The Deeds of the Disturber (25 page)

I thought at first that no one was there; but after my eyes had adjusted to the dim light I made out a form, sitting still as any statue on a divan against the farther wall. Unconsciously my hands tightened on the handle of my parasol. I had no reason to fear attack, for I knew nothing that threatened her; but the atmosphere reminded me, painfully and vividly, of another such room in which I had recently spent several of the most uncomfortable hours of my life, (
Lion in the Valley)
and the sweet-scented smoke from a low brazier beside the couch on which she reclined made my senses swim.

But only for a moment. I remembered my mission; I remembered who I was, and what she was. By Eastern custom, the inferior waits to be addressed before speaking. I cleared my throat and addressed her.

"Good morning. I apologize for the intrusion. I am—"

"I know who you are." She gestured—a movement of exquisite grace. "Sit there."

It was not a chair she indicated, but a low hassock. Most Englishwomen, I daresay, would have found the position uncomfortable, if not actually impossible to attain. I promptly sat down and arranged my skirts neatly.

She was now only a few feet away, but I still could not make out her features clearly, for she wore the long burko, or face veil, suspended from a jeweled band around her brow. This veil is fashioned of white muslin or silk, and it is not ordinarily worn in the presence of other females. I could only assume Ayesha intended a subtle insult of some sort, but it was too subtle for me; I did not understand what she meant by it. Her veil was so fine it outlined the perfect oval of her face, the strongly modeled nose and firm chin. Her head was bare. The waving tresses that fell over her shoulders gleamed like black satin. Her garments were of the sort worn by highborn Egyptian ladies in the privacy of the harim—loose trousers of striped silk and a long vest clinging tightly to her upper body and arms. It left half the bosom bare, for she wore no shirt underneath. All the areas thus defined, or exposed, were quite admirable in outline and in texture; her skin shone like polished amber.

Her pose was negligent, even contemptuous. Leaning on one elbow, she raised her knee, and the silken garment slipped back, baring a limb as shapely as that of a nymph. The trousers—quite contrary to the usual custom—were slit from hip to ankle.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

She spoke English, with only a slight trace of accent. The ways of the East are subtle and cunning. The women especially, who are denied the right to speak out on almost any subject, have developed their own methods of expressing disdain. Her use of my language—for she must have known I spoke hers—was a means of asserting superiority, and the question itself implied much more than it actually said. (For the sake of my duller readers I will spell it out. By not asking why I had come, she confirmed that I had reason to do so. What that reason might have been, even a dull reader should realize.)

I was not inclined to ignore the challenge, or to betray Ahmet, who, I considered, was in enough trouble already. "You say you know me, Ayesha. Then you must also know I have ways of finding people. I saw you last night, and my keen eyes penetrated your disguise."

"Last night?" Her long neck curved, poised like that of a cobra about to strike. "At the ...
Wahyat en-nebi!
It was you?"

"It was I," I said calmly. "Your eyes did not penetrate
my
disguise."

"Then he took you there. Or at least he allowed ..."

A sudden burst of light made me shade my eyes. When I lowered my hand I saw she had lit an oil lamp. It had been placed so that the beams fell directly on my face, and then I knew why I had been told to take that particular seat.

She studied me in silence for what seemed like a long time. I remained motionless and let her look her fill. I knew what she saw—not rippling locks nor supple limbs nor features of exquisite beauty—but I had known before ever I went there that I could not fight her and win on that ground. I did not intend to try.

At last a soft, sibilant sound that might have been laughter or a hiss of contempt escaped her lips. "He took you there," she repeated thoughtfully. "I had heard . . . But I found it difficult to believe. So, Sitt Hakim, wife of the great Emerson Effendi—you have found me. You honor my poor house. What do you want from me, the lowest of low slaves?"

I ignored this as the irony it undoubtedly was, and proceeded with my little speech, which I had carefully planned in advance. "I want your help, Miss—er—Madam Ayesha, to catch a murderer. You are surely aware that one of your countrymen has been arrested under suspicion of killing Mr. Oldacre?"

"I know it," she acknowledged.

"And you are also aware that Ahmet is innocent."

"I do not know that. How should I know it?"

