Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [54]
As for the other guys, I was prepared to leave them alone if they did the same for me. I didn’t want to learn anything or even look as if I had. If there was ever a time for retreating into the fort and concentrating on defence, this was it. And I was going to take Schmidt into the fort with me. If Alice could get crazy ideas about him, so could the other guys.
Schmidt had a lovely day. Usually he follows me around. This time I followed him, tight as a tick on a dog, and he was innocently delighted by my companionship. We tried on the ghastly garments he had bought, and although he assured me most sincerely that I looked wonderful in all of them (fond as I am of Schmidt, I was unable to return the compliment), I persuaded him to pay a visit to The Suq, as Mr Azad’s shop was called, to see if we could find something even gaudier.
Schmidt loved The Suq. He loves places where he can buy things, not only for himself but, bless his generous heart, for his friends and relations. The shop was small and crowded; the people who hadn’t purchased their costumes from the aquatic merchants were looking for appropriate attire for the banquet that evening. Mr Azad didn’t have any gold-sequined shifts, but some of the robes were lavishly embroidered and trimmed with gold braid. With his smiling approval we carried an armful back to my room and tried them on. Schmidt adores trying on clothes and he likes even better watching me try them on.
After much consultation and much pirouetting in front of the mirror, Schmidt settled on the gaudiest and most voluminous of the robes. It was an ensemble, in fact; a long-sleeved floor-length caftan-type garment with a matching sleeveless robe, open down the front, that was worn over it. After he had tried three times to wind a long scarf around his head turban-fashion, I persuaded him he looked much more macho in a bedonin-type headdress.
By then it was time for Brotzeit – lunch. I don’t even want to think about what Schmidt ate. I had hoped he would want to take a nap afterward, but he was full of beans (among other edibles) and raring to go. ‘You will not want to miss the lecture, Vicky. Herr Foggington-Smythe is speaking on the tomb of Tetisheri, and showing slides!’
‘You haven’t heard him lecture, Schmidt. He is the most boring – ’
‘But the slides, Vicky! Many have never been seen before. It is a complete photographic reproduction . . .’
I said I’d meet him in the lounge in ten minutes and he trotted off, after warning me not to be late and assuring me I was beautiful enough already.
I spent a few minutes putting on fresh makeup. Then I opened the safe.
My notes were gone, and something had heen added. A nice shiny .45 automatic.
Chapter Six
I
I GREW UP ON A farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.
I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.
Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertize. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.
The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: ‘You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.’
I can deliver subtle messages too. I put the gun back in the