Thieves Fall Out Read Free Page A

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