Mysterious Cairo (28 page)

"Nothing, dummy ... yet," Roscoe answered. "I'll explain it to you one more time — there're Storm Knights all over Cairo, right? And those guys are always looking for an angle, right? So we steal some old stuff, maybe some vases, whatever, get somebody to paint red and blue streaks on 'em, and bang — instant whaddayacall'ems, eternity slivers."

"Shards," Skids corrected from the back of the store. "Eternity shards."

"Yeah, right," Roscoe said. "Anyway, by the time the Knights find out they been conned, we're livin' high in Thebes. Nice and simple."

They were done with their unsavory work in a matter of minutes — they were professionals, after all. As arranged, they went out by the back door to meet their wheel man in the alley.

Unfortunately, the car waiting for them was not the one they'd expected.

"If you're looking for 'The Dutchman,' he ain't coming," said a husky voice. Roscoe didn't even have to turn to know it belonged to a cop. "Looks like we got you with the goods this time, Roscoe."

Okay, this is no big deal,
the gang leader said to himself.
I been pinched before. A few palms get greased, maybe a few days in the slammer, and I'm out on the street again.

All these thoughts ran through his mind as he turned toward the mouth of the alley. His confidence sank as he saw the squad of badges standing there, all armed with Tommys, all smiling.

Roscoe dropped the stuff and his rod, and his companions did likewise. They all raised their hands in the universal signal of surrender and got ready to take whatever lumps they'd have to before being dragged down to the station.

"Sorry, boys," the police sergeant said, raising his weapon. "Seems the jails are full up this week."

The rain was coming down harder now. By morning, all the blood staining the pavement would be washed away.

* * *

Paul Bennington liked to joke that if the average club owner in Cairo could be described as a "man of the world," then he would best be called a "man of two worlds." He appeared to be the model of success — well-off and influential both on Terra and Earth, and apparently able to stay above the frays that were constantly occurring in the city. As owner of the exclusive Icarus Club, Bennington rubbed elbows with everyone of importance in Cairo—Core Earth officials scrambling to retain power, gangsters looking to go legitimate, and even some of Dr. Mobius' Overgovernors.

But if the powerful and distinguished men who frequented Bennington's salon were to spy upon the doings in the secret complex underneath, they would see the true meaning of their host's witticism. An underground complex off of the wine cellar held the Nile's one and only "crime exchange" — a place where specialists in robbery, extortion and even murder were traded between Cairo's major gangs. A lucrative, relatively safe and highly secret criminal enterprise, and all the brainchild of Bennington.

This Friday evening found the raconteur/criminal mastermind in the lounge of his club, engaged in a chess match with publisher Oliver Chalmers. It was a weekly affair between the two, a chance to catch up on the gossip of the city. Through Chalmers, Bennington could discern likely targets for future crimes, allowing him to have the needed specialists lined up before the calls came in.

This particular game was coming to an end. Chalmers, with a shrug, tipped his king over and shook his host's hand.

"I truly don't know how you do it, Paul," he said, with an air of resignation. "Every week, I sweep through your pieces, taking two for every one I lose. And still you beat me."

Bennington smiled coolly. "It's all in the approach to the game, Oliver. You fight a conservative war — I do the opposite. To me, the only important piece on the board is the king. The rest are simply pawns — and pawns are meant to be sacrificed."

"Rather a cold-blooded approach, wouldn't you say?"

Now it was Bennington's turn to shrug. "This is Cairo, after all."

Their conversation was interrupted by Bennington's manservant, Drake, a wizened man with a shock of silver hair atop his head. On nights when the club was crowded, he could often be seen serving high-quality (and highly illegal) libations to the patrons.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said to Bennington in measured tones, which said more to his master than a shout could. "We seem to have run out of the Rochemont '29, and you know how Overgovernor Herunut loves that particular vintage."

The code was an obvious one. Herunut had not been to the Icarus Club in months, consumed as he was with an upcoming air show in Chad. And '29 was a disastrous year for Rochemont. Bennington feigned surprise, saying, "I was certain a case of the Rochemont was delivered only last week. You'll have to excuse me, Chalmers. One of the drawbacks to providing patrons with fine wine is ensuring enough of it is on hand at all times."

As they walked down the corridor from the lounge toward the stairs leading to the cellar, Drake whispered, "I am sorry, sir, but Miss Stasos insisted on speaking with you immediately. She says it's quite urgent."

"I don't doubt it. See to our guests, Drake—if anyone is looking for me, tell them I'm going over the books and can't be disturbed. Nothing frightens away wealthy men faster than one of their own adding up what he owes the tax man."

Drake nodded and turned back toward the dining area. Bennington fitted a special key into the locked stairway door, opened it, then closed and locked it behind him. He took the stairs to the cellar two at a time. A single light burned among the wine racks, but he could have found his way to the sliding panel in pitch darkness after all this time. Laying his hand on the proper spot on the wall caused the panel to move silently aside and allow him admittance to his hidden empire.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. Granted, there were few guests in the complex that weekend — most of the regulars were out on jobs. But normally the voices of the traders carried down the hallway, as they busily swapped a torch and a sneak thief to one gang for their best triggerman and a share of the take. There were always gangs who hit upon a scheme for Saturday, but didn't have the experts on hand to pull it off. Occasionally, some pulp villain found himself short on henchmen just hours before his ultimate plan was about to come to fruition. For a hefty percentage, the Icarus Club was there to provide whoever was needed.

But not tonight. The traders were sitting at their desks in apparent shock, some mumbling into phones, others apparently trying to mollify outraged clients. Bennington's private secretary, Natalia Stasos, waited at the door to his office with a worried expression on her delicate features.

"It's happened again, Paul. We just got the word," she began. He gestured for her to be quiet and led her into the office, shutting the door.

