by Alice Duncan
Since I didn’t want to descend into the maudlin, I decided to try to make the man laugh. Making Sam laugh was no easy task, as I knew from experience.
I must say, though, that it’s nice to get away from constant calls from Mrs. Pinkerton, wailing at me about Stacy. I hope Stacy is sticking to the straight and narrow. Well, I don’t suppose she can help it since she’s still locked up, but when she gets out, I hope she goes back to the Salvation Army as she’s promised to do.
A knock came at the door at that juncture, and a glance at the clock next to the bed told me it was probably Harold, come to fetch me for dinner. I actually felt a smallish pang of hunger, believe it or not, and that brightened my mood. Unless it was Sam’s letter that had done the brightening. But I didn’t want to think about that.
Well, Harold is here to fetch me so that we can go down to dinner. Thank you again for writing. Please give my love to everyone.
Fondly,
Daisy.
After I let Harold in, stuffed the letter into an envelope, addressed it and picked up my filmy shawl, I contemplated that “fondly” all the way down to the magnificent dining room, with a detour to the desk, where I handed the letter to the clerk. One moment I regretted the word; the next moment I figured I actually meant it, so why not write it? At any rate, I continued distracted as I read the menu.
“So what did you do with your afternoon, Harold?” I asked as I tried to imagine what sirloin of beef Châtelaine was. I suspected it was roast beef dressed up. It sounded okay to me.
“Chatted with our friend Stackville.”
I glanced at Harold over my menu. “He’s no friend of mine. I think he’s sneaky.”
“I think your imagination is working overtime, Daisy.”
“Maybe. But he always seems to be there. If you know what I mean. You show up somewhere, and there he is. I show up somewhere, and there he is.”
With a shrug, Harold said, “Maybe he finds us good company.” He glanced around the dining room. “Most of the rest of the guests here look as though they’re nearing ninety, at least.”
I perused the room, too. “Well . . . I guess you’re right.”
Harold put his menu down. “Listen, Daisy, I’m rethinking this Nile cruise thing. I damned near dropped dead from heat stroke today, and I know you were suffering, too.”
“You’ve got that right,” I told him with fervor. “I had such a ghastly headache, it isn’t all gone yet, and I took three aspirin tablets.”
“It’s occurred to me that perhaps we should go back to England. It won’t be nearly as miserable there, and we can see the sights in London. Mind you, if you want to continue up the Nile, I’m game, but everyone who’s told me August is the wrong time to visit Egypt has been absolutely right so far.”
I could have kissed him. Not that I wouldn’t love to see the sights of Egypt someday. But if I had my druthers, it would be a day approximately forty degrees cooler than the one in which we now existed. “Oh, Harold, I’d love to go back to England! Egypt was Billy’s dream, and I’ll carry on for his sake, but if you don’t want to take the tour up the Nile, either, then let’s not.”
“Thank God. I was afraid you’d think you failed Billy somehow if we backed out now.”
“Failed Billy?” I shook my head. “Billy’s dead, Harold. I might have failed him in life, but there’s no way I can fail him now.”
“And you call yourself a spiritualist,” said Harold with a chuckle.
“Not on this trip, I don’t.”
“What’s this about a spiritualist?” came a voice at my back. Stackville. Since he couldn’t see me do it, I made a face at Harold.
“Good evening, Stackville,” said Harold, ignoring the spiritualist business, thank God. “Care to join us? We haven’t ordered yet.”
After making another, even more horrible face at Harold, I turned my head and forced a smile. “Good evening, Mister Stackville.” I didn’t repeat Harold’s invitation.
“Good evening, Missus Majesty. Thanks, Kincaid, but I’m dining with some other friends tonight. Please allow me to introduce them.”
Harold stood. I didn’t, although I did turn farther in my chair to see what Mr. Stackville’s friends looked like. They looked like a couple of male human beings dressed for dining in a nice hotel restaurant. If I were really what people think I am, I could probably have penetrated the outer facades they presented to the world and figured out if they were good, bad or normal like the rest of us, but I’m not. Heck, for all I knew, Mr. Stackville wasn’t really a pushy sneak but a hardworking gentleman of means. The two men presently standing beside him didn’t look as though they were hurting for money, either, to judge by their clothes.
