Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [112]
I left the envelope at the desk with instructions to give it to Emerson no earlier than 5 P.M. if I had not collected it myself before then.
Feeling in need of exercise to work off the excited anticipation that poured through my veins, I did not take a carriage but set off on foot toward the shop. Aziz was a singularly unpleasant little man, but he was the sole survivor of a family that had been intimately connected with the Master Criminal. His father and his brother had been involved in the illegal antiquities trade; both had met terrible ends the previous year, though admittedly not at the hands of Sethos. Aziz had inherited his father’s stock of antiquities and perhaps (as I hoped) his father’s connection with the genius of crime. It was worth a try, at any rate.
Aziz was out in front of his shop, calling to passersby to come in and view his wares. He recognized me immediately; his fixed tradesman’s smile turned into a look of consternation, and he darted inside.
It was a tawdry place, its shelves and showcases filled with cheap tourist goods and fake antiquities, many of them made in Birmingham. Aziz was nowhere to be seen. The clerk behind the showcase was staring at the swaying curtain through which his employer had presumably fled. There were no customers; most of the tourists were at luncheon, and the shop would soon be closing for the afternoon.
“Tell Mr. Aziz I wish to see him,” I said loudly. “I won’t leave until he comes out, so he may as well do it now.”
I knew Aziz was in the back room and could hear every word I said. It took him a few minutes to make up his cowardly mind, but finally he emerged, smiling broadly. The lines in his face looked like cracks in plaster, one had the feeling that if the smile stretched another half inch, the whole façade would crumble and drop off.
He greeted me with bows and cries of delight. He was so happy I had honored his establishment. What could he show me? He had received a shipment of embroidered brocades from Damascus, woven with gold threads—
I did not much care for Mr. Aziz, so I did not attempt to spare his feelings. “I want to talk to you about Sethos,” I said.
Mr. Aziz turned pale. “No, sitt,” he whispered. “No, please, sitt—”
“You know me, Mr. Aziz. I have nothing else to do this afternoon. I can wait.”
Aziz’s lips curled into a wolfish snarl. Turning on his gaping clerk, he clapped his hands. “Out,” he snapped.
When the clerk had gone, Aziz locked the door and pulled the curtain. “What have I done to you, sitt, that you wish my death?” he demanded tragically. “Those who betray this—this person—die. If I knew anything of this—this person—which I do not—I swear it, sitt, on my father’s grave—the mere fact that you were heard to mention his name in my shop would be the end of me.”
“But if you know nothing about him, you are in no danger,” I said.
Aziz brightened a trifle. “That is true.”
“What do they say of him in the bazaars? You do not endanger yourself by repeating what all men know.”
According to Aziz, no one really knew anything, for Sethos’ men did not gossip about him. He was known only by his actions, and even these were obscure, for his reputation was such that every successful crime in Cairo was laid at his door. Aziz believed he was not a man at all, but an efreet. It was said that not even his own men knew his true identity. He communicated with them by means of messages left in designated places; and those few who had seen him face to face were well aware that the face he wore that day was not the one in which he would next be seen.
Once started, Aziz rather warmed to his theme, and rambled on at length, repeating the legends that had accrued to this mysterious person. They were no more than that for the most part—wild, fantastic tales that were fast becoming part of the folklore of the underworld.