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.
[Illustration: _A snub-nosed revolver was 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?"
"In my pocket, in the wardrobe."
The gun muzzle waved Scotty to the window at the far end of the room.
"Out of reach, if you please. I will cover Mr. Brant just to be sure it
is not a weapon that he has in his pocket."
Scotty obeyed, scowling. Rick led the way to the wardrobe. Moving slowly
and carefully, he got the concrete kitten and held it up.
"Excellent. I see the hotel has provided you with a newspaper. Please
use it to wrap the cat."
Rick did so, and handed it over.
"Thank you. I appreciate your co-operation, since I am a man who detests
unnecessary violence. You have acted wisely." He backed to the door,
opened it, and closed it behind him.
Rick's eyes met Scotty's across the room, and both grinned widely, but
they said nothing in case the stranger had lingered outside the door.
Not until a few moments had passed and Rick had checked the hallway did
he speak.
"Well," he said happily, "one orphan kitten has found a happy home!"