Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [139]
Feisal gave me an odd look and nodded, without comment. Schmidt said, ‘But, Vicky – ’
‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ The bourbon was great stuff. My brain was really clicking; I felt like a combination of Einstein and Ms Super Spy, ready for anything. ‘We can’t stay here long. For one thing, Keith could get in deep trouble if the cops find out he sheltered us.’
‘Once the truth comes out he will be a hero.’ Schmidt twirled his moustache and added happily, ‘Like the rest of us.’
‘If the truth comes out. Please don’t argue, Schmidt, I figure I’m good for about ten more minutes and although I’m dying to hear about your train ride and why Keith is indebted to John and how the hell we all ended up here where none of us expected to be, all that can wait. The whole village must know we’re here. Sooner or later someone will turn us in; any group of people has a few potential informers. I’d rather take my chances with the police than with – with the other guys. If they locate us first . . .’
I raised the glass to my lips. It was empty. No wonder I was starting to feel so peculiar. ‘I am not drunk,’ I said. Slowly and with dignity I slid from the perpendicular to the diagonal. I think it was Feisal who caught me.
I woke twice during what would have been the night if I had gotten to bed at a decent hour. On both occasions the room was light; on both occasions I found myself on my knees beside the bed, fumbling at John’s face, before I came fully awake. The first time he felt hot so I sponged him off, getting only an irritable mumble as thanks. The second time he was shivering, so I covered him up, and then returned to the rug some kind soul had put beside the bed, promising myself I’d just rest for a few more minutes . . .
The next time I woke up the temperature had risen a good forty degrees. My clothes were sticking to me and my mouth felt like a desert path along which a lot of camels had passed. Keith stood in the open doorway, a tray in his hands.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just getting him some coffee.’
John was sitting up trying to look debonair, which isn’t easy for a man who is unshaven, dirty, half-naked, and in somebody else’s bed. I have to give him credit; he almost carried it off.
‘You look very fetching,’ he remarked. ‘If you ask me nicely I might even share my coffee with you.’
I sat up, observing for the first time that the garment sticking to my sweating body was a white robe trimmed with gold. Schmidt must have stopped at the shops on his way to the station. I hoped it was he who had undressed me.
‘I’ll – uh – I’ll just get another cup.’ Keith retreated.
‘Tactful lad,’ John said. ‘Aren’t you going to come here and soothe my fevered brow?’
I crawled to the bed and touched his forehead. ‘It is warm.’
His hand slid up my arm inside the loose sleeve. ‘So are you. So is the climate of Upper Egypt.’
‘You look terrible.’
His fingers tightened, drawing me closer. ‘“Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”’
‘The mind has very little to do with it,’ I said wryly.
‘If I were as ill-mannered as some people,’ said my beloved, ‘I would point out that you aren’t at your best just now either. But you’re my darling, you’re my sunshine, and I won’t stop loving you when your hair has turned to silver. Can you say less?’
‘No fair. That’s at least two different songs.’
‘Answer the question.’
‘What question?’
I hadn’t supposed we’d be left alone for long, and I would have bet money on the identity of the next visitor. John let go of me and I sat back on my heels.
‘Ah,’ said Schmidt, pleased. ‘You are feeling better.’
‘I hope you aren’t going to make a habit of this, Schmidt,’ John said.
‘No, no. Don’t mind me. Just go on with – ’
‘Give me the coffee, Schmidt,’ I said.
Schmidt did so and then seated himself. ‘If you don’t want to make love some more, then perhaps we should talk, eh? Yes, that