E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Page 23

  “Now he’s trying to disguise himself as a true believer,” a policeman told one of the spectators.

  Rayne sold some lemonade. The policemen helped themselves, sans payment. Rayne, though still shaky, left the corner with increased confidence. However, he realized that from now on, the police would be going from one shop to the next to pick up the trail of a man who had shed a white suit in favor of native dress.

  Once more, he was tempted to phone or see Colonel Mitchell, but he ended by resisting the temptation, simply because an officer could not take part in any free and easy snooping fest. Whether he liked it or not, Rayne had to play the hand out himself.

  Then the game began to have a thrill. As he ate, that night, he chatted with fellow diners and got their ideas on the mad infidel. They were betting a hundred to one the fellow would be nailed before dawn. His way of eating or drinking would betray him, even if his speech did not.

  While they admitted that infidels might learn Arabic at school, none could speak it convincingly. Rayne, after belching in the fashion prescribed by the Egyptian Emily Post, wagged his head and agreed. “By Allah, brother, that is verily the essence of truth,” he said.

  He rented a cubicle in the old caravanserai, and spread out the palm leaf mat he had picked up near the restaurant. From now on, this was his address in the Muski. Having a visible means of support, his chances were not the worst in the world.

  In spite of having gone native, Rayne dared not risk entering Kassim’s place. But he prowled about, waiting for dragomans to bring customers from the merchant marine. With the ever increasing flow of ships from the States, there would be more and more American seamen.

  These seamen did not have to be indiscreet. Just a casual remark, harmless in itself, was enough. But it could be dangerous when fitted into other equally trifling bits contributed by sailors from a different ship. A man can hardly help but let his hair down after making a safe landing. While Rayne had always known the peril of unguarded remarks concerning a ship about to sail from the States, he now realized, from the past night’s mishaps, the enemy could make good use of facts pertaining to a safe arrival in port.

  CHAPTER IV

  Into Enemy Clutches

  From his lurking place across the narrow street, Rayne saw and heard three Americans who trailed after their dragoman. The guide’s leathery face was plain for a moment as he stood under the light in Kassim’s doorway. He turned to bow and gesture, and to go into his patter, “This way, gents,” he told the Americans. “Famous rendezvous. The real Cairo. Boss spiks good Inglees, like me.” The man’s number also showed for an instant. Rayne would not forget either. The Americans filed in. But they came out before long and the dragoman followed them, wailing.

  “You wait, I show some other place,” he promised. “Kassim uncle just die. No more business tonight.”

  “How about us going to the funeral?”

  “Do they have grub and fireworks?” another quipped.

  “You’re thinking of the Chinese,” said a third. Then, to the dragoman, “Shake it up, Abdul!”

  “Name is Selim,” the guide corrected. “Poverty struck son of one time pasha.”

  “Aw, nuts, it’s Abdul, do you get it?” The three went on, everyone offering an idea as to the next place. “Kassim’s looked like a funeral anyway. Hey, take us to a juke joint, we want to dance.” Rayne did not follow them. Just why Kassim was turning down customers was worth finding out.

  He headed Nile-ward for perhaps a hundred yards, then swung into a yard-wide alley. It opened into a dark and odorous court which opened into another passageway. This was Cairene town planning, at its craziest.

  Above him, he heard the voices of people lounging on the flat roofs. The scent of Ajami tobacco drifted down to blend with rubbish reek. He met no pedestrians, and presently, he had doubled back, reaching the rear of Kassim’s place.

  In the dark, he found the wicket, which was latched, not locked. Patiently silently, he worked the door open, then closed it after him. Once in the gloom of the court, he made a slow circuit of the wall. It was lined with storage sheds and packing crates were heaped in corners. Liquor cases, saved up for fuel, he surmised, to stretch the charcoal supply.

  Above him, mashrabiyehs bellied out, projecting from the second floor and overhanging the court. In these screened bay windows one could get the river breeze almost as readily as on the roof. But at the moment, lack of either light or voices told him the occupants of the building were elsewhere.

