"My dear, you mustn't display that much money at this time of night," the woman said to her. She bent down and gathered up the loose pieces. "Come inside. Are you all alone?"
Oh, but it was quite lovely in here; she touched the rich fabric of the small gilded chair. And behold, more of the statues she'd seen in the window, and these were decked not only with rich flowing silks, but furs as well. The long strip of white fur in particular attracted her.
"I want this," she said.
"Of course, my dear, of course," said the proprietress.
She flashed her sweetest smile at the baffled woman. ' 'Is this ... is this . . . for the opera ball?" she asked.
"Oh, it would be perfectly lovely! I shall wrap it for you."
"Ah, but I need a gown, you see, and those slippers, and I need pearls and rubies, if you have them, for you see, I have lost all my finery, I have lost my jewels.''
"We shall take care of you! Please be seated. Now, what would you like to see in your size?"
* * *
It was going to work. It was an absurd story: Henry breaking into the Museum of Antiquities to steal a mummy in order to pay his debts. But the simple fact was-and he must remember this-the truth was even more absurd! No one would believe the truth at all.
He rang his old friend Pitfield as soon as he reached the suite.
"Tell him it's Elliott Rutherford, I'll hold on for him. Ah, Gerald. I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner. It seems I'm in a bit of legal trouble here. I think Henry Stratford's mixed up in it. Yes. Yes, this evening if you could. I'm at Shepheard's, of course. Ah, wonderful, Gerald. I knew I could count on you. Twenty minutes from now. In the bar."
He looked up to see Alex coming through the door as he put down the phone.
"Father, thank God you're back. They've confiscated our passports! Julie is frantic. And Miles has just been at her with another wild story. Some poor American murdered at the pyramids, and an English fellow killed outside the International Cafe."
"Alex, pack your trunk," he said. "I've already heard that whole story. Gerald Pitfield's on his way over. He'll have your passports back for you before morning, I promise, and then you and Julie are to be on the train."
"You'll have to tell her that, Father."
"I will, but right now I have to see Pitfield. Give me your arm, and help me to the lift."
"But, Father, who is responsible . . . ?"
"Son, I don't want to be the one to tell you. And certainly not the one to tell Julie. But it looks as if Henry may be deeply involved."
* * *
Quiet up here. One could scarcely hear the music from the lighted windows below. She had crept up the stairs all alone, wanting only to see the stars, and be away from the unwelcome knocks and the unwelcome jangling of the phone.
And there was Samir, standing there at the edge of the roof, looking out over the minarets and the domes, and the myriad little rooftops of Cairo. Samir, looking up at the heavens as if he were in prayer.
He slipped his arm around her as she approached.
"Samir, where is he?" she whispered.
"He will send word to us, Julie. He will not break his promise."
* * *
This had been an exquisite choice: pale green "satin" with rows of pearl "buttons" and layers of "Brussels lace." And the loose fur wrap looked quite becoming, said the woman, and the woman should know, should she not?
"Your hair, so beautiful, it seems quite a sin to tie it up, but my dear, you really should, you know. It looks rather . . . Perhaps tomorrow I can make an appointment for you with a hairdresser."
Of course she was right. The other women all had hair upswept, off the neck, not unlike the manner in which she'd worn hers always before this, except their coifs were shaped in a different way, more like a great heart with fancy curls. Yes, she would like this hairdresser.
"Especially for the opera ball!" Indeed. And the gown for the opera ball was a lovely creation, too, now hidden safely in a bundle of stiff and shining paper. And so were all the other things-the pretty lace "knickers" and the flimsy "underskirts" and the countless dresses, and shoes and hats, and various trifles she could no longer now remember. Lace handkerchiefs, scarves, and a white parasol for carrying in the sun! What delightful nonsense. It had been like walking into a great dressing closet. What were modern times that such things were everywhere ready made for the body?
The proprietress had almost finished her sums, as she called them. She had counted out many "bills" from the money. And now she opened the drawer of a big bronze machine, the "cash register," and there was much more money, more money by far than Cleopatra possessed.
"I must say you look stunning in that color!" said the woman. "It makes your eyes change from blue to green."
Cleopatra laughed. Heaps of money.
She rose from the chair, and walked delicately towards the woman, rather liking the clicking sound of these high heels on the marble floor.
She took hold of the woman's throat before the poor creature so much as looked up. She tightened her grip, pressing her thumb right on the tender bone in the middle. The woman appeared astonished. She gave a little hiccupping noise. Then Cleopatra lifted her right hand and carefully twisted the woman's head hard to the left. Snap. Dead.
No need now to reflect upon it, to ponder the great gulf that existed between her and this poor sad being who lay now on the floor behind her little table, staring up at the gilded ceiling. All of these beings were for killing when it was wanted, and what could they possibly do to her?
She scooped the money into the new satin evening bag she had found here. What would not fit she put into the old canvas bag. She took also all the jewels left in the case beneath the "cash register.'' Then she piled the boxes one atop another until she had a mountainous stack of them; and she carried them out and heaved them into the rear seat of the car.
Off now, to the next adventure. Throwing the long thick tails of the white fur over her shoulders, she fired up the beast again.
And headed fast for the place where ' 'all the best people stay, the British and the Americans, that's Shepheard's, the hotel, if you know what I mean."
She gave a deep laugh when she thought of the American and his strange way of talking to her, as if she were an idiot; and the merchant woman had been the same. Maybe at Shepheard's she would meet someone of charm and graceful manners, someone infinitely more interesting than all these miserable souls whom she had sent into the dark waters whence she'd come.
* * *
"What in God's name has happened here!" whispered the older of the two officials. He stood in the doorway of Malenka's house, reluctant to enter without a warrant or permission. No answer to his knock; no answer when he had called Henry Stratford's name.
He could see broken glass over the dressing table in the lighted bedroom. And that looked like blood on the floor.
The younger man, as ever impatient and strong-willed, had ventured into the courtyard with his electric torch. Chairs overturned. Broken china.
"Good Lord, Davis. There's a woman dead out here!"
The older man didn't move for a moment. He was staring at the dead parrot on the floor of its cage. And at all the empty bottles ranged from one end of the bar to the other. And the suit coat hanging on the corner rack.
Then he forced himself to go out into the dark little garden and see this corpse for himself.
"That's the woman," he said. "That's Malenka from the Babylon."
"Well, I don't think we need a warrant under these circumstances."
The older man came back into the sitting room. He moved cautiously into the bedroom.
He stared at the torn dress lying on the floor, and at the curious rags pushed in a pile against the wall. He paid little heed to the young man passing him; the young man who moved about, vaguely exhilarated by these obvious signs of disaster, searching and scribbling in his little book.