After my brisk exercise in the garden a nice soak in the tub was now not a luxury but a necessity. I had not seen Emerson all afternoon; he had gone to his study to work or to worry in private. I decided to surprise him by assuming one of the pretty tea gowns Nefret had given me for Christmas. He had expressed his particular approval of a thin yellow silk garment that fastened conveniently down the front. (Convenient to put on, that is.) Sunny yellow is always cheerful. I have never believed in wearing black for mourning; it is a poor testimonial to a faith that promises immortality for the worthy.
When Emerson joined me in the parlor, the brightening of his countenance assured me my selection of attire had been wise. I was about to pour when Ramses came in.
“I won’t be here for dinner. I told Fatima .”
His face was so guileless I was immediately filled with the direst of forebodings. He was wearing riding breeches and boots, tweed coat and khaki shirt, without a collar or waistcoat—an ensemble that might have been designed for camouflage. I said, “You aren’t dressed for dinner.”
“My engagement is with one of the Indian N.C.O.s. They aren’t allowed in the hotels, you know; we are meeting at a cafй in Boulaq.”
“What for?” I asked suspiciously.
“A language lesson and perhaps a friendly wrestling match. That is what comes of showing off. He’ll probably break both my legs.”
“They are allowing men like him to go on leave with the Turks about to attack the Canal?” Emerson demanded. “Folly, absolute folly!”
“Maxwell still doesn’t believe an attack is imminent, or that the Turks stand a prayer of getting across. I hope he’s right. Don’t wait up for me, I may be late.” He started for the door.
“Are you going to see David tonight?”
He stopped. “Are you suggesting I ought?”
I recognized his irritating, oblique manner of avoiding a lie, and my temper slipped a little. “I am suggesting that if you do, you bring him home with you. The need for caution is past; if you deem it necessary we can keep him in seclusion for a day or two.”
“It shouldn’t be necessary.” He turned round to face me. “You’re right, it’s time David came home. Good night.”
He got to the place at dusk, while it was still light enough to see where he was going yet dark enough to hide his movements. David had objected to his going alone, but he wanted to make a preliminary reconnaissance.
“Percy won’t turn up before dark, if he comes at all,” he had pointed out. “The show isn’t supposed to start until midnight . Everything is set. Russell will raid the warehouse and the mosque at nine, and once he’s got the weapons safely tucked away he’ll return to his office and wait to hear from me. Do you think I can’t handle Percy by myself? Anyhow, I need you to be my lookout. Don’t get the wind up now, David. By tomorrow morning it will be over, and we’ll be home, and Fatima will be cooking breakfast for you.”
And he would be explaining to his irate parents why he hadn’t told them the truth. He wasn’t looking forward to it. But if they had known tonight was the night they wouldn’t have let him out of the house—or else they’d have insisted on accompanying him, which would have been even worse.
In the twilight the old palace looked so forbidding it was no wonder the locals avoided it. It had been built in the late eighteenth century by one of the Mameluke beys whose reputation for cruelty was even greater than those of his peers; it was said that the spirits of his victims roamed the ruins in company with djinn and afreets, moaning and gibbering. There were certainly a great many owls nesting in the broken walls. Avoiding the derelict fountain and fallen columns of the courtyard, pushing through a rampant jungle of weeds and weedy shrubs, he reached a small building that was still in good repair.
Ramses had brought a pocket torch and masked it so that only a narrow slit of light would show. Using it sparingly, he inspected all four sides of the building, which had perhaps been a pleasure kiosk. The arched windows were now closed with crude but heavy wooden shutters, and the door also appeared to be a new addition. There was another entrance, at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, that must lead to rooms underground. Both doors were equipped with new Yale locks. Picking the lock would take time, and might leave traces. It would have to be one of the shutters.
They were locked too, or bolted from the inside. The lever he had brought took care of that. Once inside, he had to use the torch, and as the narrow beam moved round the room his lips pursed in a silent whistle. The room looked like a cross between a bordello and a boudoir, all silk hangings and soft rugs. The bed that occupied most of the space was a bird’s nest of tangled linen and scattered cushions.
His search of the room was quick and cursory; even Percy wouldn’t be lunatic enough to keep incriminating documents in the room where he entertained his female visitors. The only item of interest he came across was a length of narrow silken ribbon, the kind that might have been threaded through the insertion on a woman’s garment. He stood for a moment holding it before he tossed it aside and left the room.
A door across the narrow hallway opened onto a more promising chamber. Percy certainly liked his comforts; Oriental rugs covered the floor and hung from the walls, and the furnishings included several comfortable chairs as well as a well-stocked liquor cabinet, several oil lamps, and a large brass vessel that had served as a brazier. For burning documents? If so, they had been completely consumed.
Nothing in the room betrayed the identity of the man who sometimes occupied it. Acutely aware of the passage of time, Ramses searched the rest of the little building. A door at the end of the hall between bedroom and study opened onto a flight of stairs going down. The cellar was more extensive than the upper floor. There was nothing there now except rats and moldy straw and a few scraps of wood, but he suspected it had once contained the weapons sent on to Wardani—and elsewhere? One section had been subdivided into a series of small, cell-like rooms. All were empty except one. The sturdy wooden door creaked when he pushed it open.
The narrow beam of light showed a floor of beaten earth and walls of mortared stone. The room was about ten feet by fifteen, and it contained two pieces of furniture—a chair and a rough wooden table. A large earthenware jug stood on the table; dead flies floated on the surface of the stagnant water. There was only one other object in the room, aside from several heavy hooks on the wall opposite the door. Coiled and sleek as a snake, it hung on one of the hooks. It had been wiped clean and oiled, but when he looked more closely he saw the dark stains that had soaked into the beaten earth and dried, and he knew, with a sick certainty, that this was where Farouk had died. One of the heavy hooks was about the right height from the floor.
He went back up the stairs, thankful that David wasn’t with him. He was sweating and shaking like a timid old woman. Anger, at himself and at the man who had used the kurbash, stiffened him, and he went back to the makeshift office. Damn it, there had to be something, somewhere! Before he began a more intensive search he unbolted the shutters and opened one of them a few inches. It was always a good idea to have another exit handy, and with the window open he would more easily hear an approaching horseman. There was no certainty that Percy would come tonight; but if that letter of Nefret’s had been from Percy, he had canceled an engagement that would have kept him in Cairo that evening. Not proof of anything, but suggestive. David was waiting at the crossroads near Mit Ukbeh; Percy would have to pass him whether he came north on the Giza Road or crossed the river at Boulaq, and once Percy had got that far, his destination was certain. Mounted on Asfur, whom Ramses had delivered to David before coming on, David could easily outstrip Percy and arrive in time to give the signal that would warn Ramses his cousin was on the way.