Thieves Fall Out (2 page)

It was when he came to pay for the cigarettes that he discovered he had been robbed. All his money and his American Express checks were gone. The double-buttoned back pocket where he kept them had been torn open.

Panic seized him as he gave the package of cigarettes back to the old man, who began to whine threateningly, implying that the value of his wares had been decreased by handling. In a daze he moved off down the arcade and retraced his steps to the pale blue building where he had spent the night. When he pounded on the door and shouted, there was no answer from inside. The windows were shuttered against the day and the inmates were invisible. Only a child with red-rimmed, diseased eyes watched him with interest, as he shook the door’s knob desperately.

* * *

He was given an audience with someone of almost no importance at the American Consulate.

The someone of no importance was young, disinterested, and disapproving. He sat behind a standard American desk in a small bare office with one window so high that the city could not be seen from it. But the noises could not be shut out, high, raucous, breathy Arab noises and, periodically, the unearthly sound of the faithful being called to prayer.

He started right in to tell the young official his story, but he was interrupted.

“I think we had better start from the beginning,” said Mr. Case, for so the discreet sign on his desk declared him, gold letters on black. “May I see your passport?”

The document was handed over. “Your name is Peter Wells?”

“That’s right.”

“You were born…”

“Salem, Oregon.”

“And you are…?”

“Thirty-one years and four months old in my stocking feet.” Pete Wells was beginning to dislike the young Mr. Case.

“What are you doing in Egypt?”

“Looking around.”

“Looking around for what?” The tone was cold and insulting.

Pete controlled himself. “I came here on a ship—worked my way as far as Alexandria on the freighter Roger Hale. I left the ship in Alexandria and came down to Cairo yesterday.”

“Why did you come to Cairo?”

“To look at the Sphinx.”

Mr. Case ignored the irony. “No tourists come to Cairo in the summer,” he said precisely. “July is one of the hottest months and there is cholera in many sections of the city.”

“I didn’t come for the cholera.”

“What, Mr. Wells, is your occupation?”

“My last job was as deck hand on the Roger Hale. Before that I was in the Army five years. Before that—”

“Then we shall list you as a merchant seaman.”

“Except for the fact that I lived in Texas and wildcatted, up to the war.”

“Wildcatted?”

“Prospected for oil.”

“There is no oil in Egypt.”

“Now look here, Mr. Case, I’m an American citizen, a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army Reserves. I came over here to look around. I’ve been robbed and I’m appealing to the government to do something about it.”

“It’s not the government’s…” but Mr. Case paused, deciding not to go into that routine just yet. He made tiny marks on a piece of paper; then he asked, “How much were you robbed of, and where, and how?”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars in American Express checks, about ten dollars in piasters, and my Social Security card.”

“How did you manage to save your passport?”

Pete shrugged. “It was in another pocket, in my shirt. I don’t know where I was robbed, but I have a pretty good idea it was the house where I woke up. You see, I think I was doped.”

“Doped?”

“The last thing I remember was going into a dive a few blocks from here, about five o’clock yesterday afternoon. French place called Le Couteau Rouge. Next thing I knew, I woke up about an hour ago in a house with some woman I never saw before, Arab woman, asking me for money. Well, I couldn’t remember a thing, but I was sure I paid in advance, knowing those places, so I got out fast. Then I found out too late I’d been rolled.”

Mr. Case’s Puritan face was set in a mask of bleak disgust. “Then you don’t recall anything between Le Couteau Rouge and waking up this morning?”

“That’s about it.”

“What do you propose we do about this?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” They looked at each other hostilely across the desk.

“I will report all this to the Consul General and we’ll see what we can do about getting the Express checks back. In the meantime…”

“I have no money.”

“I assume you have a bank account somewhere. The Consulate could probably help you get a check cashed.”

“The money I lost was all I have, anywhere,” said Pete.

“Your family…”

“No such thing.”

“Perhaps we could get you on an American ship, a deck-hand job. I assume you belong to the union.”

“I just got here,” said Pete reasonably. “Maybe you could get me a job.”

