Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (150 page)

Feeling in need of exercise to work off the excited anticipation that poured through my veins, I did not take a carriage but set off on foot toward the shop. Aziz was a singularly unpleasant little man, but he was the sole survivor of a family that had been intimately connected with the Master Criminal. His father and his brother had been involved in the illegal antiquities trade; both had met terrible ends the previous year, though admittedly not at the hands of Sethos. Aziz had inherited his father’s stock of antiquities and perhaps (as I hoped) his father’s connection with the genius of crime. It was worth a try, at any rate.

Aziz was out in front of his shop, calling to passers-by to come in and view his wares. He recognized me immediately; his fixed tradesman’s smile turned into a look of consternation, and he darted inside.

It was a tawdry place, its shelves and showcases filled with cheap tourist goods and fake antiquities, many of them made in Birmingham. Aziz was nowhere to be seen. The clerk behind the showcase was staring at the swaying curtain through which his employer had presumably fled. There were no customers; most of the tourists were at luncheon, and shop would soon be closing for the afternoon.

‘Tell Mr Aziz I wish to see him,’ I said loudly. ‘I won’t leave until he comes out, so he may as well do it now.’

I knew Aziz was in the back room and could hear every word I said. It took him a few minutes to make up his cowardly mind, but finally he emerged, smiling broadly. The lines in his face looked like cracks in plaster, one had the feeling that if the smile stretched another half inch, the whole façade would crumble and drop off.

He greeted me with bows and cries of delight. He was so happy I had honoured his establishment. What could he show me? He had received a shipment of embroidered brocades from Damascus, woven with gold threads–

I did not much care for Mr Aziz, so I did not attempt to spare his feelings. ‘I want to talk to you about Sethos,’ I said.

Mr Aziz turned pale. ‘No, sitt,’ he whispered. ‘No, please, sitt–’

‘You know me, Mr Aziz. I have nothing else to do this afternoon. I can wait.’

Aziz’s lips curled into a wolfish snarl. Turning on his gaping clerk, he clapped his hands. ‘Out,’ he snapped.

When the clerk had gone, Aziz locked the door and pulled the curtain. ‘What have I done to you, sitt, that you wish my death?’ he demanded tragically. ‘Those who betray this – this person – die. If I know anything of this – this person – which I do not – I swear it, sitt, on my father’s grave – the mere fact that you were heard to mention his name in my shop would be the end of me.’

‘But if you know nothing about him, you are in no danger,’ I said.

Aziz brightened a trifle. ‘That is true.’

‘What do they say of him in the bazaars? You do not endanger yourself by repeating what all men know.’

According to Aziz, no one really knew anything, for Sethos’ men did not gossip about him. He was known only by his actions, and even these were obscure, for his reputation was such that every successful crime in Cairo was laid at his door. Aziz believed he was not a man at all, but an efreet. It was said that not even his own men knew his true identity. He communicated with them by means of messages left in designated places; and those few who had seen him face to face were well aware that the face he wore that day was not the one in which he would next be seen.

Once started, Aziz rather warmed to his theme, and rambled on at length, repeating the legends that had accrued to this mysterious person. They were no more than that for the most part – wild, fantastic tales that were fast becoming part of the folklore of the underworld.

‘Very well,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘I believe, Mr Aziz, that you have told me all you know. Sethos would never enlist a man like you; you are too great a coward, and you talk too much.’

He let me out and locked the door after me. Looking back, I saw his face, shining with perspiration, peering fearfully at me through a crack in the curtain.

I hoped Emerson had done better, but feared he had been no more successful than I. By a combination of cleverness and terror, Sethos seemed to have done an excellent job of covering his tracks. If I had not had the meeting with Mr Gregson to look forward to, I would have been somewhat discouraged.

It was thirty-five minutes past one when I arrived at the Café Orientale. Mr Gregson was nowhere to be seen, so I seated myself at a table near the door, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons. They were all men. I believe there is some nonsensical convention against ladies patronizing cafés. Either Mr Gregson was unaware of this unspoken rule, or he paid me the compliment of realizing that I was supremely indifferent to such things.

