He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [148]
They had extinguished the torch, to save what was left of the failing batteries. He couldn’t make out Emerson’s expression, but he heard a soft chuckle. “Stubborn as a camel. Very well, my boy. Give me a hand up, will you? The sooner we get back, the better. God only knows what your mother has been up to.”
•
Eleven
•
The flat was in the fashionable Ismailiaya district. Waiting in the cab I had hired, I saw him enter the building at a few minutes past three. He had been lunching out.
I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. In this case it had been absolutely necessary. If Emerson had known what I intended, he would not have let me out of his sight. If I had told Nefret the truth, she would have insisted on accompanying me. Neither would have been acceptable.
I gave my quarry half an hour to settle down, and then inspected myself in the small hand mirror I carried. The disguise was perfect! I had never seen anyone who looked more like a lady bent on an illicit assignation. The only difficulty was my hat, which tended to tip, since the hat pins did not penetrate through the wig into my own hair. I pushed it back into position, adjusted the veil, and crossed the street. The doorkeeper was asleep. (They usually are.) I took the lift to the second floor and rang the bell. A servant answered it; his dark coloring and tarboosh were Egyptian, though he wore the neatly cut suit of a European butler. When he asked my name I put my finger to my lips and smiled meaningfully.
“You need not announce me. I am expected.”
Evidently the Count was accustomed to receive female visitors who did not care to give their names. The man bowed without speaking and led me through the foyer. Opening a door, he gestured me to enter.
The room was a parlor or sitting room, quite small but elegantly furnished. A man sat writing at an escritoire near the windows, with his back to me. Apparently he agreed with Emerson that tight-fitting garments interfered with intellectual pursuits. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.
I took a firmer grip on my parasol, readjusted my hat, and entered. The servant closed the door behind me—and then I heard a sound that made my breath catch.
I flung myself at the door. Too late! It was locked.
Slowly I turned to face the man who had risen to confront me, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. The black hair and mustache and the eyeglass were those of the Count de Sevigny. The lithe grace of his pose, the trim body, and the eyes, of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, were those of someone else.
“At last!” he exclaimed. “I have waited tea for you, my dear. Will you be good enough to pour?”
An elegant silver tea service stood on the table he indicated, together with with a dumbwaiter spread with sandwiches and iced cakes.
“Please take a chair so that I may do so,” said Sethos politely. “I believe you have a fondness for cucumber sandwiches?”
“Cucumber sandwiches,” I said, regaining my self-possession, “do not appeal to me at this moment. Pray let us not stand on ceremony. Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them.”
In a single long step he was at my side. “The wig does not become you,” he said, deftly whisking off the hat and the wig to which it was (somewhat precariously) attached. “And if you will permit me a word of criticism, that parasol does not match your frock.”
The hand that rested on my shoulder fell away as I leaped back. He made no attempt to detain me. Instead he folded his arms and watched with infuriating amusement as I tugged in vain at the handle of the parasol. The release button was still sticking. I would have a few words to say to that lazy rascal Jamal when I returned home!
If I returned home.
“May I be of assistance?” Sethos inquired. He held out his hand.
The mocking smile, the contemptuous gesture gave me the additional strength I required. The button yielded. I whisked the blade out and brandished it.
“Ha!” I cried. “Now we will see who