Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Oh, wonderful. I hadn’t thought of that possibility until Harold brought it up. Now I was scared as well as baffled. “Really, Harold, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “No, sir. I’m going to look through every room in this suite and make sure you’re in no danger before I leave you alone here. And be sure to lock your door after I leave.”

  I appreciated his valor, although I seriously doubted that Harold would be able to overcome a lurking thug if we found one. Nevertheless, his suggestion was a good one, so I went with him to the bedroom, and together we looked through closets and under the bed. Then we went through the bathroom. Results from all three rooms were negative. If someone had been in my suite—and I could almost swear someone had been—he or she was long gone now.

  Therefore, I said, “Thanks, Harold. You go on down to the saloon now, and I’ll just take a peek through my things to see if anything’s been taken.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You might want to check your suite, too, since you have considerably more items of value than I have.”

  “I have all the expensive stuff locked in the hotel’s safe,” he said.

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll make sure my room is unoccupied before I retire for the evening.”

  My opinion of Harold’s ability to protect himself against an armed bully remained the same as it had been before, but I decided I’d better not say so. “Very well. Thanks, Harold. See you tomorrow.”

  “Indeed. Tomorrow we invade the souks and find gifts to take home to everyone.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.” We’d decided on that course of action while eating our raspberry desserts. Since we’d opted out of the Nile cruise, we had one last day in Egypt to explore the mysteries of Cairo.

  After looking through my luggage, the dressers, my closet, and everything else that might have had anything taken from it and discovering nothing amiss, I took an extra aspirin for the souk’s sake—I was no more interested in walking around in the heat in a marketplace than I was in sailing in it, although I was looking forward to shopping—but Harold was right. We had to procure gifts for our families and friends back home, and it might be fun to find just the right souvenir for everyone.

  Then I doffed my evening dress, climbed in my lightweight lawn nightgown, and crawled into bed, exhausted. I don’t think I’d ever felt so utterly enervated. I chalked my state of fatigue up to the heat, the Great Pyramid and that smelly camel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Except for being swarmed by indigent Egyptians of all ages and sexes as we wandered the streets of the various souks, and in spite of the crushing heat, I managed to find gifts for everyone in my family, Flossie and Johnny, Edie and Quincy Applewood (as I think I’ve mentioned before, Edie was Mrs. Pinkerton’s lady’s maid, and Quincy looked out after Mr. Pinkerton’s horses), Pudge Wilson next door and a few other neighbors. I even bought a pottery sphinx for Sam. I was pretty sure Pudge was going to love his turquoise scarab. The thing was so cheap that I doubted it was made of real turquoise, but I didn’t think Pudge would mind. He liked bugs and stuff like that.

  Fortunately for me, Harold had thought to hire one of the non-guardsman dragomen who haunted the street around Shepheards to carry our many packages. I felt sorry for the man, although he seemed quite cheerful about his burdensome occupation, probably because Harold was lavish with his baksheesh. This was a smart move on Harold’s part because the fellow, named Mohammed of course, was adept at bargaining with the various souk keepers, a form of exchange at which I would have been lousy, not being inclined to argue with anyone at all, much less a native to a land to in which I was every inch an outsider.

  Harold bought I don’t know how many sphinxes, scarabs and pieces of pottery, all of which were lovely to look at but incredibly bulky, not to mention expensive.

  During one bargaining session—Harold wanted to purchase a perfectly gorgeous golden urn, which the souk proprietor said had been discovered in a pharaoh’s tomb—Harold whispered to me, “I’m sure he’s lying through his teeth. Somebody probably made it the day before yesterday.”

  Shocked, I whispered back, “Good Lord, Harold. Do you mean that?”

  “Sure. Making fakes with which to fool tourists is the national industry in this part of Egypt.”

  “But . . . but that urn is positively beautiful, Harold. What a shame if the merchant is lying about it.”

  With a shrug, Harold said, “Honestly, Daisy, I’m not a collector of Egyptian artifacts. I don’t care if the thing is brand new or three thousand years old. I just think it’s pretty, and I want to get it for Del. Thanks to our guide there, maybe I’ll get a deal on it.”

