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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
This eBook has been formatted to the highest digital standards and adjusted for readability on all devices. Jimgrim is an American secret agent who has been recruited by the British intelligence services because of his in-depth knowledge of Arab life. Together with his friends and compatriots Ramsden and Ross he encounters an old acquaintance, beautiful Joan Leich, who is experiencing certain unpleasance on her property in Egypt. The group travels to Egyptian desert, accompanied by an old mathematician from China, in order to locate the mysterious tomb of Khufu.
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The Mystery of Khufu's Tomb
(Unabridged)
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I Which is a kind of preface
We Americans are ostriches. We stick well meaning heads into the political sands of these United States, swear—probably correctly—they are better than all other sands, and accordingly declare ourselves free for ever from entangling alliances. “Struthio camelus,” whose plumes are plucked for market while his head, stowed snugly in a stocking, “sees no evil, hears no evil, speaks no evil,” and who then struts about asserting that a plucked and smarting rump is fashionable, ought to be our national bird, not the all-seeing eagle.
But this isn’t an effort to reform the United States. We’re the finest there is or ever was, only rather more entangled with the old world than we think.
The Great Pyramid of Gizeh is older than the Declaration of Independence, and its claims continue to have precedence, our elected statesmen notwithstanding. Statesmen understand not much beyond the drift of popular opinion; but conspirators have always understood that the safest place to conspire in is the centre of the establishment they aim at.
The men whose lives are spent mainly in the open are the widest awake. To assert the contrary is only another phase of the ostrich habit. If a man wipes his knife on the seat of his trousers and knows where the cinnamon bear will be rooting at six a.m., he’s not necessarily less enlightened than the fellow who thinks he knows what the editorials in the morning paper really mean. That partly explains why the best policemen come from the plough-tail and the woods, and cities don’t often produce Abe Lincolns.
All this sounds rather far from Egypt and the Pyramid of Gizeh, but is not. Few people know or knew why the Great Pyramid was built. Hundreds of thousands toiled at the making of it, most of whom thought they knew, just as most of the people who take the subway in the morning think they know why, and are deluded. They believed what they were told. They were told what was considered good for them to think. The men who told them knew hardly any more but were getting a profit, and hard cash always did look like Euclid’s Q.E.D. But the men who really did know why the Pyramid was building held their tongues and toiled elsewhere, also for cash, except Khufu himself, who was the arch-type of perfect profiteers.
Khufu was king of Upper and Lower Egypt in those days. Cash dividends did not trouble him much, for he had the taxes to draw on and auditors passed his vouchers without comment. Consequently the man in the street of to-day might be paying higher taxes on account of old Khufu, if Joan Angela Leich hadn’t just contrived to miss me with her Ford one dark night on the Geiger Trail; which sounds incredible.
But so is Joan Angela incredible; I’m coming to her presently. Everybody knows her who isn’t fenced in by apartment-house blocks. If she had pushed me over the edge of the Geiger that night, you, who read this, would be paying for more armaments.
But it was Khufu who started the trouble. He is better known to fame as Cheops, and we know pretty well what he looked like.
He was a calm, proud, confident-appearing man, with an obvious sense of his own importance and a smile that seemed to say: “Carry on, boys. What’s good for me is good for you,” Being city folk, he had them all in one place where they had got to listen. Spell-binders laid the argument on thick in one direction; in the other the overseers laid on the lash; and the minstrels, who were the equivalent of the daily Press in those days, praised all concerned.
But right here I’m going to be called in question by the Egyptologists unless I hasten to explain. It will be said with a certain amount of surface truth that the Egyptians who laboured at building the Pyramid were peasants on vacation. Work ceased in the fields when the Nile had overflowed, and they were kept out of mischief by thoughtful superiors, who provided wholesome amusement with educational value that incidentally promoted trade. When the Nile receded at the end of three months, those who had survived the education were permitted to return home and go to work in the fields again, in order to raise crops, with which to pay the taxes, that should keep the ball a-rolling and Jack Pharaoh’s pyramid a-building again next season. That is what the text-book writers will assert.
