The huge figure settled itself onto the divan next to Ramses, who wrinkled his nose involuntarily as a wave of patchouli wafted round him. El-Gharbi didn’t miss much. His round black face broadened in amusement.
“My perfume offends you? It is very rare and expensive.”
“Tastes differ,” said Ramses, in his own voice. El-Gharbi knew who he was. The disguise was only a precaution, in case he was seen entering the place.
He waited with the patience he had acquired through long experience in Egypt while the formal litanies of greeting were exchanged. May God grant you a good evening; how is your health? God bless you; and finally a courteous and conventional, My house is your house.
“Beiti beitak, Brother of Demons. I never thought I would have the honor of entertaining you here.”
“You know I didn’t come here for entertainment,” Ramses said. “If I had the power to do so I’d put you out of business.”
Gargantuan laughter shook the divan. “I admire an honest man. Your sentiments, and those of the other members of your family, are well known to me. But my dear young friend, putting me out of business would only worsen the conditions to which you object. I am a humane employer.”
Ramses couldn’t deny it. Why were moral questions so often cloudy, with no clear-cut right and wrong? The right thing, the only right thing, would be the complete elimination of the filthy trade; but given the fact that it existed and probably always would, the unfortunates, male and female, who plied it were better off with el-Gharbi than they had been with some of his perverted predecessors. “Better than some,” Ramses admitted grudgingly.
“Such as my former rival Kalaan.” The big man pursed his reddened lips and shook his head. “A disgusting sadist. I owe his removal to you, and I acknowledge the debt. That is why you came, wasn’t it, to ask a favor? I presume it concerns your cousin. We haven’t seen as much of him lately, though he does drop by now and then.”
“His habits are no concern of mine,” Ramses said. “I came about another matter. You have heard, I suppose, about the incident outside Shepheard’s this afternoon?”
“Incident! A pretty word! All Cairo knows of it. You aren’t suggesting I had a hand in that? My business is love, not war.”
“Another pretty word for an ugly business. Where did he get the grenades? Who were his confederates?”
“Since he died before he could speak, we will never know the answer. The other men denied complicity; it is believed they will soon be released.”
“Died? When? He was alive when they took him to hospital.”
“Less than an hour ago. Have I told you something you did not know?”
“You haven’t told me what I want to know.”
El-Gharbi sat like a grotesque statue, his eyes hooded. “He did not get the weapons from me. Certain… merchandise sometimes passes through my hands. I sell it in other markets. A man does not scatter poison in his own garden. I tell you this much because, to be honest, my dear, I don’t want you coming round and stirring up trouble. Not that it isn’t a pleasure just to look at you,” he added, simpering.
Ramses laughed. “Most kind. Where did he get them, then?”
“Well, dear boy, we all know there are German and Turkish agents in Cairo . However, I do not believe they would make use of a nobody like that fellow. So, that leaves only one likely source. It is not necessary to mention his name. I do not know his present whereabouts. He does not approve of me.” El-Gharbi folded his fat, ringed hands and sighed soulfully.
“He wouldn’t, no. Can I believe you?”
“In the matter of War—of his present whereabouts, yes. Frankly, I hope you catch him. Patriotism is a nuisance; it stirs up trouble. I don’t want trouble. It interferes with business.”
“I do believe that. Well…” Ramses uncrossed his legs, preparatory to rising.
“Wait. Don’t you want to know about your cousin?”
“What makes you suppose I would ask about him?”
“Two reasons. Either you wish revenge for his part in that… unfortunate affair a few years ago, or you have forgiven him for it and hope to save him from my vile influence.” With a rich, oily chuckle, he offered the box of cigarettes. “It is said in the city that he is trying to get back in the good graces of you and your family.”
