Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [7]
“Where are you going?” I asked curiously.
“That need not concern you, Mrs. Emerson.”
“You will have to travel to the ends of the earth to escape the long arm of your former master,” I said significantly.
The man’s lean face paled visibly. “Why do you mention . . . What makes you suppose . . .”
“Come, come, Kalenischeff. It is only too obvious. Something, or someone, has frightened you badly enough to induce you to flee. Who else could it be but that genius of crime, that diabolical Master Criminal? We could not prove you were one of his gang, but we knew it to be true. If you mean to betray that all-seeing, all-knowing individual, you would do better to cast yourself into the arms of the police—or even better, into our arms. I speak figuratively, of course.”
“You are mistaken,” Kalenischeff muttered. “Quite mistaken. I would never . . . I have never been involved with . . .”
Emerson’s brows drew together. He spoke in a soft growl that was—as Kalenischeff knew—more menacing than any shout. “It is you who are mistaken, you villain. Your protestations of innocence do not convince me in the slightest. Tell your master, when next you speak with him, to stay out of my way. The same goes for you. I want nothing to do with either of you, but if you interfere with me, I will squash you like a beetle. Have I made myself plain?”
This was not at all the approach I wanted to take. I said quickly, “Think what you are doing, Kalenischeff. Confide in us and let us save you. You take a dreadful risk just by talking with us. The spies of your dread master are everywhere; if one should see you—”
My approach was no more successful than Emerson’s had been; Kalenischeff paled with horror. “You are right,” he muttered. And without further ado or further speech, he went with stumbling steps toward the door of the hotel.
“Ha,” said Emerson, in a satisfied voice. “Good work, Peabody. That got rid of the fellow.”
“Such was not my intention. Emerson, we cannot allow that rascal to make good his escape; we cannot permit him to delude the young lady who is obviously his latest victim!”
Emerson seized my arm as I started to rise and returned me to my chair with a force that drove the breath from my lungs. By the time I had freed myself, the carriage with the matched grays had drawn up before the steps, and the young lady had come onto the terrace. Kalenischeff hastened to hand her into the carriage. The gapers were treated to a view of a dainty buttoned boot and a flash of ruffled petticoats as the lady mounted the steps. Kalenischeff swung himself into the driver’s seat, snatched the whip from the groom, and cracked it. The horses were off as from a starting gate, at a full gallop. Pedestrians and peddlers scattered. One old fruit vendor was a little slow; his sideways stumble saved his old bones from injury, but his oranges and lemons went flying.
I shook my head at Ramses as he started up.
“But, Mama, I hoped I might be of assistance to the old gentleman. As you see, his oranges—”
“I do not question the purity of your intentions, Ramses. They do you credit; but they almost always end in disaster, not only for you but for the object of your good will.”
“But, Mama, dat man dere—”
His gesture indicated one of the ragged bystanders, who had come to the aid of the vendor—a tall, well-built fellow in a ragged robe and a saffron turban. He had picked up three of the oranges and had sent them spinning into the air in a fairly creditable juggling act. At the moment I took notice of him he turned away; two of the oranges fell neatly at the feet of the lamenting vendor, and the other vanished, presumably into the folds of the juggler’s filthy robe.
“You are lapsing again, Ramses,” I said sternly. “How often have I told you I will not tolerate your mispronunciation?”
“Quite a number of times, Mama. I am chagrined to have erred in that direction; but as you may have observed, I am inclined to forget myself when under the effect of some strong emotion or