But those peasants were city folk. Egypt was always one great straggling city, with one wide avenue—the Nile—running straight down the middle of it. Everybody lived on Main Street, and they all do still; there was, and is, nowhere else to live, and if the Nile were to dry up Egypt would disappear.
Living on one long street, Egyptians all look alike, think alike, and react to the same inducement. You can’t change the Nile, but it will change you, and if you stay there long enough will pattern you until you resemble all the others. Egypt has been invaded scores of times, overrun, looted, conquered, and made to pay tribute; its women have been forced to intermarry with the conquerors, because they are beautiful women with the eyes of gazelles and with a properly respectful attitude toward the male; so the pure-blooded Egyptian no longer exists. Nevertheless, the Egyptian of to-day is exactly like the Egyptian of four thousand years ago, and so is Egypt, except that nowadays you see blue cotton dungarees in place of unbleached linen; a corrupt style of near-French architecture; and two streets instead of one, since the foreigner built the railway.
Then, just as now, there was always a small crowd of foreigners running things, while the native Egyptian did the work. It was a foreigner who suggested the Great Pyramid to Pharaoh, and who doubtless drafted the design and got the contract. No Egyptian ever lived who was capable of designing it. Khufu provided the money and labour, but there is always someone pulling strings behind the autocrat.
In a later Pharaoh’s day another foreigner, Joseph by name, thought of cornering corn. Still another foreigner, Lesseps by name, conceived the Suez Canal and put that through. Only the dirt was shifted by Egyptians because they are Egyptians, and the dividends go elsewhere for the same reason.
You can’t change Egypt. Not even its religion has changed except on the surface. The religion of the educated classes century by century may be the nominal creed of the labourer, but it has never got under his skin. He was always a fatalist, always a believer in brute force, born, bred, beaten and buried on the Nile, and tributary to it all his days; and if you want to start trouble on the Nile now you can do it exactly as it was done in Pharaoh’s time.
Pharaoh’s religion was more than perfunctory, or he would never have run the prodigious political risk of forcing gangs of a hundred thousand men to labour in three-month tricks for thirty year. The priests put him up to it, of course. Pharaoh believed that his future in the next world depended wholly on the amount of material preparation that he made for it in this.
He was not only an arch-profiteer. He pyramided profits. He conceived the idea—or priests conceived it for him—of taking the next world by storm. He would be a king for all eternity. He would outdo all the aristocracy who had had themselves entombed in opulence for generations past.
The peasantry—the real Egyptians, that is, who lived on Main Street and paid taxes or were whipped—were no more impressed by that theory than they are by the Sermon on the Mount to-day. They had a more pragmatic, Nile-mud point of view. They wondered, just as they do to-day if anyone propounds a theory to them, whether there was money in it. It was obvious to them that there was. There was their money in it. Every Pharaoh, and every high official who got buried, had as much of the tax money as he could scrape out of the treasury buried with him for his use in the next world. The dwellers on Main Street, preferring this world to the next, and having toiled in the sun for twelve hours a day to earn that money, did some good, plain, Nile-mud thinking; and the result was what you might expect.
It can’t have been long before the insurance Companies, if there were any, who underwrote burglary risks on mausoleums went out of business. It got so that a Pharaoh’s mummy was hardly set stiff before the boys were out with pickaxes to break the door down and get the treasure out of the vault. It was no use putting a guard before the door, because you can always bribe the guard in Egypt, anyhow, and the guard, being peasants in uniform would be quite as anxious to get their share of the loot as anybody else. No doubt a few got caught and hanged, or flayed alive, or whatever was considered suitable for that offence in those days, but the number of kings’ and noblemen’s tombs that were not broken open and robbed was zero, and that was all about it. The cash went into circulation again.
