Thieves Fall Out (Hard Case Crime)

by Gore Vidal

  Back at the Stanley, he found two messages for him, which he crumpled in his pocket as he went upstairs to his room.

  He knew the contents of one of the notes before he read it: Anna had gone. Her suitcases were missing and there was no trace in the room that she had ever been there. He tore open the two envelopes. One contained the bill for his room at the Karnak Inn, with a polite note from the manager. The other was from Anna.

  He sat down shakily on the bed and read: “My darling, things are happening so quickly now that I hardly know what to tell you or what to do. I couldn’t stay with you at the hotel because, for your own sake, it would be bad. The one thing that I must do must be done now and I no longer have any choice. Don’t try to find me, please. You must trust me and if there is any chance of our being together afterward I will come back, I promise. Believe me when I say I love you. Your own Anna.” That was all there was to it. He sat, stunned, holding the letter in his hands, the last link he had with her, the only sign that she had ever lived and he had known her.

  The telephone rang; dumbly he answered it.

  “I’m glad to find you home, Mr. Wells. May I come up? I’m in the lobby.” Pete grunted and put the phone back on its hook. Nothing made any difference now until he found Anna. He awaited his visitor without interest.

  Mohammed Ali was in uniform, wearing a pistol holster. He smiled when he saw Pete and shook his hand warmly. “You left so suddenly, my friend. We were all afraid something might have happened to you.”

  “But the manager remembered to tell you that I was back at the Stanley.”

  “So he did. Where is Fräulein Mueller? We were given to understand that she was with you here.”

  “Your news isn’t up to date. She’s taken a trip.”

  “I see. Perhaps it is all for the best. Fortunately, no harm can come to her.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Haven’t you guessed? Because of her important friend she is always guarded, always watched by the police.”

  “Then how come you have no idea where she is?”

  “I am no longer her guardian,” said Mohammed Ali smoothly, sitting carefully on the edge of a small table. “I could probably find out by calling headquarters.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m not interested.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Would you care to make a bargain?” The policeman was looking at him intently now, his eyes glittering beneath dark brows.

  “What kind of bargain?” The expression on the Arab’s face was answer enough. “No, none of that, Junior. That’s asking too much.”

  “But suppose she is in danger, wouldn’t you like to know that?”

  “You said yourself that it was the job of you guys to keep her out of trouble, to protect her.”

  “Why do you hate me?” Mohammed Ali was pale and tense. “Do I disgust you so? I can save you. I am the only person in Egypt who can. If I want to I can keep them from killing you, and they will kill you—soon, very soon.”

  “Who will?”

  But the policeman only shook his head, his eyes glittering as he studied Pete.

  Casually Pete swung one leg over the bed. “Maybe they’ll change their minds,” he said; then he grinned. “I wonder just how friendly you were feeling on the train when you had that bug planted on me.”

  “For your own good, believe me,” said Mohammed Ali intensely. “You would have been ill for a week, by which time the affair would have been out of your hands.”

  “I’m glad you have my interest at heart.” Pete mocked him, coldly gauging to himself the distance between them, calculating a defense.

  “I have,” said the Inspector in a strange low voice. “Let me show you.” He moved toward Pete, who jumped quickly from the bed, doubling his fists and crouching all in one quick movement. The policeman stepped back. “Then it is all over for you,” said Mohammed Ali flatly. “This was your chance. If you had …”

  “Being dead doesn’t seem so unattractive. Now get out.”

  The policeman shook his head. “Not until you give me the necklace.”

  Pete’s fingers twitched nervously at his belt, ready to grab his revolver. “I haven’t got it,” he said. “I gave it to Hélène this morning.”

  “No, you still have it,” said the policeman quietly. “I want it.” He drew his gun. Pete made no move yet; he was thinking quickly.

  “I tell you, I gave it to her. You can search me if you want to. She’s supposed to hang onto it until Said gives the word for me to take it out of the country.”