  Rayne could barely distinguish muffled speech from somewhere in front. In view of Kassim’s having turned customers away, that conversation was worth hearing.

  The door ahead was apparently bolted from the inside. Rayne headed for the corner of the court, stacked up some empty cases, and from that footing, pulled himself up. He doubted the carved latticework of the nearest mashrabiyeh would offer a toe-hold strong enough to support his weight. Then there was the matter of noise. So he tried another approach.

  An upward leap, risky because of his narrow footing, gave him a precarious grasp of the parapet which guarded the flat roof.

  For a moment, he doubted that he could make it. Worse yet, there was the chance that he would lose his hold and drop down into the court, making enough noise to alarm Kassim. But he made it. Skylined, he was at the mercy of any neighbors who might be looking.

  When he had cleared the parapet, he crept across the roof to the head of the stairs which led to the lower floor. Echoes distorted the words, otherwise, he could have halted midway to listen. Not until he had reached the edge of the patch of light which wavered on the lower stair treads, was he able to understand what was being said. From that distance, also he got a partial view of the back room.

  Kassim was conferring with two men. One, wearing European clothes and a tarboosh, had an oversized diamond in his necktie. Heavily-jeweled rings flashed on his lean brown hand. The other, in native dress, was familiar, which puzzled Rayne for an instant. Then he realized that this was the jailer, now in civilian clothes. Kassim was protesting to the bejeweled dignitary.

  “Your Excellency, I couldn’t leave my post to call on you,” Kassim said. “I had to send a messenger.” He made a helpless gesture. “Really, Daoud Pasha, this was no time for etiquette.”

  “Etiquette!” The pasha snorted. “You fool, you son of several pigs, I’m not thinking of ceremony. But if Army Intelligence is watching you, it is not helpful to have me come here to be included in their suspicion.”

  Kassim gulped, turned to the jailer for moral support, and got only a blank look.

  “Excellency, we have only Musa’s word for it the accursed lemonade peddler is connected with the British or American Army,” Kassim assured the official.

  Musa, the jailer flared up.

  “So you think I can’t understand Inglesi? I speak better than you. No, I was not so near, but I can’t be mistaken. That’s what he said to the sailors.” Daoud Pasha went wild.

  “Satan blacken you, Musa. And you waited till now to tell us.”

  “I didn’t know it was important. Not till I began thinking a while, after I was off duty. Anyway, what if the officers or the sailors do find them and get them released?”

  From this it grew clear Musa did not know the score any better than Rayne did. Under ordinary circumstances, neither Kassim nor the pasha would have enlightened him. As it was, the pasha, believing himself in a tight corner, wanted to impress Kassim’s friend with the importance of being vigilant in the future.

  “Listen, Musa,” he said. “Foreigners are swallowing Egypt, piecemeal. First the British, and now the Americans. For what they call defending the country, they’ll take an even stronger hold. Kassim and I are patriots, you understand? Egypt for the Egyptians. Despite all that it takes you hours to decide you ought to tell Kassim about an Intelligence officer finding those sailors in jail!”


  Musa, seeing how worried Daoud Pasha was, forgot his deference to the man’s rank.

  “What happens to your excellency is none of my business!” he snapped, insolently. “I had Kassim in mind. Allah! What have you ever done for me? None of this makes sense anyway. The British are bad, but no worse than the Germans. They pretend to be friends but only a fool would believe that.”

  As Rayne now saw it, Musa, knowing the sailors had gotten into a serious riot outside of Kassim’s place, had been worried only by the thought that his friend might run into trouble with Army Intelligence. However, Daoud Pasha’s hasty drive in response to a restaurant keeper’s summons convinced Rayne that his original hunch had been right. The anti-British pasha must have been conspiring with Kassim to obstruct the defense of Egypt.

  Daoud probably was, according to his lights, a patriot, and neither a Quisling nor a traitor. But Rayne’s job at the moment was to trail the missing spare parts, regardless of the pasha’s being or not being a Nazi agent.

