Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [52]
“I am Mrs. Emerson,” I acknowledged.
His thin lips parted in a pleasant smile. “I recognized you from the portraits which have appeared at various times in the newspapers. Though, if I may say so, they did not do you justice.”
“Newspaper photographs seldom do. Perhaps I have seen your features similarly reproduced. They seem familiar to me, Mr.—?”
“Gregson. Tobias Gregson. Yes, I have been featured in the popular press from time to time. I am a private investigator—a well-known private investigator, to quote the same source.”
“That must account for it. What cases have you investigated, Mr. Gregson?”
“Many of my cases are of the most secret nature, involving sensitive family scandals or delicate government negotiations. However, you may recall the matter of the Amateur Mendicant Society? Or the Camberwell poisoning case?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“No matter. I don’t want to detain you, Mrs. Emerson; I ventured to address you only because I believe you have an interest in my present investigation.”
I looked at him more closely. “Have you been called in to assist the police in the murder of Kalenischeff?”
Gregson smiled contemptuously. “I am not on good terms with the official police, Mrs. Emerson. Professional jealousy . . . But I will say no more. No, I happened to be in Egypt on another matter—a related matter, as it turned out. The case has its points of interest.”
“It does. No doubt your long experience in criminal matters has already given you some hint as to the identity of the guilty party.”
“Obviously it was not Miss Debenham,” Gregson said coolly.
“Obviously. But who?”
Gregson glanced from side to side and lowered his voice. “I am endeavoring to discover the whereabouts of a certain beggar who was seen hanging about the hotel on the night of the murder.”
“Ah,” I said, in equally mysterious tones. “A tall, well-built man wearing a yellow turban?”
“I might have known the famous Mrs. Emerson would be on the same trail,” said Gregson, with a look of respectful admiration.
“Not at all. I heard of him from Major Ramsay.”
“Ramsay is an idiot. He doesn’t know what you and I know.”
“And what is that, Mr. Gregson?”
“That the beggar is not a beggar at all, but an emissary of that genius of crime, that master of deceit—”
“What?” I cried. “How do you know of him?”
“I have my methods, Mrs. Emerson. Suffice it to say that I do know of this enigmatic personage, to whom you referred, in a newspaper interview, as the Master Criminal. I have set myself the task of tracking him down.”
“I have set myself the same task, Mr. Gregson.”
“We must confer, Mrs. Emerson.”
“I would like you to meet my husband, Mr. Gregson.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
I smiled, and explained the apparent non sequitur. “I was not changing the subject, Mr. Gregson. Emerson and I are equal partners, in our criminal investigations as in our professional and marital activities; perhaps you can convince him, as I have not yet succeeded in doing, that capturing the Master Criminal is a matter of paramount importance.”
“I see. I will, of course, be honored to meet Professor Emerson.”
“I must be off now, or that same Professor Emerson will be rushing to Cairo in search of me. Are you staying at Shepheard’s, Mr. Gregson?”
“No. But a letter left with the concierge will reach me.”
“We are at Dahshoor, should you care to call on us.” I gave him my hand in farewell, but when I would have taken it back, he held on. “Please don’t hurry away, Mrs. Emerson. May I not offer you a cup of tea or a lemonade?”
It was a tempting suggestion, for I was anxious to learn all I could from this remarkable individual. As I debated with myself, my wandering gaze found an object that caused me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes. I snatched my hand from the warm clasp of Mr. Gregson and started in pursuit; but my quarry mounted a horse and galloped away before I could speak to him. When I returned from a hasty investigation of the nearby streets and lanes, Mr.