She was tall, with hauntingly blue eyes, and fine blonde hair that cascaded in graceful waves almost to her shoulders. Her slender, charmingly feminine figure was accentuated by the smartly tailored white gabardine suit she wore. She looked cool and fresh and American.
Neal smiled suddenly. Just seeing a girl like this made him feel certain that Cairo was a fine place after all.
“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he said to her.
She looked anxiously at the man she was with and murmured something under her breath that he didn’t hear. Neal’s smile faded as he looked closely at the girl. There was a hidden fear lurking in the depths of her eyes and he saw that the small handkerchief in her hands had been twisted into a small, crushed ball.
Her companion held out his hand imperiously.
“Will you give me the knife?” he snapped. “Or must I summon the police?”
Neal stiffened at the man’s tone. There was something so definitely insulting in it that he felt a hot flush of anger staining his face. His big hands closed spasmodically over the knife in his hands.
“You might get better results,” he suggested as coolly as he could, “if you’d stop snarling at people and improve your manners. The word ‘please’ can work wonders in a lot of cases. You might look it up some time.”
The man swallowed a reply and his jaw clamped shut. His face had drained white and his small, steel-blue eyes hardened into pin-points of angry light.
“Will you give me that knife?” he almost whispered. His hand slipped slowly into the outside pocket of his coat, where a suspicious bulge showed.
Neal straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. He had not missed the gesture or its significance. In spite of the tenseness of the situation he was able to realize that the incident was strange in every respect. The man’s rage and impatience were wholly unreasonable, completely out of proportion to the trifling affair. The girl was looking imploringly at her companion and her hands were clasped tensely together as if in silent supplication.
The fat, waddling shopkeeper shoved himself between them at that instant, stammering breathless apologies. And as suddenly and abruptly as that the incident was over. The thin man with the arrogant face withdrew his hand from his pocket and went about the business of lighting a cigarette. Neal relaxed slowly. He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was all over. One instant, he knew, the man opposite him was ready to draw his gun and fire. And now he was placidly lighting a cigarette with fingers that were as steady as rocks.
The girl had been talking to the shopkeeper, showing him a withered paper in her hand. Now he turned to Neal, smiling nervously. He pointed to the knife which Neal still held in his hand.
“Give to Missy,” he said imploringly. “Belong her.”
Neal hesitated an instant, and he was aware that the burning eyes of the girl’s companion were resting unwaveringly on him.
“Please,” the girl said simply.
Neal shrugged and handed the girl the knife. As his fingers met hers, he felt paper crackle under his fingers, felt a closely wadded note pushed against his palm. His fingers closed on it automatically and he shoved his fist in his pocket.
“Thank you,” the girl said quickly.
She dropped the brilliantly gleaming knife into her handbag, turned and left the shop. The thin, arrogant, steel-eyed man followed her without a backward glance.
“Go,” the fat shopkeeper said nervously. “Go, please.”
Neal pulled out the wad of paper and spread it flat against his hand. The only information it contained was the name of a hotel and a room number. Neal frowned and shoved it back into his pocket. That didn’t tell him much about the screwy business.
He sauntered from the shop, his thoughts churning futilely. Quiet deliberation was not his most successful accomplishment and he felt queerly impotent and helpless. There was only one thing to do, he decided, after a few moments of anxious cogitation. He pulled the paper that the girl had slipped to him from his pocket and noted the address and room number. Then he walked on whistling.
The soft Egyptian night had dropped its black mantle over Cairo, lending an almost mystic enchantment to the intertwined streets and the murmuring voices of natives. Under the merciful light of a full pale moon, the desert stretches surrounding the silent city, looked cool and calm and inviting. But those who knew the desert were aware of its ruthless reality, its cruelty, its danger.
The lobby of the Hotel Internationale was practically deserted when Neal Kirby strolled across its polished floor and stopped at the desk of the blandly polite young native who acted as clerk and receptionist.
“Is the young lady in 402 in?” he asked.
The clerk nodded.
“Did you have an—”
“She’s expecting me,” Neal said quickly. Turning, he strode to the elevator. He realized disgustedly that he had acted tactlessly. The girl had taken such precautions in slipping him the note that it was obvious she didn’t want it known that he was to see her. He had spoiled that by inquiring for her like a breathless sophomore.
He stepped from the elevator at the fourth floor. The hotel was completely modern, with luxuriously thick carpeting and walls paneled with smooth, dark oak. The heavy rug smothered the sounds of his footsteps as he started down the corridor, looking for 402.
He passed three doors before he found it. Suddenly he began to feel nervous. He paused before the door, his throat strangely dry. Maybe this whole thing was a joke of some sort. Or maybe he had received the note by mistake. A dozen other disturbing thoughts occurred to him, but he dismissed them all with a characteristic shrug. He raised his hand to knock when he heard a sudden scuffling noise from inside the room. It was followed by a quick, gasping cry of terror.
Neal hesitated for only a bare instant and then he grabbed the door-knob, shook it violently.
The door was locked. Neal drew back and lunged at the door, driving his heavy shoulders against its hard surface. A splintering crack sounded and the door swung inward suddenly, almost throwing him off balance.
The room was dark, but there was enough moonlight to show him the shadowy outline of two figures struggling near the window. In spite of the uncertain illumination he recognized one of the figures as the girl he had met in the curio shop. She was struggling helplessly against a man whose both hands were wrapped about her neck.
The man looked up as Neal charged into the room. He dropped the limp body of the girl and sprang toward the window, which opened on the fire escape.
Neal dove across the room and his shoulder drove into the man’s back, slamming him against the wall. He heard a grunt of pain escape the man’s lips, but like an eel, the dark figure squirmed from his grasp and dove for the window.
Neal lunged after him, his right fist swinging in a wild looping arc. It crashed into the side of the man’s head as he scrambled over the window ledge, knocking him out onto the balcony formed by the fire escape.
Neal threw the window open wider, but before he could clamber out his intended victim scrambled to his feet and darted down the steps. Neal had one quick look at the man’s dark terrified features before he disappeared.
Wheeling from the window, Neal stepped quickly across the room and closed the door that he had forced. He groped about until he found a lamp and switched it on. He knew there would be no chance of catching the native who had fled down the fire escape, and the girl might be seriously hurt. She was lying on the floor next to a sofa, unconscious. There were angry red marks on her throat, but he could see the rise and fall of her breast under the light flimsy dressing gown she was wearing-