Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (132 page)

From the celerity with which the headwaiter approached her I decided she must be very rich or very distinguished. He got short shrift for his pains; the old lady rejected the first table she was offered, demanding one nearer the window – which also happened to be nearer to me. She then criticized the cleanliness of the silverware, the temperature of the room, and the clumsiness of her attendants, all in tones that rang like a gong. Catching my eye, she shouted, ‘Yes, you agree with me, don’t you, ma’am?’

I turned my back and applied myself to my soup, and to the book I had brought with me – the new translation of Herr Erman’s delightful account of
Life in Ancient Egypt
. Wandering through the barley fields with the happy peasants, I was soon so absorbed that Mr Baehler had to touch me on the shoulder before I was aware of his presence.

For once, conversation with this pleasant man, who usually knew all the gossip about Cairo’s foreign community, proved to be a waste of time. He knew no more than I – less, in fact, for he informed me that Miss Debenham’s whereabouts were unknown. Her financé had arrived –

‘Her what?’ I exclaimed.

I am sure my voice was not raised much above its normal pitch, but for some reason all conversation in the dining room happened to stop just at that moment. The elderly American lady shouted, ‘What is it, ma’am? What’s the matter, eh?’

‘Her affianced husband,’ Mr Baehler said softly.

‘I know what the word means, Mr Baehler.’ I picked up my spoon, which I had dropped onto the table in the stress of the moment. ‘I was not aware that Miss Debenham was engaged to be married.’

‘Nor was I, until he came here looking for a room. Unfortunately, I was unable to accommodate him on such short notice. He said he had been hunting in the Sudan and, upon hearing the shocking news, had at once hastened to the lady’s side.’

‘Only to find she had disappeared. He must be in great distress.’

‘No doubt,’ Baehler said expressionlessly.

‘But that is a curious story, do you not think? First he leaves his affianced wife to disport herself alone in Cairo while he is amusing himself in the Sudan. Then he rushes to assist her – but surely not from the Sudan. It would take weeks for the news to reach an isolated camp, and for him to make the return journey.’

Baehler looked uncomfortable. ‘That had occurred to me, Mrs Emerson. I can only assume the gentleman was on his way back, or had actually arrived in Cairo, when he learned of the murder.’

‘Humph. I must speak to him. Where is he staying?’

‘I sent him to the D’Angleterre. Whether he was successful in obtaining accommodation there, I cannot say. And now, Mrs Emerson, if you will excuse me–’

‘Miss Debenham is not a murderess, Herr Baehler. And I intend to prove it.’

Baehler, who had risen to his feet, took the hand I extended and raised it gallantly to his lips. ‘Mrs Emerson, if you set out to prove the sun rises in the west, you could certainly convince me. I must return to my duties now. My respectful compliments to your distinguished husband and to Master Ramses.’

After he had left the room, I thought of several questions I had meant to ask, including the name of the man who called himself Miss Debenham’s fiancé. However, upon further consideration, I decided I had better ask Miss Debenham herself – and ascertain as well why she had deceived me. The young lady had a good deal of explaining to do if she wished to retain my good will.

I gathered up my parcels, my parasol, and my handbag. As I was leaving, the old American lady shouted, ‘Good day to you, ma’am. It has been a pleasure talking with you.’ Realizing that she must be a trifle senile, I gave her a pleasant smile and waved my parasol.

Once outside the hotel, I bargained for a carriage and had just got in when one of the vendors accosted me. ‘Flowers for the lady,’ he cried, thrusting a bouquet into my hands.

‘I don’t want flowers,’ I said in Arabic.

‘They are for you, sitt,’ the fellow insisted. ‘You are Sitt Hakim, wife to Emerson Effendi? Yes, yes, I know you; a gentleman told me to give these to you.’

The nosegay was a charming ensemble of red rosebuds and fragrant mimosa, framed in green leaves and tied with a silk bow. The flower seller bowed and retreated without even waiting for the usual tip, so I had no choice but to keep the flowers, which I was not reluctant to do, for I have a particular fondness for roses of that shade. I decided they must have come from Mr Baehler – a token of friendly esteem, and an apology for his somewhat abrupt departure. It was the sort of gesture a gentleman of his refined courtesy might make.

