The Egyptian Cat Mystery by Harold Leland Goodwin (black authors fiction .TXT) 📖

address was in Arabic.

Rick waited until they were in their room to open it. A quick glance showed that the room had not been searched, or if it had, with greater care than the last time. He ripped open the envelope and took out a sheet of paper, the letterhead printed in Arabic except for the name Fuad Moustafa.

"Fuad Moustafa," he said aloud. "Any relation to Ali, I wonder?"

"Read it," Scotty urged.

Rick did so. "'Dear Sir: You have brought to Cairo, I believe, a plastic replica of a cat, which was given to you by Mr. Bartouki for delivery to my brother, Ali. I deeply regret the inconvenience caused by your failure to find my brother in his shop. Only today did I learn that his chief clerk, an officious person, had attempted to take delivery of the cat by pretending to be my brother. The clerk shall be discharged for this offensive behavior.

"'Since my brother is absent from the city, on business to Beirut, which was the reason for his absence from the shop, I shall be delighted to serve in his stead. If you will call me, I shall come at your convenience. Or, if you will do me the honor of breaking bread at my home, I shall be at your service. Since my home is also my office, any time that is convenient for you will be my pleasure. Sincerely, Fuad Moustafa.'"

Rick jumped for the phone and called the desk, "See if Hassan is still around, please. Tell him to wait, if he is."

The clerk asked him to wait and Rick put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Scotty. "The first sensible suggestion we've had. Let's go call on Fuad Moustafa. If there are lights, we'll pay him a visit. If not, we'll come back. I'm anxious to get this settled."

"So am I," Scotty agreed, then added, "Only let's be sure this isn't a trap."

The clerk came back on the line. "Hassan is here. He will wait."

"Thank you. Now, can you tell me anything about a Mr. Fuad Moustafa? Do you know him?"

"Indeed, sir. He is a lawyer, from a well-known family. He has two brothers who are also well known. One is Ali, who has a shop in El Mouski, and the other is Kemel, who is a textile importer."

Rick thanked him and hung up. "It's our boy," he said. He repeated what the clerk had told him.

"Sounds like pay dirt," Scotty agreed. "Only we'll still be careful. Let's go."

Rick echoed him. "Let's go! If this is on the level, we can get the cat in the morning and deliver it." At last, the secret of the Egyptian cat might be unraveled!

CHAPTER IX The Uninvited Visitor

As the boys hurried through the lobby the night clerk came to meet them.

"I noticed that the name of Mr. Moustafa was on the message I gave you. If you intend to visit him, you will have no trouble. His house is also his office, and it is very well known. Just tell Hassan to take you to Abd El Aziz Street."

The boys thanked him, somewhat relieved that Fuad Moustafa apparently was so well known. Outside, Hassan was waiting. "Not so tired?" he greeted them.

"Not too tired for a short trip," Rick said. "Can you take us to Abd El Aziz Street?"

"Not far. Near El Mouski."

As Hassan drove off, at the usual high velocity, Rick asked, "Do you know Fuad Moustafa?"

"Hear name," Hassan said. "But not know. What number street he live?"

Rick took the letter from his pocket, switched on the dome light, and scanned it. There was no address given in English. He started to hand the letter to Hassan, then remembered the dragoman could not read. He puzzled over the Arabic in the letterhead, realizing the address must be given there. If he could identify the numbers ... there, he recognized one. Both boys had spent some time studying the telephone dial at the project, on which the numbers were in Arabic. It was easy to identify them, and Rick had spotted the five, a figure like a tiny heart, upside down.

"I think I have it," he said. "Let's see. Arabic reads from right to left, instead of the way we write. That makes this number ... hmmmm ... a heart, a dot, and two sevens backward with one squiggle in the upper line. The heart is a five, the dot a zero, and backward sevens with one squiggle are twos. So the number is 5022. Right?"

"That's the way I remember it," Scotty said. "So that's the number. Enshallah."

