Whilst Petrie gave an order to a waiter, Weymouth shook his head sadly.
'Madame Ingomar is known to a number of people in Luxor and neighbourhood,' he replied, 'but not one of them can tell me where she lives! '
'It's therefore fairly obvious that she must have been either living in the native quarter or renting a villa!'
Weymouth looked at me with a tolerant smile, and:
'I agree,' he replied. 'My best local agent reported this morning, and you can take it for granted that madame has not been living in the native quarter. I have personally just returned from a very tiring inspection of a list of the available villas in and about Luxor. I can state with a fair amount of certainty that she did not occupy any of these.'
A gentle rebuke which I accepted in silence. Dr. Petrie put the whole thing right, for:
'Scotland Yard methods have been pretty harshly criticised,' said he, 'generally by those who know nothing about them. But you must agree, Greville, that they don't fail in thoroughness.'
He paused suddenly, arrested I suppose by my expression. I was staring at a tall Arab who, approaching the hotel, pulled up on sighting our group. His hesitation was momentary. He carried on, swung past us, and went in through the swing doors.
Rima sprang up and grasped my arm.
'The Arab,' she cried; 'the Arab who has just passed! It's the man I saw in camp. The man who ran along the top of the wadi!'
I nodded grimly.
'Leave him to me!' I said, and, turning to Weymouth: 'A clue at last! '
'Is this the mysterious Arab you spoke about?' excitedly.
'It is.'
I dashed into the hotel. There was no sign of my man in the big lobby, in which only vedettes of the tourist army, mostly Amer- ican, were to be seen. I hurried across to the reception clerk. He knew me well, and: 'A tall Arab. Just come in,' I said quickly. 'Bedoui, Fargani, or Maazai, for a guess. Where's he gone?'
An assistant manager--Edel by name-- suddenly appeared behind the clerk and I thought I saw him grip the latter's shoulder significantly; as:
'You were asking about an Arab who came in, Mr. Greville?' said he.
'I was. '
'He is employed by one of our guests--a gentleman of the Diplomatic Service. '
'That doesn't alter the fact that he's been prowling about Sir Lionel's camp,' I replied angrily. 'There are one or two things I have to say to this Arab.'
Edel became strangely embarrassed. His expression mystified me. He was Swiss and an excellent fellow; but reviewing what I had heard of the methods of Dr. Fu Manchu I began to wonder if my hitherto esteemed acquaintance might be a servant of that great evil man!
'What's the name of the diplomat?' I asked rather shortly. 'Do I know him?'
Edel hesitated for a moment; but at last: 'He is a Mr. Fletcher,' he replied. 'Please forgive me, my dear Mr. Greville, but I have orders in this matter.'
Now definitely angry, but realising that Edel wasn't to blame, I turned. Weymouth stood at my elbow.
'I respect your orders, Edel,' I said, 'but there can be no possible objection to my interviewing Mr. Fletcher's Arab servant? '
'May I add,' said Weymouth harshly, 'that I entirely agree with what Mr. Greville has said.'
Edel recognized Weymouth; which seemed merely to add to his confusion of mind.
'If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,' he murmured, 'I shall phone from the private office.'
He withdrew--followed by the reception clerk who obviously dreaded cross-examina- tion.
I exchanged glances with Weymouth.
'What the devil is this all about?' he said.
There was an interval during which Dr. Petrie came in with Rima. At which moment Edel reappeared, and:
If Mr. Greville and Dr. Petrie would be good enough to go up to Number 36,' he requested, 'Mr. Fletcher will be pleased to see them.'
3
'God knows we have trouble and enough,' said Petrie, as the lift carried us to the third floor, 'without the appearance of this unknown diplomat. I've never met a Mr. Fletcher. Can you imagine any reason why he should ask me to accompany you? '
'I can't,' I admitted, and laughed, but not too mirthfully.
As we reached the third floor the Nubian lift-boy conducted us to the door of Number 36, pressed the bell, and returned to the lift.
The door opened suddenly. I saw a clean- shaven thick-set man, wearing a very well cut suit of the kind sometimes called 'Palm Beach.' With his black brows and heavy jaw, he more closely resembled a retired pugilist than any conception I might have formed of a diplomat.
Petrie stared at him in a very strange fashion; as:
'My name is Fletcher,' he announced.
'Dr. Petrie, I believe?' And then to me: 'Mr. Greville? Please come in.'
He held the door open and stepped aside. I exchanged glances with Petrie. We walked into the little lobby.
It was a small suite with a sitting-room on the left.
Why did Mr. Fletcher open his own door when he employed an Arab servant?
I was gravely suspicious, for the thing was mysterious to a degree, but: 'Come right through!' cried a voice from the sitting-room.
Whereupon, to add to my discomfort, Petrie suddenly grasped my arm with a grip which hurt. He stepped through the open doorway, I following close at his heels.
A window opened on to a balcony and to the right of this window stood a writing- table. Seated at the table, his back towards us, was the tall Arab whom we were come to interview!
I noted with surprise that he had removed his turban, and that the head revealed was not shaven, as I might have anticipated, but covered with virile, wavy, iron-grey hair.
Fletcher had disappeared.
As we entered, the man stood up and turned. The deep brown colour of his skin seemed in some way incongruous, now that he wore no turban. I noted again the steely eyes which I remembered; the lean, eager face --a face hard to forget once one had seen it.
But if I was perplexed, my companion had become temporarily paralysed. I heard the quick intake of his breath-- turned... and saw him standing, a man rigid with amazement, positively glaring at the figure of the tall Arab beside the writing-table! At last, in a whisper, he spoke.
'You!' he said, 'you, old man! Is this quite fair?'
The Arab sprang forward and grasped Petrie's hand. Suddenly, seeing the expres- sion in those grey eyes, I felt an intruder. I wanted to look away; but:
'It isn't!' I heard; 'and it hurts to hear you say it. But there was no other way, Petrie. By heaven, it's good to see you again, though!'
He turned his searching glance upon me.
'Mr. Greville,' he exclaimed, 'forgive this comedy, but there are vast issues at stake. '
'Greville,' said Petrie, continuing to stare at the speaker with an expression almost of incredulity, 'this is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.'
4
'I felt sure you would recognise Detective Inspector Fletcher,' Nayland Smith declared. 'You once spent a night with him, Petrie--in the Joy Shop, down Limehouse way: Detective-Sergeant Fletcher he was then. Have you placed him?' Petrie's puzzled expression suddenly changed, and:
'Of course!' he cried. 'I knew I'd seen him somewhere-- Fletcher! But what on earth is he doing here? '
'Ask what I'm doing here,' snapped Nayland Smith. 'One answer covers both questions. Fletcher's in my department of the Yard, now: you may remember he always specialised in Oriental cases. He's been posing as the
