The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [70]
He would call the police, he decided. They would prevent the customer running off, and might help persuade him to pay by check, or at least leave an IOU.
But which police? The Egyptian police would probably argue that it was not their responsibility, take an hour to get here, and then require a bribe. The customer was presumably an Englishman—why else would he have sterling?—and was probably an officer, and it was British money that had been counterfeited. Ibrahim decided he would call the military.
He went over to their table, carrying the brandy bottle. He gave them a smile. “Monsieur, madame, I hope you have enjoyed your meal.”
“It was excellent,” said the man. He talked like a British officer.
Ibrahim turned to the woman. “It is an honor to serve the greatest dancer in the world.”
She gave a regal nod.
Ibrahim said: “I hope you will accept a glass of brandy, with the compliments of the house.”
“Very kind,” said the man.
Ibrahim poured them more brandy and bowed away. That should keep them sitting still for a while longer, he thought. He left by the back door and went to the house of a neighbor who had a telephone.
If I had a restaurant, Wolff thought, I would do things like that. The two glasses of brandy cost the proprietor very little, in relation to Wolff’s total bill, but the gesture was very effective in making the customer feel wanted. Wolff had often toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant, but it was a pipe dream: he knew there was too much hard work involved.
Sonja also enjoyed the special attention. She was positively glowing under the combined influences of flattery and liquor. Tonight in bed she would snore like a pig.
The proprietor had disappeared for a few minutes, then returned. Out of the comer of his eye, Wolff saw the man whispering to a waiter. He guessed they were talking about Sonja. Wolff felt a pang of jealousy. There were places in Cairo where, because of his good custom and lavish tips, he was known by name and welcomed like royalty; but he had thought it wise not to go to places where he would be recognized, not while the British were hunting him. Now he wondered whether he could afford to relax his vigilance a little more.
Sonja yawned. It was time to put her to bed. Wolff waved to a waiter and said: “Please fetch Madame’s wrap.” The man went off, paused to mutter something to the proprietor, then continued on toward the cloakroom.
An alarm bell sounded, faint and distant, somewhere in the back of Wolff’s mind.
He toyed with a spoon as he waited for Sonja’s wrap. Sonja ate another petit four. The proprietor walked the length of the restaurant, went out of the front door, and came back in again. He approached their table and said: “May I get you a taxi?”
Wolff looked at Sonja. She said: “I don’t mind.”
Wolff said: “I’d like a breath of air. Let’s walk a little way, then hail one.”
“Okay.”
Wolff looked at the proprietor. “No taxi.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter brought Sonja’s wrap. The proprietor kept looking at the door. Wolff heard another alarm bell, this one louder. He said to the proprietor: “Is something the matter?”
The man looked very worried. “I must mention an extremely delicate problem, sir.”
Wolff began to get irritated. “Well, what is it, man? We want to go home.”
There was the sound of a vehicle noisily drawing up outside the restaurant.
Wolff took hold of the proprietor’s lapels. “What is going on here?”
“The money with which you paid your bill, sir, is not good.”
“You don’t accept sterling? Then why didn’t—”
“It’s not that, sir. The money is counterfeit.”
The restaurant door burst open and three military policemen marched in.
Wolff stared at them openmouthed. It was all happening