  “Only a fool would believe those Germans,” Musa repeated, enjoying the spectacle of a badly-worried pasha.

  But Daoud was frightened and jittery. He had been pushed too far by an insolent jailer. He cursed, drew an automatic pistol from his pocket, and fired.

  Kassim, however, bounded toward him. This deflected the pasha’s aim. Musa, panic-stricken, did not wait for the outcome. Though there was a door leading to the front and another to the rear, both were barred. With a yell, he leaped over a bench, and darted toward the stairway.

  Meanwhile, the pasha dropped the pistol as Kassim, wrenched his wrist. “Excellency, Musa means no harm,” he shouted. Then, shouldering the hotheaded official aside, Kassim darted after his friend, calling, “Wait, Musa! Wait!”

  Rayne, cramped from squatting on the stairs, could not move rapidly enough to race Musa to the roof. The way was narrow, and even as he hoped that the jailer would be blinded by panic, Kassim’s shouts took effect.

  The frightened man, thinking he had two enemies now, leaped to his left, colliding with Rayne.

  Just then Kassim charged into the tangle. The stairs were steep and narrow. Rayne’s efforts to disengage himself failed. He was still kicking and struggling when the three thumped down a dozen treads and crashed against the low table in the center of the floor.

  Rayne doubled Musa with a boot to the stomach. He disentangled himself from Kassim and tried for the pistol which the pasha had dropped, but Daoud, apart from the three-cornered melee, had kept his wits. He snatched the weapon.

  “Hold it, you fools!” he cried. “We’ve got a spy here!”

  Rayne, failing to get the pasha’s pistol, seized the table, which was knee high, and a little over a yard in diameter. The silver and ivory inlay deflected Daoud Pasha’s hasty shot.

  Then, as the weapon jammed, Rayne straight-armed the table, knocking the Egyptian off balance.

  One more move, and he would break for the roof. He had plenty to tell Colonel Mitchel. Moreover, stealth had no further use, now that Daoud knew a spy had tuned in. He whirled, and from the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of Kassim, who had regained his feet.

  Rayne’s ankle turned. A splash of coffee dregs made him slip, and for an instant, he floundered. Kassim, for all his fat, was agile enough to use the brass tray he had picked from the floor. It rang like a temple bell as it smashed down on Rayne’s head, knocking him face forward to the floor, too nearly out for either flight or fight.

  CHAPTER V

  Torture By Fire

  The disturbance had not alarmed the quarter. The stone walls muffled the sharp crack of the small bore pistol. Kassim’s waiters had apparently gone home when the proprietor closed the loqanda, since no one had come from the front. Once Rayne’s wrists were lashed together with a length of cord, Kassim and the pasha yanked him to his feet.

  Musa had by now regained his breath sufficiently to gasp, “By Allah—that—is—the Intelligence—officer.”

  Daoud, despite his bleeding and battered face, was amiable enough.

  “You did very well, stopping him,” he said to Musa, who presumably was supposed to forget the attempt to shoot him down. “I’ll speak to the chief of police in your favor.”

  That, Daoud assumed, would fix it up. Pashas had not changed much since the days when arbitrary floggings and capital punishment were a routine privilege they exercised freely.

  “Your excellency,” Kassim said, “we must get this fellow out of here before his superiors search the place.”

  It was not clear to Rayne why they had not already cut his throat. As his captors marched him, blindfolded, down through a maze of alleys, he reasoned that it is usually easier and safer to let a man go to the execution scene under his own power.

  If there were any spectators on the nearby roofs, or in the over-hanging mashrabiyeh windows, they would see nothing significant in the group which filed through the darkness below.

  Rayne was sure that even if he had been one of a group of Intelligence officers, it would have been impossible to trail him. At least twice during the march, the party entered and passed through a building, and emerged in the labyrinth at its rear.

  Odors finally helped Rayne to orient himself. When he caught the tang of the spice bazaar, and the reek of the saddle-makers quarter, he knew where he was. These landmarks were scarcely out of nose range when his captors prodded him over a threshold and removed the blindfold.

