The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [61]
We needed a warrant, and for that we must have grounds. That was what my devoted friends were trying to obtain—talking with their informants in the villages, following up gossip about strangers in the city, investigating rumors of unusual activity—and I pinned my hopes on their endeavors.
I had especially counted on Abdullah and his influence with the men of Gurnah, who were reputed to know every secret in Luxor; but as I lay sleepless in the dark, I had to confess I was sorely disappointed in him. I had seen very little of him in the past few days. I knew one reason why he avoided the house; he looked like a white-bearded, turbaned John Knox when he saw me and Cyrus together. Not that Abdullah would have insulted me by supposing I had the least interest in another man. He was jealous of Cyrus on his own account, resenting anyone who wanted to assist me and Emerson in the slightest way, and resenting Cyrus all the more because his own efforts had proved futile. Poor Abdullah. He was old, and this had been a terrible blow to him. I doubted he would ever fully recover.
God forgive me for such doubts. For it was Abdullah who served me best.
Cyrus and I were seated at luncheon next day, discussing how we should deal with the matter of the proposed rendezvous, when one of the servants entered and said that Abdullah wanted to speak with me.
“Have him come in,” I said.
The servant looked scandalized. Servants, I have found, are greater snobs than their masters. I repeated the order; with a shrug the man went out and then returned to report Abdullah would not come in. He wished to speak to me in private.
“I can’t imagine what he has to say that he could not say in front of you,” I said, rising.
Cyrus smiled. “He wants to be your sole prop and defender, my dear. Such loyalty is touching, but blamed aggravating. Go ahead.”
Abullah was waiting in the hall, exchanging sour glances— and I think low-voiced insults—with the doorkeeper. He would not speak until I had followed him out onto the veranda.
When he turned to face me, I caught my breath. His sour frown had vanished, to be replaced by a glow of pride and joy that made him look half his age.
“I have found him, Sitt,” he said.
“You must not tell the Amerikâni!” Abdullah took hold of my sleeve and held me back when I would have rushed back into the house with the news. Drawing me farther away from the door, he went on in an urgent whisper, “He would not let you go. It is dangerous, Sitt Hakim. I have not told you all.”
“Then for God’s sake, tell me! Have you seen him? Where is he?”
Abdullah’s story gave me pause and forced me to curb my raging impatience. He did not need to caution me that we must move with the utmost discretion—especially since he had not yet set eyes on his master.
“But what other closely guarded prisoner could there be, so close to Luxor? The house is outside the town, near to the village of El Bayadiya. It is rented by a foreigner, an Alemâni or Feransâwi. A tall black-bearded man, an invalid, it is said, for he is pale and walks with a cane when he goes out, which is not often. His name is Schlange. Do you know him, Sitt?”
“No. But it is surely not his real name, nor, perhaps, his true appearance. Never mind that now, Abdullah. You have a plan, I know. Tell me.”
His plan was the very one I would have proposed myself. We could not demand entry to the house until we were certain Emerson was there, and we could not be certain until we had entered it. “So we will go ourselves,” said Abdullah. “You and I, Sitt. Not