Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [63]
‘Do you want to tell me what is wrong?’
I turned my head away. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Schmidt. I over-indulged, that’s all.’
‘Hmph,’ said Schmidt.
‘Good night, Schmidt. And thanks.’
‘Schlaf’ wohl, Vicky. And do not worry. Farther along we will know all about whatever it may be.’
He had deliberately garbled the quote to make me smile, so I smiled; he patted me clumsily on the shoulder and trotted out, leaving the bedside lamp burning. After he had gone I reached to turn it off. The rose pendant lay on the table, with the broken chain coiled around it like a tiny golden snake.
IV
I’d forgotten to leave a wake-up call, but Schmidt remembered. A good thing, too; I am not used to sleeping pills and I’d have snored on until mid-morning if he hadn’t telephoned to say he was on his way down.
‘Give me half an hour,’ I mumbled pathetically.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
Motivated by that promise or threat, I managed to get in and out of the shower and into my clothes before he arrived. I do not have transparent garments in my wardrobe – not for day wear, at any rate – so I had no trouble finding a shirt that covered the bruises, which were darkening as expected. Studying myself in the mirror I was pleased to find that the excesses – physical and emotional – of the previous night hadn’t left visible marks, and when Schmidt insisted we go down to breakfast I agreed. I wanted John to see me smiling and calm, cool, collected, and contemptuous.
He wasn’t in the dining room. Neither was Mary. The place was only half full, so I concluded the others were breakfasting in their rooms. Alice was sitting with Feisal; they waved and I waved, and joined Schmidt at a table as far from Alice as I could get. The less we were seen together, the safer for her.
She’d be looking for her contact when we went ashore. I wondered what disguise he’d assume – another tourist, a seller of souvenirs, a beggar? The set-up was perfect for a seemingly casual encounter, the sites were swarming with people. He’d be there, I felt sure. The change in schedule must be known to the authorities, and after Ali’s death it was imperative that they reestablish contact.
Schmidt stuffed himself with eggs and cornflakes and fruit and bread, and then proceeded to fill his pockets with titbits. For the cats? ‘Yes,’ said Schmidt, when I asked. ‘And the poor dogs. Ach, Vicky, it is sad to see – ’
Feisal interrupted the speech, stopping by our table on his way out to warn us we’d better hurry. ‘Don’t forget a hat, Vicky. We are farther south, and the sun is hot.’
I hoped that was a hint; but after I had dashed upstairs and opened the safe, nothing was there that hadn’t been there the night before. Maybe it was a hint of another kind? And maybe it wasn’t a hint of any kind. After deliberating for a few seconds I put the gun into my bag.
Most of the passengers had assembled. After all that time cruising, even the lazy ones were ready to go ashore. Schmidt had cornered Larry; ignoring his winks and nods, I joined Anna Blessington. She looked cute as a button, eyes bright in her wrinkled face, a broad-brimmed straw hat tied under her chin with a jaunty bow. The hands resting on her stick were mottled with age spots and twisted with arthritis. If she was a crook or a secret agent I’d turn in my Sherlock Holmes badge.
‘Did you enjoy the party last night?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it was splendid, wasn’t it?’ She grinned, producing an even more astonishing set of wrinkles. ‘Especially Feisal’s dancing. To think I am the only female whom he has held in his arms!’
‘I’m thinking of spraining my ankle,’ I admitted.
‘You don’t have to resort to such painful expedients, my dear.’ She hoisted herself to her feet and reached, unselfconsciously, for my arm. ‘Just till we get down the gangplank, if you don