"Oh, come, my dear—that is, Madam Ayesha. Let us not fence with one another. We both know that the police, being mere men, are not overly intelligent. However, they cannot be so dull as to believe a miserable worm like Ahmet committed the crime. This is some trick of theirs. I have thought the matter over and I have come to the conclusion that the only reason why they would 'ask him to assist them in their inquiries,' as they express it, is because they suspect that some person—or several persons—in the Egyptian community is involved in the crime. Ahmet is a dupe, a decoy, or a potential informer."

She listened intently, her great dark eyes fixed on my face. When I paused, inviting her reply, she was slow to respond. Finally she muttered, "It is possible. But how does that concern me? I don't fear those bunglers at Scotland Yard. I have powerful friends—"

"I am sure you do. But friends are sometimes false, when danger or disgrace threatens. At the least the attentions of the police must disrupt
your—er—business activities, as was the case last night. Now I am certain the killer is not an Egyptian, but an Englishman—"

"What? Why do you believe that?"

"You ask questions, but you do not answer them, sitt." I now spoke in Arabic. "I think you know more than you admit. How could you be ignorant of what is happening among your own people, wealthy and influential as you are?"

She sat up, crossing her legs, and rested her chin on her slender hand. "I am ignorant of that matter, at least. You won't believe me—"

"If you are speaking the truth, sitt, I respectfully suggest that you had better begin to make inquiries—for your own sake. Together we could accomplish a great deal. As women—and women of considerable ability, each in her own sphere—"

Her little hiss of laughter—for such I had decided it must be— interrupted me. "You compare us, Sitt Hakim? You must want something very badly, to stoop to that."

"Not at all; I only give you what is your due. I am familiar with the customs of the East and I am well aware of the difficulties you had to overcome in order to attain wealth and independence—"

"You are mad! How could you know, how could you begin to imagine . . . Ah, I too am mad, to sit talking such nonsense!" She threw herself back against the cushions, her hands clenched.

I had said, or done, something that had destroyed the tenuous link of understanding that had begun to build between us. I could not think what it might have been. Unless . . .

"The Englishman," I repeated. "There is such a man, is there not? You know of him. Perhaps you know him. Do you walk in fear of this man? For if you do, Emerson and I will hide you in our shadows. Is he your lover? Love is a fragile flower, Sitt Ayesha. Men trample it underfoot when the cold breath of danger withers its petals."

"All men, sitt? Yours?" She spat the words.

"Really," I began, "you mistake my—"

"Mistake! You invent foolish tales about a murdering English lord— it is an entertaining story, Sitt Hakim, but that is not why you came. You came to ask me whether Emerson Effendi is faithless. Who can read your heart better than I?"

"A great many people, I should think," I said coolly. "Look at me, Ayesha. If you can read my heart—or my countenance, which is a more accessible guide—you will see that never for an instant would I doubt Emerson. We are as one, and ever will be."

"But I knew him once," she purred. "I knew the strength of those great arms of his, the touch of his lips, his caresseses. Does he still ..."

I hope and believe I did not, by look or movement, betray the sensations that gripped me—sensations that are no more worthy of repetition than the phrases Ayesha proceeded to employ, accompanying her words with graphic gestures of her slim brown hands and undulating body. Yet her desire to wound me proved her undoing; and (as the moralists so rightly remark) her spite fell back upon her own sleek head. In her excitement she gradually slithered forward till her face almost touched mine, and the light of the oil lamp illumined her features for the first time. Neither the translucent veil nor the thick layer of cosmetics she had applied could conceal the ragged wound that had slashed one smooth cheek to the bone, leaving a purple cicatrice.

Too late, she realized what she had done. She broke off with a gasp, and withdrew into the shadows.

For a moment I was unable to speak. Anger, disgust, and—yes— pity choked me. Conquering these emotions with my usual efficiency, I cleared my throat.

"You will excuse me if I decline to emulate your candor, madam. What passes between my husband and myself is a private matter. I can assure you, however, that I have nothing whatever to complain of on that score—or any other—and that Emerson shares my sentiments."

