He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [40]
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.