  “Give it to me or I’ll shoot,” said the Inspector, and with a click he released the safety catch.

  “No, you won’t,” said Pete, with great effort keeping his voice steady though his throat had suddenly gone dry and his tongue threatened to stick to the roof of his mouth. He was able to speak quietly, though. “They know downstairs that you came up here. If you shoot an American citizen there’ll be an investigation and they’ll know you were the one who did it.”

  “I am the police. Give me that necklace.”

  “If you take it, if you kill me, Said will find out, and that’ll be the end of you, even if you try to leave the country. He’s part of an international organization. You know what that means, don’t you? I guess you do. Maybe you’re part of it too. Well, cross them up…” He spoke fast and he knew that he was making a little headway, for the policeman’s aim wavered.

  “Give it to me,” he said.

  “Hell, man, I told you I don’t have it! Here, come on, search me. I swear I don’t have it. You don’t have to kill me to find out.” Pete put his arms high up over his head. Mohammed Ali approached, pressing the muzzle of the revolver into Pete’s belly. With his other hand he undid the coat and slipped his hand inside, both searching and caressing. Pete flushed. “I’m ticklish,” he said, but the Inspector continued his search. Then, just as his hand moved upward on the right side, near the armpit, near the necklace, Pete brought both hands down with a crash on the back of the Arab’s neck.

  The revolver clattered to the floor. Mohammed Ali grunted and fell forward, knocking Pete off balance. They both fell against the bed and rolled onto the floor, Mohammed Ali on top.

  The fight took a long time, or so it seemed to Pete. On his feet he could have taken care of the larger man in a few seconds, but at close quarters, wrestling, he was handicapped by the other’s weight and brute strength.

  They fought silently, only an occasional gasp when one hurt the other. Neither wanted the fight interrupted by strangers. They rolled across the floor, Pete trying to get to his feet, the other holding him back deliberately, aware of the American’s powerful fists.

  Pete saw his tactics in a flash and he fought with even greater ferocity. The Arab was trying to choke him. Each chance he got, the huge hard hands would go to Pete’s throat and begin to squeeze; each time Pete got away, kicking, elbowing, shoving.

  There were no rules now. Two animals were fighting for survival. Pete tasted blood on his lip, his own blood. His mouth had been cut by his own teeth. The larger man’s face was purple and the veins were corded in it like dark ropes, throbbing with strain.

  Not until they got beneath the window in their agonizing struggle across the floor did Pete get his first opening. The Arab was growing tired. He relaxed his pressure imperceptibly on Pete’s throat, and that was all he needed. With a huge effort he broke away, kicking the Arab in the chest.

  Mohammed staggered against the wall, choking. Pete moved in for the kill. It took only two blows, the strong right and the quick left follow-up. The Inspector crumpled, unconscious.

  Pete stood in the center of the room, head bowed, arms at his sides, struggling for breath. Blood roared in his ears. Half blind with sweat and fatigue, he plunged his head into the washbasin and turned on the cold water full blast.

  It took several minutes for him to recover. When he did, he dried his face and neck and looked in the mirror.
His mouth was not badly cut, but the upper lip was beginning to swell. The cold water had stopped the bleeding. His shirt was torn, but his suit, though shapeless, was not damaged.

  Quickly, keeping his eye on Mohammed Ali, he changed his shirt, combed his hair, arranged his jacket as well as he could, and then, after first dropping the policeman’s revolver behind the pillows on his bed, he left the room, locking the door behind him.

  He half expected to see more policemen in the corridor, but there were none about. As casually as possible he walked down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. He was about to catch a cab when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He gave a start and whirled about, expecting the worst.

  But it was only the manager, the plump cockney. “I wouldn’t go out there, sir, if I was you.”

  “Out where?”

  “In them streets, sir. There’s trouble on its way and I wouldn’t like to see nothing ’appen to a chap like you.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “The mob. They’re yelling downtown, we hear. They’re in a mean mood and when they are, watch your step.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  “Keep to the main streets, where the police are.”

