Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (119 page)

Ramses was grubby and dishevelled, of course. Ramses is almost always grubby and dishevelled. He is drawn to dirt as a crocodile is drawn to water. He had been (for Ramses) relatively tidy when we got on the train. An hour or so after we left Alexandria I looked around and found him missing from our compartment. This did not surprise me, since Ramses had an uncanny knack of disappearing when the spirit moved him to do so. It was a particularly disconcerting talent in a boy whose normal progression through a room was marked by a singular degree of clumsiness, owing in large part to his propensity to undertake tasks beyond his ability.

At Emerson’s insistence I went looking for the boy and found him in a third-class carriage, squatting on the floor and engaged in animated conversation with a woman whose flimsy and immodest attire left no doubt in my mind as to her profession. I removed Ramses and returned him to our compartment, placing him in a seat next to the window so he could not elude me again.

He, too, had turned to admire the pyramids. I could see only his filthy collar and the tumbled mass of tight black curls that adorned his head; but I knew his saturnine countenance betrayed no emotion to speak of. Ramses’ countenance is habitually impassive. His nose is rather large, and his chin matches his nose. His colouring is not at all English; one might easily mistake him for an Egyptian youth, and it was this resemblance, in addition to his regal manner, that had prompted Emerson to give him the nickname of Ramses. (For I hope the reader knows, without my telling him or her, that I would never agree to have a British infant christened with such an outlandish appellation.)

Since the heads of Ramses and Emerson, not to mention the cat, blocked my view, I leaned back and relaxed – without, however, taking my eyes from the back of my son’s head.

As was my custom, I had engaged rooms at Shepheard’s. Emerson complained bitterly about staying there. He complains every year, so I paid no attention. Some of the newer hotels are as comfortable, but in addition to offering all the amenities a person of refinement can expect, Shepheard’s has the advantage of being the centre of the haut monde of Cairo. My reasons for preferring this hotel are the very reasons why Emerson complains of it. He would much prefer lodgings in the native quarter, where he can wallow in the genial lack of sanitation that distinguishes lowerclass hotels and pensions. (Men are by instinct untidy animals. Emerson is one of the few who has the courage to state his sentiments aloud.) Now I can ‘rough it’ with the best of them, but I see no reason to deny myself comfort when it is available. I wanted a few days to recover from the crowded and uncomfortable conditions on board ship before retiring to the desert.

A most reasonable attitude, I am sure all would agree. Emerson’s claim, that I stay at Shepheard’s in order to catch up on the gossip, is just one of his little jokes.

I have heard people say that it is difficult to get accommodations at Shepheard’s during the height of the season, but I have never had the least trouble. Of course we were old and valued clients. The rumour that Mr Baehler, the manager, is in mortal terror of Emerson and fears to deny him anything he asks is, of course, ridiculous. Mr Baehler is a tall, sturdy gentleman, and I am sure he would never be intimidated in that manner.

He stood on the terrace waiting to greet us – and, naturally, the other guests who had arrived on the Alexandria train. His splendid head of silvery-white hair stood out above the crowd. As we prepared to descend from our carriage, another conveyance drew up behind. It would have attracted our notice, if for no other reason, because of the effect it had on the guests sitting at the tables on the terrace. A kind of universal stiffening ran through them; all heads turned toward the newcomers, and a moment of breathless silence was succeeded by an outbreak of hissing, whispered conversation.

The open carriage was drawn by two perfectly matched greys. Scarlet plumes adorned their harness, and they tossed their handsome heads and pranced like the aristocratic beasts they clearly were.

The driver jumped from his seat and handed the reins to the groom who had been mounted behind. The former was tall and thin, lithe as a panther in riding costume and polished boots. His black hair looked as if it had received a coating of the same boot polish; his narrow black moustache might have been drawn in Indian ink. A monocle in his right eye caught the sunlight in a blinding flash.

Emerson exclaimed aloud, ‘By the Lord Harry, it is that villain Kalenischeff!’

Emerson’s accents are not noted for their softness. All heads turned toward us, including that of Kalenischeff. His cynical smile stiffened, but he recovered himself almost at once and turned to assist the other passenger from the carriage.

