sweethearts.'
Jakes said: 'That's right.'
Vandam raised an eyebrow at Jakes.
The detective went on: 'A good place, perhaps, for a beggar to sit. Nobody ever sees a beggar. At night welt, there are bushes. Also popular with sweethearts.'
Vandam said: 'Is that right, Jakes?'
'I wouldn't know, sir.' He realized he was being ribbed, and he smiled. He gave the detective a piece of paper with the phone numbers written on it. A little boy in pajamas walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was about five or six years old. He looked around the room sleepily, then went to the detective.
'My son,' the detective said proudly.
'I think we can leave you now,' Vandam said. 'Unless you want us to drop you in the city?'
'No, thank you, I have a car, and I should like to put on my jacket and tie and comb my hair.'
'Very well, but make it fast.' Vandam stood up. Suddenly he could not see straight it was as if his eyelids were closing involuntarily, yet he knew he had his eyes wide open. He felt himself losing his balance. Then Jakes was beside him, holding his arm.
'All right, sir?'
His vision returned slowly. 'All right now,' he said.
'You've had a nasty injury,' the detective said sympathetically. They went to the door. The detective said: 'Gentlemen, be assured that I will handle this surveillance personally. They won't get a mouse aboard that houseboat without your knowing it.' He was still holding the little boy, and now he shifted him on to his left hip and held out his right hand.
'Good-bye,' Vandam said. He shook hands. 'By the way, I'm Major Vandam' The detective gave a little bow. 'Superintendent Kemel, at your service, sir.'
Chapter 14.
Sonja brooded. She had half expected Wolff to be at the houseboat when she returned toward dawn, but she had found the place cold and empty. She was not sure how she felt about that. At first, when they had arrested her, she had felt nothing but rage toward Wolff for running away and leaving her at the mercy of the British thugs. Being alone, being a woman and being an accomplice of sorts in Wolffs spying, she was terrified of what they might do to her. She thought Wolff should have stayed to look after her. Then she had realized that that would not have been smart. By abandoning her he had diverted suspicion away from her. It was hard to take, but it was for the best. Sitting alone in the bare little room at GHQ she had turned her anger away from Wolff and toward the British. She had defied them, and they had backed down.
At the time she had not been sure that the man who interrogated her had been Major Vandam, but later, when she was being released, the clerk had let the name slip. The confirmation had delighted her. She smiled again when she thought of the grotesque bandage on Vandam's face. Wolff must have cut him with the knife. He should have killed him. But all the same, what a night, what a glorious night!
She wondered where Wolff was now. He would have gone to ground somewhere in the city. He would emerge when he thought the coast was clear. There was nothing she could do. She would have liked him here, though, to share the triumph.
She put on her nightdress. She knew she ought to go to bed, but she did not feet sleepy. Perhaps a drink would help.
She found a bottle of scotch whiskey, poured some into a glass, and added water. As she was tasting it she heard footsteps on the gangplank. Without thinking she called: 'Achmed . . .' Then she realized the step was not his, it was too light and quick. She stood at the foot of the ladder in her nightdress, with the drink in her hand. The hatch was lifted and an Arab face looked in.
'Sonia?'
'You were expecting someone else, I think.' The man climbed down the ladder. Sonja watched him, thinking: What now? He stepped off the ladder and stood in front of her. He was a small man with a handsome face and quick, neat movements. He wore European clothes: dark trousers, polished black shoes and a short-sleeved white shirt. 'I am Detective Superintendent Kernel, and I am honored to meet you.' He held out his hand.
Sonja turned away, walked across to the divan and sat down. She thought she had dealt with the police. Now the Egyptians wanted to get in on the act. It would probably come down to a bribe in the end, she reassured herself. She sipped her drink, staring at Kernel. Finally she said: 'What do you want?'
Kernel sat down uninvited. 'I am interested in your friend, Alex Wolff.'
'He's not my friend.'
Kernel ignored that. 'The British have told me two things about Mr. Wolff: one, that he knifed a soldier in Assyut; two, that he tried to pass counterfeit English banknotes in a restaurant in Cairo. Already the story is a little curious. Why was he in Assyut? Why did he kill the soldier? And where did he get the forged money?'
'I don't know anything about the man,' said Sonja, hoping he would not come home right now.
'I do, though,' said Kernel. 'I have other information that the British may or may not possess. I know who Alex Wolff is. His stepfather was a lawyer, here in Cairo. His mother was German. I know, too, that Wolff is a nationalist. I know that he used to be your lover. And I know that you are a nationalist.'
Sonja had gone cold. She sat stiffly, her drink untouched, watching the sly detective unreel the evidence against her. She said nothing.
Kemel went on: 'Where did he get the forged money? Not in Egypt. I don't think there is a printer in Egypt capable of doing the work; and if there were, I think he would make Egyptian currency. Therefore the money came from Europe. Now Wolff, also known as Achmed Rahniha, quietly disappeared a couple of years ago. Where did he go? Europe? He came back-via Assyut. Why? Did he want to sneak into the country unnoticed? Perhaps he teamed up with an English counterfeiting gang, and has now returned with his share of the profits; but I don't think so, for he is not a poor man, nor is he a criminal. So, there is a mystery.'
