Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [89]
I had a number of reasons for believing that might not be such a good idea. ‘I don’t think so, Feisal. Not tonight.’
He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and caught mine in a hard grip. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, Vicky. Only for a little while. It’s not what you think; do you suppose I feel like celebrating? I have to talk to you.’
There were also a number of reasons for believing it might not be such a bad idea. He saw I was weakening. In the same hoarse whisper he went on, ‘We’ll go to the ETAP or the Winter Palace, wherever you will feel comfortable. Please?’
‘Well . . .’
He practically dragged me to the door. I made a few feeble protests about freshening my makeup and getting my purse, which he overruled. I looked beautiful and I didn’t need my purse, he would escort me home.
The last part turned out to be true, anyhow, if not in the sense I expected.
I was relieved to see a taxi waiting for us instead of Larry’s mammoth car, and even more relieved to hear the words ‘Winter Palace’ in the midst of Feisal’s otherwise unintelligible order to the driver. We didn’t go in the hotel, but sat on the terrace, which was crowded with people. I ordered coffee.
‘Let’s not waste time,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can you ask?’
‘I just did. It has to do with Dr Mazarin’s death, doesn’t it? A nice step up for you.’
He turned a queer shade of brownish grey. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with that?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I did. But you are a member of one of the – er – revolutionary societies, aren’t you?’
Feisal went a shade greyer. ‘If you’d like to see me hauled off to a detention cell, never to emerge again, speak a little louder.’
‘Sorry.’
Feisal drained his cup and ordered a refill. ‘Forget politics, they’ve nothing to do with the present situation. I have a feeling you’re well aware of that.’
He stopped, watching me expectantly.
What little he had said confirmed my hunch. But although I was dying – make that ‘anxious’ – to know more, I had no intention of blurting out my suspicions to one of the people I was suspicious of.
‘Please continue,’ I said.
Feisal took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I’m taking an awful chance warning you, but I couldn’t just walk away and leave you at risk. I’m going into hiding and so must you. I can take you to a place where you’ll be safe.’
I groaned. ‘Why do I do these things?’ I inquired of the room at large. ‘You’d think by this time I’d have learned better. No, thanks, Feisal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go round the tables and panhandle a few bucks so I can take a cab – ’
‘Back into the lion’s den?’
‘You mean back into the frying pan. What you’re proposing sounds a lot like the fire.’
‘I told you – ’
‘You haven’t told me anything; you’ve just spouted vague threats. Appeal to my intelligence, Feisal. Give me two – hell, I’ll settle for one – good reason why I should accept your offer.’
Feisal groaned. We sounded like a pair of sick dogs.
‘I was told to show you this.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper.
There was no writing on it. It was a piece of plain black paper ahout eight inches square.
I felt the blood drain slowly out of my face, staring with my brain and backing up in my vocal cords. All I could do for a few seconds was gurgle horribly. Finally I managed to clear my throat. ‘Who gave you this? Larry? Max?’
‘Who’s Max?’ Either he was honestly bewildered or he could have given drama lessons to Sir Laurence Olivier.
‘He cuts silhouettes,’ I mumbled, staring at the piece of black paper. ‘For a hobby. His other hobbies are fraud, theft and murder. Art and antiquities, those are his specialties. I thought he was in jail! I helped put him in jail! How the hell did he . . .’
I shoved my chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get Schmidt out of there. If Max is one of them . . . Oh, Christ, of course, it has to be him! He was careful to keep out of my way, but I should have known, he was obviously wearing a wig the first time I . . .’
I wasted