Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [53]
“Peabody!” The roar was muffled. Emerson was fumbling under the seat for his pipe. He came up red-faced and sputtering. “That theory is absolutely insane.”
“So are many of the people in the intelligence service.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson.
“I don’t insist on that interpretation, I merely present it as a possibility. Supposing we dine at Bassam’s and ask if he has heard from Asad. Afterward we might stroll the streets of the old city arm in arm and hand in hand—”
“Back-to-back is more like it,” Emerson grumbled. But his eyebrows had resumed their normal position and a smile tugged at his lips. “You are incorrigible, Peabody, and you are not really dressed for a melee, supposing we should be fortunate enough to inspire one. Is that a new frock? It becomes you.”
“It is not new, and you have seen me wear it several times, but I appreciate the compliment. Fear not, my dear, I am armed and ready.”
Though the restaurant was crowded, Mr. Bassam had kept a table for us. I had sent ahead to tell him we were coming, and I was rather touched when I saw how much effort he had made. The cloth on the table was very clean (and a little damp still) and a vase of flowers adorned it. The roses were beginning to wilt. He had not put any water in the vase. After all, they would last until we were finished dining, and it was the immediate impression that mattered.
The genial fellow greeted us with a cry of triumph. “I have found him!”
“Splendid!” I said, taking the chair he held for me.
Emerson was less enthusiastic. “How do you know it was the right man?”
“One of them must be the man. There were three who wore glasses and I told your words to each.”
“Doesn’t mean a cursed thing,” said Emerson, after Bassam had gone off to the kitchen. “If one of them was Asad, which is doubtful, he did not take the hint.”
“Perhaps he will approach or attack us when we leave,” I said.
Emerson grinned. “Always the optimist, my dear.”
We lingered over our dinner. The hour was fairly late when we left. My hopes were high, but they were soon dashed; though we walked slowly along some of the darkest lanes I have ever seen, even in Cairo, the shadowy forms of other pedestrians passed us without speaking.
We had left the motorcar at the Club and taken a horse-drawn cab. This sensible suggestion was mine; as I pointed out to Emerson, once he was behind the wheel of the vehicle it would have been virtually impossible for anyone to stop him. When we reached the Place de Bab el-Louk, where we had told the driver to wait, we found the fellow had gone to sleep, slumped forward with his head bowed. Emerson announced our arrival in a loud voice and helped me into the cab, which was, to my disappointment, otherwise unoccupied. Ah, well, I thought, settling myself, there is still a chance we will be waylaid before we reach the Club.
It did not happen quite as I had expected. All at once the driver pulled the horse up with a sharp jerk on the reins and began striking the poor creature with his whip. Cursing volubly, Emerson sprang to his feet and reached for the driver. It was well known that we never allowed that sort of thing, so the fellow was prepared; he met Emerson’s lunge with a blow that made him fall back onto the seat. By that time I found myself busily occupied with another individual, who had opened the door of the cab and was attempting to pull me out of it. He was quite surprised, I believe, when instead of resisting I descended instantly from the vehicle and stepped heavily onto his bare feet. Our positions were now reversed; he was trying to get away and I was determined he should not escape me. My parasol was in my hand; with a quick twist I freed the nice little sword concealed in the handle and thrust. He let out a thin scream, but I must not have hurt him very much because he hit out at me, and although I blocked the blow quite efficiently, it was hard enough to throw me back against the open door of the carriage.
It all happened