The Fight at Sahara Wells
The pistol dropped from the police driver's nerveless hand and Scotty
leaped. Rick dropped to the floor as his pal picked up the pistol and
rolled, shooting as he turned. His second shot caught an Arab and
slammed him back into the others who were trying to crowd in.
Rick looked frantically for a weapon. The only thing in sight was a
heavy ceramic ash tray that the guard's fall had knocked to the floor.
He grabbed it and threw, rising to one elbow. The ash tray caught an
Arab in the throat. Someone shot, and chips flew from the cement floor
next to Rick's head. He rolled away.
Scotty aimed with care, as coolly as though he stood on the range back
home. He squeezed the trigger and was rewarded by a choked yell from
beyond the doorway. He fired again, and a burnoosed figure grabbed the
doorframe for support.
The Arabs beyond the doorway had dived for cover, leaving the doorframe
clear except for the most recent victim of Scotty's shooting and the one
Rick had hit. He was lying on the floor with both hands clutched to his
throat, gagging and gasping for air.
A headdress was thrust around the frame and Scotty squeezed off a quick
shot. The hammer clicked harmlessly. He was out of ammunition! He threw
the pistol and the head vanished.
Both boys got to their feet and crouched to rush any newcomers. They
whirled at the tinkle of broken glass behind them.
Youssef stood in the window, a Sten gun trained on them. Rick looked at
the deadly little submachine gun and gulped. He remembered what Ben had
said about removing the evidence.
The thief said, "Put both hands on top of your heads."
The boys did so, with no hesitation. In spite of Youssef's apparently
casual manner, both knew he would not hesitate to shoot. He raised his
voice and shouted in Arabic. The boys stiffened as footsteps sounded
behind them and gun muzzles were thrust into their backs. Youssef
vanished from the window and reappeared in a moment through the door.
"You're a difficult young man," he told Rick. "But the time for being
difficult is over. I want the cat, now."
"I left it in Hassan's car," Rick said, with pretended hopelessness.
Youssef spoke in Arabic. The pressure of the gun muzzle left Rick's
back. He felt a cord being slipped around his forehead, a cord with hard
knots that fell across his temples.
"What you feel is a strangler's cord," the thief said grimly. "Don't be
a fool. The cat means nothing to you; you were merely a messenger boy.
Give me the cat and you will be left alone."
"Not until the evidence is destroyed," Rick thought. "Not until we're
dead."
"It's in the car," he repeated.
Youssef lost his composure. He snapped an order in Arabic and the cord
tightened. Rick gritted his teeth. Next to him, Scotty bent forward.
"Don't try it," the thief grated. "I only need one of you." His black
eyes bored into Rick's. "One of my men watched you and Moustafa search
Hassan's car this morning. The cat was not there. Where is it?"
Rick started to shout that he didn't know, when a burst of shooting
accompanied by wild yells broke out outside. Youssef spoke quickly in
Arabic, then turned to the boys. "Sit down in those chairs. Move, and
you die. I will deal with you when I have found out what this is all
about."
The shooting gained in volume and the yells increased. The boys took the
seats and stared at the big Sudanese, who was covering them with the
Sten gun. The strangler's cord was draped carelessly about his neck.
"That's a real gun fight outside," Scotty whispered.
Rick nodded. He could detect several guns of different calibers, and the
chatter of Sten guns was distinctive. What was going on?
The shooting lessened, then stopped altogether. The shouting increased.
The big Sudanese kept glancing over his shoulder at the doorway, as
though fearful of what he might see, but he always glanced back too
quickly for the boys to act.
"Watch it," Scotty said from the corner of his mouth. Rick casually got
his feet under him and tensed.
Scotty's eyes opened wide and he choked, "Inspector!"
The Sudanese whirled, Sten gun ready, and the boys left their chairs in
a bound. Rick dove for the thief's knees while Scotty smashed straight
into him like a battering ram. The big man toppled over backward, his
blazing Sten gun chipping plaster from the ceiling.
Rick let go of his grip on the knees and clawed for the man's throat.
Scotty concentrated on the Sten gun, grabbing the hot barrel and bending
backward.
The big Sudanese heaved, and Rick felt as though he was a terrier
hanging to a wild bull. The man was incredibly strong. The boy grabbed
his throat in one hand and fended off crushing blows with the other.
He was concentrating so hard on holding his grip that a newcomer who ran
into the control room had to yell. "Get up, I said. All of you!" A heavy
foot crashed down on the Sten gun and held it.
Rick looked up, dazed with effort, into the cold face of Kemel Moustafa.
Third Brother had a Luger automatic, and he looked ready to use it.
The boys rolled away and got to their feet. The Sudanese got to his
knees and started to get up. Moustafa struck with the Luger and the man
collapsed.
The pistol muzzle pointed at Rick. "You double-crossed me," Moustafa
grated. "You were supposed to give me the cat an hour ago at the hotel.
Fortunately, I had one of my men follow Youssef, because I suspected he
would find the cat sooner or later. Give it to me."
"Your men must have won the fight," Rick ventured.
"They did. Conversation will not help. I have thought about this, and I
am certain Youssef did not get the cat. His presence here confirms it.
Also, I believe that you thought it was in the car until we searched. If
Youssef did not take it, your own friend did. You would not leave it in
the hotel, so it must be here. Either you give it to me freely, or I
will shoot you and take my chances on finding it."
Rick hesitated.
"Make up your mind!" Moustafa snapped. The pistol steadied on a line
with Rick's head.
"Give it to him," Scotty said. "He means it."
There were shots from outside again. Moustafa blazed, "Hurry! Youssef's
men must be loose. I count three and shoot! One, two...."
"Hold it," Rick said hurriedly. "It's under the amplifier."
He walked to the amplifier and bent, fumbling with the door latch. If he
could shield his motions, he could grab the cat, turn, and throw. He
might be lucky ...
"Just hand him the cat," Scotty said quickly.
Rick seethed inside, but he knew Scotty was right. The Egyptian cat
wasn't worth his life, no matter what it contained. He opened the door
and took the cat out. Then he turned slowly and held it out to Moustafa.
"You're being wise," Moustafa said. His eyes gleamed. He reached for the
cat. Rick handed it to him.
"Drop!" a voice yelled. Rick and Scotty dove to the floor on the
instant. Moustafa whirled, gun lifted to shoot, and saw no one.
"The building is surrounded by police officers," the voice said. "Just
drop your gun." The voice came from outside the doorway, and it belonged
to Ismail ben Adhem.
Moustafa yelled desperately, "Don't try anything, or I shoot the
Americans!" He faced the empty doorway, ready.
Ben's voice said, "If you will turn slowly, you will see a shotgun
barrel pointed at you through the window. If you turn rapidly, it fires.
And, as you turn, another shotgun will come through the doorway to cover
you. You're all done, Kemel. Better drop it. I want you alive."
Third Brother turned, slowly and carefully. Rick looked up and saw the
shotgun barrel, as Ben had promised. He saw Ben step through the
doorway, a riot gun in his hands.
Moustafa's Luger dropped to the floor.