London: The Odyssey Begins
31
Canning greeted me at the door and took me into an anteroom. "I'd like to invite you to stay," he said, apologetically.
"I know you're all right, but my guests are suspicious of all
Americans."
A few days later he suggested:
"Why don't you see Izzed-een Shawa Bey? He's a man you
ought to know. When you see him, give him my regards."
IZZED-EEN SHAWA BEY
I WAS delighted. I hurried to the address Canning gave me.
It was a small, quiet apartment house of dark brownstone at
76 Eaton Square, in the exclusive West End section of London. I found myself in a dark, narrow hallway. I studied the
names under the mailboxes: no Izzed-een Shawa Bey was
listed. Acting on a hunch, I knocked on the last door in the
hallway, which had no nameplate attached. After a long wait,
I knocked again, vigorously, and then shook the handle noisily.
The door was finally opened by a heavy-set young Arab who
told me promptly that Shawa Bey was out.
"I can hear him talking inside," I said, bluffing. "I must see
him at once."
The door was closed in my face and I heard a rapid-fire
exchange in Arabic. Then it opened again and I was ushered
into a semidarkened room. Swarthy young Arabs prowled
about, escorting athletic young Englishmen into side rooms in
an atmosphere of almost melodramatic conspiracy. Suddenly a
door opened and an intense man in his thirties, with piercing
black eyes and short black mustache, stepped out—instinctively I knew it must be Shawa Bey—accompanied by a tall,
blond Englishman. The two shook hands briskly and the Englishman left. Shawa Bey turned to me.
"Come with me," he said curtly. I followed him into an
office and he closed the door carefully after me.
Sitting across his desk, I was astonished to see that Shawa