Ramses selected a cigarette and took his time lighting it while he considered this remarkable speech. He felt as if he were engaged in a verbal chess game with someone whose skill was far beyond his own. How much did el-Gharbi know about that “unfortunate affair”? The girl Percy had abused and got with child had not been one of his stable, but the identity of Sennia’s father was probably known to every prostitute and procurer in the Red Blind District. The rest of the story, and Percy’s part in it, was not common knowledge. And yet el-Gharbi had spoken of revenge…
Ramses looked up to meet a pair of hard brown eyes, the lashes darkened, the lids outlined with kohl. “Don’t be deceived,” the procurer said, his lips barely moving. “When he is drunk on brandy, he boasts of what he did. Are you aware that your first meeting with the child was no accident? That it was he who arranged it—who taught her to call you Father—who paid Kalaan to bring her and her mother to your house in order to shame you before your parents and the woman you loved? Ah. I see you are aware of that. But do you know that he had told a certain honorable gentleman who also loved the lady of what he planned to do? It was because of your cousin that the gentleman was waiting for her when she fled the house that day; he comforted her, confirmed the lies that had been told about you, and persuaded her to marry him with the promise that he would make no demands on her and would set her free if and when she wished. He had made her believe he was ill and might not live many months. An unconvincing story, to be sure, but I am told she is impetuous by nature.”
“We will not speak of her.”
El-Gharbi clapped his ringed hands over his painted mouth, like a child who has talked out of turn. His eyes were bright with malicious amusement. “So finally I have told you something you did not know. Why does he hate you so much?”
Ramses shook his head. El-Gharbi’s latest disclosure had left him stunned; he was afraid to speak for fear he would say more than he ought.
“Very well,” the procurer said. “You walk among naked daggers, Brother of Demons. Be on your guard. Your cousin has even fewer scruples than I.”
He clapped his hands. The draperies covering the door were drawn aside by a servant. The interview was over. Ramses got to his feet. “Thank you for the warning. I can’t help wondering…”
“Why I take the trouble to warn you? Because I hope you will spare me trouble. And because you are honest and young and very beautiful.”
Ramses raised shaggy gray eyebrows and the grotesque figure shook with silent laughter. “These eyes of mine see below the surface, Brother of Demons. Now go with Musa; he will show you to a less public entrance than the one you used. I trust your discretion as you must trust mine. Allah yisallimak. You will need his protection, I think.”
Ramses followed the silent servant along the dimly lit passages. His brain felt numbed as he struggled to assimilate the information el-Gharbi had flung at him like a series of missiles. For years he had agonized over that hasty marriage of Nefret’s, dismissing his suspicions of Percy’s involvement as wishful thinking and wounded vanity, and, worse than vanity, the fear that she had given herself to him that night out of pity, after he had finally betrayed his love and his need of her. Nefret did nothing by halves; affection and compassion and the wholehearted generosity that were so much part of her would have produced a convincing imitation of ardor, even to a man who had not wanted her as desperately as he had done.
But el-Gharbi’s disclosure had to be true, it had come straight from Percy himself. Unless the procurer was lying, for some obscure reason of his own…
True or false, the story had been told him for a reason, and he doubted el-Gharbi’s motives were altruistic.
Could it be true, though? He knew Nefret too well to doubt that it might have happened that way. Five minutes before they came downstairs that morning, she had been in his arms, returning his kisses. Then to be faced with the diabolically constructed web of evidence that branded him guilty of a crime she held to be worse than murder… He could remember only too well the sickening, breath-stopping effect of that accusation on himself, innocent though he knew himself to be.
And he had let her go. He’d had other responsibilities—the child, his parents, the imminent danger to the child’s mother—but he had reacted as irrationally as Nefret had done, and for the same very childish and very human reasons: hurt and anger and a sense of betrayal. They had both behaved like love-struck lunatics, but it would have come out all right in the end, if Percy hadn’t taken a hand.
What had el-Gharbi tried to tell him about Percy?