  “Oh.” And since I couldn’t think of anything more cogent to say, I remained silent as the dragoman and the shop’s proprietor argued and argued.

  As they argued, I gazed at the item in question. It really was quite charming in all its gleaming goldness. Figures of ancient Egyptians had been engraved or carved or etched, or whatever the proper artistic term for the process is on the sides of it, and it contained one panel that looked as if someone had pasted tons of tiny tiles together and then had it inlaid into the gold. The top of the thing featured the head of a cat, I presume the god Bastet of Egyptian lore. Not for nothing had I listened to Billy read all those articles about Egyptian discoveries in the National Geographic. Although, come to think of it, I think Bastet was a goddess. Well, whatever s/he was, the urn thing was fabulous, and I was pleased that Harold had found it.

  Finally our guide turned to Harold, gave him a shrug and threw up his arms as if he couldn’t stand to continue bandying words and prices one second longer.

  “I guess that’s the best price I’m going to get?” Harold asked, interpreting the shrug.

  The man nodded. So Harold bought the lovely urn and, as both the shop owner and our guide appeared quite pleased, I assumed the guide was going to get a percentage of the purchase price for himself. It seemed to me that this was a very queer way of doing business, but Harold assured me on our further perusals of various shops, that barter is the way most of the rest of the world worked. While I thought that was a most interesting point, I was once again glad I lived in the U.S.A., where you paid whatever was stamped on the label and went away with your purchase. I suppose a person can get used to bartering, but I imagine the people who are really good at it generally start when they’re babies. If you see what I mean.

  As for me, I almost certainly went a little overboard when we found a little shop that sold fabrics. But what the heck. Mrs. Pinkerton had given me all that money to spend, and I aimed to use at least some of it while I was in Egypt. I spent nowhere near five thousand dollars, however, and I aimed to use the fabrics for clothing for the entire family and not just me. My own personal biggest purchase was a rug that I thought would look great in our dining room back home. Besides—my heart twanged painfully as the notion hit me—Billy would have loved it.

  What a crime that it was I, and not Billy, who was seeing the world. He’d been the avid reader of travel stories, the National Geographic, and so forth. But he’d only got as far as France before he’d been shot and gassed and had to come home again. The Lord works in mysterious ways, all right, and I didn’t approve of a good many of them. Not that the Lord cares, I’m sure.

  After the rug seller and our guide came to an agreement about the price of the thing, and Harold turned over an edge of the rug and squinted hard at it for several seconds, I refrained from fainting from shock when the proprietor named his final sum, but merely handed over the dough. But . . . oh, boy. I’d never spent that much money on one thing in my entire life. Well, except for our Chevrolet.

  Harold patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, Daisy. That’s a darned good price for that rug. Del’s the rug expert, but he’s taught me a lot, and I think that’s the genuine article.”

  “What kind of genuine article?” I asked, puzzled.

  “A genuine, a
uthentic Egyptian rug made here and by Egyptians by their own hand. And from the looks of it, it was made a good many years ago.”

  “Well . . . why wouldn’t it be?”

  Harold chuckled. “I just mean that you got a bargain, sweetie. I turned it over to make sure it was woven by real people and not by any old rug-making machine.”

  “I didn’t even know there were such things as rug-making machines.”

  “Good Lord, yes.”

  Shows how much I knew about anything.

  We’d left the hotel early, and by about one o’clock in the afternoon, not only was our guide about to drop from all the souvenirs we’d loaded upon him, but I was about to expire from the heat.

  “We’ll go back to the hotel and clean up a bit. Then we can have lunch there,” said Harold. “That all right with you?”

  “Perfect,” I panted.

  So we hoofed it back to the hotel. Our guide and Harold made arrangements with one of the hotel staff to get our purchases safely transported to our suites, and I, on a whim, staggered over to the reception desk, just to see if any letters had arrived for me since yesterday. To my utter astonishment, a letter awaited me.

