Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [17]
Nefret burst out laughing and the lines in Cyrus’s face folded into a grin. “If you can’t think of a way out of it, Amelia, nobody can. All right, you’re in charge. What do we do first?”
The answer was obvious to me, as it must be to my intelligent Readers. Questioning of the gateman elicited the information that Martinelli had left the house late the previous night—“as he often did,” the fellow added with a grin and a leer. He had set off on foot along the road leading out of the Valley toward the river, “walking like a man who looks forward to a happy—” I cut the fellow short and asked another question. Yes, he had carried a small bag, just large enough to contain a change of clothing or a pair of pajamas.
“Or three bracelets and a pectoral, carefully packed,” Emerson muttered after we had dismissed the witness.
It took a while to locate the boatman who had taken the Italian across the river. He was nursing a grievance; at the Effendi’s request, he had waited for hours to bring him back, but his customer had not come. He had lost money, much money, refusing others . . . and so on, at length.
I doubted there had been many others at that time of night, but we won his goodwill by hiring him to take us over to Luxor.
Tourism was almost back to normal, and the little town was bustling and as busy as it had been before the war. The facade of the Winter Palace Hotel shone pink with fresh paint, and the dusty street was filled with carriages and donkeys and camels. Tourist steamers and dahabeeyahs lined the bank. From the decks of some, indolent travelers who had not chosen to go ashore leaned on the rails, looking out over the limpid waters. Some of them waved at us. I do not believe they knew who we were, since I failed to recognize any of the countenances, but I waved back at them. Emerson cursed them.
“Too damned many people. We won’t find it easy to trace him in this mob.”
His prediction proved to be correct. Katherine had remained at the Castle, but there were six of us to pursue inquiries, so we divided forces. We agreed to meet on the terrace at the Winter Palace, after making inquiries at the hotels and other, less respectable, places of entertainment. (My offer to question the female persons at certain of these latter establishments was unanimously voted down.)
The results were disappointing if not unexpected. Martinelli was well known at the hotels and cafés, but no one admitted to having seen him the previous night. The female persons whom Emerson had taken it upon himself to question denied he had ever visited them. I was inclined to believe this, since they had no reason to lie. Apparently he had had sense enough (or success enough elsewhere) to avoid such dens.
The last to join our party was Ramses, whose assignment had been the railroad station. “No luck?” he inquired.
“No. And you?” Emerson asked.
“A man of his general description took the morning express to Cairo. It isn’t conclusive,” Ramses added quickly. “You know how obliging Egyptians are about supplying the information they think you want to hear. None of them remembered the portmanteau or that gaudy stickpin he usually wears.”
A dismal silence fell. “It looks bad,” Cyrus muttered. “Now what do we do?”
Everyone looked at me. It was most gratifying. “Have luncheon,” I said, and led the party into the dining salon.
We were well known to the management of that excellent hostelry and had no difficulty in getting a table. Over a bottle of wine and a meal Cyrus hardly touched, we put our heads together. Cyrus’s first idea, that we should wire the Cairo police immediately, seemed the obvious course; but I felt bound to point out its weakness.
“If Martinelli has learned anything from his former master, who was, as we all know, a master of disguise—”
“Yes, we do know,” grunted Emerson. “Pray do not go off on a long-winded