One of her hands shot out and seized me by the wrist, her long, polished nails digging painfully into the flesh. "Does nothing move you, you cold fish of an Englishwoman? What can I do to wound you? You are ice, you are stone! What magical powers do you have, to win such a man and hold him?"

"I cannot imagine," I admitted. "However, there are many qualities other than physical beauty that draw people of the opposite sex to one another and cement the bonds of matrimonial affection. One day you may be fortunate enough to discover that. I sincerely hope you do. Which brings me back to the subject of the English lord—"

"What English lord? There is no such man." She flung my hand away. "Leave me, Sitt Hakim. I cannot defeat you. I cannot even fight you on equal grounds, you possess weapons beyond my comprehension. Leave me."

"Very well." I rose to my feet—without her grace, perhaps, but without stumbling or straining. "I did not expect you would be willing to confide in me on my first visit."

"First—"

"Please bear in mind that I stand ready to assist you in any way
possible. The life you lead cannot be good for you. You should consider retiring to the country. There is nothing more soothing to a wounded spirit than solitude and the contemplation of nature—"

Ayesha rolled over and buried her face in the cushions. Taking this as a sign that the conversation was at an end, I went to the door. "Remember what I have said. Send to me at any time."

"Sitt Hakim." She did not move; her voice was muffled and uneven.

"Yes?"

"You will know my messenger if he comes. But I do not promise he will come."

"Very good. I hope he will."

"Sitt Hakim?"

"Yes."

"Before last night I had not seen Emerson Effendi for many years. It was in Egypt I knew him. Not in England. He has never visited me here."

"Oh, indeed? Well, I expect he will be along shortly."

This time she did not call me back.

After retrieving my cloak from the maid I crossed Park Lane and found a seat in the park, facing the house I had just left. Would Emerson come? I was not certain he would. My parting shot had been designed by resentment and a desire to appear clever (for even I succumb to such failings of character at times, and considering the provocation, I felt that on the whole I had behaved very well).

I was sure it had been Emerson I saw entering Scotland Yard. Knowing I planned to go there, he had probably waited till he saw me leave. If he had waited a little longer I would not have noticed him, but that was so like Emerson; impatience was his greatest weakness.

Tit for tat, Professor Emerson, I thought. I too would wait awhile, to see if Emerson was following the same trail I had followed. But perhaps not for the same reasons . . .

I had not been there long before a cab drew up and Emerson bounded out. As soon as he had entered the house I took the precaution of hailing another cab. Getting in, I told the driver to wait. Emerson was not inside five minutes. He emerged even more precipitously than he had entered and stood on the pavement looking suspiciously about. Obviously Ayesha had told him of my visit, and he feared I might be lurking about.

I told my cabman to drive on. Peering out the small, dirty window, I watched Emerson cross the road and begin prowling the park. He was engaged in an altercation with a lady about my size and shape,
whose old-fashioned, shovel-shaped bonnet he had attempted to remove, when the cab turned the corner into Upper Brook Street, and I beheld no more.

It is impossible to express fully the emotions that mingled within me following the interview with Ayesha (especially in the pages of a journal which may one day be published, though not, of course, before a great deal of editing takes place). My brain was a seething caldron of speculation.

If Ayesha had spoken the truth, I had nothing with which to reproach Emerson. It would have been entirely unreasonable to hold him accountable for anything he did or said or felt or thought prior to the unforgettable moment when he committed himself to me, body and soul, heart and hand.

But had she spoken the truth? Poor ruined beauty, she had every reason to lie and none whatever to reassure me. I wondered if she had felt the same reluctant sympathy for me that I had felt for her. We had something in common in addition to Emerson (and I freely confess that however sensible my reasoning on that subject might be, my emotional response did me no credit). She was a strong woman who had overcome even greater handicaps than the ones I had faced. If my knowledge of physiognomy was not at fault, she had English or European blood. A half-caste—for such is the opprobrious term—carries a double burden, despised by her mother's people, unrecognized by her father's. Add to this the position of women in her world—even more opprobrious than that of women in "enlightened" England—and I could hardly blame her for using the only means possible to pull herself out of the degrading abyss of semislavery that would have been her fate had she followed the conventional career of an Egyptian female—premature marriage, incessant childbearing, boredom, misery, and early death.