Pandemonium erupted at the swanky Taufiq Cabaret on Muhammad-Ali Square in Alexandria, Egypt. It was in the wee hours of a Sunday morning when only the usual after-hours crowd was about—locals dressed in nightgown-like galabiyehs, the predatory fez-wearing "guides" who attached themselves to foreigners like leeches, cab drivers cruising for fares, and early-morning revelers of various nationalities staggering along the quiet square.
Suddenly, voices rang out in an excited staccato jumble in front of the Taufiq. Everyone within hearing distance raced towards the cabaret to investigate. The center of attraction was the stern end of a horse protruding from the doorway. A swarthy policeman and a husky American had their shoulders to the horse's rump, working feverishly to push the balking animal inside. But the beast resisted stubbornly by bracing all fours firmly against their effort.
"Heave ho—now, all together, HEAVE," roared the American in his foghorn voice, putting all his hefty beef against the horse's port rump, while the policeman worked vigorously on the starboard side.
Marmaduke and the local cop applied their shoulders to the horse's stern, trying to boost the animal into the cabaret.
Yells of encouragement in a dozen tongues came from inside and outside the cabaret. But most of them were urging the horse to victory. Suddenly a cab drove up to the curb, and a hard-boiled, weather-beaten mariner jumped out. He was Captain Roger Squid of the Greek contraband runner El Dikka. The captain and his ship were notorious in Mediterranean ports for handling hot cargo—anything from guns to immigrants to opium, as long as a fast buck could be made.
Meeting old friends . . .
"Well, if it isn't Marmaduke Surfaceblow—and up to his old tricks," hooted the surprised captain, busting out laughing. "What are you trying to do, Marmy, run an Egyptian horsepower experiment? Ha ha ha!"
The muscular American relaxed for a split second to identify this familiar voice. The horse seized the opportunity and quickly backed out, pushing both his tormentors aside. As the horse's head cleared the doorway, a flood of yelling merrymakers headed by the manager exploded out of the cabaret. The irate manager ran up to the policeman and got into his face, waving his hands wildly and yelling at the top of his voice.
While the manager stole the show, the captain and Marmaduke exchanged a few hurried words. The two men of action shoved through the milling crowd and jumped into the waiting taxi, leaving the confusion behind.
"Central Quay," snapped the captain to the driver, lighting a cigarette. Turning to Marmy, he explained, "Now here's the setup. I must sail the El Dikka not later than 8 a.m. or I'm in trouble. But that knucklehead I picked up for an engineer in Tangier this trip hasn't been able to get my diesel-generator set started in two days. You gotta get her going, Marmy, or I'm sunk. There's 200 bucks in it for you."
"You just busted up a highly cushy financial deal," put in Marmaduke, as if to strengthen his bargaining position, "but I'll get you out of here all right. I have to—I could use those 200 clams."
"Just so we sail on time," answered Captain Squid, glancing uneasily at his wristwatch as they bumped across the railroad tracks on Bab El Karasta Street. Minutes later, the cab reached the quay and screeched to a halt. The two men climbed out and hurried up the gangplank. The El Dikka was a small, streamlined diesel ship, probably built as a luxury yacht.
Walking aft along the deck, the captain led Marmy to the engine room ladder. They descended to the tiny generator platform.
"This looks like a converted steam schooner," roared Marmaduke, wiping the sweat from his face when they reached the generator. Looking around, he added, "What'd they do, just dump this scrap iron down here and bolt it where it landed?"
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