Skiros grunted in surprise. ‘But why would he come here?’
Kane turned to face him and shrugged. ‘He’s a lecturer in archaeology at one of the English universities. Apparently he wanted to visit the ruins at Shabwa.’
Skiros frowned. ‘But only that crazy American, Jordan, manages to survive up there.’
Kane nodded. ‘That’s true, but what about Professor
Muller? He’s been hunting for rock inscriptions in that area for months now. He’s managed to survive somehow.’
Skiros snorted. ‘Bah, the German swine.’ He spat on the floor and then rubbed it into the carpet with the toe of one shoe. ‘He is protected by the Devil, but one day he will go too far. One day they will find him with a bullet in the head.’
Kane shrugged. ‘Is he in town at the moment?’
Skiros nodded. ‘Yes, he came in last night by road. He drove past the hotel about eleven o’clock just as I was having someone kicked out.’
Kane went to the table and helped himself to another ‘drink. ‘You don’t know anything about this guy Cunningham, then?’
Skiros shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I’m afraid not. When was he supposed to arrive here?’ When Kane told him he frowned for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, I can’t remember him.’
Kane swallowed his drink and walked to the door. ‘I think I’ll go and see Muller. He might have run across him.’
He opened the door and Skiros said, ‘But why should you go to all this trouble, my friend? I confess I am puzzled.’
Kane turned and grinned. He held up one hand and rubbed his thumb across his fingers in the universal gesture that is readily understood in every corner of the world. ‘For money,’ he said. ‘What else?’
When he emerged from the hotel into the street it was still quiet and deserted, but the sun enveloped him in an invisible cloak that caused the sweat to spring from every pore, soaking through his shirt and pants. He walked slowly along the shady side of the street towards Muller’s house, frowning slightly as he considered his conversation with Skiros.
If Cunningham had landed in Dahrein, it was strange Skiros didn’t know of it. It was a small town and not much escaped him. But perhaps Cunningham had never reached Dahrein? Perhaps he’d changed his mind? After all, there was only the letter to his wife to go on. On the other hand that theory didn’t hold water. He’d left Aden on the mail boat – the British Consul had cor firmed that. He must have landed in Dahrein. Perhaps he’d already made arrangements to go up-country and hadn’t bothered booking in at the hotel. From what his wife had said, he couldn’t have had a great deal of money.
Muller’s house was in a narrow alley on the north side of the harbour. The entrance was set in a high wall and Kane pulled on an ancient bell chain several times. As he waited for a response he thought about the German. Muller had arrived in Dahrein the first time about a year previously. A stiff, perfectly mannered Prussian, he was interested in graffiti – the ancient rock inscriptions which were to be found throughout the mountains. He constantly made long expeditions by truck, penetrating deep into some of the wildest country on the border. He seldom took more than two or three Arabs with him and carried no weapons. He was considered by the Musabein to be mad, and this probably accounted for his continued existence. No true believer would dare eternal hell, by laying hands on one of the afflicted of Allah.
The door opened and an Arab servant in clean white robes stood to one side, bowing deeply as Kane entered. He moved into a pleasant courtyard in the centre of which a fountain sparkled in the sun. Above his head, a balcony jutted out from one of the first-floor windows and Muller appeared and looked down at him. A pleased smile appeared on his face and he waved cheerfully. ‘Ah, Kane, my good friend. The very man. Come up – come up at once!’
Kane followed the servant inside the house. He led the way upstairs to a narrow corridor, opened a door and stood to one side, motioning Kane through.