The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [168]
Naturally I accompanied him. The rain had almost stopped, and the night air was refreshing. Emerson had his torch and I my parasol. He would not come under it with me or walk close by me, since he claimed the spokes kept hitting him in the face, so we splashed through puddles and patches of mud like two strangers who happened to be going in the same direction.
I was preoccupied with my own thoughts, as—I did not doubt—Emerson was with his. I had persuaded Lia and David to stay and dine with us, but I felt certain they would be off shortly after dinner, and Ramses with them—and that shortly after that, he and David would be on their way to Cairo to risk heaven only knew what terrible danger. I found myself wishing Ramses had been struck by a bullet—not in a vital organ, of course, but in a spot that would keep him immobile for a few days.
The little house which had once been filled with merriment and harmless (for the most part) pleasure looked desolate and forlorn. Few lights showed. Raindrops dripped in mournful melody from the surrounding trees. The doorman had retreated within. We had to pound and ring for several minutes before there was a response and that, when it came, was not welcoming.
“Go away,” a voice shouted in Arabic. “The effendi is not at home.”
Emerson shouted back. His voice is unmistakable; before he had got more than a few words out, the portal was flung open and the groveling servant ushered us into the house. We sent him off to announce us while I tried to persuade Emerson to wipe his feet.
“Why bother?” he inquired, with a critical look round the untidy entrance hallway.
We were kept waiting rather a long time, and Emerson was about to lose his patience when someone came. The Reader may conceive of my surprise when I recognized Karl von Bork. I ought not to have been surprised, in fact, since I remembered hearing that Karl had got in the habit of spending a great deal of time with his friend Jack, though what the two had in common aside from their interest in Egyptology I could not imagine. It was not until he bowed us into the sitting room that I got a good look at him.
Evidently he and Jack had been having one of those comfortable masculine evenings at home. A man’s idea of comfort is to be as untidy as possible. Karl had reassumed his coat, in some haste, since it was buttoned askew; his attempt to smooth his hair with his hands had not been successful. His face was flushed, his eyes unfocused. He began to apologize for Jack, who, he explained, was unwell.
“Intoxicated, you mean?” I inquired. “I am sorry to see, Karl, that you have been encouraging his weakness by drinking with him.”
“Not drinking,” said Emerson. His nose wrinkled. In one long stride he reached the door of Jack’s study and turned the knob.
Disheveled and coatless, Jack sat sprawled in an easy chair, staring blearily at the door. The sofa cushions were every which way, so I presumed Karl had been reclining on that article of furniture when the servant summoned him. On a nearby table were an ash receptacle, a pipe, and a plate of almond biscuits, one half-eaten. Jack held his pipe in one lax hand. The smoke that eddied about the room did not have the scent of ordinary tobacco. It was the same strange odor I had once taken for that of decay. There was no mistaking its origin now.
I turned to Karl. “Shame!” I cried. “Oh, Karl, how could you? What would Mary say?”
Tears filled his eyes. He flung his arm up to cover his face. “I was so lonely for her,” he gasped. “Und für die Kinder. Ach, Gott, ich habe myself disgraced—meine Geliebte betrayed …”
Sobs stifled his speech, which had become increasingly incoherent. I patted him absently on the shoulder. Emerson removed the pipe from Jack’s hand and shook him vigorously. The only response was a faint smile.
“Too far gone,” said Emerson. “It will take several hours for the effects to wear off. How long have you been here with him, von Bork?”
His curt tone recalled Karl to some semblance