Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

Well thanks for the lift, Viv.

And thank you, sir, for your charming company this morning. War is hell, after all, and we frontline fellows would do well to live life fully when we're not knee-deep in mud in the trenches.

Vivian vaguely pumped his hand in the air in a philosophical manner, a gesture apparently meant to end with a thoughtful fingering of his false moustache. But instead Vivian found his moustache halfway up the side of his face. He pressed it back into position and grinned.

The spy trade, sir, a queer and deadly game. Now if you meander forward and turn down the next alley, you'll come to what must have been one of the last of the bawdy houses in this quaint decaying neighborhood, an excessively unseemly place, and that is where you will find your lodgings. Look for a dirty nondescript structure called the Hotel Babylon, formerly a tenth-class hovel used by failed commercial agents and poor clerks in search of romance during their siesta hours, a place of broken dreams and dreams that could never be.

But that was formerly, sir. For some time now the Hotel Babylon has been under the clandestine supervision of HM's Secret Service, serving as an all-purpose hideaway for wandering spies in transit, a discreetly sordid haven amidst the turmoil for just such errant seekers as yourself.

Let's move right along, Viv.

Indeed, sir, now then. Immediately within the half-light that pervades this rotting structure, you will come across the local hermit-in-residence, the keeper of the keys to this odd kingdom, a large Egyptian who will be reading a newspaper and wearing a distinctive flat straw hat, of the kind referred to in civilian circles as a boater. You can call him Ahmad if you like, and all you have to do is tell him Mr Bletchley sent you.

Bletchley, you say?

That's it exactly, sir. The Bletch is our local groundskeeper, ancillary services and so forth, the man who sprinkles the potted palms in the background and arranges for the billeting of transients such as yourself.

A cipher, sadly, our Bletch. But you'll see for yourself.

That it, Viv?

For now, sir. But after you've had time to soak in a first-rate Babylonian bath and pop into your town outfit and burn those rags from your journey, one of our fellow spies will be coming around to collect you.

When?

This evening, I should imagine. All set, sir?

Joe asked a few more questions and then started down the street. Before he reached the corner of the rue Lepsius, or Clapsius, the van had thundered off in the opposite direction. At the corner Joe paused to light a cigarette and get his bearings. He also spent a little time apparently scratching himself under his jacket, actually looking through Vivian's wallet. A telephone number caught his eye.

The Viv, he thought. What a way to begin.

***

The Hotel Babylon was a narrow structure of four or five stories. The paint on the façade was peeling and the front door was open. The hotel lacked a lobby. Instead there was a counter built into one side of the narrow corridor on the ground floor. Farther on toward the back of the corridor an ancient pianola stood in the dusty gloom.

A large man was perched on a high stool behind the counter, peering at a newspaper through enormous horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a flat straw hat and he obviously heard Joe's footsteps in the corridor, but he didn't bother to look up from his newspaper.

Mr Bletchley sent me, said Joe.

The Egyptian reached up on the wall behind him, still without raising his eyes, and took down one of the keys.

Top floor rear, he said. It's the quietest room and also the largest. There's a tattered silk cord near the door meant for summoning the maid, but don't bother to pull it. There's been no maid here since the First World War.

I see. Mr Bletchley also said you might be able to send out for something for me.

The large Egyptian known as Ahmad looked vaguely annoyed.

Well I can try, but it's still rather early in the day, you know. Generally speaking, those sorts of people are just getting to bed about now.

I meant a bottle of whiskey and breakfast.

Oh. An English breakfast?

If you can, yes.

It will take about half an hour. There's a retired belly dancer up the street who understands that kind of thing. As for the whiskey, I can get that up to you in a few minutes.

That's about what I had in mind.

I'll see to it. Three knocks for the whiskey, two for breakfast.

Joe turned toward the stairs and stopped, as if a thought had just come to him.

Oh by the way, would you happen to have something on the first floor up? Heights bother me.

The large Egyptian reached for another key.

First floor rear. Smaller, but just as quiet really.

Joe climbed the stairs and found his room at the back of the building, away from the street. He looked around and then dropped lightly to his knees to peek through the keyhole. He could see the end of a narrow bed, a chair, a table. On the far side of the room was a window with a screen in it. He unlocked the door carefully and dropped the key into his pocket. Then he picked up his valise and held it to his chest. He turned the handle.

The door burst open under his hand and Joe went flying across the room, hurling his valise at the screen in the window. The screen and the valise disappeared and he dived after them, landing with a roll on the soft earth behind the hotel as a dull thud went off in the room above him. He was on his feet at once, in a crouch, but there was nothing to see. He was standing in a small courtyard strewn with debris. A door behind him led back into the hotel. Another door faced him from the far side of the small courtyard. Joe picked up his valise and crossed to the door in the far wall. He tried the handle and the door opened.

Stairs led down to a basement.

At the bottom of the stairs was another door. Joe opened it and found himself in a narrow cellar with a low ceiling. A man was sitting at a table, mostly obscured by the newspaper he was reading. A single naked light bulb burned overhead, a string hanging from it. An electrical cord spiraled down from the fixture to an electric ring at the man's elbow. A kettle was steaming and there was also a chipped teapot and several battered metal cups. Joe dropped into a chair and brushed off the dirt he had picked up in the courtyard.

Bletchley?

The man continued to read his newspaper, hidden behind it.

That's right.

What went off up there?

Oh, just a popper. Of course it could have been a bomb.

Of course. But is that your standard welcoming procedure?

You might call it that.

Why the game?

It's not a game, they just like to know whether you're on your toes or not. There's no room for amateurs out here.

On my toes, is it? And what did they expect after sending that crazed item to pick me up at the airport?

The man known as Bletchley peered over his newspaper at Joe, only one of his eyes showing. There seemed to be tears in his eye and there was something wrong with his expression, something very wrong.

But his head disappeared again and Joe didn't have time to make out what it was.

Is he crying? wondered Joe. Why is he hiding like that?

Vivian must have been in an expansive mood this morning, said the man known as Bletchley. He's an old music-hall trooper, an actor by profession, and he can put on quite a show when he has a mind to.

Perhaps you caught his fancy, or perhaps he's just bored these days. Cup of tea for you?

Thanks.

The teapot disappeared behind the raised newspaper.

How many sugars?

None.

It is just sugar.

I'm sure, but I don't take any.

Get your share through the drink, do you?