  It was from Sam. How very odd.

  Harold joined me at the desk, and the reception person handed him a couple of letters, too. “All set. I’m having everything carted to my room.” He squinted at me. “Do you need something to drink, Daisy? Your face is flushed and you’re glowing with perspiration.”

  Although I wanted to rip open my letter, Harold was correct. My mouth was as dry as the Sahara, which was almost appropriate; and I was sweating like a pig, which wasn’t, since Egyptians didn’t eat pork. I gathered all the spit left in me and said, “Yes, thanks.”

  So we went to the bar, where Harold ordered some concoction with alcohol in it for himself and I asked for lemonade. Harold also ordered some sandwiches to be served with our drinks.

  Fanning himself with his straw hat—he’d eschewed the pith helmet as being too hot almost as soon as we’d arrived in the country of Egypt—Harold said, “Phew. I’m glad we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  I’d already polished off my first glass of lemonade and was working on my second when I said, “Me, too. I’m sure Pasadena gets this hot sometimes, but there’s something about the heat here . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the dust and poverty that makes this heat seem worse here than in Pasadena somehow.”

  “I suspect you’re right.”

  I ate about a half of a cucumber sandwich, but that was it for me. Harold didn’t seem to mind, as he finished the rest of the sandwiches on the platter. At least he didn’t scold me for not eating more.

  “Small wonder everyone takes a nap in the afternoon here. In fact, I think I’m going to do that very thing.”

  “Sounds good to me. After I finish the last of the sandwiches, maybe I’ll toddle upstairs and take a nap, too.”

  By the time I’d finished my third glass of lemonade and eaten that half of a sandwich, I felt rested enough to make it to my room, where I flopped on the bed fully clothed and slept like the dead for a couple of hours.

  I could hardly wait to get back home again.

  * * * * *

  I’d forgotten all about the letter from Sam until I awoke at about four that afternoon, rolled over, and felt the envelope crinkle underneath me. Then I sat up quickly, removed the envelope which, I regret to say, was rather damp from my having perspired all over it, and carefully opened it.

  Dear Daisy,

  You probably think I’m crazy to be writing you all these letters, but I’m very concerned about something I’ve learned recently.

  I straightened from my slump, shocked. Good heavens, was another flu pandemic abroad in the world, and was it particularly virulent in Egypt? I read on:

  Your safety might be at risk. According to the bulletins we’ve been getting, white slavers are still at work in Egypt and other Middle-Eastern and African countries. These people don’t act like villains, you know, but are probably quite personable until they snatch you.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Did Sam Rotondo take me for an absolute ninny? White slavers, my foot. This was 1922, for goodness’ sake! Bristling, I continued to read his missive:

  I know you think you can take care of yourself, and you probably think that since you’re a fraud, you’ll be able to spot another one at ten yards, but these people are smart and cruel and can be vicious.

  My mouth had dropped open at the word “fraud.” Blast Sam Rotondo to perdition, anyway! I was not a fraud! Maybe I couldn’t actually raise spirits from the grave to chat with their living friends, but I always strived to help people with my work, and I resented being called a fraud. Well . . . Oh, very well, maybe I was a fraud, but I was neither cruel nor vicious, and Sam knew that!

  Please be on your guard. I’m sure Harold is a good friend and will try to look out after you, but he’s every bit as naïve as you are. Look out for people who seem too friendly upon first meeting and who attempt to get chummy whether you want them to or not.

  I’m not trying to scare you, but I’ve been reading the police bulletins, and I know what I’m talking about. Please be careful. You tend toward rash actions, and if you act impulsively around these organized criminal gangs, rashness might just get you kidnapped or killed. You may not be thinking clearly these days, what with the grievous—

  My eyes got stuck on the word grievous. I’d known ever since I’d met him that Sam was no dummy, but I’d never have suspected him of having a vocabulary large enough to include the word grievous. Although I felt like crumpling his darned letter up and heaving it at the waste-paper basket next to the desk, I restrained myself and kept reading. I also tried to keep in mind that Sam was trying to help me out. The fact that he clearly believed me to be an idiot shouldn’t negate his good intentions on my behalf.