So succeeding kings and noblemen took thought. They appealed to the public sense of decency, only to find that there was none. They got the priests to threaten damnation in the next world as the sure penalty for robbing tombs, only to discover that the boys who did the robbing didn’t take much stock in the next world, anyhow, but were dead set on getting what small comfort could be had in this. The nobility raised the taxes, strafed whole districts with extra hard labour, issued proclamations, passed laws forbidding anyone below the rank of nobleman to be seen near a cemetery, imported guards from other countries-and all to no effect. Bury a Pharaoh, and the boys got away with his baggage, as often as not in broad daylight, almost before he’d started on his journey to the world beyond.
So they changed part of the plan. It was decided that secrecy would solve the problem. Laws were passed forbidding anyone to know where a Pharaoh was buried. The head undertakers enjoyed a monopoly, and held their tongues for business reasons. Undertakers’ helpers came cheap, so they were all killed and shipped along with Pharaoh to be useful to him in the next world. The mausoleum was underground, out of sight, in an unfrequented spot, and the sand was tidily arranged on top to look as if nothing but the desert wind had ever ruffled it. The living nobility breathed again.
But all they had accomplished was to add a sporting zest to what had hitherto been humdrum certainty. The boys had to go prospecting now, and there’s no doubt whatever they found the loot, getting away with it all the more profitably because there were no expensive imported guards to be bribed. So the upper classes had to think again.
They did not abandon the secrecy theory. Rather they proceeded to improve on it. A Pharaoh would start to build his tomb as soon as he came to the throne and had finished maligning his predecessor. He constructed false tombs nearby to deceive prospectors. Then, to the real tomb, he had long dummy tunnels driven, leading to a pit, which was dumped full of rock; and on the far side of the pit was the real passage leading to the place where his corpse would lie in state.
But the prospectors soon discovered that trick, and it got so that a Pharaoh couldn’t be certain of getting to heaven with a small coin in his jeans.
About that time the easiest way to make money in Egypt was to come along with an intricate plan for an undiscoverable tomb; but as they had no Patent Office, and anyone who had the price could imitate the plans, tombs soon got stereotyped again, and once one real entrance had been discovered it became a comparatively simple matter to repeat the process and open every rich man’s tomb on the country-side.
Things had reached the point where Pharaoh and his friends didn’t know what the rising generation was coming to, when who should ascend the throne but Khufu, otherwise known as Cheops. He went through the usual process of removing his predecessor’s signature from all the public monuments in order to call attention to his own omnipotence, and then proceeded to entertain a distinguished stranger.
Some say that this stranger was Job, the hero of the Old Testament drama. He was certainly an architect and a man of genius. He laughed when Pharaoh told him of the hard work it was for a decent fellow to get to heaven nowadays without arriving like a common tramp.
“Suppose I show you a real idea,” he suggested. “If I draft out a plan by which nobody will ever find your real tomb, Khufu, will you give me the contract for the job?”
The plans were produced, and they were marvelous. No doubt there was a cost-plus-basis contract attached with red tape and sealing-wax. Pharaoh signed that, and for thirty years the labourers—the tax-payers that is—of Egypt toiled at the building of what they were told was to be the largest and most magnificent tomb the world had ever seen.
Meanwhile, very secretly and quite a long way off, other workmen were digging the real tomb; and it was into the real one, when Khufu died, that his body and most of his treasure were smuggled, although the public funeral was held at the base of the Great Pyramid, while the population stood around and cursed the tyrant who had forced them to build such a mausoleum for his bones.
The pyramid was so well built, and on such a titanic scale, that the tax-payers, who had built it, knew better than to try to open that; so for thousands of years it stood intact, with Khufu’s bones and Khufu’s treasure presumably inside. Nobody hunted for his real grave, because everybody knew that he was buried in the pyramid.
But when at last a conquering Moslem, Mahmoun by name, forced his way into the pyramid to get the treasure out, he found it absolutely empty, except for a great stone chest that had no lid. He naturally jumped to the conclusion that tomb robbers had been in there ahead of him. But how I came to know that Mahmoun was wrong and what Joan Angela Leich and the man in the street in the U.S.A. had to do with it shall all be unfolded in the proper order.
