The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [11]
‘Ah,’ said Emerson, his good humour restored. ‘You are the gentleman who requested an appointment? I apologize for being late; it was all Mrs Emerson’s fault. You don’t object to her joining us, I hope?’
‘Not at all.’ The comment was brief, the voice low and husky – obviously disguised.
Emerson opened the door. ‘After you, my dear Peabody. And you, sir, come in.’
I had left one lamp burning, for a number of unpleasant experiences had taught me it is unwise to enter a totally darkened room, but it gave only enough light to assure me that there were no assassins or burglars lying in wait. I was about to press the switch that would turn on the overhead lights when a hand closed over mine. I let out a little cry of surprise and Emerson exclaimed, ‘What the devil –’
‘My heartfelt apologies, Mrs Emerson,’ said the stranger, releasing my hand – and just in time too, for Emerson had already seized him by the collar. ‘I did not mean to startle you. Please don’t turn on the lights. I am taking a terrible risk by coming here; allow me to preserve my anonymity until we have reached an agreement – if that can be done.’
‘Confound it,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘I warn you, Mr Saleh . . . Ah, but am I to take it that the name you gave me is not your own?’
‘It will suffice for the present.’ The stranger had moved away, into a pool of shadow. He raised his hands to his face. Was he praying? I thought not. An anticipatory shiver of excitement rippled through my limbs.
Emerson emitted a loud groan. ‘Oh, good Gad! Are we to have another of these melodramatic distractions? I suppose one season of simple archaeological excavation, uninterrupted by criminals, was too much to expect. Had I but known . . . Well, curse it, the damage is done. Even if I were to follow my instincts, which tell me to throw you out the door before you can utter a word, Mrs Emerson would insist on hearing you out. She dotes on melodrama. If you have adjusted that mask to your satisfaction, Mr Whoever-You-Are, sit down and start talking. I am a patient man, but my time is valuable and I strongly suspect that this will be –’
‘He can’t start talking until you stop, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Take that chair, Mr – er – Saleh. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, coffee, brandy, whiskey?’
‘Whiskey. Thank you.’
Mumbling to himself, Emerson waved me towards the sofa and went to the sideboard. Ignoring his complaints, I seated myself and studied the stranger curiously. The black cloak had fallen back; under it he wore ordinary European clothing. The name he had given was Egyptian, but the fact that he had accepted an alcoholic beverage meant he was not a Muslim – or at least not a very good one. I was unable to make out his features, since the mask of black silk covered his entire face and was fastened, in some manner I could not ascertain, under his chin. An orifice roughly oval in shape exposed his lips, and I assumed there were other openings to permit vision, though not even a gleam of eyeballs was visible under the brim of his hat.
Emerson handed me a glass and offered another to our visitor. He put out a hand to take it.
He must have been watching me as closely as I had examined him; seeing me stiffen, he let out a little coughing sound that might have been a laugh. ‘You are quick, Mrs Emerson. Was that why you offered me refreshment?’
‘It was an outside chance,’ I said calmly. ‘But it is more difficult to disguise one’s hands than one’s face. The spots of old age can be covered, but not the protruding veins that are equally distinctive. Scars, calluses, birthmarks, the very shape of palm and fingers – or, as in this case, a distinctive article of jewellery . . . Since you did not take the precaution of removing your ring before you came here, may I take it that you would not object if I asked to