  Only they did. Nevertheless, I kept reading.

  —what with the grievous loss you’ve recently suffered, but keep your eyes open and your wits about you. You’ve got wits. I know that. It just seems to me that you don’t use them quite as often as you should. I hope you won’t take my words amiss.

  As if! I didn’t use my wits, my foot! If Sam Rotondo were standing in front of me, I’d stomp on his big, fat policeman’s shoes. Or, better yet, I’d have Spike piddle on one of them. He did that once when he was a puppy, and I’ve loved him all the more for it ever since then.

  You’re probably steaming mad at me right now, but I honestly only wanted to warn you about the gangs that may be operating in Egypt while you’re there. You don’t want to get entangled with the police in Egypt, I’m sure. I hear they’re a good deal harder on their prisoners than we here in Pasadena are.

  Sincerely,

  Sam

  Offhand, I couldn’t recall a single other person who could aggravate me the way Sam Rotondo could. Well, Harold’s father had been an ugly specimen, but when he was around he didn’t shove himself into my life the way Sam did. Furious, I slammed the letter on the desk and retired to the bathroom to take a cool bath and wash my hair, which felt as though it had acquired pounds of sand and dust during our perusal of the souks.

  I was still steaming internally when I joined Harold for dinner that night, although my outsides were much cooler than they’d been when I’d come home from shopping that afternoon. And I didn’t intend to answer Sam’s latest letter, either. So there.

  Very well, I know my reaction was childish, but it was still my reaction. I wasn’t about to allow Sam Rotondo, of all people, to spoil the remainder of my visit to Egypt. Not that I’d been enjoying it a whole lot before his letter arrived. Still . . .

  “You look a little flushed, Daisy. Are you feeling all right?”

  I glanced at Harold over my menu. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Hmmm. Your cheeks are very pink. Maybe you got a touch too much sun today.”

  “Probably.” Drat it! If there was anything I didn’t want, it was healthy-looking pink cheeks!
No self-respecting spiritualist would run around with pink cheeks. Fortunately, I knew from whence the color in my cheeks had come, and it wasn’t from the pernicious sun. It was from the pernicious Sam Rotondo. Because I didn’t want to worry Harold, I didn’t tell him about Sam’s fairy story about criminal gangs of white slavers.

  I considered it fortunate that Mr. Stackville didn’t show up during our meal to spoil our last evening in Egypt.

  We made an early night of it, and I was in bed and asleep by ten o’clock. The next morning, I dressed in a pretty blue lightweight traveling costume and wore white sandals and a white straw hat along with it. I felt far from cool in my costume, but at least I wasn’t as hot as poor Harold, who had to wear one of his white linen suits or be considered by fellow tourists as totally beyond the pale. Stupid traditions. I think everyone who visits Egypt in August should be assigned loose white robes to wear, but nobody asked me.

  Our luggage was loaded and we were just about to step into the motor that would take us to the train station when Mr. Stackville hurried up to us. He looked perturbed. I didn’t care about his state of perturbation. I wanted to get out of there, and didn’t appreciate this interruption of our plans on his part.

  “Missus Majesty! Mister Kincaid! Please wait up a minute.”

  I didn’t wait. I climbed into the automobile. Harold, much more polite than I, hesitated and turned to greet Mr. Stackville with a smile that appeared genuine to me. Clearly, Harold didn’t share my opinion of the pushy Mr. Stackville. “Oh, good. Glad you’re here, old man.” He stuck out his hand. “Daisy and I can’t take this heat, so we’re departing for cooler climes today.”

  “You’re leaving?” Stackville said, as if thunderstruck.

  His reaction seemed peculiarly odd to me, and I stared at him through the window of the automobile, trying to discern the motive of what seemed to me to be exaggerated surprise. Not being a mind-reader, no matter what Sam Rotondo accuses me of, I couldn’t do it.