I summoned the waiter with a rap of my parasol and a crisp command in Arabic, and ordered coffee. Mr Gregson arrived before the coffee. I had forgotten what a fine-looking man he was. The smile that illumined his face softened his austere features.

‘You came!’ he exclaimed.

‘You asked me to, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but I scarcely dared hope … No, that is not true. I know the ardent spirit that moves you. I knew you would rush in where lesser women fear to tread.’

‘I did not rush, Mr Gregson, I walked – into a respectable café filled with people. The only danger I faced was that of social ostracism, and that has never been a matter of concern to me.’

‘Ah,’ said Gregson, ‘but I am going to ask you to accompany me into an area that is not so free of peril. I tell you frankly, Mrs Emerson–’

He broke off as the waiter came with my order. Curtly he ordered, ‘
Kahweh mingheir sukkar
.’

‘You speak Arabic?’ I asked.

‘Only enough to order food and complain that the price is too high.’

The waiter returned. Mr Gregson raised his cup. ‘To the spirit of adventure,’ he said gravely.

‘Cheers,’ I replied, raising my own cup. ‘And now, Mr Gregson, you were telling me frankly …’

‘That the mission I am about to propose is one in which you may reasonably refuse to join me. But I think I have – persuaded, shall we say? – one of Sethos’ henchmen to talk to us. How much the fellow knows I cannot tell, but he is reputed to be as close to that genius of crime as anyone, and I believe it is an opportunity not to be missed. I would not bring you into this, except that the man insisted you be present. He seems to have confidence in your ability to protect him–’

‘Say no more,’ I exclaimed, rising to my feet. ‘Let us go at once!’

‘You do not hesitate,’ Gregson said, looking at me curiously. ‘I confess that in your position I would be highly suspicious of such a request.’

‘Well, as to that, it is quite understandable that the fellow should select me as a confidante. You are a stranger; whereas, if I may say so, my reputation for square dealing is well known. The man may even be someone I know personally! Come, Mr Gregson, we mustn’t delay an instant.’

As we penetrated deeper into the heart of the old city, the narrow winding streets took on the character of a maze, composed of dirty crumbling walls and shuttered windows. The latticed balconies jutting out from the upper stories of the tall old houses cut off the sunlight, so that we walked through a dusty shade. There were few Europeans or English among the pedestrians, some of whom stumbled in a drugged daze, their eyes fixed on vacancy.

Since the streets (if they could be called that) turned and twisted, I was able to keep a watchful eye to the rear. Mr Gregson noted my glances. ‘You are uneasy,’ he said seriously. ‘I should not have brought you. If you would rather return–’

‘Keep walking,’ I hissed.

‘What is it?’

‘We are being followed.’

‘What?’

‘Keep walking, I say, Don’t turn your head.’

‘Surely you are mistaken.’

‘No. There is a man behind us whom I have seen twice before – once outside Shepheard’s, and again loitering near the café. A slight fellow wearing a white
gibbeh
and a blue turban.’

‘But, Mrs Emerson, that description would fit half the men in Cairo!’

‘He has been careful to keep the sleeve of his
gibbeh
across the lower part of his face. I am certain he is following us – and I intend to capture him. Follow me!’

Turning abruptly, I rushed at the spy, my parasol raised.

My sudden attack caught both men by surprise. Gregson let out a grunt of alarm, and the pursuer stopped short, raising his arms in an attempt to shield his head. In vain – I was too quick for him! I brought my parasol crashing down on the crown of his head. His eyes rolled up, his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground in a flurry of fluttering white cotton.

‘I have him,’ I cried, seating myself on the fallen man’s chest. ‘Here, Mr Gregson – come at once, I have captured the spy!’

The street had cleared as if by magic. I knew there were watchers hidden in the doorways and peering out from behind the shuttered windows, but the spectators had prudently removed themselves from the scene of action. Gregson edged towards me, with none of the enthusiastic congratulations I expected.

Then a muffled voice murmured pathetically, ‘Sitt Hakim – oh, sitt, you have broken my head, I think.’

I knew that voice. With a trembling hand I lifted the folds of fabric that hid my captive’s face.

It was Selim, Abdullah’s son – the beloved young Benjamin of that loyal family. And I had struck him down!

