The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“Women of the—of that class, you mean,” I said, remembering Vincey’s grave courtesy toward me, and remembering as well Howard’s veiled hints about his reputation. Repressing my indignation, I went on, “I find your use of the word ‘tool’ interesting. She may still be serving him in that capacity. Cyrus is right—”
“I am not so naive”—Emerson shot me a malignant glance—“as to accept the girl’s story unreservedly. If she is a spy, we can deal with her. If she is telling the truth, she needs help.”
“Must have been a good-looking woman before he got to work on her,” said Cyrus.
This apparent non sequitur, which was of course nothing of the kind, did not escape Emerson. His teeth showed in a particularly unpleasant smile. “She was, yes. And will be again. So behave yourself, Vandergelt; I don’t allow distractions of that nature to interfere with my expeditions.”
“If it were up to me, I’d kick her off the boat tonight,” Cyrus declared indignantly.
“No, no. Where’s that famous American gallantry? She stays.” Emerson turned the singularly unpleasant smile on me. “She will be company for Miss Peabody.”
After they had gone, I gathered up a few things and went to the woman’s room. The door was locked from the outside, but the key was in the lock; I turned it, announced my presence, and entered.
She was sprawled across the bed, still swathed in her dusty black robe. It was with some difficulty that I persuaded her to discard it, and she refused to allow me to attend to her injuries; so I handed her the clean nightgown I had brought and allowed her to attend to her ablutions in private. When she emerged from the bathroom she seemed startled to see me still there. Averting her face and cringing like the dog with which Cyrus had compared her, she hurried to the bed and got under the covers.
“I don’t know what we are to do about clothing,” I said, hoping to put her more at ease by discussing a subject that seldom fails to interest females. “My traveling wardrobe is not extensive enough to equip you as well.”
“Your gowns would not fit me,” she muttered. “I am taller than you, and not—not so—”
“Hmph,” I said. “I will procure fresh robes for you when we stop at the next town, then. This one is filthy.”
“And a veil—please! It would hide me from watching eyes.”
I doubted it would prove a sufficient disguise to deceive the man she feared so desperately, but since my aim was to soothe her and win her confidence, I decided not to raise unpleasant subjects. Under my tactful questioning she unbent so far as to tell me something of her history.
It was a sad story and, sadly, not uncommon. The child of a European father and an Egyptian mother, she had fared better than the offspring of most such alliances, for her German father had at least had the decency to provide a home for her until she reached the age of eighteen. His death left her at the mercy of his heirs, who disclaimed any responsibility and denied any relationship. Her efforts to support herself in a respectable occupation had been frustrated by her age and her sex; while employed as a housemaid she had been seduced by the eldest son of the family and cast out onto the street when his parents discovered the affair. Naturally they blamed her and not their child. She had used the last of her savings to return to the land of her birth, where she found her maternal relatives as hostile as those of her father; alone and despairing in Cairo, she had met… HIM.
Seeing she was trembling with fatigue and agitation, I bade her rest. Her reticence could not be allowed to continue indefinitely, of course. I was determined to know all she knew. But that could wait till another time and, perhaps, a more persuasive questioner.
When we tied up for the night I sent one of the servants to the village bazaar to purchase clothing for Bertha—for such, she claimed, was her name. It certainly did not suit her, conjuring up (to me at least) images of blond Germanic placidity.
I had not achieved my aim of