CHAPTER II Moustapha Pasha
I now go forward to the Geiger Trail, one dark night. I was driving a Ford up the winding, seven-mile grade toward Virginia City, wondering at the prodigious guts of the men and women who crossed a continent to tear the inside out of those mountains with pick and shovel. I still maintain that the accident was Joan Angela’s fault entirely.
Her Ford, coming down-hill, struck mine very nearly head-on. Her lights were out and her brake-bands burning, so she enjoyed the full advantage of surprise as well as impetus, and it was only a friendly rock at the edge of the road that caught my front axle and saved car and me from falling a couple of hundred feet.
“Why didn’t you get out of the way?” laughed a musical voice. “Are you hurt?”
I proved I wasn’t by scrambling out.
“Joan Angela Leich,” I exclaimed, “or I’m a Dutchman!”
“Why, Jeff Ramsden! Shake hands! I saw you last in Egypt, laying out about a hundred natives with a pick-handle!”
“You got me into that mess!” I laughed. “Here’s some more of your doing! D’you expect me to walk all the rest of the way up-hill?”
“You enjoyed the last mess I got you into,” she retorted. “Your car’s in the way. Push it right over, and I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Tisn’t mine,” I said. “I hired it.”
“I’ll give him this in place of it. This is less than a month old. It’s a fair swap. Go on, push yours over.”
I made the attempt, but the front axle was bent and had caught on the rock like a yoke. I started to hunt in the dark for something that would do, but she backed her car far enough up the trail to descend again and bunt mine over. I had forgotten to turn off the switch, so the thing caught fire and looked pretty good as it went catapulting down the cliff-side.
“Now what’ll we do?” she demanded. “My brakes won’t, hold. Think of something, quick!”
I found a place where there was room to turn by manoeuvring carefully, and stood guard at the edge of the precipice while she did the shunting. Then I climbed in.
“Drive up-hill, drop me at Virginia City, and return to where you came from,” I suggested.
“Nothing doing! I’m on my way to Reno, and you’re the very man I need. Fun going down-hill backwards!”
You need no education to enjoy Joan Angela, so there were compensations. Her granddad crossed the continent in ‘49 or ‘50. He was about seven years old at that time, and he crossed the Six-mile Desert on the back of the last remaining mule. He left his son with a claim or two that proved bonanzas; and when the son died he left Joan Angela about a million dollars and a hundred-thousand acre ranch in California.
She had sat on my knee scores of times until either she or I, or both of us, had outgrown that, and then she went traveling. During her absence abroad, her manager, the son of her father’s closest friend, found oil on her ranch, so there’s no real reason why she should select a Ford to make long journeys in.
She’s tall-maybe a mite too tall for some folks’ notions-and mid- Victorian mammas would never have approved of her, because she’s no more coy, or shy, or artful than the blue sky overhead. She has violet eyes, riotous hair of a shade between brown and gold, a straight, shapely little nose, a mouth that is all laughter, and a way of carrying herself that puts you in mind of all out-doors. I’ve seen her in evening dress with diamonds on; and much more frequently in riding-breeches and a soft felt hat; but there’s always the same effect of natural-born honesty, and laughter, and love of trees and things and people. She’s not a woman who wants to ape men, but a woman who can mix with men without being soiled or spoiled. For the rest, she’s not married yet, so there’s a chance for all of us except me. She turned me down long ago.
“Someone told me you’d gone into business with Meldrum Strange; that’s why I was so glad to meet you,” she explained as we backed down-hill.
I swallowed that compliment, and answered truthfully.
“D’you suppose he’d sell out to me?” she asked, and again I told truth.
“He feels like a great strong spider in the middle of a web, and he loves the sensation.”
“Well, would he let me buy into the firm?”
“Not if he takes my advice, Joan Angela!”
“What have you got it in for me about?”