  By the light of an oil lamp, Rayne saw that he was in the reception room of a long unoccupied house. Dust coated the floor, and the worn upholstery of a low platform which ran along one wall.

  “There is a well in the courtyard,” said Daoud Pasha. “It is about your size.”

  “Nobody is stopping you,” retorted Rayne, hoping that his voice did not betray his dismay. “Or are you waiting on my account?”

  “There is a way out, if you are reasonable,” cut in Kassim. Musa stood to one side. His eyes were narrow and glittering. He seemed to be wavering between hatred of Daoud Pasha, and loyalty to his friend Kassim.

  “What was the purpose of your spying?” the pasha asked Rayne. “Do you realize you are wanted for murder? Not even your superior can protect you from that.”

  A good deal more could be found in that idea than the pasha himself realized. While Rayne may have intervened to help two fellow Americans fight off a treacherous attack, he would nevertheless have to face the local laws. Certainly he had no legal defense for his invasion of Kassim’s quarters. But what heartened him was that Daoud Pasha was temporizing instead of using that ready gun.

  Rayne’s mind raced as Daoud Pasha’s intent eyes bored into him.

  “This buzzard must believe I have something on him, he’s trying to blackmail me by using what he’s got on me,” he thought to himself.

  “You aren’t too sure what my superior can or can’t do, are you?” Rayne retorted to the pasha. “Otherwise you’d give me what you tried to give Musa.”

  “You’ve not told me why you were spying,” Daoud Pasha persisted.

  “Those sailors were led by an unlicensed dragoman to Kassim’s place,” Rayne retorted. “They were ambushed on the way out because they knew too much about something you are interested in. Naturally, I reported that. But if you’re sure they won’t be released from jail until you’ve covered your tracks, you have not a thing in the world to worry about.”

  With an oily smile, the Egyptian official stared at Rayne.

  “Army Intelligence won’t find you so easily,” the pasha countered.

  “Maybe not.” Rayne shrugged. He tried to force himself to believe, rather than hope he could find a loophole in the pasha’s defenses. Then he staked it all on a bluff: “They don’t have to find me. What is one man, more or less, in this whole show? As long as they find the tractor parts you sidetracked, you’ll get what will run your friend Rommel the full wi
dth of Africa and push him into the ocean.”

  The Egyptian official was not poker-faced. The thought of Army Intelligence on his trail cracked his resistance. His snort of derision did not sound sincere. So Rayne hammered away. Though his hands were tied, he had, for a moment at least, won the initiative.

  “Official Egypt may be pretty rotten, but there are some sound spots. Maybe you’ve got your reasons to be anti-British but a lot of your people don’t agree that the Nazis are a blessing. There’s a well waiting for me out in back, but do you know what’s waiting for you?”

  Daoud Pasha’s laugh was forced.

  “You are almost threatening me. Very well, if your superiors know where the spare parts are, why haven’t they seized them? I never heard of that American game called poker. So—I am calling your hand.”

  The pasha’s confidence had returned. He stalked grandly out of the room, and into the court, where he called, “Ali! Marouf!”

  Two men answered.

  “Aywah, effendi!”

  A low-voiced consultation followed. Rayne was not able to get a word of what passed between Daoud and the two he had called. That they were at hand, awaiting summons, seemed significant. They must have been there all evening, for Daoud Pasha had not taken time, since Rayne’s capture, to order henchmen to appear at a rendezvous. A thrill of realization buoyed him up and out of the depression which the ominous conference in the court had induced.

  The pasha remained in a huddle with Marouf and Ali. They were planning the first step toward murder and its concealment. Their having been on hand indicated that the warehouse which contained the sidetracked tank parts must be near.

  This was a quarter devoted largely to the wakkalas which in the old days had received goods hauled by camel caravans out of the Soudan. So, despite the growing menace, Rayne felt that he had gained a point.

  He realized that this might be wishful thinking on his part, yet he could not deny the logic. Daoud Pasha, worried and caught off guard, would inevitably take a prisoner to a place associated in his mind with concealment.