by Gore Vidal
“I’ve already had one fight today for that thing,” said Pete. “I thought that would be par for the course.”
“You won’t have to fight for it again,” said Le Mouche. Then, to Pete’s amazement, he took the necklace and broke it. Beads scattered over the room. The ruby, broken from its pendant, fell to the floor, and Le Mouche ground it with his heel until it broke.
“My God, man!” Pete jumped to his feet excitedly. “That’s a fortune! You’ve just lost us all more money than—” He stopped abruptly, conscious that Le Mouche was laughing at him. “What’s the big idea?”
“The idea is not so very big, young man,” said the hunchback, pushing Pete’s revolver across the table to him. “I’m sorry I had to take it away from you like that, but I knew you’d never give it up, no matter what I said.”
Pete took the gun and shoved it back in his belt. This, he decided, was the end. He slumped in his chair wearily, prepared for anything.
“Don’t look so tragic.” Le Mouche chuckled. “I’ve just saved you from a great deal of annoyance.”
“Not to mention money.”
“Don’t be bitter. It was only worth about twenty dollars.”
“You’re out of your mind. That necklace was worth over a hundred grand. The ruby alone was worth—”
“The original, yes. But you’ve been guarding with your life an imitation, a copy, a fake.” It took a moment for this to sink in. Pete tried to speak but there were no words ready on his tongue. Le Mouche explained: “In a way, much of what happened to you is my fault and I can apologize only by getting you out of it all now—my fault not so much for what I did as for what I didn’t do. I could have stopped you that afternoon when you came here, before you went to Luxor. I liked you. I didn’t want you to come to harm, but unfortunately, for reasons that you may one day understand, I wasn’t free to do more than I did: to warn you not to trust Hélène and Hastings. I could, I suppose, have told you why, but I was not in a position to make trouble for myself, and it would have been grave trouble, then.” He paused. The distant boom of light artillery invaded the stillness of the room. Both waited until it had passed.
Le Mouche continued. “Now it matters less. Said, whom I have known for many years, stole the necklace of Queen Tiy some time ago from a wealthy eccentric living at Aswân. I have no doubt he told you a different story, but it was a case of pure thievery and nothing more. He is one of the more efficient crooks in a country distinguished for crime. For some reason he has taken his time about disposing of the necklace. I am told, by others as well as by him, that he has a very real love of antiquities, almost as great a passion as the one he has for money. In any event, it became widely known in our underworld (which is almost the same thing as the everyday world of Cairo) that he had the necklace and that sooner or later he would smuggle it out of the country. A few months ago, he decided the time was ripe to make his sale. He instructed his partners, Hélène and Hastings, to send it by usual consignment to Europe.”
“What’s usual consignment?”
“By sea. Their trade is the usual narcotics, and on a grand scale. They operate three small ships, and their connections are worldwide. But, unfortunately for Said, his police contact, the greedy Mohammed Ali, discovered that the necklace was to make its long anticipated voyage to parts unknown, and he hinted—broadly, I gather—that for his co-operation a hefty slice of the proceeds would be in order. That, my friend, is where the innocent young American enters the picture. It was decided that you be used as a decoy. Hélène would send you to Luxor for conferences with Said, which Mohammed Ali undoubtedly would hear of, and then, when he had risen to the bait, you would be given a copy of the necklace and sent back to Cairo, where Mohammed Ali would probably relieve you of the necklace. By returning early, however, you threw the timetable off and doubtless saved your life. You see, Hélène and Said could not feel safe until they were fairly certain that Mohammed Ali had got the imitation from you.”
“Wouldn’t he have been able to tell pretty quickly that it was phony?”
“Of course. That’s why so much depended on timing. They calculated that they would have a few hours’ grace from the time he’d taken care of you until he discovered the fraud, hours in which they would be able to fly, without intervention, to Europe. They knew all too well that if he did not think he had the necklace himself, they wouldn’t be permitted, any of them, to get through customs. They were all watched and they knew it. Their main chance, for now at least, was to throw him off the track long enough to make a getaway.”
“And I was to be the one who ended up full of holes.”
“That’s about it. They assumed he would kill you or at least lock you up under some pretext or other until he had himself disposed of the jewels. It was perfectly sound reasoning. Mohammed Ali was taken in. You were taken in. It would have worked, too, if you hadn’t come back a day early, shaking the Inspector in the process. Hélène had made plans to leave Cairo on the morning plane. Now, of course, she doesn’t dare. Mohammed Ali would have her searched, will have anyone searched who might possibly be in league with her, and believe me, stupid as he is in many ways, he is perhaps the best-informed man in Egypt on smuggling. He has to be; he has made his fortune in commissions from smugglers. He knows every agent Said is apt to use, and more.”
“Then Hélène has got the real necklace?”
“She was to leave the country as soon as she knew that you were in the hands of Mohammed Ali.”
Pete whistled. He had not trusted her, but he’d never suspected her of a double-cross quite so dirty. It was an unpleasant feeling, to be expendable. “Has she gone yet?”
