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"Son, I don't want to be the one to tell you. And certainly not the one to tell Julie. But it looks as if Henry may be deeply involved."

Quiet up here. One could scarcely hear the music from the lighted windows below. She had crept up the stairs all alone, wanting only to see the stars, and be away from the unwelcome knocks and the unwelcome jangling of the phone.

And there was Samir, standing there at the edge of the roof, looking out over the minarets and the domes, and the myriad little rooftops of Cairo. Samir, looking up at the heavens as if he were in prayer.

He slipped his arm around her as she approached.

"Samir, where is he?" she whispered.

"He will send word to us, Julie. He will not break his promise."

*

This had been an exquisite choice: pale green "satin" with rows of pearl "buttons" and layers of "Brussels lace." And the loose fur wrap looked quite becoming, said the woman, and the woman should know, should she not?

"Your hair, so beautiful, it seems quite a sin to tie it up, but my dear, you really should, you know. It looks rather ... Perhaps tomorrow I can make an appointment for you with a hairdresser."

Of course she was right. The other women all had hair upswept, off the neck, not unlike the manner in which she'd worn hers always before this, except their coifs were shaped in a different way, more like a great heart with fancy curls. Yes, she would like this hairdresser.

"Especially for the opera ball!" Indeed. And the gown for the opera ball was a lovely creation, too, now hidden safely in a bundle of stiff and shining paper. And so were all the other things--the pretty lace "knickers" and the flimsy "underskirts" and the countless dresses, and shoes and hats, and various trifles she could no longer now remember. Lace handkerchiefs, scarves, and a white parasol for carrying in the sun! What delightful nonsense. It had been like walking into a great dressing closet. What were modern times that such things were everywhere ready made for the body?

The proprietress had almost finished her sums, as she called them. She had counted out many "bills" from the money. And now she opened the drawer of a big bronze machine, the "cash register," and there was much more money, more money by far than Cleopatra possessed.

"I must say you look stunning in that colour!" said the woman. "It makes your eyes change from blue to green."

Cleopatra laughed. Heaps of money.

She rose from the chair, and walked delicately towards the woman, rather liking the clicking sound of these high heels on the marble floor.

She took hold of the woman's throat before the poor creature so much as looked up. She tightened her grip, pressing her thumb right on the tender bone in the middle. The woman appeared astonished. She gave a little hiccuping noise. Then Cleopatra lifted her right hand and carefully twisted the woman's head hard to the left. Snap. Dead.

No need now to reflect upon it, to ponder the great gulf that existed between her and this poor sad being who lay now on the floor behind her little table, staring up at the gilded ceiling. All of these beings were for killing when it was wanted, and what could they possibly do to her?

She scooped the money into the new satin evening bag she had found here. What would not fit she put into the old canvas bag. She took also all the jewels left in the case beneath the "cash register." Then she piled the boxes one atop another until she had a mountainous stack of them; and she carried them out and heaved them into the rear seat of the car.

Off now, to the next adventure. Throwing the long thick tails of the white fur over her shoulders, she fired up the beast again.

And headed fast for the place where "all the best people stay, the British and the Americans, that's Shepheard's, the hotel, if you know what I mean."

She gave a deep laugh when she thought of the American and his strange way of talking to her, as if she were an idiot; and the merchant woman had been the same. Maybe at Shepheard's she would meet someone of charm and graceful manners, someone infinitely more interesting than all these miserable souls whom she had sent into the dark waters whence she'd come.

"What in God's name has happened here!" whispered the older of the two officials. He stood in the doorway of Malenka's house, reluctant to enter without a warrant or permission. No answer to his knock; no answer when he had called Henry Stratford's name.

He could see broken glass over the dressing table in the lighted bedroom. And that looked like blood on the floor.

The younger man, as ever impatient and strong-willed, had ventured into the courtyard with his electric torch. Chairs overturned. Broken china.

"Good Lord, Davis. There's a woman dead out here!"

The older man didn't move for a moment. He was staring at the dead parrot on the floor of its cage. And at all the empty bottles ranged from one end of the bar to the other. And the suit coat hanging on the corner rack.

Then he forced himself to go out into the dark little garden and see this corpse for himself.

"That's the woman," he said. "That's Malenka from the Babylon."

"Well, I don't think we need a warrant under these circumstances."

The older man came back into the sitting room. He moved cautiously into the bedroom.