The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (27 page)

"It was good of you to take the risk of coming here," Ramses said.

Wardani grinned and daintily removed a bit of tobacco from his lower lip. "Could I allow you to surpass me in daring? You took the risk last time. You knew, I think, how great a risk it was. Listen, then. I have connections in every corner of this city and in every trade. There have always been forgers of antiquities; I know their names and their work, and so do you. None of them can be the man you want. No dealer in this city or in Luxor has handled objects that belonged to your reis. Most of them know David by sight; all of them know him by name. None have bought antiquities from him. I would not say this if it were not true."

"I believe you," Ramses said.

Wardani wasn't as much at ease as he wanted them to believe. He kept shooting glances at the door. "So. I have given you your Christmas gift, yes? Your forger is not David. He is not an Egyptian. He is one of you—a sahib." His upper lip curled back when he spoke the word. It gave his face quite a different aspect; one saw the ruthlessness behind the charm. "So that is it, yes? If I learn more I will find a way of informing you."

It was a dismissal. Nefret rose and offered him her hand. "Thank you. If there is anything I can do in return..."

He took her hand; folding back the cuff of her glove, he pressed his lips to her wrist. The intimate gesture was another test; like a naughty child he was trying to see how far he could go without provoking an angry response.

Not much further, Ramses thought.

Nefret's response was perfect—a soft laugh and a measureable pause before she withdrew her hand from his grasp. Wardani grinned appreciatively.

"One more thing. It has nothing to do with your business, but it may be of interest. I offer it as another gift to a charming lady. There is a rumor that one of yours has invested heavily in that other trade of which we spoke. He is an Inglizi, but no one knows his name."

"I see."

"I am sure you do. I go that way, through the back. You will wait two minutes and then unbolt the door. And I think"—another flashing white smile—"it would be kind to purchase something from poor Aslimi, yes?"

"We'll have to buy something," Nefret said, after the curtain at the back of the room had fallen into place, "in case Aunt Amelia asks why we went to Cairo."

     
"I thought you had learned the futility of trying to keep things from Mother. However, so long as we're here, I may as well see if Aslimi has something rare and beautiful and very expensive."

Aslimi started and squealed when they came out of the back room. Ramses noticed his nails were bitten to the quick. The prospect of a sale revived him, and by the time they left with their purchases—none of which met Nefret's criteria—he was a much happier man.

"You did believe him, didn't you?" Nefret asked. "You weren't just being polite?"

"I do believe him, actually. What a mountebank the fellow is!"

"I rather like him."

"So do I. You understood the point of that so very casual final comment, I suppose."

"It was the drug trade he meant?"

"Yes."

"So it was his oblique way of telling you you owe him a favor in return. Payment, in other words."

"You're getting the hang of it."

"I've always had the hang of it." Nefret took his arm and gave a little skip, reminding Ramses he was setting too rapid a pace. He was anxious to get out of the suk. Crowds made him nervous, especially when Nefret was with him.

"A simple business transaction," she went on cheerfully. "Information in exchange for information."

"He wants rather more than information," Ramses said thoughtfully. "He can't lay an accusation against an Englishman; coming from him, it would be ignored or dismissed. He knows I would do it, though, and I'd be hard to ignore if Father backed me up. Which he would."

"I hate to think an Englishman would become involved with such a dirty trade."

"My dear girl, morality has nothing to do with business. The opium trade made a number of honest British merchants rich. We even fought a war to force the foul stuff on the Chinese."

"I know. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Percy were the villain?"

"Too good to be true, I'm afraid." He laughed, and so did she; but there had been a note in her voice that made him ask, "Has he been annoying you?"

"You needn't get all brotherly and protective. If he annoyed me I'd deal with him."

Had that been an answer? He thought not.

Nefret glanced over her shoulder and beckoned. Their two escorts, who had remained prudently behind, hurried to join them. They were a handsome family; Daoud's son Hassan had the same gentle brown eyes and large smile as his father. Taking Nefret's parcels, he said, "Did you find a good present for the Sitt Hakim?"

"I think she will like it," Nefret said.

Emerson claimed he had never agreed to attend the ball at Shepheard's that evening. He had not—not in so many words—but I had informed him of the affair several days earlier and he had not said he would
not
attend. Emerson appealed to Cyrus, but he got no help from that quarter. Cyrus was sociably inclined and had been looking forward to squiring his wife to the affair.

The ball did not begin until midnight, but we planned to dine at the hotel beforehand. Evening dress was de rigeur. Emerson had accepted this, though he did not like it and never would. On this occasion he got himself into his stiff shirt and so on with a minimum of grumbles and with the usual assistance from me. He then obligingly assisted me to button my frock and my gloves. Neither of us employs a personal attendant, though I must say Emerson could use one—if only for the purpose of locating the articles of clothing he misplaces or kicks under the bed, and sewing on the buttons that pop off his shirt because of his impetuous method of removing that garment, and pressing the clothes he leaves lying on the floor, and mending the holes made by sparks from his pipe, and removing the spots of blood that only too frequently stain his clothing, und so weiter, ad infinitum, so to speak.