Le Mouche shook his head. “All this has made a difference,” he said. “Not only your escape from the Inspector, but now the uprising. The airports are shut down. No one can leave the city, even by car. The roads are barricaded and there is nothing left for any of us to do, except wait. It is out of our hands. Allah has willed it.”
Chapter Seven
But it was soon obvious to Pete that Allah was not the only one who had willed the disturbances. From bulletins that Le Mouche received by telephone every five or ten minutes, they learned that the fighting had been temporarily contained in the working-class suburbs of the city. With each message Pete became increasingly aware that Le Mouche, in some strange way, was one of the organizers of this rebellion, one of its generals. Yet no one came to the room. Only the telephone was continually busy; and it was not an ordinary telephone, Pete had discovered, but a radiophone.
He grew restless after a time. The noise of far-off gunfire excited him. It was the first he’d heard since France in the war. Finally he said, “I want to go out and look around. I ought to get my things at the hotel.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Le Mouche. “Mohammed Ali is still alive.”
“Do you think he’ll bother me when he knows I haven’t got the necklace?”
“You are assuming that he is not vindictive, which is always a mistake. Keep away from your hotel. Forget the clothes.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should go to the Consulate and see if they know what’s happening.”
“An excellent idea. Stay there until tomorrow, until all this is over. Then come back here and I will, I hope, have Anna for you.”
“If she’s alive and if you’re still here.”
“And if heaven has not fallen down and broken your hard head.” Le Mouche smiled. “You must have a small amount of optimism, Peter, to live at all. That may seem foolish advice after what has happened, but…” The radiophone on the table buzzed. Le Mouche picked up the receiver and spoke into it.
Pete watched as the hunchback visibly paled. He spoke Arabic rapidly, a scowl on his face, his tongue wetting his lips nervously. Then he put the receiver down.
“Bad news?”
Le Mouche did not answer for a moment. He stared emptily into space. Then he nodded slowly, fixing his eyes on Pete. “Bad for us but good for you.�
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“What do you mean? Has Anna—”
“Failed.”
“Where is she?”
“Quite safe.” Le Mouche sighed. “It was too much to expect. She had only a slim chance, but even so, had she succeeded…”
“Succeeded in what?”
“Regicide, I believe, is the word. It means king-killing. She was to have murdered Farouk today. Unfortunately, before she could see him, the trouble began in the city and he canceled all appointments. She was not able to carry out our plan.”
“Good Lord!” Pete was stunned.
“All this had been planned some months ago, shortly after I met her, quite by chance at the house of a mutual friend.”
“You must’ve been crazy. There wasn’t a chance in the world of her getting away with it. I may not know much about this town, but I did see that guy at a night club and he’s as well guarded as any mobster back home.”
Le Mouche shrugged. “The choice was as much hers as ours. She is as much involved as the rest of us—more so, in a strange way.” Le Mouche paused; then: “I don’t know how much you know about her past, but I expect she told you about her childhood among the Nazis, about her father and Dachau and all that. Well, these early experiences had a profound effect upon her. As a result, although ordinarily she is a charming girl, when it comes to tyrants she is a fanatic, and a little terrifying.”
Pete shook his head, still bewildered. “I can’t believe it.”
“The complications began after she met you. A few months ago, when we decided upon this desperate course, she was bitter and hated the world, not caring if she lived or died. I cared, of course. I didn’t want to see her sacrificed, but the choice was finally hers, not mine.”
“Do you think anyone knows what she intended to do? The police, I mean?”
Le Mouche shook his head. “Only she and I knew, until this moment. The rest knew nothing more than that an attempt would be made upon the King’s life—an assassination that would coincide with the first rioting in the El Minzah quarter of the city.”
“Is she all right now? Was that her you talked to?”
“She is all right. That was one of our people out at Mena House. Several men were to break into the King’s guesthouse nearby and rescue her if possible. When he did not arrive for the rendezvous, she went on to Shepheard’s, where she will be safe for a little while.”
“Safe? I thought you said—”
“Safe from the mob. I don’t mean to alarm you, but there is a chance that our people, certain fanatics among them, may try to destroy the hotel.”
“I’ve got to go there now,” said Pete abruptly.
“In a few minutes, as soon as I get a report.” He gestured toward the phone. “I should learn in a few minutes what is happening in that section of the city.”
Pete sat back in his chair. Waiting was intolerable. He was tempted to leave anyway, on his own. But Le Mouche, as if guessing what he was thinking, shook his head. “You must wait. I insist on that.”
“What’s the best way to get her out of the city?”
“I think she will be able to answer that. It is quite true that she didn’t expect to survive the assassination. Even though we had a group of men ready to rescue her at the cottage, there was not much chance they would get through the guards before the guards had killed her. Even so, because of you, she made plans for an escape—one that I was to tell you about at the proper time.”
“The plans?”
“She must tell you now, since, for all I know, they’ve been changed. But you can count on us to help you. I’ll give you a safe-conduct through our lines. You will have to handle the government people yourself, but that shouldn’t be too difficult, since they know nothing of Anna.”
Pete grinned. “But they might just happen to be looking for me on account of Mohammed Ali.”
Le Mouche frowned. “That is a problem.”
