“Thanks a million!” He gave her a happy grin.
He was really getting somewhere. The cigarettes he had bought from old Achmed es-Salah were called “Aziza”! This was becoming exciting.
But it revived all his half-discarded doubts. If, as he had at some time
suspected, it was Zoe he had seen in Achmed’s shop and Zoe who had followed him when he left, than Achmed was back in the picture. And if Mr. Ahmad belonged to the Aziza Cigarette Coproration, then the chain was complete. And he had good reason to believe that he did.
The reason was this: The girl in the Loofah office (who evidently disliked Mr. Ahmad) had warned him: “Don’t say I sent you… .”
Chapter 5
The office of the Aziza Cigarette Corporation was, if anything, even smaller than the one he had just left. An Egyptian youth, incredibly cross-eyed, looked out through a little window. What Brian could see of the room behind this window seemed to indicate that it was totally unfurnished.
“Can I see Mr. Ahmad?” he inquired.
The young Egyptian looked blank. “Nobody here.”
“Are you expecting Mr Ahmad?”
“Don’t know him, sir. Don’t know any of the gentlemen.”
Brian frowned irritably. “What do you mean? You must know who employs you.”
“Why, for sure, sir. Mr. Quintero pays me to come here every morning and collect the letters. This business it has moved to Alex. This office is for renting.”
He looked proud of having given so much information. His mouth expanded in a huge grin which seemed to split his face in half and also to increase his squint.
“Who’s Mr. Quintero?”
“The landlord, sir.”
“Is he in the building?”
“No, sir. He lives in Gezira. I go there now.”
Brian turned abruptly and walked out. This game of blind man’s buff was beginning to get on his nerves. He couldn’t very well call at every office in the building and inquire for Mr. Ahmad; and the unbroken silence of that gentleman’s phone made it difficult to get in touch.
When he came out on to the street he nearly fell over the dirty person of an old beggar seated on the ground right beside the doorway. This ragged object stood up. “Bakshish,” he whined, his hand stretched out.
Brian walked across to the waiting arabtyeh.
“Do you know the house of the Sherif Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf?” he asked the driver.
The man looked startled. “Yes, sir. But this house not open to visitors.”
“Never mind. I want to go there.”
Brian turned to open the door. But the old mendicant had it open already. “Bakshish, my gentleman.”
Again the eager hand was extended, and Brian threw him a coin as the cab was driven away, and thought no more of the incident.
And so before long he found himself once more in the odorous, noisy, narrow streets of the Oriental city. Here were the hawkers of fruit, vegetables, lemon water and what not, intoning their timeworn cries, descendants of those who had hawked the same wares and cried the same calls when Harun al Raschid ruled Egypt from Baghdad.
Before the iron gate his driver pulled up. “This is house of Seyyid Mohammed.”
Brian got out and tried the gate. It was locked. He could see nothing resembling a bell-push and was wondering what to do next when he realized that a man had come out of the house and was ponderously approaching.
This was a fat fellow with a large, shiny face expressionless as a side of bacon. He wore native dress and a large white turban. Standing close to the locked gate, he said something in a fluty voice which Brian didn’t understand.
“I want to see the Sherif Mohammed,” Brian told him.
The fat man shook his head, turned and slowly walked back again.
Brian rattled the bars angrily. “Did you hear me?” he shouted.
The fat man went in, but came out almost at once with another man, and pointed to the gate. The second man, dressed in black and wearing a red tarbush, was slight and intelligent-looking. He hurried forward.
“You wish to see the Seyyid Mohammed, sir?” He spoke in English.
“Urgently. My name is Merrick, Brian Merrick. I am a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
The man unlocked the gate and stood aside for Brian to go in. Then he locked it again. And Brian experienced a pang of apprehension, almost a physical chill, when he recognized the fact that he was fastened into this mystery house. He turned and called to the driver: “Wait for me!”
“Will you come this way, please.”