He handed the servant a few coins and slipped out into the alley behind the brothel. Gradually his steps slowed until he was standing stock-still. A single phrase had lodged in his mind. “… he would make no demands on her…”
No demands of any kind? Was it possible? It would explain so many things. Losing the baby had been the final blow that had broken her spirit. If that brief, miserable marriage had not been consummated—if she had discovered, too late, that she was carrying his child—if she still loved him, and believed her lack of faith in him had destroyed his love for her…
A flood of pity and tenderness and remorse filled him. I’ll make it up to her, he thought. If it’s true. If she’ll let me. If it’s not too late.
First, though, there was the other business.
:
The Yuletide season was fast approaching, but I was unable to work up much in the way of Christmas spirit. Small wonder, with the family scattered, and rumors of Turkish troops approaching the Sinai, and the casualty lists from the Western Front appallingly high. When I thought of those two handsome sensitive lads, whom I loved so dearly, in the mud of the trenches facing death, my spirits sank. It was even harder for their parents, of course, and for the girl to whom Johnny was engaged. What agonies she must be suffering!
However, I am never one to shirk my duty, and in my opinion the general gloom made it all the more imperative to celebrate the season and enjoy the company of those friends who were still with us. There were, alas, fewer than in other years. M. Maspero had retired as head of the Antiquities Department; he had been ailing for some time, and the wounding of his son Jean earlier that autumn had been a bitter blow to him. The young man, a fine scholar in his own right, was now back in the trenches. Howard Carter had remained in Luxor for the winter; his patron, Lord Carnarvon, had been awarded the firman for the Valley of the Kings after Mr. Theodore Davis gave it up. Howard did not agree with Davis that there were no more royal tombs in the Valley. He was itching to get at it.
Our closest friends, Katherine and Cyrus Vandergelt, were working nearby, at Abusir. Katherine would need comforting too; her son had been among the first to enlist. Bertie had been slightly wounded at Mons , but was now back in action.
So I sent out my invitations and accepted others. Emerson complained of taking time away from his work, as he always did, and when I inquired whether he would care to attend a costume ball at Shepheard’s, his indignation reached such a pitch I was obliged to close the door of my study, where the conversation was taking place.
“Good Gad, Peabody, have you forgotten what happened when last we attended a masked ball? Had I not arrived in the proverbial nick of time, you would have been carried off by a particularly unpleasant villain whom you took for me! Nobody knows who anybody is in those costumes,” Emerson continued, abandoning syntax in the extremity of his passion.
He looked so handsome, his sapphirine eyes blazing, his teeth bared, the cleft in his chin quivering, that I could not resist teasing him a bit. “Now, Emerson, you know you enjoy wearing disguises. Especially beards! It is most unlikely that any such thing could happen again. Anyhow, I had a more revealing costume in mind for you. You have such well-shaped lower limbs, I thought a Roman centurion or a kilted Scot, or perhaps a pharaoh—”
“Wearing nothing but a short skirt and a beaded collar?” Emerson glowered. “And you in one of those transparent pleated robes, as Nefertiti? See here, Peabody … Oh. You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my dear,” I said, laughing. “We needn’t attend if you don’t want to, the affair is several weeks off. You had better run along now; I will just finish these notes before I join you.”
Believing the discussion was at an end, I turned back to the desk and picked up my pen.
“I would like to see you as Nefertiti, though.” Emerson came to stand behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
“Now, Emerson, you know I do not resemble that elegant lady in the slightest. I am too—my dear, what are you doing?”
In fact, I knew very well what he was doing. Raising me to my feet, he drew me into a close embrace. “I would rather have you than Nefertiti, Cleopatra, or Helen of Troy,” he murmured against my cheek.
“Now?” I exclaimed.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it is eight o’clock in the morning, and for another, they are waiting for you at Giza , and… and…”
“Let them wait,” said Emerson.