“We’re steady-going, plodding, conservative, cautious, patient, counting on the long swing, and exceedingly careful before we leap into anything.”
“Old fogies! Well, would you timid old ladies let me hire your firm for an investigation?”
“It all depends,” I said. “We’re at the foot of the trail now; you can turn round and go forward.”
“Thanks! Depends on what? Where were you going when I ran into you?”
“Can’t let mines alone,” I answered. “Have to go, look, see. My trade, you know. Had a case not far from here. The man got drowned in Lake Tahoe, and the woman was a poor fish, anyhow; the case against her has just been dropped.”
“Who was the woman?”
“A Mrs. Aintree.”
“That’s funny.”
“Nothing very funny about her; she’s—”
“It’s extremely funny,” Joan Angela corrected. “Do you believe in coincidences?”
“Partly. And Mrs. Aintree. So she’s—”
“A crook,” I said, preferring to put the conversation on a basis of solid fact.
“Um-m-m! That accounts for a whole lot,” said Joan Angela.
And for a while after that she sat silent, driving the Ford without lights at much higher speed than the law permits or than the manufacturer intended.
“I’m on the way to Reno more or less on Mrs. Aintree’s account,” she said, slowing down at last. “She gave a man a letter of introduction to me, and he’s in Reno now. Now that I know Mrs. Aintree is a crook, I want this man investigated more than ever.”
“What’s his name, for instance?”
“Moustapha Pasha.”
I whistled. If you go there often enough, and stay long enough, you are likely to meet almost anyone in Reno.
“You know him?”
“Noureddin Moustapha Pasha, of Cairo, Egypt? You bet I know him.”
“He’s a crook, too, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t lend him a match,” I answered. “Is he after your money?”
“No. He wants to pay me money. You remember I went to Egypt. They were having a side-show there, you remember-trying to shoot the King, or to go democratic or ditch the English-sort of five and ten cent revolution. And I hadn’t a visa—forgot to get one. I had a hard time getting into the country, and an even harder time to stay there after they found I wouldn’t sit still and be ornamental at Shepheard’s Hotel. I had to flirt with fat generals, until at last one of them told me that the way to work it was to transfer lots of money to Cairo; then they’d have to let me stay for business reasons. So I did. And I began to wonder what to do with the money. After that I found a statesman with brass arteries who’d do anything on earth if you let him hold your hand and gurgle. He signed all the necessary papers and even invented extra ones. So then I went and bought a lot of land that everybody said was no good because it was too far from the Nile. You remember the piece?”
“You bet I remember it! That was where I had to lay out those fellahin with a pick-handle. Lucky for you I made a side-trip to see what tents were doing in such a wilderness!”
“‘Tisn’t a wilderness! There’s a good well. I never found out why those fellahin wanted to drive me away. I’d paid at least three times what the land was worth, and it wasn’t any good to them for crops or anything. However, an officer came along that afternoon, you remember, and conscripted the lot of them for the labour gang. Arrested you, too, didn’t he, for being in Egypt without a permit?”
“Yes. It meant nothing in his life that permits weren’t being issued in Abyssinia. He took me down to Cairo in a sheep-truck on my own first-class ticket; but go on.”
“Well, you know I get notions. I had a notion to see what could be done with that piece of land. About half the Egyptian babies that survive the flies are either blind or going to be. And I knew a number one eye doctor in Colorado, and I supposed if I should build an eye hospital he’d be keen to run it. It was only after I had hired an architect and had the plans all drawn that I learned he had married a chorus girl and financed a musical comedy on Broadway to provide her with a star part. So that was that. And then I had to come home. There’s oil on my place, you know, and all the sharks in California, and a whole lot more from the East, were trying to get options on the property from my manager. I wish you’d seen the rush when I showed up! I listened to more black-faced lies and blarney in five days than I’d heard even in Egypt, but they got wise finally, and we’ve got the thing going in first-class shape now—rigs and pumps all over the place, and our own pipe-line. Never borrowed a nickel.”
