Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [113]
Ramses’s tight lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. “So you think she’s sitting in Sayid’s house drinking vile tea, while he parades half the population of Gurneh past her?”
“Each of them with a more lurid story,” Nefret agreed. “Stop fussing, darling, and let’s have dinner. If she’s not back by the time we finish . . . well, we’ll worry about that later.”
The elegant dining salon was only half full, though it was Saturday. Most of the guests were Americans, with a scattering of other nationalities, including a few British officials. Luxor was a popular weekend excursion for the archaeologically inclined and for those who were bored with the routine of Cairo life. The service at the Winter Palace was so good as to be mildly annoying; waiters, wine steward, and innumerable flunkies hemmed them round.
Ramses handed the ornate gilded wine list back to the maître d’. “There are no German wines on the list, but I feel certain you have them. A Riesling will suit, 1911 or ’12.”
“You’re being deliberately provocative, aren’t you?” Nefret demanded.
“Yes. I despise the politicizing of harmless ideas and people and objects.”
Nefret snatched up her evening bag in time to save it from a sprinkle of water. One of the underwaiters had been too quick or too clumsy filling her water glass. He received a low-voiced reprimand from his superior and cringed away.
“Malesh,” Nefret said impatiently. “Leave the fellow alone, he did no harm.”
An hour later they were finishing their dinner and there had been no sign of Margaret. Nefret picked up her bag. “I’m going to freshen up,” she announced. “I’ll stop by the desk first and ask about Margaret.”
She hadn’t been worried—not really—but she was relieved to hear that Miss Minton had returned and gone directly to her room, after collecting her messages.
“She looked very tired,” the concierge volunteered. “And—er—warm. Do you want that I should ring her room?”
“No, that’s all right. Thank you.” The tactful euphemisms conveyed a picture of a woman staggering with exhaustion, sweat-stained, and grubby. Sayid must have led her a merry dance. Grinning, Nefret went on her way.
Square in the middle of the marble-floored passage that led to the Ladies’ Parlor was a kneeling figure—a woman, black-robed and veiled. She wrung out a cloth into the pail beside her and went back to scrubbing the floor. One of the “ladies” ahead of Nefret, bejeweled and befurred, drew her satin skirts aside.
“One would suppose the management would not allow these filthy females in the place until after the guests have retired.”
The scrubwoman crouched lower and rubbed even harder. She might not have understood the words, but the tone of contempt was unmistakable. Nefret said, “One of your elegant friends probably threw up. You are quite right, though; the management should have left it. Wouldn’t that have been nice for you?”
Voice and stare sent the two “ladies” scuttling off. Nefret reached into her evening bag and took out a few coins.
“Thank you, but I really cannot accept baksheesh,” said a voice from around the level of her knees. The “scrubwoman” stood up and took her hand. “Let’s get out of this, there will be more of them.”
Three other women entered the corridor. The scrubwoman dropped Nefret’s hand and scuttled past them, head bowed. Nefret staggered after her . . . him. By the time she joined him, in a pillared niche nearby, he had removed the robe and veil and might have been an ordinary guest of the hotel, clad in well-cut evening clothes, wearing a look of bland superiority and displaying a set of large protruding teeth. It was his hands that gave him away; she’d observed them earlier, fumbling with the pitcher of water.
“You were the waiter! Hell and damnation!”
“Not the waiter, only his clumsy assistant. I’ve been working here for almost a week. I had expected you would come round before