The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [154]
Emerson took the pipe from his mouth. “Ah. Major Cartright, as I live and breathe. May I remind you that you don’t give the orders here? Ask politely.”
Cartright got the word out, though it almost choked him. “Please!”
Selim stepped aside, folding his arms. Cartright marched in. Emerson pointed out, in the same mild voice, that there were ladies present and Cartright removed his hat with a muttered apology.
“That’s more like it,” said Emerson. He sipped appreciatively at his whiskey. “Well? Don’t stand there gaping, you must have something to say.”
Emerson was doing his best to be annoying, and no one can do it better than Emerson. Cartright swallowed several words he knew better than to pronounce, and took a long breath. “Send—that is, will you please send that man away?”
“No,” said Emerson. “But I will do my best to prevent him from using his knife on you. You are either very complacent or very courageous to show your face after the filthy trick you played.”
Still standing—for no one had invited him to sit—Cartright took out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. “Mrs. Emerson—I appeal to you. May I be allowed to speak?”
He was looking at me, not at Nefret, whose tight lips and crimson cheeks must have told him he could not expect any consideration from her. I nodded. “Are you going to claim you knew nothing about Chetwode’s plan?”
“Chetwode is a bloo——is a young idiot!” his superior exclaimed heatedly. “I didn’t know, Mrs. Emerson, and that is the truth.”
Ramses spoke for the first time. “On your word as an officer and a gentleman?”
The irony went unnoticed by Cartright. “Yes! I was appalled when I learned what Chetwode had done. He has been relieved of duty and will be punished appropriately. Do you believe me?”
“Since you have given your word, we have no choice but to do so,” said Ramses, eyebrows raised and tilted. “Was that the only reason you came, to express your regrets?”
“Regrets!” Nefret exclaimed. “That is somewhat inadequate, Major. Do you know what happened to my husband after—”
“He doesn’t,” Ramses said, giving her a warning look. “I expect that is why he is here, to find out. I did make my report, Cartright, to General Chetwode.”
“I know, he forwarded it immediately, and I . . .” He cast a longing glance at the bottle of whiskey. “My relief, believe me, was inexpressible. But he gave me few details—which was quite in order, quite right of you to tell him no more than was necessary.”
“A basic rule of the Service,” said Ramses, in his even, pleasant voice. “You are, I suppose, entitled to know more. In a nutshell, then, I don’t know whether Ismail Pasha is the man you want or not. Chetwode didn’t give me time enough to make a determination. I was taken prisoner, as Chetwode was good enough to inform my family, but I managed to free myself later that night.” Forestalling further questions, he added, “That’s all I can tell you. Chetwode’s futile attack has made it virtually impossible for anyone to get near Ismail Pasha. They will guard him even more closely from now on.”
Cartright nodded grudgingly. “We certainly can’t try the same stunt again. Not for a while. I suppose you’ll be returning to Cairo at once, then. I will make the necessary arrangements.”
“We will make our own arrangements,” said Emerson. “When we are ready.”
The finality of his tone, and the inimical looks Cartright was getting from everyone in the room, should have convinced him that there was nothing more to be said. No one had offered him a whiskey or even a seat. Yet he lingered, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
“Look here, old boy,” he exclaimed. “This is off the record, you know—but by Gad, that was well done! Chetwode was man enough to admit that you risked yourself to help him escape—and then to break yourself loose from a Turkish prison, and get through their lines . . . It was—confound it, it was deuced well done.”
“Oh, you know the Turks,” Ramses said. “Careless beggars.”
“All the same,