“Who are ‘we’?” I asked her.
“Just me and the manager. I own the whole shooting-match. Well, I kept the title to those acres in Egypt. You couldn’t have sold them for a song. I’d about forgotten that I owned the land, although I left a British ex-Tommy in charge of it, just to see that the Gyppies didn’t steal the holes out of the ground. However, about a month ago along comes this Moustapha Pasha, and wants to buy the land. I thought it funny he should come all that way, when he could have done as well by mail, but I’d have sold him the property for almost any price he’d cared to offer if his lies hadn’t made me suspicious. There wasn’t any sense in them. I asked him out of curiosity what he proposed to do with the property, and he said some friends of his intended to make a hotel out of it!
“You could no more make a hotel out of that place than out of a pig-sty in the sage-brush. Nobody would go there. There wouldn’t be anything to do if they did go there. It’s too far from the railway, too far from the mountains, too far from everybody. When I was using it we had to bring supplies in lorries a whole day’s run, and one of the chief reasons why the British didn’t come and turn me off it was that their red-tape specialists were too lazy to come and argue.
“Well, I refused to name a price, but told this Moustapha Pasha I’d think it over. He got pretty impudent then—tried to tell me that I didn’t know my own business, and that as a foreigner I had no right to own land in Egypt that I couldn’t use, and so on. So I gave him the gate. I said if he wanted to negotiate on that basis he could do it through the courts, or through his embassy, or whichever way Gyppies do their long-range cheating. He went off to San Francisco in a huff.
“Within the fortnight, though, he came back I with a letter of introduction from Mrs. Aintree, whom I once knew slightly. Its terms were far more affectionate and intimate than she’d any right to use to a practical stranger, and I grew more suspicious than ever.
“I asked him what he thought the land was worth, and he hesitated for about a minute, and then said a hundred pounds. Wasn’t that like a Gyppy, to come all that way and then offer five hundred dollars for a thousand acres? I laughed, so he offered a thousand pounds, and then, when I still laughed, five thousand. He had brought the money with him, too. A draft on New York.
“But there’s something about that Gyppy that stirs all the fight in me. His atmosphere suggests a plastered fake. He seems to think he’s talking down to you all the time. I know he’s a faker of some kind, and—”
“Well?”
“I want to ditch the brute! Need help!”
By that time we were running into Reno. A man stepped out under a street-lamp and held his hand up.
“Driving without lights,” he said. “Excuses don’t go. Hell! It’s Joan Angela! Okay. If anyone stops you farther along, Miss Joan, just tell ‘em I said it’s all right!”
“You seem popular,” I suggested.
“If they knew your dad, and liked him, and know you’re on the level, that’s all there is to it,” she answered. “I’m going to this hotel. You’d better come too.”
CHAPTER III “You talk like the British government”
The hotel was full, but the proprietor surrendered his own suite to Joan, and caused two house-maids, two page-boys, one Chinaman and a darky to sweat furiously. There was nothing whatever to it but friendship—which of course includes respect, or it isn’t of the first water by a long way. There were no strings; I saw her bill next morning. And she was charged four dollars fifty for the use of two rooms, supper and breakfast.
After I had found a place to sleep I returned to the hotel for supper. The proprietor came and sat with us while we tackled a scratch feed that his sister threw together in the absence of the cook. For a while the talk was of folk well known to both of them, and of the ups and downs of local celebrities, all worth recording but not bearing on this tale, unless to show that there is a sort of masonry among old-timers and their sons and daughters that is as a sealed book to all outsiders.
You might cheat such people; in fact it might be easy—once. But for all their open-handed kindness you’d never succeed in being one of them until you’d assayed “honest-to-God” before their eyes—after which it wouldn’t matter whether you were broke or a billionaire; you’d be on the inside, looking out.
“Anybody staying here named Moustapha Pasha?” Joan Angela asked after a while.