As a gentleman should, Stackville said, “Missus Majesty and Mister Kincaid, please allow me to introduce you to Mister Gaylord Bartholomew and Mister Pierre Futrelle.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said to both men, although I didn’t mean it. Not that I had anything against either of them, but I still didn’t like the way Stackville seemed to show up wherever Harold and I were. But perhaps I was being illogical. Heck, if he was staying at Shepheards, why shouldn’t he show up in Shepheards’ dining room? For a fleeting moment, I had the melancholy notion that the bad mood I’d nursed since Billy’s death was taking over my entire life, and the idea didn’t appeal to me one bit. Therefore, I tried to make my smile appear a trifle more genuine.
“Yes, indeed,” said Harold, bowing slightly to the two men and holding out his hand to be shaken.
To my astonishment, Mr. Futrelle executed a bow that might have looked normal in King Louis the Fourth’s ballroom, but the likes of which I’d never seen before anywhere. Then he took my hand, although I hadn’t extended it, kissed it, and said, “Bon jour, madam. The pleasure is all mine,” in an accent so thick I could scarcely make out the words.
Then Futrelle executed another bow in Harold’s direction. Thank the good Lord, he didn’t kiss Harold’s hand, but merely shook it.
“Don’t mind Pierre,” said the other man, Mr. Bartholomew, with a smile and as precise an English accent as Stackville’s. I could tell he and Stackville were British because of the two days Harold and I had spent in London. “His old-world manners are a bit on the heavy side.” He bowed less extravagantly than his friend had at me and then shook Harold’s hand.
“Messrs. Bartholomew and Futrelle and I are in business together,” explained Stackville. “Believe it or not, we’re about to discuss that business over dinner this evening.”
Why wouldn’t we believe it? I didn’t ask, although I thought the comment was kind of odd.
“Well,” said I, hoping to speed the men on their way, “have a productive meeting.”
“Yes,” said Harold. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again this evening in the saloon.”
“Perhaps,” said Stackville.
Mr. Futrelle, who was tall and dark-haired and who looked like a Frenchman about to gamble away the family fortune—in other words, kind of rascally, although who was I to judge?—actually twirled his black moustache. I’d never seen anybody do that in person, even though the gesture had showed up in a couple of the flickers I’d watched.
Mr. Bartholomew, shorter, plumper and far less flamboyant than his friend, merely smiled, nodded, and made as if to leave. Stackville hesitated an instant beside our table, then gave us a nod and joined his friends at the table toward which a waiter had been leading him before he halted for introductions.
When the men were far enough away to hear anything I said, I told Harold, “I’m glad they didn’t join us.”
“I know you are. Sorry I didn’t consult with you first. I realized right after I made the offer that you probably wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“It’s just that I don’t much care for Stackville.” I shot a glance at the back of Mr. Futrelle. “And that French guy gives me the willies.”
Harold laughed, but he didn’t scold me for making snap judgments. He didn’t have to;
I was already smacking myself upside the head for my lousy attitude.
Our dinner was delectable, and I managed to get down a good deal of it, which heartened Harold considerably and did much to restore my humor after the Stackville incident. By the way, sirloin of beef Châtelaine is roast beef, just as I’d figured it would be. I guess maybe they cook it a certain way or use a special sauce or something. It was delicious, however it was prepared. I also learned that haricots verts are skinny green beans. I wrote down that nifty tidbit to tell Aunt Vi. I’d never let on to the folks at Shepheards, but Aunt Vi’s Yorkshire pudding is better than theirs. Still and all, the entire meal was wonderful, and I felt rather like a stuffed sausage when it was over.
