The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [38]
There are now modern establishments in Cairo that sell a wide variety of European goods, and certain stretches of certain streets are almost indistinguishable in appearance from those in any city; but the Khan el Khalil still retains its air of Oriental mystery, especially after dark. The narrow lanes are roofed with matting and the merchants squatting on the mastaba benches before the small shops resemble figures out of the Arabian Nights.
We went first to the sellers of fabric, where rainbow-colored silks and damasks woven with gold and silver threads shimmer in the glow of copper lamps. Since I knew precisely what I wanted (I always do) and what its cost should be, it did not take me long to select stuff for curtains and draperies. Emerson rolled his eyes and muttered, however, so I decided not to try his patience by looking at furniture. We would have to make do with the beds and chests and tables from the dahabeeyah until replacements could be received.
A queer sinking sensation overcame me when we neared the establishment of the dealer we had determined to visit first. Not premonitions of the unknown future but memories of the past prompted the feeling; for here, at the witching hour of midnight, Emerson and I had discovered the body of the former owner hanging from the ceiling of his shop. Hardened as I am to crime, the sight of that gross body and hideous, swollen face had left a very nasty impression. The shop was now owned by the son of Abd el Atti, who was a lesser man than his father had been in every way. Aziz Aslimi had once had a shop on the Muski, in the European quarter, but he had proved to be such a poor businessman that he had to give it up and return to the Khan el Khalil. The memories that haunted me probably did not disturb Aziz in the least. He was not a sensitive man. Nor, I thought, was he a criminal, except in the broad sense that applies to almost every antiquities dealer in Cairo. None of them can afford to be overly scrupulous about the origins of the merchandise they handle.
The place was small and the doorway narrow; we had to step aside to allow a customer to emerge—a stooped gray-haired man wearing a frock coat of old-fashioned cut, and a limp white neck handkerchief. He squinted nearsightedly at us, touched his hat, muttered, “Verzeihen Sie mir, guten Abend,” and limped away.
“We’re treading a bit too close on his heels,” whispered Emerson, taking my arm. “Hang on a minute, Peabody.”
I could not see that it mattered, since his own mother would not have recognized Ramses unless she had—as had I—beheld the transformation, but we waited for a bit before going in. Mr. Aslimi pretended to be delighted to see us and insisted we drink coffee with him.
The same prolonged courtesies occurred at the other establishments we visited, so it was late before we returned to the Amelia to find Ramses, in his own persona, waiting for us in the saloon.
“What luck?” he inquired.
“None,” I replied. “I ought not have allowed your father to accompany me. He has not the patience or the temperament for such delicate inquiries. One cannot gain information by shouting at people and threatening them—”
“I never raised my voice,” Emerson exclaimed indignantly. “As for threatening people, it was you who told Aslimi—”
“Now, Professor darling, don’t get excited.” Nefret perched on the arm of his chair and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “I doubt there was any information to be gained. You were no more successful, Ramses, were you?”
Ramses shook his head. “I anticipated as much. Remember that the fellow has been careful to avoid purchasers who knew David by sight, or who would know he is not an Egyptian.”
“Unless he is an Egyptian,” I said.
“Bah,” said Emerson. “Don’t start muddying the water, Peabody. We can now be reasonably certain the swine hasn’t approached any of the Cairo