Jewels shone at her throat and on her slender writs. Her frock of grey-green silk was of the latest Paris mode, with balloon sleeves bigger around than her narrow waist. A huge cravat of white chiffon was pinned by a diamond-and-emerald brooch. Her parasol matched her frock. Under it I caught a glimpse of a lovely, laughing face with cheeks and lips more brilliant than Nature had designed.

The dashing couple swept up the stairs and into the hotel.

‘Well!’ I said. ‘I wonder who–’

‘Never mind,’ said Emerson, taking me firmly by the arm.

We had our usual rooms on the third floor, overlooking the Ezbekieh Gardens. After we had unpacked and changed our attire, we went down to take tea on the terrace. Emerson grumbled less than usual at the performance of what he terms ‘an absurd social ritual,’ for we were all thirsty after the long, dusty ride.

Tea on the terrace of Shepheard’s is certainly one of the popular tourist activities, but even old hands like ourselves never tire of watching the vivacious procession of Egyptian life that passes along Ibrahim Pasha Street. The environs of the hotel teem with crowds of beggars, vendors, donkey boys and carriage drivers, all vying for the custom of the guests. Once we had seated ourselves and given the waiter our order, I took a list from my pocket and read it to Ramses. It was a list of things he was forbidden to do. It began, as I recall, with ‘Do not talk to the donkey boys,’ and ended, ‘Do not repeat any of the words you learned from the donkey boys last year.’ Ramses’ Arabic was fluent and unfortunately quite colloquial.

We saw a number of acquaintances pass in and out of the hotel, but none came to speak to us, and there were none with whom we cared to speak; not an Egyptologist in the lot, as Emerson put it. I was about to suggest that we retire to our rooms when another oath from my outspoken husband warned me of the approach of someone who had inspired his disapproval. Turning, I beheld Kalenischeff.

He wore his fixed smile like a mask. ‘Good afternoon, madame – Professor – Master Ramses. Welcome back to Cairo. May I …?’

‘No,’ said Emerson, snatching the chair from Kalenischeff’s grasp. ‘How dare you address Mrs Emerson? Your very presence is an insult to any respectable woman.’

‘Now, Emerson.’ I raised my parasol to indicate another chair. Kalenischeff flinched; he was remembering, no doubt, another occasion on which I had been forced to jab the point into his anatomy in order to prevent a rude encroachment upon my nether limbs. I went on, ‘Let us hear what he has to say.’

‘I won’t take much of your time.’ Kalenischeff decided not to sit down after all. He lowered his voice. ‘I would like to come to an agreement with you. A bargain–’

‘What?’ Emerson shouted. ‘A bargain? I don’t enter into agreements with murdering, thieving–’

‘Hush, Emerson,’ I implored. The people at the adjoining tables had abandoned all pretence of good manners and were eavesdropping as hard as they could. ‘Hear him out.’

Kalenischeff’s smile stayed glued in place, but drops of perspiration stood out on his brow. ‘I know your opinion of me,’ he hissed. ‘No bargain, then, only a promise from me. I am about to leave Cairo – to leave Egypt, in fact. Only give me a few days to wind up my affairs – don’t interfere with me – and I swear you will never see or hear from me again.’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked curiously.

‘That need not concern you, Mrs Emerson.’

‘You will have to travel to the ends of the earth to escape the long arm of your former master,’ I said significantly.

The man’s lean face paled visibly. ‘Why do you mention … What makes you suppose …’

‘Come, come, Kalenischeff. It is only too obvious. Something, or someone, has frightened you badly enough to induce you to flee. Who else could it be but that genius of crime, that diabolical Master Criminal. We could not prove you were one of his gang, but we knew it to be true. If you mean to betray that all-seeing all-knowing individual, you would do better to cast yourself into the arms of the police – or even better, into our arms. I speak figuratively, of course.’

‘You are mistaken,’ Kalenischeff muttered. ‘Quite mistaken. I would never … I have never been involved with …’

Emerson’s brows drew together. He spoke in a soft growl that was – as Kalenischeff knew – more menacing than any shout. ‘It is you who are mistaken, you villain. Your protestations of innocence do not convince me in the slightest. Tell your master, when next you speak with him, to stay out of my way. The same goes for you. I want nothing to do with either of you, but if you interfere with me, I will squash you like a beetle. Have I made myself plain?’

