalek.”

As the detective wrote down the details, Vandam wished he did not have to use the Egyptian police for this work. However, he had no choice: it was impossible, in an African country, to use conspicuous, white-skinned, English-speaking people for surveillance.

The detective said: “And what is the nature of the crime?”

I'm not telling
you
, Vandam thought. He said: “We think she may be an associate of whoever is passing counterfeit sterling in Cairo.”

“So you want to know who comes and goes, whether they carry anything, whether meetings are held aboard the boat . . .”

“Yes. And there is a particular man that we're interested in. He is Alex Wolff, the man suspected of the Assyut knife murder; you should have his description already.”

“Of course. Daily reports?”

“Yes, except that if Wolff is seen I want to know immediately. You can reach Captain Jakes or me at GHQ during the day. Give him our home phone numbers, Jakes.”

“I know these houseboats,” the detective said. “The towpath is a popular evening walk, I think, especially for sweethearts.”

Jakes said: “That's right.”

Vandam raised an eyebrow at Jakes.

The detective went on: “A good place, perhaps, for a beggar to sit. Nobody ever sees a beggar. At night . . . well, there are bushes. Also popular with sweethearts.”

Vandam said: “Is that right, Jakes?”

“I wouldn't know, sir.” He realized he was being ribbed, and he smiled. He gave the detective a piece of paper with the phone numbers written on it.

A little boy in pajamas walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was about five or six years old. He looked around the room sleepily, then went to the detective.

“My son,” the detective said proudly.

“I think we can leave you now,” Vandam said. “Unless you want us to drop you in the city?”

“No, thank you, I have a car, and I should like to put on my jacket and tie and comb my hair.”

“Very well, but make it fast.” Vandam stood up. Suddenly he could not see straight. It was as if his eyelids were closing involuntarily, yet he knew he had his eyes wide open. He felt himself losing his balance. Then Jakes was beside him, holding his arm.