Free Thieves Fall Out by Gore Vidal Page A

was not familiar. The way it was pointed at him, however, was unmistakable, and he put up his hands immediately.
    “Don’t bother,” said the dark man. “This is not a criminal visit.” He was seated at the plain dressing table by the window. A Tauchnitz edition of an English novel lay open beside him on the table. He had obviously been reading it.
    “I think this is
my
room,” said Pete, putting down his arms and walking over to the bed as casually as he could. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, with a hand made steady by an effort of will, lit a cigarette.
    “I’m perfectly sure it is,” said the other agreeably. Despite his swarthy Arabic features, he spoke English with a clipped British accent.
    “Make yourself at home,” said Pete.
    “I’ve spent a pleasant morning reading while you were with Fräulein Mueller.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “How does one know anything? I have two eyes.”
    “Isn’t that swell!” Pete mocked him, anger rising in spite of the ugly revolver. “I’ve got a pair, too. They were open on the train when I saw you in the dining car and they were open in Cairo when you danced with Hélène at that night club.”
    The man nodded. “Very good. Very good indeed. You are not as stupid as you look.”
    “If you’d like to put that gun down, Junior, I’ll show you who’s the stupid one.” Pete’s upper lip was growing dangerously tight. His muscles twitched. A store of rage had been accumulating in him ever since he’d come to Cairo. He was not afraid of the revolver; the other wouldn’t dare shoot him in his own room. He wasn’t afraid of the man’s body, either, tall and thickset as it was.
    His antagonist only chuckled at his anger. “I have no intention of fighting with you on such a hot day. Where did you go with that girl?”
    “None of your damned business.”
    “I am from the police, Mr. Wells.”
    “And I’m from Mars.”
    “Here are my authorizations.” He tossed a passport-like document at Pete. In three languages it announced that the bearer was a police inspector named Mohammed Ali. There was even a photograph. Pete gave the papers back.
    “I can put you in jail, Mr. Wells, whenever I choose.”
    “I’m an American citizen.”
    “It won’t make the slightest bit of difference. Your consulate would never hear another word about you. Our prisons are very uncomfortable, quite barbaric, if I say so myself. You would never be heard from again.”
    “What do you want?”
    Mohammed Ali put his revolver away and teetered his chair back. “At present, nothing, Mr. Wells—or very little. I would like to know what you and Fräulein Mueller talked about this morning, and where you went.”
    “We went to the temple up the road. What we talked about couldn’t’ve interested you less.”
    The policeman nodded sympathetically. “She is very attractive, of course. Many people have found her so. I am certain that if you liked, she would be only too happy to accommodate you as she has all the others.”
    Pete got to his feet slowly, moved two paces forward, and then, with the quick left hook that made him the champion of his division, sent the other man reeling. Mohammed Ali fell to the floor with a crash. Pete stood over him, mechanically massaging the knuckles of his left hand.
    “You hit very hard,” said the policeman, pulling himself to his feet, one hand held to his jaw. His eyes were suddenly swollen with pain and his face was dark red.
    “If you make another crack about Anna I’ll do it again,” said Pete in a low voice, his body tingling with rage, with this sudden release.
    “You don’t seem to realize, Mr. Wells, that I can kill you.”
    “I’m waiting,” said Pete, and deliberately he turned his back on the other and retrieved his cigarette, which had fallen, lighted, to the floor; but there was no shot, no attack.
    “You’re a brave man,” said Mohammed Ali, when Pete again faced him. “I should hate to see you killed,