The doctor was furious. If the man was badly wounded, he should be in hospital, not in the back of the jail.
'Make way,' he shouted to the uniformed men in front of him. 'What in God's name is this, a firing squad?'
No less than twenty rifles were pointed at the tall blue-eyed man standing against the wall. Dried blood covered the man's shirt. The shoulder had been blown away from his coat. There was dried blood there as well. Panic-stricken, he stared at the doctor.
'Come no closer!' he cried. 'You will not examine me. You will not touch me with your medical instruments. I am unharmed and I want to leave this place.'
'Five bullets,' whispered the officer in the doctor's ear. 'I saw the wounds, I tell you. He can't possibly have withstood such a-'
' Let me have a look at you! *' The doctor attempted to move in.
Instantly the man's fist shot towards him, knocking the black bag to the ceiling. One of the rifles went off as the man charged the policemen, slamming several of them backwards, against the wall. The doctor fell to his knees. His glasses fell on the ground before him. He felt the heel of a boot come down on his hand as the soldiers stampeded into the hall.
Again the rifle cracked. Shouts and curses in Egyptian. Where were his glasses! He must find his glasses.
Suddenly someone was helping him to his feet. The glasses were in his hand and quickly he put them on.
A civilized English face came into focus.
'Arc you all right?'
'What the devil's happened? Where is he? Did they shoot him again?''
'The man's as strong as a bull. He broke the back door out, bars and all. He's escaped.'
* * *
Thank God, Alex was with her. No one could find Elliott. Samir had gone on to the police station to find out what he could. As she and Alex were ushered into the office, she saw with relief that it was the governor's assistant. Miles Winthrop, and not the governor himself. Miles had gone to school with Alex. Julie had known him since he was a little boy.
'Miles, this is a misunderstanding,' Alex said. 'It has to be.'
'Miles,' she said. 'Do you think you can get him released?'
'Julie, the situation is more complicated than we realized. First off, the Egyptians aren't too fond of those who break into their world-famous museum. But now there's a theft and a murder to be considered as well.'
'What are you talking about!' Julie whispered.
'Miles, Ramsey couldn't murder anybody,' Alex said. 'That's patently absurd.'
'I hope you're right, Alex. But there's a maid dead in the museum with her neck broken. And a mummy's been stolen from a display case on the second floor. And your friend has escaped the jail. Now, tell me, both of you. How well do you really know this man?'
* * *
Running at full sprint across the roof, he took the alleyway before him in one leap. Within seconds, he covered another roof, and dropped down to another, and then cut across another narrow street.
Only then did he look back. His pursuers had lost him. He could hear the faint, very distant crack of the rifle. Perhaps they were shooting at each other. He did not care.
He dropped down into the street and ran. Within a short distance, the street became an alley. The houses hemming him in had high windows covered over with wooden screens. He saw no more British shops or English signs. Only Egyptians passed him, and for the most part they were old women in pairs, with veils over their faces and their hair. They averted their eyes at once from his bloodstained shirt and torn clothes.
Finally he stepped into a doorway and rested, and then slowly slipped his hand into his coat. The wound was healed on the outside, though he could still feel the throbbing inside. He felt the broad strip of the moneybelt. The vials were intact.
The cursed vials! Would that he had never taken the elixir from its hiding place in London! Or that he had sealed the powder into a clay vessel and sunk the vessel into the sea!
What would the soldiers have done with the liquid if they had got their hands on it? He could not bear to dwell on how close he had come to that possibility.
But the thing now was to return to the museum! He must find her! And to dwell on what had befallen her in the interim was more than he could bear.
Never in all his existence had he experienced the regret which he was feeling now. But it was done! He had succumbed to the temptation. He had awakened the half-rotted body lying in that case.
And he must find the results of his folly. He must learn whether a spark of intellect existed inside it!
Ah, but whom was he deceiving! She had called his name!
He turned and hurried down the alley. A disguise, that's what he needed. And he had no time to purchase it. He must take it where he could. Laundry, he had seen ropes of laundry. He rushed on, until he saw another such rope sagging across a narrow passageway to his left.
Bedouin garments-the long-sleeved robe and the headdress. He tore these down at once. Discarding his jacket, he put them on, and then cut a bit of the rope itself to tie around his head.
Now he looked like an Arab except for the blue eyes. But then he knew where he might get a pair of dark glasses. He'd seen them in the bazaar. And that was on the way back to the museum. He headed out at a dead run.
* * *
Henry had been almost dead drunk since he'd come from Shepheard's the day before. The brief talk with Elliott had had a peculiar effect on him somehow; it had sapped his nerve.
He tried to remind himself that he loathed Elliott Savarell and that he himself was pressing on to America, where he'd never see Elliott or anyone like him again.
Yet the meeting haunted him. Every time he sobered up just a little he saw Elliott again, staring at him with absolute contempt. He heard the cold hatred in Elliott's voice.
A lot of nerve Elliott had, turning on him like this. Years ago, after a brief and stupid affair, Henry had had it in his power to destroy Elliott, but he had not done so for no other reason than it would have been a cruel thing to do. He had always presumed that Elliott was grateful for that; that Elliott's patience and politeness signaled that gratitude. For Elliott had been unfailingly courteous to him over the years.
Not so yesterday. And the awful thing about it was that the hatred EHiott evinced had been a mirror image of the hatred Henry felt for everyone he knew. It had soured Henry and embittered him.
And it had also frightened him.
Have to get away from them, all of them, he reasoned. They do nothing but criticize me and misjudge me when they are not worth a tinker's damn themselves.
When they had left Cairo, he would clean himself up, stop drinking, go back to Shepheard's and sleep in peace for a few days. Then he'd strike the bargain with his father and head out to America with the considerable little fortune he'd saved.
But for the moment, he had no intention of curtailing the parry. There would be no card game today; he would take it easy, and enjoy the Scotch without distraction; merely dozing in his rattan chair, and eating the food Malenka prepared for him if and when he chose.
Malenka herself had become a bit of a nag. She had just cooked an English breakfast for him and wanted him to come to the table. He had slapped her with the back of his hand, and told her to leave him alone.
Nevertheless she went on with her preparations. He could hear the kettle whistling. She had set china out on the small rattan table in the courtyard.
Well, to hell with her. He had three bottles of Scotch, which was plenty. Maybe he would lock her out later if there was a chance. He loved the idea of being all alone here. Of drinking and smoking and dreaming. And maybe
