Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [49]
‘Don’t let’s be so formal,’ I said, stretching my mouth into a tight smile.
‘I’m trying, but my ingrained awe of academic titles makes it difficult.’ His voice kept dropping in pitch. ‘I don’t believe I can possibly address Professor Schmidt as Anton.’
‘Try Poopsie,’ I suggested, losing it for a second.
The corners of his mouth compressed, holding back laughter – or a rude comment. The reference, to a particularly tense moment in one of our earlier encounters, might have inspired either.
I went on, in a hoarse whisper, ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I intend to. But I want to hear your version. Quit stalling, the others are waiting for us.’
I stumbled artistically, stopped, and bent over to examine my foot.
‘Coincidence,’ John said, taking me by the arm as if to steady me. The flow of blood to my hand stopped dead.
‘He’ll never buy that.’
‘He’ll have to, won’t he?’
‘Not Schmidt.’
‘I cannot be held accountable for Schmidt’s unholy imagination. If you and I agree, what can he – ’ He broke off as Feisal and Larry hurried towards us. ‘Is it sprained?’ he inquired, adding doubtfully, ‘Perhaps Feisal could – er – carry you.’
The implication being that he couldn’t, and that even Feisal might have some difficulty lifting my enormous body. I straightened. ‘I just turned it. It’s fine.’
My assignation with Schmidt was more easily arranged. We debated it at the top of our lungs as the trailer bounced noisily over the rough track. Schmidt wanted to meet in the lounge so we could share Happy Hour with all his newfound friends. That was reassuring; it suggested he had accepted the coincidence story and wasn’t about to interrogate me about my real reasons for being on board. However, I figured I had better deliver a brief lecture on tact and discretion before I turned him loose on the world, and as I pointed out, he hadn’t had time to unpack yet. We agreed that I would come to his room after I had freshened up.
After I had locked and bolted my door I went, not to the bathroom, but to the safe. The note was still there.
I stamped my foot and swore. That didn’t accomplish anything, so I headed for the shower. Maybe my mysterious contact hadn’t had a chance to retrieve the message as yet. Still, it was not an auspicious omen and the cool water sloshing over my heated body didn’t settle the doubts that sloshed around in my heated brain. I was getting dressed when I heard the knock at the door.
Throwing on a robe, I hurried to answer it. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’
Alice was certainly a fast-change artist. She was wearing a flowered print dress and white low-heeled sandals. ‘I thought you might need something for that ankle,’ she explained. ‘I’ve found this liniment very effective.’
The bottle she offered me didn’t look like liniment. Her hand covered the label.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said slowly. ‘Come in.’
When I turned, after closing the door, she had settled herself in a chair, ankles crossed. The bottle, on the table beside her, proclaimed that its contents were hydrogen peroxide.
‘You?’ I squeaked unoriginally.
‘I admit I don’t look the part,’ Alice said coolly.
‘How did you know I wanted to see you? You didn’t get my note.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Which note?’
I produced it. ‘You were upset, weren’t you,’ she murmured, after reading the hurried message.
‘Of course I was. That poor innocent kid – ’
‘Come now, you aren’t thinking clearly. Why do you suppose that note wasn’t collected earlier?’
‘My God.’ I dropped heavily onto the bed. ‘You mean Ali was – ’
‘An agent of the Egyptian security service.’ Alice’s expression darkened. ‘Which I am not. I agreed to help out with this particular job because I care deeply about the protection of antiquities and because an increase in anti-foreign feeling here could affect my work and that of others. He was the man assigned to look after you; I was only supposed to pass on messages.’
The news relieved one nightmare. Ali was just as young and