“Well, just as long as I’ve got her with me, there won’t be any trouble getting out of town. These people don’t scare me one bit—in the daylight, anyway.”
“Which reminds me I have an apology to make. The manager at the hotel in Luxor is one of our men. When he saw that Anna was becoming interested in you, he saw fit to arrange that business in the tombs.”
Pete was surprised. The manager had been the last person he’d suspected. “But what was the big idea?”
“Anna was being watched by the police. It would have wrecked all our plans if the King had discovered she was involved with someone else. The manager acted quickly, ruthlessly, and without consulting any of us here. I was furious when I heard, but actually, he had only done his duty. Anna’s interest in you might have ruined the whole affair.”
“The old fellow, Osman—was he involved, too?”
“He was bribed to lead you into the tombs. He was killed that same night, to keep him from talking.”
Pete whistled. “You fellows play rough.”
“Very rough,” said Le Mouche without a smile. “You were lucky and resourceful. Otherwise you would never have survived.”
The radiophone buzzed and Le Mouche answered it. He asked a series of curt questions, nodding as the answers were given him. When he hung up, he turned to Pete. “You will have a difficult time getting through. There is a barricade in the streets between here and Shepheard’s.” He scribbled a few lines in Arabic on a sheet of paper, which he then folded and handed to Pete. “This should get you through our people—at least past the officers who can read. Pray that you don’t get in the hands of the others. As for the police, the government people, you should have nothing to fear. Say you are an American trying to get to the hotel for safety.”
“And Anna’s there right now? Waiting for me?”
“She’s there now. You have your gun? Good. Keep to the back streets. I hope your sense of direction is good, for they are like a maze. Go quickly. The hotel is in danger.” Both men rose.
“Tell me,” said Pete, “what’s your connection with all this? Are you the boss of the show? Some kind of politician or something?”
The hunchback laughed. “Do I look like a boss? Or even a politician? Not likely. You might say that I am an adventurer corrupted by idealism. Now, my son, good-by. Allah be with you. We are not likely to meet again.” They shook hands warmly, without further words; then Pete left Le Mouche alone in the small room with its radiophone and the two eyeholes that surveyed the crowded bar.
The back door was guarded by a half-dozen men with carbines. They watched Pete closely but did not interfere when he moved down the narrow street to the main boulevard.
The boulevard was empty of ordinary traffic. The setting sun was dull gold upon the higher windows, casting dense purple shadows against the buildings with their shuttered doors. Far away in the northwest, he could hear artillery.
He stopped under the nearest arcade just as a jeep containing government soldiers clattered by. In the next few minutes several more trucks and jeeps moved rapidly down the boulevard, all going toward Shepheard’s, away from the northwest and the firing.
Keeping close to the walls of buildings, he managed to walk the length of the block unnoticed. At the intersection he paused. Here trouble began.
A building several blocks away to the left was on fire, but no one attempted to put out the flames. A barricade had been thrown across the boulevard at this point and the police cars avoided it by driving to left and right, keeping at least two blocks distant of the mob that guarded the barricade: a haphazard collection of furniture, barrels, the body of a dead ox; a crazy fortification manned by an evil-looking assortment of men, wearing the long striped tunics of the fellahin, the workers. They were dangerously quiet, moving behind their cover, each carrying a rifle.
What to do next was a problem. The mob was in an ugly mood and Pete had already been warned that they would shoot on sight any man wearing European clothes, no matter what his nationality. Yet he had to get past that barricade, past at least a hundred trigger-hap
py Egyptians.
At first he thought of trying to explain to one of them that he was friendly, that he had a safe-conduct from Le Mouche. But the risk involved was too great. They were apt to shoot on sight. The language barrier was also great.
He retreated deeper into the arcade. There was now no sign of life anywhere. No police, no citizens; even the million cats of Cairo had fled. The emptiness was reassuring.
An alleyway opening off the arcade provided him with a plan. He knew that the wide handsome avenues of Cairo had been arbitrarily cut through an ancient city of narrow crooked streets, a rabbit warren that still existed behind the great thoroughfares, a kind of Casbah where the secret Arab life went on. There were many entrances to this world, alley-ways like the one before which he now stood. The only danger was that in the maze of crooked streets a stranger was easily lost, easily robbed, and as easily murdered.
He would have to take that chance. Gun in hand, he walked down the narrow alley. Knowing his position in relation to Le Couteau Rouge, he was able to guess at direction. His only danger was overshooting his mark, bypassing Shepheard’s without knowing it.
The alley soon became a street just wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The pavement buckled crazily and there was a deep channel in the middle where, during the rains, the accumulated filth was carried off.
The odors were overpowering and he found it difficult to breathe. The evening was warm and all currents of fresh air were blocked by the several-story zigzag houses, whose wooden balconies touched overhead, hiding the sky.
Every few yards more streets branched off the one he was on, offering a bewildering number of alternatives, but he kept on course by checking the stars, which had begun to appear in the violet sky.
The people were abroad in these narrow streets. They obviously felt safe in their own territory. Yellow lamplight flickered in the windows. Occasionally he would pass an open door of a tea house, where he could see the natives sitting about on the floor drinking tea and talking in low guttural voices.