“Difficult,” said Mr. Case vaguely. “The Consulate doesn’t like this sort of thing.”

“Neither do I.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Stanley, Eugenie Street. I paid a week in advance yesterday, so I’ve got a place to stay for a few days, with meals.”

“Then consider yourself lucky. I’ll present your case to the Consul and we will let you know in a day or two if anything can be done.” He pushed back from his desk and looked at his watch impatiently; the interview was over.

“What am I going to do for money?” asked Pete, embarrassed by having to beg.

The official looked at him blankly. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, thanks.” Pete got to his feet. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

“I don’t smoke,” said Mr. Case; then he added, “Sorry,” which made it worse, but Pete Wells was already gone.

* * *

The Stanley Hotel was only a half-dozen crooked blocks away, a large nineteenth-century building, dilapidated, very English, with high ceilings to which were attached great lazy fans that made little difference in the damp gray heat.

He nodded to the desk clerk, a stubby Britisher with a cockney accent who had told him about Le Couteau Rouge the night before, contributing to his downfall. Then he went into the dining room, where, fortunately, lunch was being served.

Tall Negroes from the Sudan, wearing fezzes, striped robes, and bloomer-like trousers, served him and the dozen other guests, all English, who sat about at the small tables, listlessly eating, their white linen suits crumpled in the heat.

Pete ate hungrily, despite the oddness of most of the dishes and the army of flies that shared them with him. By the time the bitter chicory-tasting coffee was served, he felt more like himself again, as though he could handle anything. The only problem remaining was what to handle. With no money and no prospect of anything from the Consulate, the possibilities for action were limited. He couldn’t buy cigarettes or a drink; he couldn’t even get into the Cairo Museum, which required a ticket.

His mind full of schemes, he went upstairs to his room. It was on the first floor, facing a cement court where several seedy palms were growing. He shaved. He took a bath in an ancient tub hidden in a dark closet down the hall. Then he put on his only suit, a clean gabardine, old but in good condition, with all essential buttons still attached.

As he combed his hair in the dusty glass of the bureau, he was fairly pleased with his appearance. He looked solvent. No one, he decided, would have suspected he didn’t have a cent in the world. His face was eager, healthy, typically American, with dark blue eyes, a small nose a trifle off center, a good jaw, and sandy hair with a cowlick in front that hung over his forehead, like a thatched roof on an Irish hut. He was almost tall, with lean hips and a deep chest acquired during his days in high school and in the Army, where he had been divisional middleweight boxing champion. An honest, open face, he thought to himself with a grin, concealing a larcenous soul. He was prepared to do almost anything to make a dollar, and in his life he’d done a lot of unusual things to survive.

At the moment, the only answer to his immediate problem seemed to be Shepheard’s Hotel, where he’d been told almost anything might happen to somebody with an eye on the main chance. That was the hotel where the biggest operators lived.

It was a long walk to Shepheard’s and he took it easy, keeping as much as possible to shadowy arcades, trying not to work up a sweat that would wrinkle his last clean white shirt.

Every step he took was an effort because of the beggars, thieves, and guides who clutched at him, shouting, whining, begging, some in English, some in a crazy mixture of French and Arab and English. He brushed them aside, swore at them, but they would not leave him alone, and finally he was forced to accept them as an unpleasant but inevitable part of the scenery.

Shepheard’s was a long building, several stories high, with big shuttered windows and a porch on the street side, where, at numerous tables, foreigners and rich Egyptians sat at the end of the day, watching the street and drinking
apéritifs;
but at this time of day the porch was deserted.

With a show of confidence, he walked up the steps to the main door, glad to be rid at last of the beggars, who now fell into position against the terrace wall, waiting for American and European victims.

The lobby of the hotel was blissfully cool after the heat outside. Negro servants in hotel livery moved silently about the great room, carrying bags, doing errands for the guests. Though it was out of season, there were still quite a few guests here, he saw to his relief. Help would come from them, though he was not sure how.

He sauntered from the main lobby into a vast room with a high domed ceiling, like the interior of a mosque, much decorated, ornate, Turkish in style. It was cool and mysterious with dark alcoves in which people sat doing business: fat stolid Egyptians and lean, red-faced British, exchanging papers, peering at small type, murmuring their deals in low voices.

