The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [7]
There was nothing to be done about locating him in that mob, so, with the assistance of the children, I forced Emerson into a carriage and persuaded him to delay discussion of the matter until we had got ourselves settled into the hotel.
Although he was anxious to get on to Luxor, Emerson had agreed to spend a few days in Cairo catching up on the news. Press censorship was so strict, we had only the faintest idea of what had been going on in our part of the world. We were staying at Shepheard’s; and it was with a sense of agreeable nostalgia that I found myself once again in the ambience that had provided the prelude to so many remarkable experiences. The villain Vincey (and his cat) searching our luggage in the bedroom; the Master Criminal, aka Sethos, aka (had I but known) my brother-in-law, slipping a sleeping potion into my wine in the dining saloon . . .
“What’s he up to now?” Emerson demanded, as the servants carried in our bags and the manager advanced to welcome us.
“Do stop shouting, Emerson,” I implored. “Wait until we are in private.”
We had been given our old rooms on the third floor. By the time we had got everyone settled in and I had convinced Sennia that she must have an early supper with Basima instead of joining us for dinner, the sky was darkening and the lights of Cairo were twinkling through the dusk. The private discussion I had promised Emerson would have to wait a little longer; Gargery was not to be got rid of. Fully recovered and officious as usual, he was determined to carry out the duties of a valet. Emerson did not employ a valet, nor should the Reader suppose that under ordinary circumstances we would have taken a servant as useless as a butler with us to an archaeological dig. Gargery was something more and perhaps something less than a butler, however; he had taken part in several of our criminal investigations and had proved himself ready and willing to employ any methods he deemed necessary to protect us—and most particularly, Sennia.
I completed my toilette and retired to the sitting room, where I found that the sufragi had delivered a number of messages and letters. I glanced through them, entertained by the growls and curses coming from the dressing room. Finally Emerson emerged, looking sullen but very handsome in black tie, and after admiring his handiwork and requesting my approval, Gargery retired.
Emerson said, “Now, Peabody, curse it—”
“No, my dear, not now. We will want to hear what the children have to say about this.”
Nefret and Ramses were late in joining us in the dining saloon, so I took advantage of the interlude to see if there was anyone present from whom I could extract useful information. Pickings, as Emerson remarked, appeared to be slim. Many of our fellow archaeologists had left Egypt for war duties. I had hoped to see Howard Carter, who led a peripatetic existence, running back and forth between Luxor, where he excavated in a rather random manner, and Cairo, where he carried out certain mysterious activities on behalf of the War Office. However, he was not there.
There was one familiar face among those present—one I would rather not have seen. He was looking directly at me, and I was not quick enough to avoid meeting his eyes; the thin lips compressed between a pointed nose and chin parted in a smile and he rose to his feet.
“Curse it!” said Emerson. “It’s that bastard Smith.”
“That is only his nom d’espionnage, Emerson.”
“His what?”
“You know what I mean. I thought it a rather clever term.”
Emerson’s expression indicated that he did not agree. “His name is Boisgirdle-Bracedragon,” I added. “Or is it Bracegirdle-Boisdragon? The reason I have difficulty in remembering is, of course, because I dislike the fellow so thoroughly. It is a well-known psychological—”
“Don’t talk psychology to me, Peabody. It is a damned ridiculous name in any case. If we must refer to him at all, Smith is good enough. He isn’t going to have the infernal gall to speak to us, is he?”
If Smith had intended