Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

confidential employment in our Embassy), is an ex-officer of Egyptian Police. That was in the days when we ran the show. And what Murdoch doesn’t know about the Cairo underworld could be put in a thimble. You asked me to find the right man. I found him.”

Mr. Bostock glanced at his watch, took a drink, and put his cigar back in his mouth.

“Agreed. I accept the responsibility.”

“You don’t have to. We’re in this thing together. If your F.B.I, has unearthed a mare’s nest—and that’s my private opinion—there was no alternative so far as I can see. Course of action was left to you. What could you do? Neither you nor I could get a search warrant on a mere suspicion, particularly in the case of so highly respected a citizen as the Sherif Mohammed Ibn-el-Ashraf.”

“True enough. I could see no alternative to your suggestion—short of declining to act in the matter. But, with apologies to your British gift of understatement, it’s slightly unconstitutional!”

“Unconstitutional be damned! What do we stand to lose? Let’s examine the facts. Who knows you were asked to make this investigation?”

“Except yourself——”

“And Murdoch. I had to let him in.”

“Nobody but myself and Arkwright, who decoded the message.”

“Good. Let’s look at possible consequences. Suppose Alt gets pinched. It’s unlikely, but he might. He has a record, not only as a cat-burglar but also for jail-breaking. He’s escaped twice, and they’re still looking for him. To lock up Ali Yahya is about as useful as to try to hold an eel by the tail. He can climb up or down almost anything, slip in and out of incredibly narrow openings. He’s a living legend with the natives, who claim he can make himself invisible. They call him Ali al-Sehliya—Ali the Lizard.”

“I trust he lives up to it,” Bostock drawled. “But, all the same, suppose he gets . . . ‘pinched,’ I think you said?”

“Pinched was the word. You don’t seriously suggest he would tell the police that he was acting under instructions from the United States Embassy?”

Mr. Bostock stood up and refreshed their two glasses. Sir Nigel watched him, grinning mischievously, until he sat down again.

“No,” Bostock admitted. “He would probably choose to escape a third time and collect the price of his crime which you and I promised to pay!”

“That’s the answer!” Sir Nigel took a long drink. “Nobody knows we have seen him——”

“Except Murdoch!”

“Except Murdoch. And Murdoch provided him with a complete plan (which Ali memorized), of the house of the Sherif Mohammed.”

“Useful man, Murdoch,” Mr. Bostock murmured, looking again at his watch. “Also Scotch, no doubt?”

“Also Scotch.” Then Sir Nigel, too, consulted his wrist-watch. “Ali is about due back.”

“Pinched!” Mr. Bostock muttered. “He’s ouerdue.”

Sir Nigel shook his head, smiling. “Our reputations are in safe hands, Bostock! Think of how far he has to travel.”

“Isn’t Murdoch giving him a lift?”

Sir Nigel raised his black brows. “Really, my dear fellow! Do you want Murdoch pinched as well?”

“Meaning that Ali will have to walk here from the Muski?”

“Ali’s methods of transport are his own secret.”

They fell into silence, each thinking his own thoughts. A faint breeze arose, rustling the palm fronds outside and making a noise like the crackling of stiff paper. A faint perfume from some night-scented flower in the garden was wafted into the study. A large bat flew past the window.

So they sat when, unheralded by any sound, a small dark figure materialized on the balcony, glided into the room and performed humble salaam.

Mr. Bostock nearly dropped a cone of cigar ash on the carpet, but recovered himself in the nick of time. Sir Nigel, though equally startled, hailed the apparition in Arabic.

“Good evening, Ali Yahya.”

“Good evening, Richardson Pasha.”

“What have you to report, Ali?”

“It is true—what I was told. Someone is there!”

Mr. Bostock sprang up. “You say someone is there?”

But in his excitement he used English instead of Arabic, a language which he understood better than he spoke. Ali Yahya stared blankly. He had discarded his cloak and presented a queer figure in that sedately appointed room in his black loin-cloth and turban. Mr. Bostock corrected himself hastily, and Ali said again:

“Someone is there, effendi.”

Bostock glanced at Sir Nigel. “We must get the exact facts, Richardson. You ask the questions. You’re more fluent than I. Let him sit down. The man must be tired.”

Ali accepted the invitation and dropped down, cross-legged, on the carpet. Then, speaking impassively in simple words, he described what he had found in the Sherif’s cellar.

“You didn’t see the face of this man?” Sir Nigel asked.

“No. He slept, it seems, like a desert fox, with one eye open. I obeyed my orders and came away quickly.”

“That was wise, Ali. You did well. You relocked all doors?”

“And replaced the keys where I found them.”

“No one saw you leave?”

“No one ever sees me, Richardson Pasha, when I do not wish to be seen.”

From the drawer of a coffee-table Sir Nigel took out a wad of notes fastened with an elastic band and tossed it across to Ali, who caught it deftly.

Ali Yahya salaamed so deeply that his forehead touched the carpet. “0, well of Justice!”

He tried to thrust the bundle of money into his loin-cloth, but had some difficulty in doing so. The “well of justice” was watching him.

“There must be many treasures in the house of the Sherif Mohammed, Ali?”

“It is true. The Seyyid Mohammed is very wealthy, Richardson Pasha.”

“So I believe. Tell me, 0 Ali, what is that you have concealed?” Ali Yahya produced a flash-lamp. “No, no! Something more bulky.”

Ali hesitated for one tremendous moment, his bright eyes flashing sideways to the balcony, then back again to meet the inflexible stare of Sir Nigel.

“I feared you might misjudge my motive, Richardson Pasha. For this reason I said nothing. But it seemed to me, 0 wise one, that in case a window which I was unable to close properly might arouse suspicion, it would be provident to leave evidence to show that a common sneak-thief had entered the house.”

“I see. Show us the evidence.”

With great reluctance Ali the Lizard drew out from his loincloth an object wrapped in a piece of faded silk. He opened the wrapping and held up a small mibkharah, or incense-burner, most delicately chiselled in pure gold, a relic of some sultan’s harem, a museum piece, for which collectors would pay a fabulous price!

“Good heavens, Richardson!” Mr. Bostock gasped. “We can’t stand for this! He must hand it over!”

Ali Yahya was rewrapping the treasure. Sir Nigel tried to hide a grin.

“Do you prefer it to be found in Ali’s possession, or in the United States Embassy?”

Mr. Bostock dropped back in his chair with a groan. Ali, obeying a silent signal from Sir Nigel, faded away, disappearing silently over the wall of the balcony. A whispered farewell came out of the darkness.

“May your night be a glad one, 0 Fountain of Wisdom . . .”

“We know what we wanted to know,” Mr. Bostock admitted. “But what a price to pay!”

“Forget that, Bostock. Our problem is: What are we going to do now?”

Chapter