Brian followed on into the house, which was evidently very old. From a tiled apartment in which a small fountain tinkled he was led upstairs to a lofty room lighted partly by an opening in the painted ceiling and partly by sunshine filtering through the lattices of two recessed windows. The floor was tiled, but several rugs were strewn about on it. His guide pointed to a divan.
“Please wait a few moments, Mr. Merrick. I will inform the Seyyid that you are here.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
Brian began to examine the room more carefully. Glancing behind him, he saw a window fitted with bars. He crossed to it; looked out. Then he knew.
He was in the room in which he had seen Nayland Smith!
It was easy, now, to recognize the two mushrabiyeh windows. But something else he saw puzzled him. High up in a wall was an opening like a small window covered with a grille of ornamental wrought iron. He couldn’t imagine what purpose it served, but it had an ominous look.
There seemed to be only one door to the room, and this door, for he tried it, had been quietly locked by the man in the red tarbush when he went out!
That sensation of physical chill stole over Brian again.
Perhaps Sir Denis was a prisoner in this strange, silent house, and he, Brian, had been cunningly lured into the same trap!
He was still staring up at the iron grille, his brain feverishly active and bubbling with wild theories, when the door opened very quietly and a man came in. Brian turned to face him.
He saw a venerable and arresting figure: a tall man, with heavy brows overhanging piercing dark eyes, a pure white beard and the bearing of one used to respect. He wore native dress and a closely-wound green turban.
“I am Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf. You wished to see me?” The words were spoken in perfect English.
“I certainly did!”
“Please be seated, and tell me how I may serve you.”
Brian returned to the divan, and the Sherif (evidently known here as “The Seyyid”) seated himself cross-legged on a large ottoman facing him.
His unwavering regard Brian found very disconcerting.
“My name is Merrick——”
“So I am told, Mr Merrick.”
“I’m a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, and I’m here to ask you to be good enough to let me see him.”
The gaze of the dark eyes never left his face. “Did Sir Denis notify you that he was here, Mr. Merrick?”
“No. I saw him, right in this room!”
“A singular accident. Where were you at the time?”
“On the roof of a house right opposite.”
“Indeed? It was fortunate that you, and no one else, observed him. But the ways of the All Knowing are inscrutable.” He touched his brow, his lips and his breast in a gesture which reminded Brian of a Roman Catholic making the sign-of-the-cross. “Sir Denis is in great danger, Mr. Merrick; and his health is impaired. He sought sanctuary in my house, for he knows me well.”
Brian felt like someone drowning who finds himself dragged to the surface. Here was a clear explanation at last of the mystery which had baffled him. For it was impossible to doubt the assurance of this dignified old man.
“I am sorry to hear this. Can I see him?”
“Not this morning, I regret to tell you. I am, as I presume you know, a physician. Sir Denis has placed himself under my care and the course of treatment I have prescribed will not be compl
eted until this evening. If I think it wise, I will allow him to call upon you tonight. No doubt he knows where you are lodged?”
“He does. I may count on that, sir?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Merrick. He is sleeping at the moment. I am treating him for nervous exhaustion. Directly he awakes, I shall inform him of your call. …”
*
As the courtyard gate closed with a slight metallic clang upon the visitor’s departure, Dr. Fu Manchu opened the door of a closet and came out. The back of it accommodated the grille which, from below, on the other side, had so badly intrigued Brian. The doctor walked down a short flight of stairs and into a room part laboratory and part study. A tall cabinet with a rounded top swung inward at his touch and where it had been an arched opening appeared.
He stepped through, with his silent, curiously catlike step, and glanced around the lofty apartment in which Brian had interviewed the Sherif Mohammed. That dignified descendant of the Prophet was waiting for him and bowed as he came in. Fu Manchu, his crossed hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe, watched him.