“Yes. M. Pasha. Here a week. Some kind of an Ayrab or something—maybe a nabob—seems to think he owns the place because he can pay. Tips the bell-hops half a dollar and expects ‘em to call him ‘Excellency’ or some such bunk. He’s hitched up with a shady gang of lawyers here in town, but I don’t know what the game is. I’d layoff him, if you asked me.”
“Who are the lawyers?”
“Zezwinski and Zoom.”
Joan Angela laughed.
“Zezwinski and Zoom wrote me the other day from their San Francisco office suggesting there’s a flaw in the title to part of my ranch.”
“Is there?” I asked.
“There might have been once,” she answered. “An old friend of my dad’s named Collins called my attention to it. It didn’t mean anything to him, but after we’d talked it over, he gave me a receipt by which he waived for ever any claim that he might have to any portion of my ranch. It’s in my strong-box. Mr. Collins died, and his estate got into the courts. I dare say Zezwinski and Zoom have been hired by some of the heirs to make all the trouble possible, but I didn’t even bother to answer their letter. Suppose you ask Moustapha to come and see me in my room as soon as we’re through supper? I’ll ask Mr. Ramsden to help interview him.”
The proprietor agreed, but hesitated: “Is Mr. Ramsden a lawyer?” he asked.
“No, merely white. He’ll do.”
“All right, Miss Leich, that goes with me. I’ll tell M. Pasha you’d like to see him.”
“And Tom, don’t say anything. I don’t want it all over town that—”
“Trust me!”
So, twenty minutes later, the door of Joan Angela’s sitting-room was opened by a page-boy, who ushered in Noureddin Moustapha Pasha. The Egyptian’s smile vanished almost before the door was closed behind him—the moment, in fact, that he saw me. He had evidently expected a tete-a-tete.
Neither clothes nor nationality appear to me to matter much, and I’m not quite such a born fool as to expect a foreigner’s ideas of right and wrong to agree with mine exactly. You can always make allowance for another fellow’s standards, provided he has them and believes in them, just as, for instance, a man who makes cloth by the yard can sell it by the metre if he must. But there are men of all creeds and colours, who can mouth morality like machines printing paper money, but who you know at the first glance have only one rule, and that an automatic, self-adjusting, expanding and collapsing one, that adapts itself to every circumstance and always in the user’s favour. This man was clearly one of those.
A handsome man, not very dark-skinned, but looking more like a dark man who had bleached indoors than a pale man who had bronzed a little in the open. He was immaculately dressed in one of those grey tweed suits that they get such an awful price for from the men who want to look like wealthy sports. He had a little black moustache, the thin neck of the city-born Egyptian, a rather prominent nose that carne within an ace of being shapely, and bright, dark eyes.
The worst of him to look at was his feet and fingernails; the first were much too small for his height, and encased in shoes that might not have disgraced a woman, and his fingernails were polished until they shone with a feminine pinkiness.
Another way he had of being objectionable was to assume that he understood you perfectly, and that you and he were on a basis of good fellowship merely because he was willing that such should be the case.
“Ah-ha! Miss Leich,” he began. “I thought you would come round to my viewpoint; but you needn’t have come all this way to see me, really. However—”
“What is your viewpoint?” she asked him blandly.
“That you should sell me that Egyptian property. You have no earthly right to it, you know. Egypt for the Egyptians—that is our motto nowadays.”
“And America for any person who cares to come over here and help himself, I suppose?” she retorted.
“You don’t suppose I came to this country for nothing, do you?” he asked. The tart note came into his voice as suddenly as if someone had kicked him.
“Nobody ever does,” she answered. “If you had come to pay the war debts you’d be a novelty.”
She was enjoying the interview, and as that fact gradually dawned on him all the man’s acrid jealousy, that is the underlying secret of Egyptian character, began coming to the surface. He threw diplomacy to the winds, and from that moment bore in mind only one circumstance, as his restless eye betrayed-namely, that I was capable of taking him with one hand and dropping him down the elevator shaft. He and I had exchanged no words, but had no misunderstandings.