The carriage bore me swiftly to my destination, the Administration Building on the Place Bab el-Khalk. Until recently the constabulary of Cairo had been under the benevolent supervision of a British Inspector General. It was still under British supervision; only the title of the administrator had been changed, to that of Adviser. Sir Eldon Gorst, who was a personal acquaintance, held the position; but when I asked for him I was told he was not in his office, and I was referred to one of the officers on his staff.

It was with some chagrin that I found myself in the presence of Major Ramsay, the least intelligent and most unsympathetic of Sir Eldon’s subordinates. On the occasion of our last meeting, at a social gathering at the Consulate, I had taken the opportunity of correcting some of his ill-informed opinions on the subject of women, their rightful position in society, and the unjust laws that prevented them from assuming that position. I would never accuse a British officer of rudeness, but Major Ramsay’s responses had come as close to that condition as a British officer could come; and toward the end of the discussion Emerson had said something about punching someone in the jaw. It was only one of Emerson’s little jokes, but Major Ramsay had no sense of humour. I was sorry to see, from the unsmiling curtness of his greeting, that he still harboured a grudge.

I explained the reason for my visit. Ramsay looked at me severely. ‘I had assumed you came in order to correct or amend the statement you originally made to the officer in charge of the investigation, Mrs Emerson. Surely you know I cannot discuss the conduct of a police inquiry with a member of the general public.’

I settled myself more comfortably in the hard chair and placed my parasol across my lap. ‘Oh, yes, Major Ramsay, that is an admirable rule so far as it goes, but it does not apply to
me
. Professor Emerson and I can hardly be called members of the public, much less the general public.’

‘You–’ Ramsay began.

‘I am certain that by now you have reached the same conclusion that was immediately apparent to me; namely, that Miss Debenham is innocent. Have you any other suspects?’

Ramsay bit his lip. His long, melancholy countenance was incapable of expressing subtle alterations in the intellectual process (assuming he had an intellectual process), but it was not difficult for me to follow his thoughts. He disliked telling me anything substantive, but hoped that by doing so he could gain information.

The latter motive triumphed over the former. Pursing his lips, as if he had tasted something sour, he said, ‘We are looking for a man to assist us with our inquiries. An Egyptian – a beggar, in fact. Perhaps you noticed him outside Shepheard’s.’

An unpleasant premonition crept over me. Naturally I did not display any sign of perturbation, for
my
countenance only expresses my intellectual process when I allow it to do so.

‘A beggar,’ I repeated, smiling ironically. ‘I noticed several dozen of them.’

‘Taller than the average, sturdily built, wearing a pale-blue robe and a saffron turban.’

‘I can’t say I recall such an individual. Why do you suspect him?’

‘I didn’t say we suspected him, only that we wish to question him,’

And that, dear Reader, was all I was able to learn. Ramsay absolutely refused to elaborate or add to his statement.

Once outside the building, I found myself in a rare state of indecision. I was tempted to call on Sir Evelyn Baring, the Consul General, and request his cooperation, which I surely would have received, since we were old friends. But the afternoon was wearing on, and I had wasted too much time with the imbecile Ramsay. I would have enjoyed a delightful ride home under the desert moon, but I knew Emerson would fly into a rage if I did not return by sunset. Emerson is completely fearless where his own safety is concerned, but the mere thought of danger to me reduces the dear fellow to a positive jelly.

As I stood debating with myself, I heard a voice pronounce my name in questioning accents. Turning, I found myself face to face with a stranger. ‘Face to cravat’ would be more accurate, for the man was eight or ten inches taller than I. Stepping back in order to see his face, I beheld a lean, hawk-nosed countenance atop a wiry body dressed rather oddly, for that climate, in a caped tweed coat. Tinted spectacles protected his eyes from the glaring sun. In his hand he held a matching tweed cap.

‘I am Mrs Emerson,’ I acknowledged.

