The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (35 page)

When Emerson and I returned to the house that morning, they were waiting outside the door—an old man and a veiled woman holding a small, very dirty child. I took the woman for one of Nefret's pathetic charges; she was decently covered with a threadbare dark blue tob (outer robe) without which no woman of any class would have dared appear in public; but the black eyes visible over the veil were heavily rimmed with kohl and the cheap ornaments dangling from face and head veils betrayed her profession. The man, whose dusty gray beard reeked with scented oil, wore a silk caftan, striped in gaudy colors and girdled with a colored shawl. Either they had not had the courage to ask for Nefret, or Ali had refused to let them in, for which one could hardly blame him.

I was about to speak to the woman when Emerson addressed the old man by name.

"How dare you dirty my doorstep, Ahmed Kalaan? You know where the clinic is; take her there."

The woman shrank back. The old man caught her by the arm. "No, Father of Curses, no. And do not send me to the kitchen as if I were a servant. I come as a friend, to spare you."

"Rrrrrr," said Emerson. "You vile, contemptible old ..."

Words failed him. In fact I was sure they did not, for they seldom did, but the words he would like to have employed were too inflammatory for my ears, much less those of an innocent child. For all his bravado, Kalaan was not willing to risk the wrath of the Father of Curses. With a muttered oath he snatched at the child, whose face was hidden against the woman's shoulder. She clung desperately to her mother—for so I assumed the woman to be—but Kalaan's clawlike hands pulled her away and held her up so we could see her face. Her skin was brown, her curly hair black, her features rather delicate and, at the moment, almost witless with fear. She was a typical Egyptian child ... except for one thing.

"See—see!" Kalaan gabbled.

"Good Lord," Emerson gasped. He looked at me. "Peabody— what—"

Though I was shaken to the core, I am accustomed to react quickly in a crisis. This was unquestionably a crisis. I said, "We cannot pursue this matter in the open street. Bring them in at once. Ali, open the door."

Kalaan's face split into a gargoyle grin. He thrust the child back into her mother's arms and strutted after me. Fatima, who was in the courtyard, let out a cry of protest at the sight of the trio. "Sitt Hakim—where are you taking them, Sitt? If it is Nur Misur they want, she is here, she wishes to see you and the Father of Curses—"

"Is Ramses here?" Emerson asked.

"Aywa. He came just before you and went with Nur Misur to his room. Do you wish—"

"Not now, Fatima," I said and closed the sitting room door almost in the poor woman's face.

Kalaan selected the most comfortable chair, lowered himself into it, and smiled insolently at me. He was in control now, and he knew it. He gestured brusquely at the woman, who came to him cringing like a dog who expects a beating. Her veil had been pulled away by the child's frantic grasp. She was younger than I had realized—even younger than she looked, perhaps, for the life she led ages a woman quickly.

"Sit down, my dear," said Emerson to me. He was holding himself in such rigid control, I trembled for his health. Before he could say more, the door of the sitting room opened.

Nefret did not bother to knock. She seldom did, and she had no reason now to believe we did not wish to be disturbed. She was holding Ramses by the hand, tugging at him as she did when she was excited about something she wanted us to share. They were both smiling.

The old man pulled the child roughly from her mother and stood her on her feet, holding her so that she faced Ramses. "Salaam aleikhum, Brother of Demons. See, I have brought your daughter. Do you accept her?"

Ramses shook his head. "No," he said hoarsely.

His face gave him the lie. The color had drained from it, leaving it white under his heavy tan.

The little girl slipped out of the old man's grasp and ran toward Ramses, holding out her arms and calling to him in a high, quavering voice. She was too small to talk plainly. I understood only one word. It was the Arabic word for Father.

His involuntary recoil stopped her as brutally as a blow might have done. She spread dimpled, dirty hands over her face and crouched down, like a threatened animal trying to make itself smaller. But before the child hid them, Nefret had seen what we had seen earlier—wide, dark gray eyes, of an unusual shade and shape—the exact shade and shape as mine.

Until that moment Nefret had not moved or spoken. The sound that came from her parted lips was wordless: a sharp cry like that of a wounded animal. Her blazing blue eyes shifted, first to the woman in her shabby garments, then back to the child. She did not let go of Ramses's hand; she flung it from her and ran stumbling from the room.

"Nefret, wait!" Ramses started to turn.

The child must have been watching him between her fingers. She let out a little whimper.

I am not a maternal woman, but I could bear it no longer. I would have leaped to my feet if Emerson's hand had not held me back. His unblinking eyes were fixed on Ramses.

The old man cackled with laughter. "You see? You say no, but who will believe you if they see her face? For a price—a very small price—I will find a home for her among her own people, where she will be loved and desired, and hidden forever from the eyes of Inglizi."

Perhaps the child did not understand the unspeakable promise in the leering voice—I prayed she had not—but it was clear to the rest of us. I had thought Ramses could go no whiter, but I was wrong. He dropped to one knee and took the child's hands in his. His voice was steadier than mine would have been.

"Don't cry, little bird. There is nothing to be afraid of. I won't let him have you."

She threw her arms round his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. Holding her, he rose to his feet.

"I claim her," he said formally. "She is mine. Get out, Kalaan, while you are able."

Kalaan licked his lips. "What are you saying? Do you know what you are saying? You have dishonored this woman, who is my—uh—my poor daughter. Give me money and I will—"

"No," Emerson said gently. "I think if you start now, and move very quickly, you may make it out of the room before I lose my temper."

The old villain knew that purring voice. He scuttled toward the door, giving Ramses a wide berth. The woman crept after him. She did not look at Ramses, nor he at her. After they had gone, Ramses said, "Excuse me, Mother and Father. I will be back shortly."