  Pete smiled to himself at that. He assured the little man he would be all right. Then he hailed a cab.

  * * *

  Le Couteau Rouge was crowded, considering the earliness of the hour. Pete went straight to the bar and ordered Pernod. While he stood there he looked warily about the room for signs of danger, but no one paid much attention to him. People were too intent on their own problems. Men sat at tables, their heads close together, talking rapidly, fiercely to one another. It was twenty minutes before Pete realized that there were no women in the bar. A strange sign, a sign of trouble. The air was charged with tension.

  “Remember me?” Pete asked the bartender with the great mustache.

  “Certainement! The young Américain who loses his money. You find it, hein?” Though the man’s tone was friendly he seemed distracted, his eyes turning furtively toward the door, as though he expected hostile visitors.

  “No, never got it back, but I’ve been working.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad. You like Luxor? Interesting for the history. You should maybe stay there.” The bartender’s eyes fixed on Pete’s for a moment. He was pale, and he kept polishing and repolishing a clean glass with the end of his apron.

  “Why? The town going to blow up?”

  “I think maybe, yes.” From faraway came the unmistakable sounds of rifles: one volley, then an answering volley, then scattered fire. The whole room became silent. Men turned with frightened faces toward the door. “Mon Dieu!” muttered the bartender, and he dropped the glass onto the floor, where it broke. The familiar sound of breaking glass recalled the others. They began to talk again, a low buzzing like a hive of bees. The firing had stopped.

  Pete swallowed his Pernod. The liquor burned his upper lip. “Where’s Le Mouche?” he asked.

  “Là-bas.” The bartender motioned with his head toward the back room. “But no one can see him. No one. Monsieur!” But Pete was already halfway to the double door. No one tried to stop him.

  He was not surprised when he stepped into the dim corridor to find the door to Le Mouche’s room suddenly open, revealing the hunchback standing on the threshold, smiling.

  “Come in, my friend, come in. These are difficult times for honest men.” He chuckled loudly as Pete followed him into the room.

  It was much the same as before, except that the teapot was no longer boiling, and where the hot plate had been on the table there was now a telephone. Le Mouche sat down in his armchair and motioned Pete to sit beside him.

  “We have had many experiences, haven’t we?” said Le Mouche with a gentle smile, turning his fine dark eyes on Pete.

  Pete was not quite sure what he meant. There was too little time, though, to find out, to engage in subtleties. “Where is Anna?”

  The hunchback sighed. “I knew you would ask me that. When I saw you come in the bar just now I knew that that was why you were here.”

  “Do you know?”

  Le Mouche nodded. “I know, but I will not tell you. That is her wish and it is also my desire, so please, for the sake of good feeling, don’t ask me.”

  “Good feeling!” Pete exploded. “There isn’t such a thing in this whole damned city. The girl I want, the only person I care about, is gone, and I don’t know what she’s doing or where she is and you tell me I’m not to ask!”

  Le Mouche touched his arm gently, affectionately. “It is not so entirely bad, my son.” He laughed softly. “I am old enough to be your father, you know.” He paused for a moment, frowning, as though he had thought of something from the past, some dark memory. Then he said more lightly, “Tomorrow you will be able to see her, if nothing goes wrong. She loves you, you know. There’s no doubt of that.”

  “She’s got a fine way of showing it,” said Pete bitterly, and he began to shake, a delayed reaction from the fight. “Too—too much adrenalin,” he stammered, aware that the hunchback was watching him.

  Le Mouche pressed a button beside his chair and the bartender appeared and was told to bring brandy. When Pete drank it he felt better, but weak. All the strength had gone out of him, used up in the fight. It was several minutes before he felt like himself again.

  “It will be all right,” said Le Mouche quietly. “It will be all right.” His voice was low, hypnotic, as he repeated soothing words. Then, when he saw that Pete had recovered, he said, “Try to understand that Anna is not free to do what she wants to do. She has obligations to others, to many others, to people living and even”—he paused—“to people dead. When she has fulfilled them she will be free again, perhaps for the first time.”