As I was saying, before understandable wifely vexation distracted me, neither Emerson nor I enjoy being waited upon except by one another. To have Emerson kneel at my feet in order to lace my boots, to feel his fingers moving lightly down my back as he unfastens the buttons of my frock ... But perhaps I had better say no more. Any woman of sensibility will understand why I would never exchange Emerson's attentions for the more efficient but far less interesting assistance of a lady's maid. Fatima and her staff—most of them related to her by blood or marriage—did most of the mending, cleaning and washing for the entire family and would have done more had we allowed it.

When I was ready I went to see if Nefret needed my help, but found she was already dressed. Fatima was fussing over her hair and one of Fatima's stepdaughters, the child of her late husband's second wife, stood by watching attentively. Elia was a pretty girl, barely fourteen, and she aspired to the post of lady's maid to Nefret, whom she admired enormously. Nefret was no more keen on that kind of attention than I, but she did not want to discourage the girl, who was intelligent and ambitious and who was attending school under our auspices.

"I don't want to hurry you, my dear, but the others are waiting," I said, smiling at the bright face reflected in the mirror.

"I am ready." Nefret jumped up from the dressing table. "Except for my wrap ... Oh, thank you, Elia. Don't tell me Ramses is waiting, Aunt Amelia, he is never on time."

However, he emerged from his room as we left Nefret's. I straightened his cravat and brushed a few cat hairs off his sleeve, which he permitted with his usual absence of expression. We then proceeded in splendor to our carriages and to the hotel.

I had been told that Shepheard's was no longer considered the most fashionable hotel in the city. Younger members of the smart set preferred the Semiramis or the Savoy. So far as I was concerned, this was all to the good, since we were not as likely to encounter any of the silly creatures when we went there. My own sense of humor has been highly commended, and I have no objection to pleasant little jokes, but some of the tricks these "upper-class" officials and officers played would have disgraced a schoolboy. Carrying off the handsome statues of Nubian maidens that stood at the foot of the great staircase, and putting them in people's beds, was among the most harmless of their "stunts." They were fond of making fun of other people, especially those whose accents, education, nationality and social status differed from theirs.

Shepheard's was greatly changed since my first visit—in point of fact, it had been entirely rebuilt—but it was part of the history of Cairo, rich in memories of the great and the infamous, with many of whom, both great and infamous, I had been personally acquainted. Every part of the splendid structure held delightful memories: the suite of rooms on the third floor, on the carpet of
whose sitting room the mysterious Mr. Shelmadine had writhed in convulsions after telling us of the hidden tomb of Queen Tetisheri; the magnificent entrance hall, with its lotus columns painted in shades of apricot, russet and turquoise, where Emerson had snatched me from the arms of a masked abductor; the shadowy alcoves and soft divans of the Moorish Hall, where Nefret had spent an unchaperoned quarter of an hour with the dashing and unprincipled Sir Edward Washington.

I do not greatly exaggerate when I say I knew everyone of importance in Cairo. I disliked a good many of them, but I knew them all. For the Europeans who lived there or returned every winter, Cairo had some of the characteristics of a narrow-minded, provincial village. The various social circles overlapped but did not coincide, and the social strata were as rigid as any caste system. Egyptian Army officers were of a lower stratum than officers of the British Army of Occupation, and both were inferior to the British Agency set. The jealousy, the vicious gossip, the cliques and struggles for promotion and prestige were all perfectly ridiculous to those of us who were outside the pale and happy to be there.

Outside all the circles—somewhere in outer darkness—were the Egyptians whose country this was.

We had an excellent dinner and a good deal of champagne, and then went to the ballroom. I am very fond of the terpsichorean arts; after I had danced with Cyrus and Emerson, Ramses dutifully propelled me about the floor, dutifully returned me to a chair, and vanished. No sooner had he done so than a gentleman approached and begged leave to introduce himself.

"I would have asked your husband to perform this office," he explained, "but I can't see him anywhere. My name is Russell, Mrs. Emerson. Thomas Russell."

I was extremely interested. Mr. Thomas Russell was then head of the Alexandria police and I had heard him described as an exemplary officer. I said as much, adding that my various encounters with the police officers of Cairo had not given me a high opinion of that group of individuals.

"I can understand why," Russell said politely. "I have long looked forward to making your acquaintance, Mrs. Emerson, since you and your family have a considerable reputation for catching criminals. I am being transferred to Cairo, as assistant commis
sioner, and I hope I may eventually merit your approval, as certain of my colleagues have not."

I congratulated him upon his promotion—for so, in fact, it was, Cairo being headquarters for the entire country—and, the music having begun, he asked me to dance.

"We will have to consider that we have been properly introduced," I said jestingly. "Looking for Emerson would be a waste of time; he is probably hiding in the shrubbery smoking his pipe and fahddling with the dragomen."

Russell laughed. "Yes, I know the Professor's habits. Is your son also smoking in the shrubbery? I don't see him either."

"Do you know Ramses?"

"I almost had the honor of arresting him a few years ago," Russell said. My look of surprised displeasure wiped the smile off his face. Quickly he added, "Only a little joke, Mrs. Emerson."

"Ah," I said distantly.

"Allow me to explain."

"Pray do."

"I didn't know who he was, you see," Russell said. "I walked into a cafe in Alexandria one afternoon and found a group of young fellows—Egyptians, as I believed them all to be—listening to an orator who was holding forth on the iniquities of the British occupation, as he called it—"