At the end of the room, to the left, was the famous bar, a wood-paneled room with an oval-shaped bar at which stood a dozen men in white suits, drinking, their feet resting on the shining brass rail.

Pete entered the room. He walked its length uncertainly, as though searching for someone. Then, with a puzzled look, glancing at his wrist as though at a watch (his own had been pawned months ago), he approached the one man who was standing alone and said, “You don’t happen to know George Whittaker, do you? He’s from the Embassy and I…” He allowed his voice to trail off into a shy mumble.

“Whittaker? No, afraid I don’t. Supposed to meet him here?”

Pete nodded. “Of course, I made the date kind of vague. You see, I only got here yesterday from the States and I’ve had so damned many things to do that…” He said whatever came into his head, covertly watching the other: a large-boned middle-aged Englishman with a lined face, dark from the sun, and a bald shining pink skull. He was dressed expensively in a light tropical suit. Pete had already caught the flash of a heavy gold and sapphire ring.

A second before his story gave out, the anticipated invitation came. “Have a drink, sir. Name’s Hastings. What’s yours?”

“Oh, well, thanks a lot. I will. Peter Wells. A gin and tonic, please.”

“American?”

“That’s right. Came to Alexandria on a freighter from New York.”

“Long trip. Have any plans?”

Pete shook his head slowly. “No,” he said uncertainly, as though there were too many possibilities before him. “Thought I’d look around for a bit.”

“Sight-seeing?”

“Sure. Pretty hot, though, for that.”

“Hot as blazes. Got the country to yourself this time of year. Just you and the Gyps, as we used to call them in the war. Crew of pirates, but not half bad when you get to know them. I’ve been around here twenty years, off and on. Middle East man, I suppose. Gets under your skin. Like that Lawrence chap who used to love playing Arab, dressing up, got so he hated going back to England. I’m the same.”

Pete listened attentively, enjoying the gin and tonic; then he fumbled through pockets with a stage frown. “Want a fag?” asked Hastings, producing a gold cigarette case, intricately monogrammed.

“Oh, thanks a lot. Must’ve left mine at the hotel.”

“Where you stopping?”

Pete inhaled deeply, happily. “The Stanley. Not a bad place, not expensive.”

“What line you in?”

“Oil mostly, before the war. I made a bit of money in the oilfields, in southwest Texas, but then I was drafted, and by the time I got out my partners didn’t have much use for me. So I lit out for these parts.” Since he was now telling the truth for the first time, he found it easier to look the other straight in the face, and their eyes met. Hastings lowered his first.

“Why Egypt?”

“Rumors about oil in the desert. Thought there might be something here for me.”

“Money all over the place, all over,” said Hastings absently, watching a group of American businessmen with loud ties move in a boisterous group from lobby to bar. They all ordered Scotch. Hastings shuddered. “Too heavy for days like this. Stick to gin and live longer—kills all bacteria; doesn’t injure liver. Think you might like to make a few fast quid in Egypt?” All this came out at once; it took Pete a moment to separate the bacteria from the quid, from the sudden mention of money.

“Why, sure, now you brought it up, I wouldn’t mind at all,” said Pete, looking carefully at his glass.

“Lot of money floating about. Some it sticks to a man, if he’s got the stuff.” Abruptly, Hastings’ hand closed on Pete’s bicep. His fingers were surprisingly strong. Only by flexing his muscles could Pete avoid a bruise. “Bit of all right,” said Hastings admiringly, letting his hand drop casually. To anyone watching he seemed to be telling a funny story that he had punctuated by squeezing the American’s arm. He smiled tightly, revealing nicotine-yellow teeth.

“I used to box,” said Pete. “In the Army.”

“Branch?”

“Infantry. Third Army.”

“Rugged boy,” said Hastings, ordering another round. Pete wondered what he had in mind. They drank the next round in silence. Finally Hastings spoke: “Let me see your passport, if I may. Just put it on the bar in front of me, discreetly.”