This was not at all the approach I wanted to take. I said quickly, ‘Think what you are doing, Kalenischeff. Confide in us and let us save you. You take a dreadful risk just by talking with us. The spies of your dread master are everywhere; if one should see you–’

My approach was no more successful than Emerson’s had been; Kalenischeff paled with horror. ‘You are right,’ he muttered. And without further ado or further speech, he went with stumbling steps toward the door of the hotel.

‘Ha,’ said Emerson, in a satisfied voice. ‘Good work, Peabody. That got rid of the fellow.’

‘Such was not my intention. Emerson, we cannot allow that rascal to make good his escape; we cannot permit him to delude the young lady who is obviously his latest victim!’

Emerson seized my arm as I started to rise and returned me to my chair with a force that drove the breath from my lungs. By the time I had freed myself, the carriage with the matched greys had drawn up before the steps, and the young lady had come onto the terrace. Kalenischeff hastened to hand her into the carriage. The gapers were treated to a view of a dainty buttoned boot and a flash of ruffled petticoats as the lady mounted the steps. Kalenischeff swung himself into the driver’s seat, snatched the whip from the groom, and cracked it. The horses were off as from a starting gate, at a full gallop. Pedestrians and peddlars scattered. One old fruit vendor was a little slow; his sideways stumble saved his old bones from injury, but his oranges and lemons went flying.

I shook my head at Ramses as he started up.

‘But, Mama, I hoped I might be of assistance to the old gentleman. As you see, his oranges–’

‘I do not question the purity of your intentions, Ramses. They do you credit; but they almost always end in disaster, not only for you but for the object of your good will.’

‘But, Mama, dat man dere–’

His gesture indicated one of the ragged bystanders, who had come to the aid of the vendor – a tall, well-built fellow in a ragged robe and a saffron turban. He had picked up three of the oranges and had sent them spinning into the air in a fairly creditable juggling act. At the moment I took notice of him he turned away; two of the oranges fell neatly at the feet of the lamenting vendor, and the other vanished, presumably into the folds of the juggler’s filthy robe.

‘You are lapsing again, Ramses.’ I said sternly. ‘How often have I told you I will not tolerate your mispronunciation?’

‘Quite a number of times, Mama. I am chagrined to have erred in that direction; but as you may have observed, I am inclined to forget myself when under the effect of some strong emotion or when taken by surprise, as in–’

‘Very well, very well. Be more careful in future.’

The vendor had changed the tone of his lament upon recognizing Emerson, who was leaning over the rail. ‘It is Emerson Effendi,’ he cried. ‘O, Father of Curses, see what they have done to a poor old man! They have ruined me; my wives will starve, my children will be homeless, my aged mother–’

‘Not to mention your extremely aged grandmother,’ said Emerson, in extremely colloquial Arabic. The adjectives he used carried an implication that caused the listeners to burst into howls of laughter.

Emerson grinned. He does enjoy having his witticisms appreciated. Dropping a handful of coins into the vendor’s tray, he went on, ‘Buy a new
gibbeh
(robe) for your great-grandmother, that she may flourish in her profession.’

More raucous male laughter followed this improper remark. Emerson resumed his seat. Catching my eye, and hastily straightening his countenance, he exclaimed, ‘I told you we should not have come here, Amelia. What sort of hotel is this, to allow a criminal like Kalenischeff on the premises? I have half a mind to leave at once. Baehler! Herr Baehler!’

It is said that a good hotelier has a sixth sense for impending trouble. It is also said by ill-natured persons that Baehler expects trouble from Emerson and is constantly on the watch for it. Be that as it may, the manager appeared as if from thin air and made his way to our table.

‘You called me, Professor Emerson?’ he murmured.

‘What are you whispering for?’ Emerson asked curiously.

‘He is attempting, by example, to persuade you to moderate your voice,’ I said.

Baehler gave me a look of grateful acknowledgment, Emerson an outraged stare. ‘What the devil are you implying, Peabody? I never raise my voice. I would like to know, Herr Baehler, what you mean by letting a rascally reprobate like that in your hotel. It is an outrage.’

‘You are referring to Prince Kalenischeff?’

‘Prince? Ha!’ Emerson exploded. ‘He has no right to the title, or to that of archaeologist. He is a thief and a villain, a member of the ring of antiquities thieves Mrs Emerson and I unmasked last year–’