‘What the devil are you doing here, Selim?’ I demanded. ‘No, don’t tell me. Emerson sent you. You came up with us on the same train, in another carriage – you have been spying on me ever since Emerson and I parted outside the Administration Building!’

‘Not spying, sitt,’ the boy protested. ‘Guarding you, protecting you! The Father of Curses honoured me with this mission, and I have failed – I am disgraced – my heart is broken – and so is my head, sitt. I am dying. Take my farewells to the Father of Curses and to my honoured father, and to my brothers Ali and Hassan and–’

I stood up and reached a hand to Selim. ‘Get up, you foolish boy. You are not hurt; the folds of your turban muffled the blow and I don’t believe the skin is even broken. Let me have a look.’

In fact, Selim’s injury consisted of nothing more than a rising lump on his cranium. I took a box of ointment from the medicine kit in my tool collection and applied it to the lump, after which I wrapped Selim’s head with bandages before replacing his turban. It rode rather high on his head because of the bandages, but that could not be helped.

Mr Gregson watched in absolute silence. There was a curious absence of expression on his face.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Gregson,’ I said. ‘We can continue now. Do you mind if Selim comes along, or would you rather I sent him away?’

Gregson hesitated. Before he could reply, Selim let out a howl of woe. ‘No, sitt, no. Do not send me away! I will not return to the Father of Curses without you. I would rather run away. I would rather join the army. I would rather take poison and die!’

‘Be still,’ I said angrily. ‘Mr Gregson?’

‘I am afraid this delay has caused us to miss the appointment,’ Gregson said. ‘You had better taken your lachrymose guard back to his master.’

‘Please, sitt, please.’ Selim, who was indeed weeping copiously, took hold of my arm. ‘Emerson Effendi will curse me and take my soul. Come with me, or I will cut out my tongue with my knife so that I need not confess my failure; I will put out my eyes lest I see his terrible frown. I will–’

‘Good Gad,’ I exclaimed. ‘There is no help for it, Mr Gregson. Won’t you come with me and meet my husband? He will be extremely interested in any information you can give.’

‘Not today,’ Gregson said quietly. ‘If I go at once, I may be able to reach the person I spoke of and make another appointment. Perhaps I can also persuade him to allow the Professor to accompany us next time.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘How will you let us know?’

‘I will send a messenger to you. You may leave word for me at Shepheard’s, if you have news; I stop there every day or so to pick up my mail.’

‘Very well,’ I held out my hand. Mr Gregson took it in both of his. They were white, well-tended hands, but the calluses on his palms and the strength of his long fingers proved that here was a man of action as well as a gentleman.

‘We will soon meet again,’ he said.

‘I hope so. And I hope at that time to have the pleasure of introducing you to my husband.’

‘Yes, quite. Until then.’

He strode off and, turning a corner, disappeared from sight. With Selim trailing disconsolately at my heels, I began to retrace my steps.

In fact, it required the combined concentration of myself and Selim to find our way. I had not taken note of the turns and zigzags, since I expected to have Mr Gregson as escort on the return journey, and Selim had been too preoccupied with keeping us in sight to pay attention to where he was going. Eventually, however, we reached a part of the city that was familiar to me, and from there it was only a short distance to the Muski. I hired a carriage and ordered Selim to take a seat beside me.

‘Now then, Selim,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to put you in a difficult position with the professor, but I don’t see how we are going to get round what happened if we tell the truth.’

The boy raised his drooping head. ‘Oh, sitt,’ he said tremulously. ‘I will do anything you say.’

‘I never lie to the professor, Selim.’

Selim looked distraught. ‘However,’ I said, ‘there is no reason why we cannot bend the truth a little. We will have to account for that lump on your head.’

‘I could remove the bandages, sitt,’ Selim said eagerly. ‘You were very generous with the bandages. I do not need them.’

‘No, you must not do that. What I propose is this. You will tell Professor Emerson everything that happened up to the moment when I discovered you. Then say simply that someone fell upon you and attacked you, striking you with a heavy object.’

‘Someone did,’ said Selim.

‘Precisely. It is not a falsehood. Omit the name of your attacker; let the professor think it was an ordinary thief. Upon hearing the altercation, I ran to your rescue.’