Hassan started laughing in the front seat. "Now you speak Arabic? You must say a'eraf shwayet 'arabi."

"What does that mean?" Scotty demanded.

"It mean 'I know some Arabic'"

The boys laughed with him. In a few moments Hassan swung the little car to the curb and pointed to the nearest building. "There 5022."

Rick started to get out, then he asked curiously, "How do you know, Hassan? I thought you couldn't read."

"No can read words. Read numbers plenty good. Could not take people to places if could not read numbers."

That made sense, Rick thought.

Scotty let out a sudden exclamation. "Hey, this is a barbershop, and it's closed for the night."

Rick looked, then switched on the dome light. He compared the letterhead number and the number on the door. Clearly, it was 5022, unless they had mistaken threes for twos. The only difference between the two numbers was an extra squiggle in the upper line of the three. He checked the letter again. No, they were twos. He said so. "This is the number on the letter."

"You let me see, please?" Hassan asked.

"Sure, Hassan."

The dragoman took the letter and examined it. He chuckled. "Samehni, ya sidi. That mean excuse, sir. Small mistake. You reading backward. Number is 2205."

"But how can that be?" Rick asked. "Arabic goes backward from English."

"Maybe so with words," Hassan said. "But numbers not so. This number is 2205. You want to go?"

Rick sighed. "I learn something new every day. Okay, Hassan. You're the dragoman."

The little car swung around and sped back the way they had come, into a better part of the city. In a short time Hassan slowed and began searching. At last he pulled to the curb, in front of a large house of Victorian design. "Here is 2205," he announced.

The boys got out and saw immediately that the house was in darkness. Not a light shone anywhere.

"No one home," Rick said, disappointed.

Scotty surveyed the dark structure. "Funny. A house this size must have servants. There should be a light somewhere. Maybe around back?"

"I doubt it, but we can take a look."

Hassan's voice stopped them. "Something wrong, I think."

"What do you mean?" Rick asked quickly.

Hassan gestured to where a small group of people had gathered on the other side of the street. "Why they stop? Not so strange for car come to house like this."

That was true, Rick thought. The people stood quietly, watching, and in a moment two others joined them. Their attitude was not simple curiosity.

"Can you ask them what's up?" Scotty asked.

"Will try." Hassan took a step toward the group and called cheerfully in Arabic. No one answered. He walked toward them, still talking cheerfully, and the little group melted instantly into ordinary people walking the street on their various errands by ones and twos.

Rick needed no interpreter for their actions. Rather than answer a courteous, cheerful question from Hassan they had hurried off, as though afraid of something. But what?

"Pretty strange, I think," Hassan said. "I just ask who can tell me where to find Fuad Moustafa, and they go."

Scotty had been staring at the house. He walked to the steps and stared into the darkness, then went up them onto the porch. In a moment he came down again.

"Something's very wrong," he said. "I thought I saw the gleam of metal, and I did. A brand-new padlock on the door! New hasp, too, put on in a way no house owner would ever do it. It's as though someone was closing a barn door and didn't care how it looked."

A chill went down Rick's spine. Instead of a solution, they had found a deeper mystery. He was sure of only one thing for the present. They should not wait at the house of Fuad Moustafa.

"Come on," he said. "Back to the hotel. If we can't have facts to feed on, we can at least have that sandwich."

But the sandwich was not to be had so easily. Back in their room, a call to the waiter brought the porter, who announced that all hotel facilities were closed and the waiters had gone home. He would be glad to go to a restaurant he knew of and get them sandwiches, but it would take a little time.

The boys ordered, then got undressed. Scotty went in to wash up while Rick wrote cards to the folks at home. A knock interrupted him. "Must be the porter," he called to Scotty, and went to open the door.

A stranger stood there, a big man in an immaculate gray linen suit. He wore thick eyeglasses with stainless-steel rims. On his curly hair was a tarboosh of red velvet. In his hand was a gleaming, snub-nosed hammerless revolver, pointed at Rick's midriff.