Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [167]
“It shouldn’t be difficult to verify,” I said. “The habitués of the coffeeshop in question will talk freely if we assure them we want only to assist the lovers. Ramses should be the one to carry out that mission, I think. The word of the Brother of Demons is as good as another man’s oath.”
“One of Daoud’s aphorisms,” Emerson explained to Smith.
“Thank you,” said Smith, baring his teeth. “You will not object, I hope, if I remain in Luxor until they are apprehended?”
“Suit yourself,” I said. “However, it seems to me you would be more usefully employed in Cairo or Baghdad. Can you be absolutely certain your men are in a position to prevent the assassinations?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Sethos. “There has been, shall we say, a certain confusion of communications on various levels.”
Smith did not miss the implicit accusation. “Then you had better go yourself. The Baghdad flight—”
“No. I’ve done my last job for the Department.”
“Come now,” Smith exclaimed. “I understand why you might feel a certain degree of—er—resentment, but you’re an old hand, you know it was necessary.”
“Too old a hand,” Sethos said quietly. “I am submitting my resignation, as of now, in the presence of these witnesses.” He turned to Margaret, who was listening with parted lips. “I have said that before, but this time I mean it. Amelia won’t let me squirm out of it this time.”
Margaret jumped up and ran out of the room.
“Excuse me,” said Sethos. He followed her.
As a rule I would never intrude on intimate moments, but I wanted to make certain that I could check this little item off my list. Peeking round the door, I saw that they were locked in a close embrace.
I tiptoed away.
“I believe that covers everything,” said Mr. Smith. He appeared more than ready to go.
“If it was not Suzanne and Nadji who spied on us and reported on our activities, who was it?” Nefret asked. “We’ve run out of suspects, Mother.”
“That wretched boy, of course. Azmi.”
“What?” Emerson cried.
“I told you, Emerson, that you ought not have taught him to spy and sneak. Observing that he was in your confidence, ‘they’ approached him and offered him money to report to them. One cannot really blame him, since he did not suspect there was any danger to us. I will have to take him in hand. He is a clever child, and it may not be too late to instill in him a moral sensibility.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” said Mr. Smith. “Good day, Mrs. Emerson.”
I think he meant it as a compliment.
“Well, Peabody,” said Emerson, “it seems that you are not about to add another scalp to your belt.”
Stretched out on the bed, hands under his head, he watched me give my hair its one hundred strokes. It had been a long day, but I do not neglect such things.
“That is a very ugly metaphor, Emerson.”
“Another notch to your gun?” Emerson suggested. “Another villain safely in custody?”
Nadji and Suzanne had been found, just where I had said they would be—at the home of one of the young customers of the coffee shop. They had gone through a marriage ceremony conducted by the local imam. To be on the safe side, I hustled them across to Luxor and served as witness while Father Bennett married them again. It was a purely symbolic gesture, since (as the good father piteously pointed out) they had gone through none of the preliminary formalities. I promised we would take care of these, and that he could marry them again afterward.
“We have become spoiled, I fear,” Emerson went on. “There is something satisfactory about ending a case with the arrest or the burial of the villain.”
“Do not despair, my dear. There may yet be a villain to be arrested.”
Emerson sat up. “Who? Please tell me it is Sir William Portmanteau.”
“I wish I could. Whether he is complicit or not, he is the sort of man Smith meant when he spoke of shadowy forces, men without conscience. We cannot have him arrested, but cheer up! He will receive a painful blow when I tell him about Suzanne and Nadji.”
“Perhaps he will have a fatal stroke,” Emerson said hopefully. “Serve him right. Who, then?