Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [130]
“You!” I exclaimed.
“Why, yes.” The viscount leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table, pulling the cloth askew and setting my wineglass rocking. He caught it before more than a few drops had spilled. “See that?” he exclaimed proudly. “Quick as a conjurer! What was I talking about?”
“You informed the police yesterday . . .”
“Oh, right. It was last evening that he disappeared, you see. Smack out of his room at Mena House, while we were waiting for him to join us for dinner. Sent a waiter up to fetch him when he didn’t turn up; room in a shambles, tables overturned, drawers pulled out—deuced exciting! Well, it was sure there’d been a struggle, and he didn’t come back, and . . . I happened to run into Sir Eldon later, and mentioned it to him. Thought it was the least I could do.”
As I listened to his semi-coherent statement and studied his lax, undistinguished features, I could not imagine what had prompted Emerson to suspect him of being a genius of crime. Nor could Emerson accuse me of being careless and taking foolish chances in speaking with him; for what could even a desperate and brilliant criminal do to me in a crowded dining salon in the most popular hotel in Cairo?
I was soon to find out.
There were no preliminary warning symptoms, such as giddiness or nausea. The only thing I remember is seeing his lordship, still seated in his chair, suddenly rush away from me at the speed of an express train, until he was no larger than a bumblebee. I felt my chin strike the table and felt nothing more.
I dreamed the same strange dream. Every detail matched the first—the soft couch on which I reclined, the walls draped with rosy silk, the marble floor, the tinkling fountain. Knowing I would soon wake at Emerson’s side, I lay in drowsy content enjoying the voluptuous beauty of my surroundings. The ceiling above me was swathed in folds of soft fabric like the roof of a sultan’s tent; from it hung silver lamps that shed a soft and tender light upon the scene. Lazily I turned my head. It was there, just as I had seen it before—the low table of ebony and mother-of-pearl, the bowl filled with oranges and nectarines, grapes and plums. Only the wine decanter and crystal goblets were missing.
Musingly I pondered the possible significance of such a recurring dream. Further study of the subject suggested itself. I resolved to take advantage of the prolongation of this vision to explore the ambiance more thoroughly, so I swung my feet off the couch and stood up.
A wave of giddiness sent me reeling back onto the cushions. But it was not that unpleasant sensation so much as the cool marble against the soles of my bare feet that brought the shocking truth home to me. This was not a dream. I was here, in the flesh—and someone had had the audacity to remove my boots!
And my tools! They were the first things I reached for; the dizziness had passed, and I was fully alert and capable of reasoning logically. Logic quickly informed me of the full horror of my situation. How he had abducted me in broad daylight from a crowded hotel I did not know, but I had no doubt of his identity. Only Sethos could be so bold; only he could carry out such a daring plot. And he was—he must be—the vapid viscount! The little trick with the wineglass, so deftly performed, had given him an opportunity to drug my wine. Emerson had been right and I had been wrong. The only consolation was that Ramses had been wrong too.
My heart was beating rather more rapidly than was comfortable, but the emotion that tingled through me was not so much fear as intense determination, mingled, I confess, with a burning curiosity. Was I at last to come face to face with the enigmatic personage whose exploits had aroused in me both repugnance and a certain unwilling admiration? There is, all critics agree, a dark grandeur in Milton’s Satan; his local emissary could not but