“It was well done, Mohammed.” He spoke softly, in English; “and even better that we were prepared for such an emergency. Brian Merrick is an almost irreplaceable unit in my plan, but had you stumbled or faltered, I fear we should, nevertheless, have been forced to dispense with him. His life hung in the balance.”
The Sherif Mohammed hesitated, and then, “His transparent honesty is a great asset to us,” he declared. “He would be hard to replace. If he had insisted upon seeing Nayland Smith I should have lost my control of him.
the promise I made was the only alternative.”
“And it shall be carried out. Matsukata is not ready; but the risk must be taken.”
The Sherif bowed. “The urgency is great, Excellency. Inquiries reached me only an hour ago from Moscow concerning the lack of a
report from Gorodin. If we lose Soviet confidence it might mean the abandonment of our plan.”
Dr. Fu Manchu laughed. It was strange, chilling laughter.
“Soviet confidence!” He spoke softly, almost hissing the sibilants. “We have had one instance of their confidence! How little they suspect, Mohammed, that we and not they, hold the East in our hands! How many times have I offered them my co-operation? How many times have they wisely declined it? But at last they have accepted … their ruin!”
The Sherif inclined his head. “Doubtless Excellency will deal with the inquiry himself?”
“It may be left to me. But tonight Sir Denis Nayland Smith must pay a brief visit to Mr. Brian Merrick. Cancel my instructions to Zobeida. …”
Brian was smoking on the terrace of the hotel after lunch when he was joined by Mr. Ahmad.
“My dear sir!” Ahmad sat down beside him. “How you startled me with your story of having seen Sir Denis in an English car! You must be psychic!”
“How do you mean?”
“Because, although I cannot learn if he uses such a car, it is beyond dispute that he was in Cairo at that time! I have traced him to the house of the Seyyid Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf, an old friend of Sir Denis. He is living there, inconnu, from motives of safety.”
“I know,” Brian answered shortly. “You might have told me so earlier if I had been able to find you. Listen. Where is your office located? And why can I never get any reply when I call your number?”
Mr. Ahmad spread his palms apologetically. “You have been looking for me?”
“Certainly. I could find nobody in the place who knew you!”
“I am so sorry. I have no office there. It is an accommodation address which I use when business brings me to Cairo. The number you have is that of a friend who lives in a small flat on top of the building.”
“And who’s never home!”
Ahmad laughed. “You have perhaps been unlucky, Mr. Merrick.
Entirely my fault. Please excuse me. You have already talked to Sir Denis?”
“No. But I shall expect to meet him this evening.”
“So I came to tell you. But it seems you anticipated me. You will, of course, make a point of not leaving the hotel until you have seen him?”
“Of course.”
“Then I must leave you. I have urgent business to deal with, concerning Sir Denis’s future plans. Concerning your own duties, no doubt he will inform you.”
Brian wasn’t sorry when Mr. Ahmad went. Whatever might be the
position Ahmad held in Nayland Smith’s organization, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of distrust of the man. He took a book out into a shady corner of the garden and settled down to do nothing until cocktail time. He had little exercise these days, apart from a morning swim, and so far had found no time to do any sightseeing. He wondered how much longer he would be in Cairo. There were so many things he wanted to do.
He was half dozing over his book when a boy came to look for him.
He was wanted on the phone.
It was Zoe. “Oh, Brian! I am so sorry. My uncle from Luxor will be here this evening and I cannot see you! It is perhaps that I have to go back with him. I don’t know.”
“I hope you don’t, Zoe. I doubt if I could find time to get up to Luxor, much as I’d like to. But as it happens I’m tied up this evening, too. I have to wait in for Sir Denis.”
“So, he finds you! I know he will. You may give him my love, but don’t tell him how much love I give you!”
Brian heard her musical laugh. “When shall I know if you’re going to Luxor?”
“As soon as I find out. Perhaps tonight.” She wafted a kiss over the wire.