It was like the old days, when Emerson’s tempestuous affection was wont to display itself in places and under circumstances some might consider inappropriate. I had never been able to deny him then; I was unable to deny him now. When he left me I was in a much improved state of mind. Humming under my breath, I returned to my study to finish my letters.
Not until the euphoria of the encounter had begun to subside did I begin to harbor certain suspicions. Emerson’s demonstrations of affection are often spontaneous and always overwhelming. He knows very well how they affect me, and he is not above employing them for purposes of distraction.
Putting down my pen, I reconsidered our conversation. Had there not been something unusual about his willingness to incur delay? As a rule he was impatient to get to the site, nagging the rest of us to hurry. We had talked about costumes and disguises, and now that I thought about it he had had a somewhat shifty look when I mentioned beards… Curse the man, I thought, he is up to something! His disclaimers notwithstanding, I knew he yearned to play some part in the war effort. He sympathized with Ramses’s pacifist sentiments, but did not entirely share them, and I suspected that what he really wanted was a chance to prowl the streets of Cairo in disguise, looking for spies and exposing foreign agents. I had no strong objections, so long as he did not try to prevent me from doing it too.
At Emerson’s request I had written to Major Hamilton inviting him and his niece to tea. The following afternoon I was in receipt of a brief communication from him. Nefret was reading her own messages; the one she was presently perusing appeared to contain something of particular interest.
We were on the roof terrace waiting for the others to return from the dig. For the past several days I had been the one to sort through the messages and letters that had arrived in our absence. Naturally I would never have opened a letter addressed to Nefret; I only wanted to know whether Percy would have the audacity to correspond with her. Thus far she had received no communication that aroused suspicion, but today she had got to the post basket on the hall table before me.
“Not bad news, I hope?” I inquired, seeing a frown wrinkle the smooth surface of her brow.
“What?” She looked up with a start. “Oh. No, nothing of the sort. Only an invitation I shan’t accept. Is there anything of interest in your letters?”
“I have heard from Major Hamilton—you know, the uncle of the young lady who was here the other day. It is a rather curious communication. What do you think?”
I handed her the letter, thinking it might inspire her to return the compliment. It did not. She folded her own letter and slipped it into her skirt pocket before taking the paper from my hand.
As she read it her lips pursed in a silent whistle.
“Curious? Rude, rather. The terms in which he declines your invitation make it clear he doesn’t care to make our acquaintance, and has no intention of allowing his niece to visit us. He doesn’t say why.”
“I think I can hazard a guess.”
Nefret looked at me in surprise. “I didn’t think you knew.”
“Knew what?”
She looked as if she were sorry she had spoken, but my unblinking gaze silently demanded a response. “About Ramses having cut the Major out with Mrs. Fortescue.”
“What a vulgar way of putting it. Do you mean that Ramses and that woman are—er—associating? She is old enough to be his mother. What about her other admirer—that French count?”
Nefret’s delicate lips curled. “I detest this sort of gossip, but I do wish you would speak to Ramses. The Major probably won’t do anything except snub him, but the Count has threatened to call him out.”
“Challenge him, you mean? How absurd.”
“Not to the Count. He is quite a gallant, in the European style. Kisses hands, clicks heels.”
“You know him?”
“Slightly. Oh, well, I daresay nothing will come of it. There is another reason why the Major might not care to improve his acquaintance with us. What responsible guardian would allow a young girl to associate with a man who is not only a pacifist and a coward, but a notorious seducer of women?”
“Nefret!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Amelia! But that’s what they say about him, you know. They know the stories are all lies, and yet they continue to repeat them, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it!”
“They will be forgotten eventually,” I said, wishing I could believe it.
The angry color faded from her cheeks, and she smiled and shook her head. “He does bring it on himself, in a way. One can hardly blame the child for being swept off her feet.”
“Literally as well as figuratively, I believe,” I said. “My dear Nefret, he didn’t bring this on himself; once appealed to, he had to rescue the child.”
He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Page 10
