The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (36 page)

"Some men might take pride in that kind of reputation."

"That is unfortunately correct, but our son is not one of them.

He won't show it, he never does, but this suspicion will hurt him deeply. And Nefret will. . . Where is she? Did you look for her?"

"Not yet. Shall we do so now?"

Nefret was gone. We were in her sitting room reading the message she had left when Ramses joined us.

"She says she has gone to stay with friends for a few days," I reported. "She must mean the Vandergelts. Ramses, don't be angry with her; if she had had time to think she would have known better, but it came as such a shock. Won't you go after her?"

Ramses stared at the note, which he was twisting in his fingers. "Go after her," he repeated. "Good God!"

"What is it?" Emerson demanded.

"I ought to have realized ... Go after her. Yes, I must. I hope it's not already too late."

From Manuscript H

The house to which he had moved Rashida and the child was in Maadi, some distance away from Rashida's old haunts and, he hoped, from a convenient supplier of hashish. It had been one of the way stations he and David had used when they were prowling the suks in various exotic disguises, for various illegal purposes. (They had been very young at the time; but that was probably no excuse for some of their activities.)

The old woman who owned the place—thanks in part to his subsidies—was elderly and half-blind, and she had been profoundly disinterested in their comings and goings. She was kind, though, in her vague way, and he had been paying her an additional small sum to make sure the child was properly looked after. Rashida's maternal instincts had been somewhat warped by her experiences; in her own way she was passionately attached to her daughter, but she couldn't always be depended on to do the things he wanted her to do. He had known that sooner or later he would have to introduce Sennia to his mother, and he had thought she'd be more likely to accept the child if the little creature could be got used to bathing, and wearing clothes, and certain modifications of her table manners.

Once again he had underestimated his mother. He ought to have known she'd come through—for the child, and for him.

The old woman was squatting on a bench outside the door of the house, blinking in the sunlight. She told him Rashida and the child had left early that morning and had not been back. Certainly he could look at their rooms. He was paying for them, wasn't he?

Rashida had not been much of a housekeeper, but one look at the room in which they slept told him that this disorder was significant. She had not meant to come back. The carved box in which she kept her few treasures was gone, and so were the pots of kohl and lip paint and henna. Lying across the bed was a crumpled bit of bright pink cloth—one of the little dresses he had bought the child. He picked it up and smoothed it between his hands. No doubt he had been a fool to believe Rashida's protestations of gratitude and reformation, but she had seemed so glad to be free of the life she led, even gladder that there was a way out for her daughter.

He finished searching the room. Half-buried in the ashes of the brazier were a few brown stubs of cigarettes with a faint, unmistakable smell.

He waited for an hour, pacing the floor in growing worry and impatience, even as he told himself there was no basis for his fears. Kalaan was one of the most notorious pimps in Cairo. He could have tracked the girl down and forced her to come back to him, with no ulterior motive except pour l'encourager les autres. She'd have admitted everything to him, she had been in his power too long to resist his demands or the drugs from which she had been cut off. The idea of blackmailing her protector would come readily to Kalaan's pragmatically filthy mind. She might even have agreed to go with him in the hope that the Inglizi would save her child. Ramses wanted to believe that.

If that were the case he would get her back, and put an end to Kalaan's activities by one means or another. It was his fault she had fallen back into Kalaan's hands; if he hadn't been so stubborn he would have told his parents the truth immediately, and this disaster would never have happened.

It was the most likely possibility. The only consolation—and a feeble one it was—was that if his worst suspicions were right, there was no way he could have anticipated this. No way of proving anything, either, unless he could find her before ...

He could only think of one other place in which to look. By the time he reached Cairo it was early in the afternoon; the reeking alleys of el Was'a steamed in the heat, and most people were within. The hovel from which he had removed them was occupied by two other women. They took him for a customer at first; the terms in which he corrected that assumption made them cringe into a corner, and he had to waste more time reassuring them. They denied any knowledge of Rashida.

The sun was setting before he admitted to himself that the search was futile. He might not have abandoned it even then had it not belatedly occurred to him that he had another responsibility.