“Would you like to stroll in the gardens for a while, Daisy?” Harold offered after we polished off the last of our dessert, which was some kind of raspberry confection. I tried to figure out what was in it but had no luck, not being culinarily inclined. Which was a shame, since I’d bet Aunt Vi would love to make it. Oh, well.
Did I want to stroll in the gardens? Not really. However, Harold was being so very kind to me in giving me this extraordinary trip to exotic ports and climes that I couldn’t refuse him. “Sure, Harold. You might have to drag me part of the way since I ate so much.”
“Huh. You didn’t eat so much, Daisy Majesty. You consumed approximately a quarter of your entire meal.”
“It was more than that!” I protested. “At least it feels like it now.”
“That’s only because you’ve become accustomed to starving yourself.”
“Maybe, but I feel kind of like I ate an entire elephant.”
“Good. Let’s walk off some of that pachyderm in the gardens. They smell really wonderful in the evening.”
As I’ve mentioned before, the gardens across the street from Shepheards are truly a marvel. The fact that one had to wade through a herd of impoverished Egyptians, both children and adults, begging for baksheesh in order to get there was more sad than annoying, at least for me. Sometimes I forget that I live in the good old U.S.A., and that, even though my family is far from wealthy, we lived a whole lot better than these poor folks. I was tempted to throw a few coins at them but had been sternly lectured by our tour guide and several other people not to do so, or we’d be swarmed by the wretched people. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but compare their lot to that of the folks who could afford to stop at Shepheards Hotel and to wonder why the people in charge of things in Egypt didn’t do something to help the poor.
But there you go. Billy used to say I had a bleeding heart when it came to lots of things, including poor folks, and I guess he was right. Still and all, I doubt that all of those wretched beggars were indolent sluggards, as rich people like to pretend all poor people are. I’d bet anything, if I did stuff like that, that they were merely born in the wrong place at the wrong time. One more reason to be glad I was an American, I reckon. Not that America didn’t have its share of poor folks.
Oh, never mind. The poverty problem is too large a one for so small a person as I to solve, even in my thoughts.
The warm night air negated its purpose, but I took along the filmy wrap that went with my sleeveless evening dress because I thought I ought to. It didn’t do to offend the natives, who covered themselves from head to toe, or even potential clients, who dressed to the nines even during the month of August in Egypt. I’d noticed several elegant couples in the dining room. Mind you, I didn’t expect to meet them again in Pasadena, but one never knew what the fates had in store for one. If you don’t believe me, ask Billy. Oh. That’s right. You can’t, can you?
See what I mean?
“I wonder how Victorian ladies survived trips to Egypt,” I murmured as I inhaled the heavenly scent of honeysuckle and roses as we ambled along the main path of the garden. “Can you imagine wearing a corset, a dozen petticoats, and those horrid, heavy tight-waisted gowns in some thick fabric like bombazine? I’m glad I live in nineteen twenty-two. At least I don’t have to suffocate for the sake of fashion.”
“True. You look lovely this evening, by the way, Daisy. Of course, you always dress impeccably.”
“Thank you, Harold.” I took his arm. “I appreciate your kind words.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Well . . . yes, I do. I’m careful about my clothing for the sake of my job. Nobody wants to hire a shabby spiritualist, don’t you know.”
He chuckled.
We didn’t walk for long, primarily because, even though I’d taken a nap that afternoon, the remnants of my headache were still hovering at the edges of my brain, and I wanted to take another couple of aspirin and go to bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit in the saloon for a bit, Daisy? My primary aim in getting you out of Pasadena and into the big, wide world was to introduce you to new people and experiences. You can’t do that if you insist on staying in your room all the time.”
“Harold. You’re one of my very best friends in the entire world, and I love you like a brother. In fact, as much as I love Walter, I’d sooner hang out with you than him because you have my kind of sense of humor. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking me on this magnificent trip. But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go back to the hotel and hit the sack. My headache is coming back, and I’m afraid I’m not interested in Mr. Stackville and his business associates, whom I fear would attempt to monopolize the two of us if we returned to the saloon together.”
“Boy, you really don’t like that guy, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“How come?”
