Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Double Dozen

“The music is authentic, all right,” reported Chardin. “The only thing about it that might be fishy is that it’s commonplace stuff that was recorded twenty years ago on disks. But maybe your East-German doesn’t know that, or maybe he wants it re-recorded in high fidelity. There are three ballads, and one instrumental passage with a nose flute, a reed horn, and a drum. Neither the words nor the notes show recurrent patterns. Our cipher chap insists they’re clean.”

“Did you go over the reverse side of the tape with a camera?”

“Yes — with ultraviolet. And we also fumed it for invisible inks. Nothing.”

“That’s bad news.”

“I know. Sorry. We resealed the packet, and it’ll be delivered in the mail an hour or so from now. We’re watching the carrier to see he doesn’t relay it on the way. The concierge at the Rue de Joinville pension will put it into Herwarts’ room there. But I have more bad news for you. We’ve been into the room. There are a dozen tapes on the table, and they don’t look as if they’ve been opened, although of course they may have been. It looks as if Herwarts is simply mailing them for safekeeping... Allo, allo?”

“I’m here,” Warren assured him, “I’m just beating my brain. I have a feeling we’re missing something, don’t you?”

“No. Perhaps I’m tired. We’ll do anything you say—”

“I don’t know what to say, that’s the trouble. Well, stake out the Rue de Joinville address, anyhow, will you, Chardin? If a stranger goes in, pick him up and sweat him — he might just still take you to the pistol boys.”

“That,” said Chardin, “would be a pleasure.”

Disappointed, Warren walked back along the dusty street to Ahmed’s two-story mansion-stable.

“They say it isn’t the tapes, Ahmed. So it has to be a courier.”

“Nobody in Bou Zanna would work with the S.A.O.,” said Ahmed stiffly. “No man, no boy.”

“Knowingly, no. But suppose Herwarts asked someone to do an innocent favor for him in the city — deliver a book, for instance.”

Ahmed shook his turbaned head. “In a place this small, everybody would know in five minutes. In any case nobody has gone up to the city. I am positive.”

Warren pondered. “Herwarts has his bus. He could drive down the highway a few kilometers, stop a northbound truck, and ask the driver to deliver a message.”

“That is much more probable. Many truck drivers are Communist,” agreed Ahmed. “He could have an accomplice among them, for that matter. But, once again, you run up against fact. Herwarts has been here a week, and in that time he has not once left the village.”

“Has anybody visited him? ”

“It could be managed at night, I suppose, but only with the greatest difficulty. The dogs would bark... No, only our own people who have gone out to sing for him. He pays well.”

No matter how he looked at it, it appeared to be a dead end. “I’ve got to see Herwarts’ camp,” decided Warren. “Have one of the women teach me some old song he isn’t likely to have heard, will you? Does he speak Arabic?”

“No — only French.”

“Ride out with me, then, and be my interpreter. If I try French, any European will spot my American accent as soon as I open my big mouth.”

The song was merely a conventional catalogue of teeth like pearls and hair like the midnight sky, a tin-pan version of the Song of Solomon; but the elderly aunt from whom Warren learned it vouched for its antiquity.

“Do not be uneasy; the stallion is a perfect gentleman,” said Ahmed, and, rocking comfortably in the high-backed, chairlike saddles of scarlet leather, the two of them rode out. Herwarts welcomed them cordially, offering them coffee. He was a squat creature in shorts, nailed shoes, enormous of chest, cropped of skull, and ugly as a shaved gorilla.

“This is my nephew Sellim, who wishes to sing for your machine,” said Ahmed. “He has no French, but I am here to translate.”

Herwarts brought out a hand microphone with a long cord. As he did so, Warren got a good look into the little bus. There were two German-made tape recorders — big, battery-driven ones with all the gadgets. But, other than clothing, supplies, and a sleeping bag, there was nothing else of importance in the Volkswagen. There was no radio, not even a receiver. He did glimpse a pair of field glasses.

Warren sang, accepted compliments on his exquisite voice complacently as a native would have done, and took his pay in dirty franc notes. He would have been overjoyed to see new, counterfeit notes, but the intelligence business is never that easy. Herwarts thanked his guests once more, wishing them a pleasant ride. There was no further reason to stay.

Riding back into town they passed the oasis, with its bedraggled palms. Over the flat roof of a hut near it, wisps of white vapor curled in the breeze.

“Ahmed,” demanded Warren, “is that a steam bath?”

“Yes. Ours is a good well.”

“But why didn’t you tell me, man! I need a bath so bad I can taste it! That’s a slang phrase.”

“How about your dye?”

“It’ll stand water. But how about my hair? It’s still much too short for a Moslem.”

“Wear your turban. Some men do. Just remember to cover your sex with your left hand, never your right,” advised the Arab.

The public bath, its interior walls and floor faced with black slate, was as dark as a coal bin. Only now and again could Warren glimpse, through the steam, a shining brown arm or leg. Soaping himself generously for the third time, he called for a boy to douse him with a bucket of warm water. Sitting with his back against the warm wall, he slumped comfortably — and it was the sudden, unanticipated slumping that saved his life.

Steel rang. He felt the sting of stone splinters on his neck. A throwing-knife with a broken point slid down across his chest into his lap.

Charging like a halfback, he lunged into the steam. His hands recognized Herwarts’ khaki shirt and shorts, even though his eyes could barely make out the man’s bulky figure. Hooking, with his left, he drove for the midriff with Ids right. Both punches landed, but Herwarts stamped down with hobnails on his bare foot. The pain was dizzying. Before he could get in another blow — there were shouts, now, and men running — Warren felt himself lifted bodily and slammed against the wall. His head struck stone.

When he came to himself he was on the couch in his room at Ahmed’s, alone, with an ache like a skewer through his head. Where, he asked himself angrily, had he gone wrong? What blunder had he made, to give himself away? All he had done was open his mouth to sing a mawkish ballad for the Russian... and picturing himself with his mouth open, he groaned.

His teeth, of course! He could not have offered Herwarts a better view of his molars if he had taken them out and handed them to him. And no Arab past the age of twenty has a full set of teeth; no Arab has gold inlays fashioned by an American dentist. All that Herwarts had to do, after such a revealing dental display, was watch the American agent through his field glasses, note that he went into the bath, laugh heartily, and follow.

“Ahmed,” called Warren. The skewer jabbed his brain.

“I broke open your suitcase looking for medicines,” said Ahmed, coming into the room, “but you have none.”

“I’m all right Did anybody catch him?”

“No, unhappily.”

“He’s a fast man.” Warren sat up, wincing. “He’s on his way, now, damn him. He’ll either head for Algiers and go underground there, or he’ll try to make the border.”

“His bus is still out on the desert. His campfire is burning, too. He may be out there, but I didn’t want to move against him without your orders.”