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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.
"I know it's late," the man said pleasantly, "but may
I come in?"
He walked through the door, and Rick backed away to make room.
"Are you Fuad Moustafa?" he asked shakily.
The man smiled. "I have not that honor. You have never seen a Moustafa, or you would not ask. They are famous for the biggest noses and mustaches in the Republic. I could have lied, but it is my pride that I never lie. My identity is not important."
"What do you want?" Rick asked. He kept backing away, because he wanted desperately for the man to follow. That would give Scotty a chance to move in from behind.
"I think you know what I want. A small and unimportant piece of plastic, in the shape of a cat."
"Why is the cat so important?" Rick asked.
"It is not important. You may believe this. However, for reasons I shall not disclose, it has certain elements of value to a few people."
"Sentimental value?" Rick asked. He was stalling.
"It depends on what one is sentimental about. I have no sentimental attachment to this object. I merely want it. Now, my time is short. I was fortunate to find the porter gone, but he will doubtless return. The cat, my young friend, and quickly!"
Scotty moved from the bathroom on silent, bare feet, and even as his pal moved, Rick saw the object in his hand. It was a nail file.
Scotty stepped close and his hand moved. The stranger stiffened.
"That's a knife in your back," Scotty said. "Drop the gun."
The revolver muzzle never faltered. "An interesting stalemate," the man said calmly. "You can thrust, but no matter how fast you are, I can shoot. So, if I die, so does your friend. Now, since you created this situation, how are you going to get out of it? Or did I create it, through my careless eagerness? I was so pleased to find the hall empty that I forgot there were two of you."
"No matter," Scotty informed him. "We can stand like this until help comes."
"Then you expect someone. Make no mistake, I will not be taken. If necessary, I will end the stalemate with a shot and take my chances with the knife. It is even possible I will get both of you."
Rick was watching the man's face closely. He was not bluffing. There was no sign of sweat or nervousness. He knew the situation exactly, and was prepared to deal with it. The boy reached a decision.
"Drop it, Scotty," he commanded. "Pull back and come around so he can see you. I'm going to give him the cat."
"Don't!" Scotty exclaimed. "Don't, Rick!"
"I'm going to give him the cat," Rick repeated. "It isn't worth bloodshed. Now co-operate, will you?"
Scotty drew back and walked around so the stranger could see him. With a gesture of disgust he threw the nail file on one of the twin beds.
The stranger smiled his appreciation. "A very good try. It would have worked, no doubt, on a less experienced man. Now, Mr. Brant, where is the cat?"