I shook my head. “Darned if I know. He just rubs me the wrong way I guess. I can’t point to anything specific and tell you ‘this is why I don’t like this man.’ I suppose that sounds stupid.”
“Actually, it doesn’t. I’ve had reactions like that to certain people. Very well, it’s back to the hotel for us, and I’ll deposit you at your room before heading saloon-wards.” He paused for a moment, and I saw him frown. “I have to admit that we haven’t met too many people so far on our journey with whom I’d care to spend a lot of time. Maybe we should do this again in January or something.”
I laughed out loud for perhaps the second time since Billy died. “Harold! You’re the most generous person I’ve ever met in my life, but I’m not going to allow you to spend another fortune on cheering me up come January. If I don’t feel better by the first of nineteen twenty-three, I suspect I’m going to be a grumpy Gus forever.”
With a sigh, Harold said, “That would be a true shame, Daisy. What’s more, I’m sure Billy wouldn’t want you to act like Queen Victoria after her beloved Albert passed. He’d want you to get on with your life and be as happy as you can be.”
“You’re right, Harold. But I am getting on with my life. I know I won’t feel this awful forever, mainly because that’s impossible.” And because Sam Rotondo had told me so, and he should know. I didn’t say that part to Harold. “Still, it’s going to take time for me to get used to Billy not being in my life. This trip was probably a good idea because everywhere we’ve been and are going to be is so different from home, I don’t expect Billy to be there. If that makes any sense.”
“It does, sweetie.”
So we plowed our way through all the street beggars one more time, passed the white-clad and stern-looking dragomen stationed at the foot of Shepheards’ stairs in order to keep the riffraff out, and Harold escorted me to my room.
As soon as I opened the door, I could tell someone else had been there before us. I told Harold so.
“Are you sure?” Harold stood in the doorway, casting his glance this way and that, attempting to see what I saw. Which he did, but he couldn’t know what I knew, which was that things weren’t the same as I’d left them.
“Yes, I’m sure!”
Harold walked into the middle of the sitting room of the suite and looked around. “Maybe it was a maid who came in to clean while you were out.”
I
frowned. “Maybe.” But I opened the door and beckoned to the floor man, called a suffragi, according to Mr. Stackville, who, as much as I didn’t like him, seemed to know his way around Egypt and its language. He came trotting up, his brown teeth gleaming. I guess nobody in Egypt brushed their teeth.
Smiling at him to let him know I wasn’t accusing him of anything, I asked, “Did you happen to see someone enter my room while I was away this evening?”
“Enter your room? No, ma’am. No one enter.”
“Not even a maid or a cleaning person?”
He shook his turbaned head. “No, ma’am. No clean.”
“Thank you.” I handed him a coin, he ducked his head in a kind of bow, and went back to his chair in the hall, which was approximately midway along the row of rooms.
“There. You see?” said Harold. “Nobody’s been here, Daisy. You’re imagining things.”
“Am not. Besides, that guy’s been asleep pretty much every time I’ve passed him in the hall, and I doubt that he changed his ways just because we went to dinner.”
“Well, what do you want to do? Call the police?”
“Don’t be silly. But I do aim to look around and see if anything’s been taken. Although what anyone would want to take is beyond me. I don’t own any precious gems—well, except for the ugly bracelet that Russian count gave me a year or so ago, but that’s in a safe deposit box at the bank in Pasadena.”
“I think you’re imagining things,” Harold said flatly. “Or you’ve been reading too many spy novels.”
“Have not. I read mysteries, not spy novels. Well, except for John Buchan, but . . . oh, never mind.”
With a sigh, Harold said, “Want me to search with you?”
“No, thank you. Go on down to the saloon. I’ll check around and see if I can figure out whether or not anything’s gone missing. Have a good evening, Harold.”
He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “You, too, Daisy.” He headed for the door but stopped before he reached it and turned around. “You know, I don’t like the idea of leaving you here when you suspect someone’s been snooping. If you’re right about that, whoever it was might still be here.”