He went out, carrying the child, who clung to him like a little monkey. Emerson sat down next to me, took my hand and patted it, but neither of us spoke until Ramses returned.

"I left her with Fatima, but I promised I would return in time  to watch over her during the terrors of the bath," he explained. "What do you want to know?"

"She is not yours," Emerson said.

"No."

"Then who ..." I did not finish the question. There was only one other man in Egypt through whom the child could have inherited my father's eyes. "Perhaps he does not know," I went on. "Should we not tell him?"

Ramses dropped into a chair and reached for a cigarette. "He has no legal responsibility. Do you suppose he would admit any other kind?"

"Hmph," Emerson said. "Peabody, my dear, let me get you a whiskey and soda."

"No, it is too early. But I might try one of those cigarettes. They are calming to the nerves, I have heard."

Ramses raised his eyebrows, but he provided the cigarette and lit it for me. It provided a distraction, at least. By the time I had got the hang of the business and had stopped coughing, I was ready to hear Ramses's explanation.

"She approached me one day in the suk, tugging at my coat and asking for baksheesh. When I looked down at her I saw... You saw it too. Something of a shock, wasn't it? Once I had recovered I asked her to take me to her house. She thought I wanted ..." His even voice caught. Then he went on, "Her mother was under the same impression. After I had disabused her of the notion, we talked. She claimed not to know who the father was. She may have been telling the truth. Her clients don't often bother introducing themselves by name."

"Dear God," I whispered.

"God has nothing to do with it," said Ramses, offering me another cigarette. "The place was unspeakable—a single room, ankle-deep in refuse, swarming with flies and other vermin. I couldn't leave her there. I moved them to more salubrious surroundings and paid Rashida a sum of money each week on condition that she—er—retire. I got in the habit of dropping by from time to time in order to make certain she kept her promise. When Sennia began calling me Father I didn't have the heart to stop her. The other children with whom she played had fathers; she knew the word, and she was too young to understand, and ..."

"You became fond of her," I said.

"I am not entirely impervious to the softer emotions, Mother.

After she had learned to trust me, there were times when she would gesture or laugh in a way that reminded me of—of someone else." He smiled at me, and his face was so young and vulnerable I wanted to cry.

"Why didn't you tell us?" I demanded.

"Should I come running to my mother with every difficulty? Oh, I would have told you eventually, but you had enough to worry about and this was no more your responsibility than it was mine."

It would have been strange if he had acted otherwise, I thought. He had never been in the habit of asking for help.

"I wonder how Kalaan comes into this," Emerson said thoughtfully.

"He is no more Sennia's grandfather than you are," Ramses said. "You know what he is. But he is a crafty old swine, and he set the stage well. Those rags she was wearing had been supplied in place of the clothes I had got for her, and I haven't seen her so filthy for weeks. As for what he hoped to gain by this—"

"Money, of course," I said. "No doubt he assumed we would want the business kept quiet. Though how anyone, even a—a vile creature like Kalaan—could suppose we would abandon that child—any child—to ..."

"It's all right, my love," Emerson said, taking my hand.

Ramses put out his cigarette and stood up. "I must get back. She was trying not to cry, but I could tell she was frightened."

"I will come with you," I said. "The presence of a woman may reassure the poor little thing."

Ramses looked at his father, who said quickly, "Where has Nefret got to? She is wonderful with children, and she will want to apologize for misjudging you when she learns the truth."

"You didn't know the truth either," Ramses said. His face had hardened and there was a note in his voice that was new to me. "But you had enough faith in me to believe, even before I explained, that I was not a liar or a coward or a ... Thank you for that. It means a great deal to me."

He strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.

"Oh, dear," I said. "Emerson, go to Nefret. She will be glad to learn she was mistaken, and anxious to make it up to him."

I hastened to the bath chamber, from which I could hear cries of distress. Fatima had given it up; she stood watching with a broad grin while Ramses tried in vain to persuade the child to let him put her into the bath. Water dripped from his chin and made dark patches on his clothing. "She has been bathed before," he explained defensively. "It must be the size of the tub that frightens her. Now, little bird, it is only water—see, I will just lower your feet... No? No." He wiped his face on his sleeve. "Mother, have you any ideas?"

"Now, what is this?" Emerson stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, looking sternly at us. "What a roaring! Is there a lion here? Where is it? Where is it hiding?"

He began opening cupboard doors and throwing towels out onto the floor, while the child watched him in wide-eyed fascination.

It is absolutely unaccountable to me why small children respond to men like Emerson. One would suppose a voice as deep as his and a form as large as his would frighten them into fits. Before long she was giggling as he tore the bathroom apart looking for the imaginary lion, but it was to Ramses she turned when the actual moment of immersion arrived. With my assistance Emerson pursued the lion out of the room and closed the door to prevent it from returning.

"My darling girl," he said, and took me in his arms.

"I am not going to cry, Emerson. You know I am not at all a sentimental person. It was just seeing how gentle he was with her, and how she clung to him. Oh, dear."

Emerson reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. He looked so surprised and pleased at actually finding it where it was supposed to be that we both started to laugh, a bit damply in my case.

"Well, well," said Emerson, "we'll find room for the little thing, won't we? She'll be no trouble."

I fancied she would be considerable trouble—all small children are—but I said, "Of course, Emerson. You know, don't you, that the old fiend's threats were right on the mark? No one will believe she is not Ramses's child, no matter how we deny it."

"Why the devil should we deny anything?" Emerson demanded. His chin jutted out. "We know the truth. They say—who says?—let them say!"

"That's all very well, Emerson, but this is not going to do Ramses's reputation any good. It has already suffered unfairly."