  “She may be dead by then.”

  “It’s possible.” Le Mouche looked away. “I hope not. I can tell you nothing more.”

  “But I just can’t sit and wait!” Pete exploded. “Why can’t I help her? Why—”

  The ringing of the telephone stopped his tirade. Le Mouche spoke Arabic rapidly into the receiver; he was thoughtful as he replaced it. “It is beginning,” he said finally, his fingers drumming on the table.

  “What’s beginning?”

  “Revolution, my friend. Solemn word, dangerous word.”

  “Are you mixed up in it?”

  “Everyone is mixed up in it,” said Le Mouche evasively. “Now we must ride out the storm. That was a friend of mine with word that rioting has started in El Minzah suburb, a working-class district. That means it will spread very soon to the center of the city.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “According to the newspapers, the wicked Jews are trying to overthrow the government because of the situation in Israel. The government always blames it on the Jews. Actually the troubles are almost always spontaneous. Even Moslems will oppose tyrants. The hatred of the King has been building a long time. When it reaches the Army, then—pfft, no more King.”

  “Has it reached the Army yet?”

  “We shall know soon enough.”

  “And you and Anna are mixed up in all this?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But it’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “Tomorrow you’ll know.”

  “If we’re still alive.”

  “If not,” and Le Mouche smiled, “we’ll know more important things. Accept the situation. There is never any use in struggling against events when they have got out of one’s personal control, and today, tonight, tomorrow belong to the mob, not to us.”

  Pete groaned with frustration. “What do you think I ought to do, then?”

  “I would advise going immediately to the American Consulate and staying there until the business is over. Then come back here and join Anna. She will be here, in this room, tomorrow.”

  “If.”

  “If.” From far away they could hear the muffled sound of gunfire. They lis
tened for some minutes until it stopped and the buzz of talk from the adjoining bar began again.

  “Now,” said Le Mouche, as though nothing had happened, “tell me about your adventures in Luxor.”

  “Not much to tell. I was sent up there by Hélène, as you probably know, since you seem to know everything else. I met someone called Said, with whom I did business, as agreed. I got into trouble with a police inspector named Mohammed Ali and I met Anna. It was pretty eventful.”

  “I should think so. You recall, perhaps, that I advised you against having anything to do with Hélène and the others?”

  “There wasn’t much choice. I didn’t have any illusion about them, but I had to make some money, even though they’ll cut my throat if it fits their plans, if I let them.”

  “No, that was not their plan exactly. Mohammed Ali is supposed to do the throat-cutting.”

  Pete was startled. He wondered if he had heard correctly. “You mean…”

  “Give me that necklace, Pete.” Le Mouche’s voice was stern.

  “Oh, no! No, you don’t!” Pete jumped to his feet, pulling his gun at the same time and aiming at Le Mouche. “I should have figured you weren’t on the level. It was too damned much to expect in this hellhole. You—”

  The two men who had come in behind him disarmed him quickly and, before he could even regain his balance, pushed him back into the chair. Le Mouche smiled sadly. “It looks as though the whole world is against you, I know,” he said as Pete struggled helplessly. The two Arabs were enormous men, dressed in the flowing robes of the desert. They held him to the chair with apparently little effort. Le Mouche took his gun and then expertly ripped the lining of his jacket and extracted the necklace.

  “Now, if you promise not to move, I’ll order them away.”

  “What the hell good’s a promise?” Pete was breathing helplessly, heavily. He almost wished they would finish the job and let him die.

  “All I ask is that you listen to me,” said Le Mouche reasonably. He motioned with his hand and the two Arabs withdrew, closing the door softly behind them. “They are my guards,” explained Le Mouche, almost apologetically, his hand on the butt of Pete’s revolver, aware that the young American was prepared to make a break for it.