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"You have not changed, sir. But—" he shook his red-capped head — "Cairo has changed."

"It seems unfriendly in some way."

"It is all different, bimbashi. Everything is different. All Egypt is different. We have gone back to the days when I was a boy, the days of the harem and the eunuchs."

Cartaret made a rapid mental calculation, but was unable to decide whether those were the days of the Turks or of the Pharaohs.

"You mean business is slack?"

"Not at all. It is just different. Some of those we used to call the pasha class have much power now. They do things they would not have dared to do. Who is to stop them?"

"I don't know. What sort of things?"

Abdul glanced suspiciously around the nearly empty bar and then bent forward across the counter.

"For visitors who like adventure," he whispered, "this is the time to come to Egypt. Let me tell you something that happened not long ago. You remember the young Syrian As-wami Pasha used to bring in?"

Cartaret recalled her quite well, for Military Intelligence had posted him to Cairo during the latter part of the war. Aswami, a handsome fellow of Turco-Egyptian vintage, had a nice taste in girl friends. The Syrian Abdul referred to was a beauty in her sullen. Oriental fashion, and at that time probably no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. He had once heard Aswami call her Sirena, but never knew her other name.

She had passed by his table one night, as she and Aswami went out together. Unseen by her escort, Sirena had favoured Cartaret with the age-old smile of Eastern women. Her darkly fringed eyes were of a strange amber colour, speckled with green like the eyes of a tigress… He nodded. "I remember her, Abdul."

Abdul's voice dropped still lower. As Cartaret had greeted him in Arabic, he continued in that language.

"Aswami surprised her with another man! In the garden of the villa."

Picturesque, and obscene, details followed in true Arab style. But, as Abdul whispered on, Cartaret drew back, horrified — "They were dragged into the villa, bimbashi, and they… "

"Stop, Abdul! Such a thing is impossible — today! There are still police in Cairo."

Abdul extended brown palms which spoke a universal language.

"Have I not said, bimbashi, that it is all different? What I tell you is true. I have a grandson who works in the garden."

Cartaret passed his tumbler to be refilled. As ice tinkled in the glass:

"Who was the man?" he asked.

Abdul, back turned, shrugged heavy shoulders.

"I don't know. I only know that he has disappeared. The Syrian girl is still at the villa."

Cartaret suspected that Abdul knew the man's name perfectly well. He knew, too, that when an Arab says "I don't know" it is sheer waste of breath to ask any more questions.

* * *

The dining room seemed fairly full when Cartaret went in to dinner. But there was no one there he knew. Although he took a good look around, he failed to see Mrs Parradine. He gave his mind over to memories — particularly to those associated with Aswami Pasha.

Aswami's luxurious villa at Bulak contained many treasures, he had been told, feminine and otherwise, the latter including a collection of rubies made by Aswami's father and said to be the second finest in the world. Cartaret tried to recall the men he had known who had found Sirena attractive, and succeeded in compiling quite a list. Although unable to credit Abdul's statement, entirely, be made up his mind to try again to learn the name of the man concerned. If the facts were as stated, he would be horribly disfigured for life.

The story had left a bad taste in his mouth, which a bottle of perfectly sound Bordeaux failed to remove. He went out into the lounge, with its fretwork pillars and arabesques. It reminded him of a harSm, and he began to glance suspiciously at his neighbours, wondering if those who looked like wealthy Egyptians favoured the medieval customs of Aswami Pasha.

He ordered brandy with his coffee.

Then he saw Mrs Parradine.

She was seated, alone, in an alcove. She had changed into a simple dinner frock but still wore the tinted glasses. Car-taret supposed that she suffered, from eye strain. He began to study her. What was it about Mrs Parradine which seemed so familiar? This vague memory irritated Cartaret. He got into that frame of mind everybody has known, when a name goes darting around the brain like a mad hare that can't be captured. He was watching her, as she sipped coffee, when a boy went across to her table and handed her a message.

She read it, and seemed to Cartaret to become suddenly restless. Once, he had an impression that she was considering him in a furtive way. And then, just as "suddenly, she became passive again, bending over the table to pour more coffee.

An elderly Egyptian had entered.

Fat and hairless, he provided the missing link in Cartar-et's uneasy imaginings of those days "of the harem and the eunuchs" mentioned by Abdul. Obviously, the Egyptian was looking for someone. His prominent eyes swept the lounge in a questing stare. But he was apparently disappointed. He turned slowly and went out again.

Cartaret saw Mrs Parradine's glance following the obese figure.

Then, she looked swiftly but unmistakably in his own direction. On a slip of paper taken from a large satchel purse which swung from her shoulder she scribbled something. She slipped the note under an ashtray, stood up and crossed to the elevator.

Cartaret continued to watch her. She was very graceful, well poised. As the boy opened the gate, she turned for a moment, stared directly at Cartaret, then back to the table she had just left, then at Cartaret again.

The elevator went up.

He took a quick look about the lounge. No one had seen what had happened, for Mrs Parradine had been screened by the alcove. He stood up, yawned — and changed his place.

The note under the ashtray said:

"Room 36 B at 10.30. I must see you. Don't disappoint me."

Cartaret walked into the bar.

It had filled up with men who looked like officials of some sort but none of whom he knew; a totally different set from that to which he had been accustomed. He got himself a double Scotch and carried it to a seat in a corner where he could be alone.

What was he to make of this note?

That it was meant for a loVe tryst he dismissed as an idea too ridiculous to be considered. Without the glasses, Mrs Parradine might be a pretty woman. She had an exceptionally good figure. But grey hair and assignations with strangers didn't mix.

What, then, did it mean?

She must see him! What on earth about? And why couldn't she have spoken to him in the lounge, instead of inviting him to her room? The whole thing was utterly incomprehensible. Cartaret decided that it must be linked with that elusive memory. Perhaps after all, they met at some time. Why the devil didn't she take off those tinted glasses? Restlessly, he wandered out on to the terrace. A cool breeze had sprung up, but the sky was cloudless, the night lighted by a perfect crescent moon.

At the foot of the steps the head doorman was talking to a portly Egyptian.

Cartaret stared.

It was the man who had come into the lounge seeking someone… Cartaret went back to the bar and ordered another double Scotch.

This business called for careful thought. He would have liked to ask Abdul if he knew anything about Mrs Parradine, but Abdul was too busy for conversations and he didn't care to make such an enquiry at the desk.

Was he right in supposing that the entrance of the fat Egyptian had alarmed Mrs Parradine? Cartaret believed he was. He finished his drink and went out to talk to the door-roan, whom he knew slightly. The doorman had gone off duty; another had taken his place.

And that fat Egyptian had disappeared.

Cartaret wandered back into the lounge. It was beginning to empty, and he sat down and lighted a cigarette. He had dined late, and fen-thirty was not far off. Even now, he remained undecided. Some queerly underhand game was afoot.