He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [71]
“Well!” I said.
“Quite,” said Nefret.
“Have you more purchases to make?”
“No. Let’s go home.”
I waited until we were in the carriage before I resumed the conversation. “What did you think of Aslimi’s manager?”
“He’s a pretty creature, isn’t he?”
Daoud grumbled protestingly, and Nefret laughed. “I assure you, Daoud, I don’t fancy him in the least.”
“Fancy?” Daoud repeated blankly.
“Never mind. What did you think? Had you ever seen him before?”
“No. But,” Daoud said, “I do not know Aslimi’s family. No doubt he has many cousins.”
“This one is well educated,” I said.
Nefret nodded. “And perhaps overly optimistic. Aslimi isn’t dead yet. Now, Aunt Amelia, and you, Daoud, swear you won’t tell anyone what I bought. I want to surprise them.”
* * *
Our council of war that night was not as late as I had feared. Nefret retired early to her room, saying she had letters to write and presents to wrap. When we joined David, we found him at the mirror applying his makeup. The disguise was not the same one in which I had seen him before; he looked even more disgusting, but less formidable, in the rags of a beggar and a stringy gray beard. Ramses studied him critically.
“Your hands are too clean.”
“I’ll rub dirt into them when I’m outside. They won’t be visible, you know, except when I hold one out and whine for baksheesh from Russell. He’s become quite adept at palming the report.”
He demonstrated, extending his hand. Half-concealed under his thumb, the small roll of paper was no larger than a cigarette.
“Is that how you do it?” I asked. “Most interesting. I will have to practice that myself. But David, must you go? I’ve hardly seen you, and Ramses should have at least one more day in bed. Can’t this wait until tomorrow night?”
Both curly black heads moved in emphatic negation. Ramses said, “Our report to Russell has been too long delayed already. I ought to be going myself.”
“Out of the question,” David said. He picked up a strip of dirty cloth and wound it deftly into a turban. “You’ll be flat on your back again if you don’t go slowly for a few days. I could come here after I’ve seen Russell—take your place again tomorrow. . . .”
Again Ramses shook his head. “We’ve pushed our luck too far already. It is a miracle Fatima hasn’t decided this room needs cleaning, or Nefret hasn’t spotted you.”
He had been pacing like a nervous cat, and when he brushed the hair back from his forehead I saw it was beaded with perspiration. “Sit down,” I ordered.
Emerson took his pipe from his mouth. “Yes, sit down. And you, Peabody, stop fussing. David must go, there is no question of that, and you are only delaying him. I’ll see to it that Ramses does not exert himself unduly tomorrow.”
“I must be outside the Club before midnight, Aunt Amelia,” David explained. “That is when Russell will leave, and he can’t very well hang about waiting for me.”
“And afterwards you will investigate the warehouse?”
“No,” said Ramses. “We agreed at the outset that David was to stay far, far away from Wardani’s old haunts and Wardani’s people. Russell is supposed to have been keeping the warehouse under surveillance. I hope to God he has! With me out of the way, one of the lads might decide to assert his authority and move the damned things elsewhere.”
“They don’t know you are out of the way,” Emerson said calmly. “Do they?”
“No,” Ramses admitted. “Not for certain. Not yet.”
“Then stop worrying. David, you had better be off. Er—take care of yourself, my boy.”
He wrung David’s hand with such fervor the lad winced even as he smiled. “Yes, sir, I will. Good-bye, Aunt Amelia.”
“A bientôt,” I corrected.
We embraced, and Ramses said, “I’ll see you in three days’ time, David.”
“Or four,” I said.
“Three,” said Ramses.
“I’ll be there,” David