"Morale is low enough as it is. Let's not make things worse," he said. "Okay, give it to me."

"Skids is dead. So are Roscoe and Drom. Word on the street is the cops were waiting for them outside the jewelry store — they knew just where to ambush them. Machine-gunned the three of them, and said they were 'armed and trying to escape.'"

"The hell they were!" Bennington exploded. "Skids never used a gun in his life, and every cop in Cairo knows Drom doesn't know which end of a rod to point! And where the blazes was The Dutchman while all this was going on?"

The pale, ebon-tressed woman glanced down at her report. "Waylaid on the way there by plainclothesmen. They beat him pretty badly, Paul. The doc's looking at him now."

"Let me know when he's well enough to talk. How are our customers reacting?" Bennington asked, moving to pour himself a drink.

"How do you think?" Natalia replied, refusing a proffered glass of Scotch. She watched with disapproval as her boss drained hers as well as his own. "That's three Icarus-connected jobs in three weeks that have gone sour. Some of our best operatives have been gunned down, along with some major players in the underworld. You can imagine what the snitches are peddling —"

"They're saying there's a rat in Icarus," Bennington finished for her. "Somebody who's tipping off the cops about our jobs, in time for them to set their little traps. Enough of that kind of talk, and we're out of business but good."

Natalia put her hand over Bennington's glass before he could raise it to his lips. "That's not going to help. What if they're right, Paul? What if somebody has sold out? 'No honor among thieves,' and all that."

Bennington shook his head. "I don't buy it, kid. We run a small, tight operation. All three jobs were put together by different traders, and the only people who knew the details of each one were you and me. I know I haven't talked — and if you were out to get me, you'd put a bullet in me and be done with it. This kind of spider web isn't your style."

Natalia threw her clipboard down and sank into a chair. "Okay, Bennington, if it isn't either one of us, who is behind all this?"

Bennington shook his head. "I don't know. But I have a feeling, whoever it is, they'll be naming their price soon."

He drank what was left in his glass, feeling the liquid burn as it coursed down his throat. "And I'll be very interested to hear our phantom's terms."

* * *

The members of the public Icarus Club departed at midnight, to make their way back to home, other late-night haunts, and in some cases, the apartments of mistresses. The employees of the hidden face of Icarus left in twos and threes over the next few hours, most heading for a glass of gin in which to drown their worries.

Bennington had found his concerns would not wash away so easily, and so gave up on that method by about three in the morning. He wondered if, by some chance, Natalia might not have a date this evening. She had a way of making him forget his problems, at least for a time.

He was reaching for the phone to dial her number when he heard a noise from the trader's room. It sounded like a file cabinet drawer shutting, and Natalia's question came back to him: what if there was a rat in this cellar?

Quietly, he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out his revolver. He disliked guns, and kept this one around mainly for appearance's sake. When he chose to forego the straight and narrow, he learned very quickly that every other path could be dangerous to the health. That was part of the reason he'd set up Icarus — there's usually no percentage in eliminating efficient middle-men.

He padded softly down the hallway. A light was on in the nerve center of the exchange and someone was muttering softly to himself. Bennington could hear papers being crumpled and boxes being tossed aside. He paused for a second near the doorway, just to make sure the safety on the gun was off, then raised the weapon and rushed into the room.

He was halfway through "Hold it right there," when he recognized his quarry. White with shock, hands up in the air, eyes tightly shut, there stood Pat "Numbers" Nagle, Icarus' top bookkeeper. He still had on his green visor and a worn Eberhard-Faber was tucked behind his ear. He looked like he'd aged about 10 years in the last five minutes, and was busily preparing to meet his Maker.

Bennington exhaled (he'd been holding his breath without realizing it) and said, "Relax, Pat, it's me."

'Numbers' cautiously opened his eyes. When he saw his boss, he smiled sheepishly and lowered his hands. "Cripes, Mr. Bennington, you scared me half to death. What are you doing here at this time of night — and what's with the heater?"

Bennington looked down and saw to his surprise that the gun was still levelled at Nagle. Putting it down on the table, he said, "I thought we had an intruder, Pat. I forgot you like to get your accounts done after everyone's gone. Sorry if I scared you; I'm a little on edge tonight."

Nagle closed his record book. "I know. I heard about 'Skids' — a real shame. He used to love to sit in here and watch the deals get made, all the while running sandpaper over his fingertips. He said that made it easier to feel the tumblers click into place."

The accountant paused for a long moment, remembering, then said, "Why'd they have to kill him, Mr. Bennington? He was just a guy trying to get along. He never hurt nobody, least not directly."

"It's a rough world out there, Pat," Bennington answered. "In a lot of ways, it's worse than Terra. The rules aren't always as clearly defined here.

"As long as you're here, I've got a question for you: if we close down — lay everybody off, with pay — how long can we survive?"

Nagle's face brightened a little, as it always did when he had a money problem to work through. "Well, let's see. We've had a pretty good summer. Business has been booming since Wu Han went sappy over that actress dame and blew the country, and the Burban outfit's problems have only made our job easier. We could lay low for six weeks or so, no problem. You thinking of putting the lid on things?"

Bennington nodded and started leafing through one of the trader's books. No deals in the offing listed there, just concerns about a leak to the cops. "It's possible, Pat. More and more, it looks like somebody's using the club, or the cops, or both. I don't know what for. But if we're not active, they might have to come looking for us to find out why."

'Numbers' smiled broadly. "And then we put the bag on 'em, right, boss?"

Bennington returned the grin. It was the first time in weeks he'd felt there was a way to lay a glove on the club's unseen enemy. "That's the general idea, Pat. Okay, put the word out on the street — as of tonight, the IC's closed until further notice."