Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [34]
We further agreed that it would be the simplest thing in the world for someone to slip the parcel in among the others Emerson had ordered from the bazaar. One of the hotel safragi’s duties was to take deliveries and place them in our room, and there was no reason why he would have taken special notice of any particular parcel.
“Quite true,” I said thoughtfully. “And yet, Emerson, I have a strange feeling about that parcel. I cannot tell you how I know, but I am convinced that the Master Criminal delivered it himself. That we were under observation all that day; that our departure from the hotel was noted; that had we been present, we would have seen a man stroll calmly along the corridor, parcel in hand, eluding the safragi—who is, as you know, sound asleep most of the time—entering our room, placing his parcel among the others—pausing to gloat over our discomfiture and our bewilderment . . .”
“Your intuition tells you so, I presume,” said Emerson, with a halfhearted sneer.
“Something other than intuition. What it is I cannot say . . . Ah, I have it!” I snatched up the discarded wrappings and turned them over in my hand. Yes, there it was; I had not imagined it—a spot of what appeared to be grease or fat, as large as the palm of my hand. I raised it to my nostrils and sniffed. “I knew it!” I cried in triumph. “Here, Emerson, smell for yourself.”
Emerson shied back as I held the paper to his face. “Good Gad, Amelia—”
“Smell it. Just there, the spot of grease. Well?”
“Well, it is animal fat of some kind,” Emerson grumbled. “Mutton or chicken. What is so significant about that? These people are not given to the use of knives and forks, they eat with their fingers and . . .” Then his face changed, and I knew that his intelligence, equal to my own, had arrived at the same conclusion. I also knew he was too stubborn to admit it.
“Chicken fat,” I said. “No wonder the cat Bastet refused the meat Ramses brought from Mena House. She had been stuffed with chicken. Emerson, that villain—that remarkable, clever wretch—has seduced our cat!”
Emerson did not dispute my deduction. He ridiculed it, he derided it, he scoffed at it. He kept this up even after we had retired. Our mattresses had been placed side by side atop the roof. The cool breeze, the soft moonlight, the exquisite but indescribable scent of the desert—even the smell of donkey droppings, wafting from the courtyard below—should have induced a state of mind conducive to connubial affection of the strongest kind; and yet, for almost the first time in our marriage, Emerson’s demonstrations were inadequate to the purpose. He was ridiculously upset about it.
“I keep expecting to see Ramses’ head pop up over the edge of the screen,” he groaned. “I cannot concentrate, Amelia. Tomorrow night we will move to the pit. Ramses will be perfectly safe here with Nemo in the next room and our men guarding the compound.”
“Much as I would enjoy sleeping in the spot you describe, Emerson, I don’t think it would be wise. Not after the reminder we have just received of the awesome malice and powers of the Master Criminal. We have scarcely been in Egypt three days, and already he has challenged us twice. We are in deep waters, Emerson, very deep indeed. Was the attempt on Ramses meant to succeed, or was it only a demonstration of what the man can do if he chooses? One result of that adventure, if you recall, was the advent of Mr. Nemo in our midst.”
Midway in this speech Emerson had pulled the blanket over his head and was pretending to snore. I knew I still had his attention, however, for the part of his body that adjoined my own was as rigid as a board.
“Was that perhaps the Master Criminal’s intent?” I went on thoughtfully.