"Ah!" She smiled. "Did someone wake you from the grave?"
Again she rushed at him, kicking at him, clawing at his eyes.
"Stop, I beg you."
She raised her knee, jamming him hard between his legs. That pain he felt, oh, yes. He doubled over with it, and she kicked him hard in the side of the head.
Through the courtyard she raced, gripping the canvas bag with her left hand, as with her right she reached for the top of the wall. In a second she was over it and racing through the narrow unlighted street.
Within minutes she reached the motorcar. Instantly she turned on the engine, gave it fuel with a stab of the pedal and roared out of the small alleyway and onto the main road.
Ah, the wind in her face again; the freedom; and the power of this great iron beast at her command.
"Take me to the bright lights of British Cairo," she said," dear sweet little beast. Yes!"
HE FRONT lounge at Shepheard's. Good gin from the bar, with plenty of ice and just a little lemon. He was grateful mat they had allowed him that. What a drunkard he had become. A lovely realization came over him. When he got back to England, he was going to drink himself to death.
But would they never stop? Surely they had realized he would tell them nothing. They looked like mannequins to him, their mouths jerking as if worked by wires. Every gesture seemed artificial. Even the handsome little boy who came in and out with the ice and the gin appeared to be acting. All of it false. Grotesque the figures moving past in the lobby; and the music drifting from the bars and the ballroom, why, it sounded like what they might be playing tonight in hell.
Sometimes the words they said made no sense. He knew the definition of each word, but what was the meaning? Dead men with their necks broken. Had she done it in the short tune that he had absented himself?
"I'm tired, gentlemen," he said finally." The heat here does not agree with me. I took a bad fall today. I need my rest now. You must allow me to go to my room."
The two men looked at each other. Mock frustration. Nothing was real here. What was real? Cleopatra's hands closing on his throat; the white-draped figure behind her, catching hold of her?
"Lord Rutherford, we are now dealing with several murders!
Clearly, the stabbing in London was only the beginning. Now we must ask for your full cooperation. These two young men murdered this afternoon. ..."
"I have told you. I know nothing about it! What is it you want from me, young man, that I spin fancies for you? This is absurd."
"Henry Stratford. Do you know where we can find him? He was here at Shepheard's to see you two days ago."
"Henry Stratford frequents the worst parts of Cairo. He walks dark streets alone at night. I don't know where he is, God help him. Now, I really must go."
He rose from his chair. Where was that damned walking stick now?
"Do not attempt to leave Cairo, sir," said the young one, the arrogant one, the one with the pinched nose." We have your passport."
"You what! That's outrageous," Elliott whispered.
"I'm afraid the same applies to your son. And to Miss Stratford. I've already collected their passports from the desk as well. Lord Rutherford, we must get to the bottom of this."
"You idiot," Elliott said." I'm a British citizen! You dare do this to me!"
The other man stepped in.
"My lord, let me speak to you candidly! I know of your close relationship with the Stratford family, but do you think Henry Stratford could be connected to these killings? He knew this man in London, the one who was stabbed. As for the American found out at the pyramids, the fellow had been robbed of quite a good deal of money. Now we know Stratford had his ups and downs with regard to money."
Elliott held his gaze without speaking. Pinning it on Henry. That had not occurred to him. Oh, but it was obvious! Pinning it all on Henry, of course. And Henry knew the fellow in London. What luck. What supremely marvellous luck. He eyed the two gentlemen who stood now before him, awkwardly. What if this could work!