His first indication of the correctness of that assumption came from Ali the doorman. He was standing outside in the road looking anxiously up and down, and when he saw Ramses he came running toward him, white puffs of dust spurting up under his sandaled feet. "Allah be praised, you are here. Hurry, hurry."

He knew Ali well enough to know that the emergency was not dire, but he was not entirely prepared for what he found when he entered the courtyard, followed by the howls of Narmer. His mother, his father, and Fatima were there. His mother was clutching a glass of whiskey. On his father's knee was a small bundle wrapped in tweed. The face atop the bundle consisted of a mop of black hair, a fist, and a pair of enormous eyes, gray as storm clouds.

"Thank God!" his father exclaimed.

"Don't swear," his mother muttered.

"That was not swearing. That was a prayer, from the heart. See," Emerson went on in Arabic, "did I not tell you he would come back? I do not tell lies! He is here."

"She wouldn't go to bed," his mother said. He had never heard her sound so helpless. "We had to wrap her in your coat before she would stop crying. Ramses. Do something."

Ramses felt a sudden, insane desire to laugh. He was afraid, he was worried sick, he didn't dare think about quite a number of things; but he felt better, somehow. The bundle wriggled, and an arm appeared, reaching for him.

"I can't touch you until I wash," Ramses said, remembering where he had been that day.

She took her thumb out of her mouth and said something.

"What? Oh—wash? Yes. Of course. Right back," he added.

There wasn't time for a bath—the situation was obviously desperate—so he had to settle for washing hands and arms and face, and exchanging his European clothing for a galabeeyah. When he came back she squirmed out of the coat and off his father's knee, and ran to him. The little brown body was bare except for a cloth wrapped round her hips. Ramses picked her up, wondering what she made of that item of clothing; children of the poorer classes just squatted, wherever they happened to be. Her face and body were unmarked, except by the scratches and bumps a small child might normally acquire. He had made sure of that when Fatima bathed her.

He wrapped the coat round her and held her till she settled into the curve of his arm and put her thumb back in her mouth.

"It is time to sleep," he said. "You are safe now. Sometimes I must go away, but I will always come back, and when I am not here, they will watch over you. Do you know who they are? They are my mother and my father. We must obey them."

His mother coughed.

"And," Ramses said hurriedly, "they are mighty magicians! Now that they are your friends, no one can hurt you. Fatima is your friend too. Go with Fatima."

Fatima held out her arms and this time she went unprotesting, her eyes already half closed.

"I'm sorry," Ramses said, not quite sincerely. He was absurdly pleased that she had wanted him.

"Ha," said his father. "She seems to have inherited another family characteristic—stubbornness. What about a whiskey, my boy? You look as if you could use it. Where have you been all this time? Wasn't Nefret with the Vandergelts?"

"Nefret," Ramses repeated. The only positive feature of the afternoon's frantic search had been the fact that it kept him from thinking about Nefret. He didn't want to think about her. It hurt too much. "I wasn't looking for Nefret."

"Ah," said his father. He reached for his pipe. "Did you find ... what is her name?"

"Rashida. No, I didn't find her."

His mother put her glass down on the table. She had drunk every drop, but her chin was firm and her shoulders were squared. "It has been," she said, "quite a day. I apologize for failing to realize that the welfare of that unfortunate girl ought to have concerned me. One cannot blame her for not contradicting the old villain's lies; a woman in her position cannot afford the luxury of morality."

"Well put, Peabody," said Emerson, his face softening. "We'll find her, Ramses, and I will personally dismember Kalaan and hang bits of his anatomy all round el Was'a. I wish I could do the same to every procurer in Cairo, but so long as there are men contemptible enough to use those women, there will be other men exploiting them. She is probably in hiding, you know. It may take a while to locate her. Where did you look?"

Fatima had come back down the stairs. She gave Ramses a smile and a reassuring nod, and then glided around the courtyard lighting the lamps. The crimson and orange of hibiscus blooms and the green of their leaves shone in the mellow light; the contrast between the quiet, murmurous beauty of this house and the places he had seen that afternoon was almost too much to bear. All at once he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open.