Brian returned to his seat in the garden; thought about Zoe, tried to read, tried to keep himself awake by watching other visitors who strolled about there from time to time. But at last the restful, warm air, the drone of insects, conquered, and he fell asleep. He dreamed he was being bitten by thousands of mosquitoes and woke up to find that the dream was based on fact.
A boy was shaking him by the shoulder. “Wanted on the phone, sir.”
And when he got there and said, “Hullo!” a snappy voice replied, “Brian Merrick, Junior?”
“I am Brian Merrick.”
“Nayland Smith here. How are you, Merrick? Don’t bother to tell me.
Listen. I’m in a hell of a position. You’re in it with me. At eight o’clock—exactly eight o’clock— wait in your room. Leave the door ajar. Don’t tell me the number. I know it. At eight o’clock—with the door ajar. Good-bye… .”
*
After an early dinner, Brian went up to his room. A bottle of Scotch and a supply of soda water in an ice-bucket were there by his orders. And feeling oddly strung-up, excited, he sampled the whisky while waiting, constantly looking at his watch.
At last he was to learn the whole truth.
He would know tonight what he had committed himself to do; what his duties were to be. All the minor mysteries and misunderstandings would be cleared up. The grand mystery—the nature of the project in which Nayland Smith was engaged—would be unfolded.
It was such an adventure as he had often dreamed of. And even before this strange appointment with Nayland Smith it had brought events into his life more unusual than any he had known before. His meeting with Lola in London. Her drawing his notice to the advertisement in The Times. The strange interview with the Honourable Peter Wellingham and his appointment to what looked like a fabulous job.
-Then, the journey to Cairo. The silence of Lola. Zoe! That unforgettable interview with the Sherif Mohammed in the house in the Oriental city. And now—this strangest incident of all: “At eight o’clock—with the door ajar”!
What could be Sir Denis’s object? Unless he was in actual physical danger and feared an attack upon him somewhere in the corridor leading to this room. Brian could think of none. Of course he might be hoping to avoid observation altogether;
suspect that there were spies in the hotel. But how could he hope to escape detection in the lobby?
It was a puzzle. Brian looked
again at his watch.
Three minutes to eight…
Excitement mounted second by second, now. He listened, intently, watching the slit of light from the corridor.
He heard the lift stop at his floor, the clang of the opening gate.
Someone stepped out, walked briskly along towards his door . . . and passed it!
One minute to eight…
Another door was unlocked some distance away, and closed. That was the person who had just come up.
Silence.
And this almost unbearable silence remained unbroken until a very slight creaking disturbed it—and the slit of light began to grow wider!
Brian shot up from his chair. “Who’s there?” he challenged.
A man came in—and closed the door.
It was Nayland Smith!
He wore a light topcoat with the collar turned up and a soft-brimmed hat, the brim pulled down. Brian sprang to meet him.
“Sir Denis! At last!”
“One moment, Merrick. Wait till I get to the window and then switch everything off.” He crossed the room. “Lights out!”
Brian, utterly confused, obeyed the snappy order. Complete darkness
came, until it was dispersed by faint streaks of light as Nayland Smith moved the slats of a Venetian blind.
“What’s the idea?” Brian asked.
“Lights up! Wanted to know if you’re overlooked.” The room became illuminated again. “We’re dealing with clever people who mean to stop us.
And I’m Target Number One! Ha! Whisky and soda! What I need!”
He dropped his coat and hat on the carpet beside a cane rest-chair and was about to sit down. Then, as an afterthought, he stretched out his hand.
“Glad to see you, Merrick. How’s your father?”
Brian grinned as he grasped the extended hand. This was the Nayland Smith he remembered, and yet, in some way, a changed Nayland Smith.
His snappy, erratic style of speech, sometimes so disconcerting, remained the same as ever. The change was in his expression. He had the kind of tan which never wears off, but through it Brian seemed to see that he had become unhealthily pale. His features, too, were almost haggard, and he wore a thin strip of surgical plaster across the bridge of his nose.
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