The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [144]
“It is possible, but unlikely. I doubt that Sethos would dare face me again. I could not be in his presence for long without penetrating any disguise he might assume.” I added, with some asperity—for his skeptical expression annoyed me—“My reasons for suspecting Charles have nothing to do with Sethos. He fits the description of a man whom I have reason to believe—”
“Uh-huh. So you said. You want to run through that again, my dear? I am afraid I didn’t follow you the first time.”
So I ran through it again, and finished by reading the description Evelyn had given.
“But—but,” Cyrus stuttered, “that description doesn’t match Charlie in any particular. It sounds more like René. Not that I believe he—”
“That is the point, Cyrus. ‘Sir Henry’ was obviously disguised. He would take care to change those aspects of his appearance when he came to us—the color of his hair, the mustache. The long chin and narrow nose match Charlie’s, and Charlie is approximately the same age.”
“Jimminy,” Cyrus muttered. “How many men that age have long chins and narrow noses, do you suppose? Two million? Five million?”
“But only one of them is here,” I cried impatiently. “And one of us is a spy for Sethos! Consider that not only was our food drugged, but that the ambush set for me yesterday must have been arranged by one who anticipated I would follow that path. He must have read the note from Kevin and realized I would respond as soon as I was able.”
“An assumption that would certainly be made by anyone who had the honor of your acquaintance,” said Cyrus, stroking his chin. “My dear girl, I am not denying there may be something in what you say. But you would be the first to agree I cannot condemn a man on such equivocal evidence.”
“I am not suggesting we hold a marsupial court—”
“I beg your pardon?” said Cyrus, staring.
“It is an American term, I believe? Having to do with illegal trials?”
“Oh. Kangaroo court, you mean?”
“No doubt. You know me better, I hope, than to suppose I would leap to unwarranted conclusions or subvert the principles of British justice. In fact, I am inclined to agree that we ought to let him go on believing he is not under suspicion. Sooner or later he will betray himself and then we will have him! And perhaps his leader as well. An excellent idea, Cyrus. He will have to be watched closely, of course.”
“I guess I could manage that,” Cyrus said slowly.
“I am glad we are in agreement. Now go and get your coffee, Cyrus. You appear a trifle sluggish this morning. No offense taken, I hope?”
“None in the world, my dear. You will join me for breakfast, I hope?”
“First I must see how Mohammed is getting on. I confess I find myself postponing that task; his very presence—not to mention the varied insect life that pervades his person— makes my skin crawl. And don’t suggest, Cyrus dear, that I leave the disgusting duty to another. That is not my way. Besides, it is possible that he may be able to speak today and I trust no one else to question him.”
“I long ago gave up trying to talk you out of anything you had set your mind on,” said Cyrus, smiling. “Your sense of duty is as remarkable as your boundless energy. Do you want me to come with you?”
I assured him it was not necessary, and he went off, shaking his head. It had become a habit of his recently.
I stopped outside the shelter to speak with the guard. He was one of Cyrus’s crew, a stocky, dark-skinned fellow with the aquiline features that spoke of Berber or Touareg blood. Like the desert men, he wore a khafiya or headcloth instead of a turban. He assured me he had looked in on Mohammed at regular intervals during the night and had found no change.
Yet as soon as I pushed the curtained hanging aside I realized that there had been a change—the most final change of all. Mohammed lay in the same position in which I had last seen him, flat on his back, with his mouth ajar and his eyes half-closed. But now no breath of air