"The rooms I had taken for them are in Maadi," he mumbled. "She hadn't been there. I waited for over an hour—the old woman who owns the house promised she would send to me if Rashida came back. Then I went to the house where she'd lived before ..."

"How long has it been since you have eaten?" his mother demanded. "You had no lunch, at least not here, and I do not suppose you had sense enough to think of it."

"I don't remember."

"Fatima, please tell cook to get dinner on the table."

"Yes, Sitt. It is ready."

His mother was right. (She always was.) The hot soup revived him, and by the time they reached the main course he was almost back to normal.

"What about Nefret's clinic?" his mother asked—they were still discussing ways of tracing Rashida. "Had she ever been there?"

"No," Ramses said. "She knew of it, but said Kalaan had forbidden his girls to go there. I am at somewhat of a loss as to where to look next."

"He will probably keep her hidden for a while," his father said. "Hell and damnation! I should have strangled the old buzzard this morning when I had the chance. Never mind; we'll track him down, and he will tell us what he's done with her."

"I hope so," Ramses said.

"What are you worrying about?" his mother asked. "One hates to think of her in the power of such a man, but she and many others have been in that position before. Do you believe he will harm her?"

It was a waste of time trying to spare his mother.

"I think she might be in danger," he admitted.

Fatima let out a hiss of distress. Since her trip to England she had become emancipated to the extent of not veiling herself in the presence of his father or himself—she was now part of the family, after all—and her plump, pleasant face was lined with worry. He patted the brown hand that was reaching for his plate.

"It'll be all right, Fatima."

"She is a bad woman," Fatima murmured. "But she is very-young, Ra-meses."

It had taken him a long time to persuade her to use his name; she didn't do it often, and when she did, she pronounced it, not as the others did, but with an odd accent. When he was in a fanciful mood he wondered whether that was how the name had sounded in the thirteenth century B.C.

"She is not a bad woman, Fatima, only unlucky and unhappy and very young. She wouldn't have done this of her own accord," he went on. "She hadn't the guile or the malice even to think of such a thing. Someone made her do it—someone she feared more than she trusted me."

"Agreed." Emerson nodded. "When you went to her house that day, Kalaan found out about it—he would, of course. The seeds of the idea must have been planted then, and he saw the opportunity for a spot of blackmail. No good deed ever goes unpunished, my boy; never forget that. Good Gad, Kalaan may even have taught the little creature to call you Father."

"Someone may have done."

"You are worrying unnecessarily, I believe," his mother said. "Kalaan didn't get the money he expected from us, but he has no reason to be angry with her. She did as he asked. Why should he destroy a valuable piece of merchandise?"

Ramses pushed his half-filled plate away. His parents were watching him anxiously, their faces warm with concern. If he told them what he feared, they would think he had lost his mind. Maybe he had.

The following day brought one piece of good news—a telegram from David announcing their arrival on Wednesday next.

Emerson and I were at the breakfast table when Ali delivered the cable. Although I had applied myself with my usual efficiency to the innumerable alterations in our schedule necessitated by the events of the previous day, there were still a few matters to be settled. Ramses had not yet joined us. I knew where he was; immediately upon arising, I had gone to see how our small charge had spent the night, and had found her awake and demanding her abu.

"We will have to break her of that," I said to Fatima, who had taken the child to sleep with her. "What is she to call him, though?"

Fatima had no opinion on the subject. She had a number of opinions on other matters relating to the child, however, and we were discussing them when Ramses joined us. I left the three together and went down to breakfast. Emerson, already at table and drinking his coffee, was by then sufficiently aroused to be in a querulous mood.

"What are they all doing up there?" he demanded. "I thought you would bring her down with you. She will be hungry. Where is Ramses?"

Patiently I explained that no child of two, whatever its nationality, is a pleasant table companion, reminded him that Ramses had not been allowed to take meals with us until he was six, pointed out that the little girl had nothing to wear, and added that Fatima would make certain she had a suitable breakfast. The advent of Ali with the telegram distracted Emerson from the complaints he had undoubtedly been about to make.

"Finally," he exclaimed. "They have been long enough about it. Now we can get some work done. I want to leave for the site as soon as possible. Finish your breakfast, Peabody."