The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“Sylvia knows everyone.”
“Except ‘natives’ like me,” David said.
Ramses called Sylvia a rude name. David laughed. “The opinions of people like that don’t worry me, Ramses.”
“Let’s go before we are accosted by another dear old friend intent on gossip.”
“You won’t be able to avoid all of them,” David predicted. “By evening everyone in Cairo will know we’re here.”
The Bristol, the National, the Metropole…Hotel after hotel denied any knowledge of Harriet and Adrian Petherick. “It’s unaccountable,” Ramses muttered. “We’ve covered most of the first-and second-class hotels. I can’t believe Harriet would settle for anything less. We’ve missed something, but I can’t think what.”
“What if they’ve changed their appearances?” David asked.
“Then we’re sunk, since we’ve no idea how they may have disguised themselves. All we can do is proceed on the assumption that they look the same.”
“So we stay over tonight?”
“Yes, dammit. Let’s clean up and then have dinner at Bassam’s in the Khan. He knows everything that goes on in Cairo.”
They paused on the corner of the Shari Kasr el Aini and the Shari el Munira, waiting for a chance to cross the former. The traffic was horrendous; nobody yielded the right of way to carriages or carts or pedestrians. People pushed and shoved along the pavement and into the street. It was a wonder there weren’t more accidents, Ramses thought, as a camel lumbered past, cutting off a cab whose driver shrieked curses at the camel and its rider. A motorcar, driven at reckless speed, wove in and out among the slower vehicles.
It was almost even with them when a hard shove sent Ramses staggering forward. The driver couldn’t have stopped if he had wanted to.
Fatima would not be consoled. “It is my fault. I should not have left him alone. I should have watched him.”
Sethos offered her an impeccable handkerchief. “If it’s anyone’s fault, Fatima, it is mine. I didn’t think to warn you.”
“None of us thought to warn you.” I added my words of consolation. “In fact, to do all of us justice, there was no reason why we should have done.”
“Yes, there was,” Emerson muttered. “Here now, Fatima, nobody blames you. Please don’t cry. You’ve set the twins off too.”
“You do not blame me, Father of Curses?” She mopped her wet face and gave him an appealing look.
“Good Gad, no. David John—Carla—I am not angry with Fatima. Do you hear me?”
They were clinging to her skirts and sobbing in sympathy. The noise level was quite high.
“That will be quite enough from you two,” I said. “Have a biscuit.”
Their infantile distress reminded Fatima of the need to recover herself. She gave a final swipe to her face and used the handkerchief to wipe their faces and noses. “It is all right, do you see? I am not unhappy. The Father of Curses is not angry. Come, have a biscuit. Have two!”
“He’s had five hours or more to make his getaway,” I said. “At what time did you interrogate the boatmen?”
Sethos knew what I was getting at. “I left instructions, along with promises of extravagant baksheesh, that they were to report immediately if he turned up.”
“We can’t just sit here and let the bastard get away with it,” Emerson groaned. “She trusted me to take care of the bloody thing. I’m going back to the landing.”
“Language, my dear, language,” I said gently, touched by his self-reproach.
“Waste of time,” said Sethos, holding out his cup. “I suggest we consult Selim. And notify the police.”
“The police?” Emerson’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t think of that.”
“You never do,” said his brother. “If Lidman is still in Luxor, East or West Bank, we’ll catch up with him eventually, but we will be in trouble if he succeeds in getting out of town. We need guards at the railway station. Dependable guards.”
“I wouldn’t trust any of Ayyid’s fellows,” I said. “Not that I doubt their loyalty, but none of them know Lidman. They can’t ask for identification from every passenger, that would take too long and some pompous idiot would be bound to register a complaint.”
“Obviously I am the right