No—he had made no mistake, Sir Denis was in that strange old house hidden in the heart of the Oriental city.
Why?
Getting back at last, hot, tired and dusty, he paused in the lobby of the hotel, to talk to the all-knowing hall- porter. He had consulted him on many matters and tipped him liberally. He described his unpleasant experience with the rioters.
The uniformed Egyptian smiled.
“You should take a good dragoman with you, sir. He would see to it that you avoided such things.”
“Very likely,” Brian agree. “Maybe I’m too independent. But perhaps you can tell me something. I got lost, and wandered on into another quarter, ‘way beyond the Khan Khalil. It wasn’t far from a city gate—and there was a mosque.”
“There are many!”
“It was near a street where they sold cotton goods, pottery and that sort of thing.”
“The Ghuriyeh! But I understand, sir.”
“Well, in a narrow street leading to what you call the Ghuriyeh there’s a fine old mansion with a high wall around it. Most unlikely spot for such a house. There’s a courtyard, and——”
“I know what you have seen, sir. It is the house of the Sherif Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf.”
“And who is he?”
“A very holy man, sir. A descendant of the Prophet—and the greatest physician in Cairo. . . .”
Brian was more hopelessly mystified than ever. What possible connection could there be between Sir Denis and the Sherif Mohammed?
He called Mr Ahmad’s number, but failed to get a reply.
What to do next was the problem. But the more he thought about it the more completely it baffled him . . .
* * *
He went into the cocktail bar fairly early in the evening, and saw that he had it to himself. He had made several further attempts to call Mr. Ahmad, but could get no reply. He ordered Scotch-on-the-rocks and sat there sipping his drink and feeling very puzzled and very lonely.
It was a perfect night, a half-moon sailing in a jewelled sky, and he would have liked to go somewhere, do something; get away from himself.
He smoked two cigarettes and then ordered another drink. He had made up his mind to take it out on to the terrace. When the bartender served it, Brian picked up the glass, slipped down from the high stool and turned to go.
How it happened he could never quite make out. He had heard no sound, had no idea anybody was there. But a girl wearing a strapless gown which displayed her creamy arms and shoulders had apparently been standing just behind him.
She raised her hand too late. He had spilled most of the whisky (and some of the ice) all over her!
She stifled a squeal. Reproachful eyes were raised to him. Brian grew hot all over. He called to the bartender:
“Quick! A napkin or something!”
A napkin was produced. The girl took it from his hand, looking aside, and began to try to dry her frock and her bare shoulders.
“What can I say?” he fumbled. “Of course I shall replace your dress, which is ruined. But there’s no excuse for my clumsiness!”
She glanced at him. “You are right about my dress.” She had a quaint, fascinating accent. “But truly I think I was to blame. I was looking for someone, and how could you know I was right behind you.”
“I
“I live in this hotel. I arrive only today. I can go to my room and change my dress. It will clean quite well. But it is very sweet of you to offer to buy another.”
“That isn’t an offer. It’s a promise!”
She really smiled now. And Brian realized with a sort of shock that she was a very pretty girl indeed.
“Perhaps I won’t hold you to it.” She spoke softly. “It would not be fair.”
“We’ll leave that for the moment. Maybe, when you’re changed, you’ll find time to have a cocktail with me before you go?”
“Thank you. I am going nowhere. I meant to dine here, in the hotel.”
“Then you’ll dine with me?”
“Yes—if you really want it so.”
When she had gone, Brian had his glass refilled.
“Do you know that lady’s name?” he asked the Egyptian barman.
“No, sir. I never see her before.” He displayed rows of perfect white teeth. “She is a beautiful young lady.”
Brian sipped his whisky; lighted another cigarette. He was trying to figure out why her wonderful eyes seemed to awaken a memory.
She returned much sooner than he had expected. She wore, now, a green dress which sheathed her lithe figure to the hips like a second skin. . . .
They dined in the terrace of an hotel overlooking the Nile. Brian’s friend said her name was Zoe Montero, that her family lived in Spanish Morocco. She was on a visit to an aunt and uncle who had a business in Luxor but who had arranged to meet her in Cairo. She had just received a message to say that her aunt had been taken ill and so they were detained.
“I shall know tomorrow if they can come or if they want me to go up to Luxor,” she told Brian.
They danced in the moonlight, and the dark beauty of his graceful partner stirred Brian’s pulses dangerously. He had decided that she was partly of Arab blood. Zoe’s voice, her quaint accent, her natural gaiety, fascinated him. Sometimes, when he looked into her eyes, that dormant memory awoke. He tried to grab it—and it was gone.
But he enjoyed the evening. There was no word from Lola. . . .
* * *
It was quite early next morning when Mr. Ahmad called and found Brian having a smoke on the terrace.
“I have good news,” he announced. “Sir Denis expects to reach Cairo late this afternoon.”
Mr. Ahmad turned at that moment to bow to a passing acquaintance, or he could hardly have failed to note Brian’s change of expression. All his suspicions had been justified. He had become enmeshed in a cunning plot, a most mysterious plot. If Lola had any part in it he couldn’t be sure. But Peter Wellingham was one of the conspirators—and Mr. Ahmad was another! He was no diplomat and he spoke impetuously:
“But I saw Sir Denis right here in Cairo yesterday.”
The effect of those few words upon Mr. Ahmad was miraculous. He changed colour alarmingly, clutched at the edge of the table and stared like a man who has been struck a body blow.
“You saw . . . him ... in Cairo . . .”
Words failed Mr. Ahmad, and Brian could have kicked himself; knew he had played the fool. He had had the game in his hands and had thrown his chance away. If, as he now had fresh reason to believe, Wellingham and Ahmad were conspiring against Nayland Smith, were no more than spies of the enemy (whoever the enemy might be), he could perhaps have exposed their game by the use of a little tact.
Brian wondered if he had left it too late. He could try.
“Yes.” He spoke easily. “Coming back here last night with a friend, our taxi passed a smart English sports car. (I think it was a Jaguar.) There were two men in it. And one of them was Sir Denis.”
Mr. Ahmad moistened his lips with his tongue.
“Where was this?”
