The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [82]
‘Ah,’ said Emerson. ‘She has her own house? She must be a pearl of beauty, to merit a separate setting – or a wealthy widow. Most likely the latter. Hamed loves money even more than he does . . . er, hmmm. Marhaba, Sitt; Allah isabbekhum bilkheir.’
As we left the room I saw the girl creep closer to the old woman, who put a motherly arm around her. Polygamy is a vicious unnatural custom, which I would never understand or condone; but a tender blossom of affection may grow from a compost heap. I wondered if it had been jealousy on the girl’s account – not of Hamed’s unprepossessing person but of the attentions he bestowed on his new wife – that had prompted the older woman’s betrayal.
Our presence and Emerson’s noisy actions had drawn an audience. Most were the usual curious idlers of all ages and sexes (and species), but I saw several ugly faces in the crowd, and I said softly to Abdullah, ‘Should we go for reinforcements?’
His knife in his hand, the other hand in the breast of his robe, Abdullah looked down at me in surprise. ‘No, Sitt, why?’
He invited me, with a gesture, to precede him. I took a firmer grip on my parasol and followed Emerson.
One of the spectators cheerfully supplied the information he requested. The house was not far distant. It was quite an elegant establishment, larger and in better repair than many of its neighbours. The door was beautifully carved and very old. Emerson considerately refrained from kicking it open. He did not bother to knock, however.
The features of the woman seated cross-legged on the divan opposite showed the racial mixture one finds in Egypt, particularly in the south, and they had combined in an uncommon pattern of striking character – full lips and high cheekbones, wide-set eyes of a shade more green than hazel, a jutting nose like that of a Roman general. Her skin was dark brown, sleek as velvet.
After a disinterested glance at me she looked Emerson over, head to foot and foot to head, and her lips parted in a smile. She had obviously been expecting company, for she was dressed in her best. Silver hung from her ears and brow and jangled at her wrist as she raised a cigarette to her lips.
Emerson began, ‘Salaam aleikhum – er –’
She cut him short, gesturing with the cigarette. ‘My name is Layla, Father of Curses. He is there.’
‘There?’ Emerson echoed rather stupidly. He had not expected such ready compliance.
‘Hiding in a corner, like the weasel he is,’ was the contemptuous reply. ‘You would soon find him, so why should I not tell you before you wreck my poor house?’
‘Very sensible,’ Emerson said approvingly. He plunged through the curtained doorway she had indicated. A shriek announced the discovery of Hamed. Emerson returned, dragging the fellow by the neck of his robe.
The woman uncoiled herself and followed him to the door. ‘If you would visit me, Father of Curses, for you I lower the price to –’
‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘That will be enough from you, miss – madam –’
‘Never mind, Peabody,’ Emerson said. ‘Curse it, do you suppose I am in the mood for . . . Even if I would, which I would never . . . Damn these women, they are always distracting a fellow!’
The spectators scattered when we emerged from the house, and then regrouped at a little distance, leaving three persons confronting us. They were the men I had noticed earlier, and their expressions were even uglier. Hamed, plucking at the fabric that constricted his throat, gasped, ‘Let me go. Let me go or they will . . .’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said Emerson, tightening his grip so that the threat ended in a choked gurgle. ‘Peabody, your parasol, if you please.’
I did not know precisely what he had in mind, but guided by his words and his gesture I brandished the implement in question.
Two of our opponents hastily backed away and one – the largest and most muscular – fell to his knees. ‘No!’ he shrieked. ‘No, not that! Sitt Hakim, Emerson Effendi, please, I beg – not that!’
It was a dramatic scene: the cowering man, face shining with perspiration,