Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [153]
“I have heard of them, of course,” Smith said smoothly. “This is indeed a pleasure. Won’t you sit down?”
It was a table for four, and the waiter was holding a chair for Nefret. She remained standing. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all,” Smith said. “I was about to leave in any case. An appointment.”
“Aren’t you on holiday?” Ramses asked, avoiding the use of that preposterous name. The faintly sinister commonality of “Smith” suited the fellow better.
“The appointment is with a mummy.” He looked quite different from the tight-lipped, hard-eyed man they had met in London. Instead of the stark black and white of evening dress, he wore clothing suited to the climate and his announced program. The suit showed signs of wear, and the pith helmet he had politely removed from a chair was somewhat battered. He’d spent some time in the East. India?
“Mr. MacKay most kindly offered to show me round the Valley of the Kings this afternoon,” Smith went on. “One of the pharaohs is still in his sarcophagus, I believe?”
“Amenhotep the Second,” Ramses said. “So you are a friend of MacKay’s?”
“Never met him. Friends in Cairo gave me letters of introduction to a number of people.” He summoned the waiter and asked for his bill before continuing, “I’ve met most of the archaeologists in Luxor. Very agreeable chaps.”
Nefret appeared to be studying her menu. Margaret was listening politely, but Ramses noticed she was pleating her napkin into fold after fold.
“How much longer are you staying in Luxor?” he asked.
It was the sort of casual question anyone might have asked of a stranger, but the lines in Smith’s cheeks deepened. “A few more days. I’m finding Luxor much more interesting than I had expected.”
He took his leave of them. Nefret barely gave him time to get out of earshot before she turned on Margaret and demanded, “Is that man a friend of yours?” Margaret spoke at the same time. “How is he?”
“He’s much better,” Ramses said. “There’s been no sign of trouble. What about you?”
Nefret subsided, looking as if she regretted her impulsive question—as well she might. Excessive interest in Smith might make Margaret wonder what had prompted that interest.
Margaret shrugged. “Except for an invitation to join you for dinner last night at the Savoy, nothing has occurred.”
“They didn’t waste any time,” Ramses said. “How did they know you’d got back?”
“My entrance was somewhat conspicuous,” Margaret said with a wry smile. “I had to disrobe—or should I say unrobe?—in front of the doorman, he wasn’t going to let me in, and I made something of a spectacle of myself dashing through the lobby in my less than impeccable clothing. Everyone stared.” She reached into her handbag and took out a folded piece of paper. “You’d made me nervous,” she added accusingly. “I made the safragi slip the note under the door.”
“Very sensible.” Ramses examined the brief message. “It’s not my handwriting.”
“I wouldn’t have known that.”
“But he couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t. The handwriting is obviously disguised.” He passed the note on to Nefret.
“It’s written in English,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “Good English.”
“What there is of it. Only one sentence, without embellishment. Still, it does raise provocative ideas. I’ll keep this, if I may, Margaret. Congratulations on refusing the invitation.”
“I found it insulting. How could they suppose I’d be dim enough to respond to a disingenuous attempt like that one?”
“It was worth a try.” Ramses slipped the note into his breast pocket. “They’ll try again—something less obvious next time. You are the only person who knows where he went that night. Be on your guard. You ought to have stayed in your room and not come down to the dining salon.”
“I was about to start climbing the walls,” Margaret said sullenly. “If I hadn’t run into Algie—”
“How long have you known him?” Nefret asked.
“I met him ten years ago, when I was in India doing a series of articles on the Northwest Frontier problem. I didn’t know