The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [30]
“Where did it come from?” I asked, and then repeated the question in Arabic.
The safragi held out his hands in appeal. They were bleeding from several deep scratches. The cat must have come in through the window; he had found it there when he entered to deliver a parcel and had tried in vain to evict it.
“So you enlisted an army of heavy-footed friends to help you,” I said caustically, looking from the smashed vases and scattered flowers to the shredded curtains. “Go away, all of you. You are only frightening the poor creature.”
The wounded safragi returned the animal’s stare with one almost as malignant. I must say it did not look frightened. I was about to advance upon it—Emerson, I noticed, had prudently retreated—when the safragi glanced at the open door and exclaimed, “We have found him, Effendi. He is here.”
“So I see,” said Mr. Vincey. He shook his head. “Bad cat! Naughty Anubis!”
I turned. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vincey. This is your cat?”
His face, so melancholy in repose, brightened in a smile. He wore a well-cut afternoon suit which became his trim form very well, but I noticed that though neatly brushed and pressed, the once expensive fabric was sadly worn. “My friend, my companion,” he said gently. “But—oh, dear!— I see he has been very naughty indeed. Is he responsible for this chaos?”
“It was not his fault,” I replied, approaching the animal. “Any creature, when pursued—”
Mr. Vincey’s cry of warning came too late. I withdrew my hand, which was now marked by a row of bleeding scratches.
“Forgive me, my dear Mrs. Emerson,” Vincey exclaimed. He passed me and scooped the creature into his arms. It settled down and began to purr in a deep baritone. “Anubis is what one might call a one-person cat. I do hope he didn’t hurt you?”
“What an asinine question,” commented Emerson. “Here, Peabody, take my handkerchief. Wait a moment—it was here, in my pocket—”
It was not in his pocket. It hardly ever was. I took the one Mr. Vincey offered me and wrapped it around my hand. “It is not the first time I have been scratched,” I said with a smile. “No hard feelings, Mr. Vincey. And Anubis.”
“Let me introduce you.” Vincey proceeded to do so, addressing the cat as seriously as he would have done a human being. “This is Mrs. Emerson, Anubis. She is my friend and she must be yours. Let him sniff your fingers, Mrs. Emerson… There. Now you may stroke his head.”
Somewhat amused at the absurdity of the business, I did as he asked, and was rewarded by a renewal of the deep purr. It sounded so much like Emerson’s softer tones I could not help glancing in his direction.
He was not amused. “Now that that is settled, you will please excuse us, Vincey. We have just got back and want to change.”
Another example of masculine repartee, I assumed. I would have called it rudeness.
“I am very sorry,” Mr. Vincey exclaimed. “I came in the hope that you would take tea with me. I was waiting for you on the terrace when Anubis slipped his lead and I had to go in search of him. That is how it all came about. But if you have another engagement—”
“I would be delighted to join you for tea,” I said.
Mr. Vincey’s sad gray eyes lit up. They were most expressive optics.
“Please yourself,” Emerson grunted. “I have other things to do. Good day, Vincey.”
He opened the bedroom door and let out a profane exclamation. The exclamation—though not the profanity—was echoed by Mr. Vincey. “Oh, dear! Was Anubis in that room as well?”
“It appears he was,” I replied, studying the crumpled linens and scattered papers with some chagrin. “Never mind, Mr. Vincey; the safragi and his friends did more damage than Anubis, I expect. They will—”
“Curse it!” shouted Emerson. He slammed the door.
I gathered up my handbag and my parasol, and after directing the safragi to tidy the rooms, I preceded Mr. Vincey into the hall.
“I need not apologize for my husband, I believe,” I said. “You know his brusque manner conceals a heart of gold.”