The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [89]
Shepheard’s was greatly changed since my first visit—in point of fact, it had been entirely rebuilt—but it was part of the history of Cairo, rich in memories of the great and the infamous, with many of whom, both great and infamous, I had been personally acquainted. Every part of the splendid structure held delightful memories: the suite of rooms on the third floor, on the carpet of whose sitting room the mysterious Mr. Shelmadine had writhed in convulsions after telling us of the hidden tomb of Queen Tetisheri; the magnificent entrance hall, with its lotus columns painted in shades of apricot, russet, and turquoise, where Emerson had snatched me from the arms of a masked abductor; the shadowy alcoves and soft divans of the Moorish Hall, where Nefret had spent an unchaperoned quarter of an hour with the dashing and unprincipled Sir Edward Washington.
I do not greatly exaggerate when I say I knew everyone of importance in Cairo. I disliked a good many of them, but I knew them all. For the Europeans who lived there or returned every winter, Cairo had some of the characteristics of a narrow-minded, provincial village. The various social circles overlapped but did not coincide, and the social strata were as rigid as any caste system. Egyptian Army officers were of a lower stratum than officers of the British Army of Occupation, and both were inferior to the British Agency set. The jealousy, the vicious gossip, the cliques and struggles for promotion and prestige were all perfectly ridiculous to those of us who were outside the pale and happy to be there.
Outside all the circles—somewhere in outer darkness—were the Egyptians whose country this was.
We had an excellent dinner and a good deal of champagne, and then went to the ballroom. I am very fond of the terpsichorean arts; after I had danced with Cyrus and Emerson, Ramses dutifully propelled me about the floor, dutifully returned me to a chair, and vanished. No sooner had he done so than a gentleman approached and begged leave to introduce himself.
“I would have asked your husband to perform this office,” he explained, “but I can’t see him anywhere. My name is Russell, Mrs. Emerson. Thomas Russell.”
I was extremely interested. Mr. Thomas Russell was then head of the Alexandria police and I had heard him described as an exemplary officer. I said as much, adding that my various encounters with the police officers of Cairo had not given me a high opinion of that group of individuals.
“I can understand why,” Russell said politely. “I have long looked forward to making your acquaintance, Mrs. Emerson, since you and your family have a considerable reputation for catching criminals. I am being transferred to Cairo, as assistant commissioner, and I hope I may eventually merit your approval, as certain of my colleagues have not.”
I congratulated him upon his promotion—for so, in fact, it was, Cairo being headquarters for the entire country—and, the music having begun, he asked me to dance.
“We will have to consider that we have been properly introduced,” I said jestingly. “Looking for Emerson would be a waste of time; he is probably hiding in the shrubbery smoking his pipe and fahddling with the dragomen.”
Russell laughed. “Yes, I know the Professor’s habits. Is your son also smoking in the shrubbery? I don’t see him either.”
“Do you know Ramses?”
“I almost had the honor of arresting him a few years ago,” Russell said. My look of surprised