His thin lips parted in a pleasant smile. ‘I recognized you from the portraits which have appeared at various times in the newspapers. Though, if I may say so, they did not do you justice.’

‘Newspaper photographs seldom do. Perhaps I have seen your features similarly reproduced. They seem familiar to me, Mr–?’

‘Gregson. Tobias Gregson. Yes, I have been featured in the popular press from time to time. I am a private investigator – a well-known private investigator, to quote the same source.’

‘That must account for it. What cases have you investigated, Mr Gregson?’

‘Many of my cases are of the most secret nature, involving sensitive family scandals or delicate government negotiations. However, you may recall the matter of the Amateur Mendicant Society? Or the Camberwell poisoning case?’

‘I can’t say that I do.’

‘No matter. I don’t want to detain you, Mrs Emerson; I ventured to address you only because I believe you have an interest in my present investigation.’

I looked at him more closely. ‘Have you been called in to assist the police in the murder of Kalenischeff?’

Gregson smiled contemptuously. ‘I am not on good terms with the official police, Mrs Emerson. Professional jealousy … But I will say no more. No, I happened to be in Egypt on another matter – a related matter, as it turned out. The case has its points of interest.’

‘It does. No doubt your long experience in criminal matters has already given you some hint as to the identity of the guilty party.’

‘Obviously it was not Miss Debenham,’ Gregson said coolly.

‘Obviously. But who?’

Gregson glanced from side to side and lowered his voice. ‘I am endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of a certain beggar who was seen hanging about the hotel on the night of the murder.’

‘Ah,’ I said, in equally mysterious tones. ‘A tall, well-built man wearing a yellow turban?’

‘I might have known the famous Mrs Emerson would be on the same trail,’ said Gregson, with a look of respectful admiration.

‘Not at all. I heard of him from Major Ramsay.’

‘Ramsay is an idiot. He doesn’t know what you and I know.’

‘And what is that, Mr Gregson?’

‘That the beggar is not a beggar at all, but an emissary of that genius of crime, that master of deceit–’

‘What?’ I cried. ‘How do you know of
Him
?’

‘I have my methods, Mrs Emerson. Suffice it to say that I do know of this enigmatic personage, to whom you referred, in a newspaper interview, as the Master Criminal. I have set myself the task of tracking him down.’

‘I have set myself the same task, Mr Gregson.’

‘We must confer, Mrs Emerson.’

‘I would like you to meet my husband, Mr Gregson.’

‘I – I beg your pardon?’

I smiled, and explained the apparent non sequitur. ‘I was not changing the subject, Mr Gregson. Emerson and I are equal partners, in our criminal investigations as in our professional and marital activities; perhaps you can convince him, as I have not yet succeeded in doing, that capturing the Master Criminal is a matter of paramount importance.’

‘I see. I will, of course, be honoured to meet Professor Emerson.’

‘I must be off now, or that same Professor Emerson will be rushing to Cairo in search of me. Are you staying at Shepheard’s, Mr Gregson?’

‘No. But a letter left with the concierge will reach me.’

‘We are at Dahshoor, should you care to call on us.’ I gave him my hand in farewell, but when I would have taken it back, he held on. ‘Please don’t hurry away, Mrs Emerson. May I not offer you a cup of tea or a lemonade?’

It was a tempting suggestion, for I was anxious to learn all I could from this remarkable individual. As I debated with myself, my wandering gaze found an object that caused me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes. I snatched my hand from the warm clasp of Mr Gregson and started in pursuit; but my quarry mounted a horse and galloped away before I could speak to him. When I returned from a hasty investigation of the nearby streets and lanes, Mr Gregson had also vanished. My carriage awaited; I directed the driver to take me to Mena House.

I had not got a good look at the horseman, but one physical feature had been unmistakable – the red-gold waves of hair that shone in the sun like a brazen helmet. I would not have been surprised – though I would have been deeply grieved – to discover that Nemo had broken his word. He was only a weak male creature, after all. But if he was
only
a weak male creature, a beggar and a drug taker – what was he doing outside police headquarters, wearing a suit of the best British tailoring?