Re-enter Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

rainbow. What a multiple idiot he had been! Waiting day after day for a word from Lola, and except for telling her that he was flying to Cairo, he had given her no idea where to reach him! But she found a way. He seemed to be looking again into those gray eyes with their hint of hidden laughter, hearing her voice. And he knew, in this moment, that Zoe had been a distraction, no more. He hoped, as Nayland Smith had encouraged him to believe, that Zoe felt the same way about it.
    He suddenly decided to make a dash to the Mûski and order five hundred Azîza cigarettes to be sent by air to Lola in London. He knew that she liked Egyptian cigarettes.
    Without allowing himself time to change his mind, he went out, jumped in a cab, and told the driver to take him to the shop of Achmed es-Salah in the Khân Khalîl. He had good reason to distrust Achmed, but he sold excellent cigarettes. This done, he would at least have time to send a radiogram to Lola before he left Cairo.
    And so presently he found himself again passing through those crowded, colorful, dusty streets, listening to cries musical and discordant, the vehicle sometimes nearly running over a tiny donkey and always meeting with some sort of obstruction.
    Achmed sat smoking in the entrance to his cavernous shop. Brian looked hard into the shadows beyond. But today he found no amber eyes watching him.
    “Ah, my gentleman!” Achmed greeted him. “You come for my cigarettes. Is it so?”
    “It is so. You can mail some to London?”
    “Of course. I send many to England, and also to America.”
    Brian ordered five hundred Azîzas to be sent to Lola, writing the address on a little card that Achmed gave him. He paid the price demanded, which he knew was exorbitant, and a small sum for postage; then he hurried away. He had kept the cab waiting.
    The driver had gone no more than a few hundred yards when he upset and narrowly avoided running over a very large man riding a very small donkey. The language of the fallen rider, which Brian didn’t understand, was evidently so ornamental, even for an Arab, that a laughing crowd gathered around him. They ignored the driver’s warnings and encouraged the furious victim to further abuse.
    A car going in the opposite direction, its Nubian chauffeur tooting remorselessly, forced a way through the outskirts of the audience and passed on. Brian had a glimpse of the solitary passenger.
    It was Mr. Ahmad.
    These suspicions concerning this man, never far from his mind, awoke again. Was Ahmad going to the shop that he himself had just left? Even so, he might be going only to buy cigarettes. But Brian reviewed the chain of events that linked old Achmed with the girl who had followed him, and joined up with that ragged beggar who had undoubtedly been waiting for him outside the building that accommodated the Azîza Cigarette Company.
    He wondered if he should speak to Nayland Smith about it, but hesitated for fear of giving Sir Denis the impression that he was inclined to form wild theories that lacked any basis in proven fact.
    A time was to come when he would regain confidence in his instincts. But that time was not yet.
    * * *
    The call came just after two o’clock. Brian had dispatched a radiogram to Lola and was crossing the lobby when Nayland Smith burst in.
    “Baggage down, Merrick? Got the passports and entry papers? Good. Everything will be settled up here. We’re off!”
    Sir Nigel Richardson’s chauffeur was standing outside to dispose of Brian’s luggage in the big Embassy car. Four motorcycle police were lined alongside and a number of spectators had gathered, curious to get a glimpse of the distinguished visitor. They probably expected to see a Hollywood celebrity, and were plainly disappointed when Brian and Sir Denis came out and got into the car.
    Brian found another passenger inside, a tall, stooping man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark sun glasses, his chin buried in the upturned collar of his light topcoat. As the