“The most likely explanation,” Ramses said slowly, “is that he told them himself, and demanded more than Father had offered. Oh, yes, I know, it would not have been a sensible move, but Farouk was arrogant enough to think he could bargain with them and get away with it. Being more sensible than he, they simply disposed of an unnecessary and untrustworthy ally, and in a manner that would have a salutary effect on others who might be wavering.”
“An old Turkish custom,” Emerson repeated. “They have a nasty way with enemies and traitors.”
Cursing somewhat mechanically, he dislodged half a dozen ragged urchins from the bonnet of the motorcar and opened the door for Nefret. As Ramses did the same for his mother, he saw that her eyes were fixed on him. She had been unusually silent. She had not needed his father’s tactless comment to understand the full implications of Farouk’s death. As he met her unblinking gaze he was reminded of one of Nefret’s more vivid descriptions. “When she’s angry, her eyes look like polished steel balls.” That’s done it, he thought. She’s made up her mind to get David and me out of this if she has to take on every German and Turkish agent in the Middle East .
Hope springs eternal in the human breast, particularly in mine, for I am by nature an optimistic individual. As we drove into Cairo , I told myself that Russell’s summons did not inevitably mean the dashing of our hopes; Farouk might have been captured and the end of Ramses’s deadly masquerade might be in sight.
I tried to prepare myself for the worst while hoping for the best (not an easy task, even for me.) Yet the hideous truth hit harder than I had anticipated. Equally difficult was concealing the depth of my anger and despair from Nefret. She had only hoped we might do our country a service by destroying a ring of spies; she could not know that we had a personal interest in the matter. I had to bite my lip to control my anger—with Farouk for being stupid enough to get himself killed before we could interrogate him and with the unknown fiends who had murdered him so horribly. How much had he told them before he died?
The worst possible answer was that Farouk had penetrated Ramses’s masquerade and had passed the information on to those who would not hesitate to dispose of Ramses as they had done Farouk. The most hopeful was that he had told them only of our arrangement with him. We could certainly assume that the enemy knew we were on their trail. The conclusion was obvious. We must go on the offensive!
I remained pensively silent, considering various possibilities. They were provocative enough to take my attention off Emerson’s driving for once.
“Are we taking tea at Shepheard’s?” Nefret asked in surprise. “I thought you would want to return home so we can discuss this unpleasant turn of affairs.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” said Emerson, coming to a jolting halt in front of the hotel.
“But, Professor—”
“The matter is finished,” Emerson declared. “We made the attempt; we failed, through no fault of our own; we can do no more. Curse it, the damned terrace is even more crowded than usual. Don’t these idiots have anything better to do than dress in fashionable clothes and drink tea?”
He charged up the stairs, drawing Nefret with him.
We never have any difficulty getting a table at Shepheard’s, no matter how busy it is. The arrival of our motorcar had been noted by the headwaiter; by the time we reached the terrace a bewildered party of American tourists had been hustled away from a choice position near the railing, and a waiter was clearing the table.
I leaned back in my chair and glanced casually at the vendors crowded round the stairs. They were not allowed on the terrace or in the hotel—a rule enforced by the giant Montenegrin doormen—but they came as close as they dared, shouting and waving examples of their wares. There were two flower sellers, but neither of them was David.
Poor David. Almost I wished that the failure of our hope could be kept from him. There was no chance of that, though; by now he might have heard of it from other sources. Gossip of that sort spreads quickly; there is nothing so interesting to the world at large as a grisly murder.
One of the disadvantages of appearing in public is that one is forced to be civil to acquaintances. I daresay that Emerson’s scowling visage deterred a number of them from approaching us, but Ramses’s pacifist views had not made him persona non grata to the younger women of Cairo . As Nefret had once put it (rather rudely, in my opinion), “It’s quite like a fox hunt, Aunt Amelia; the marriageable maidens after him like a pack of hounds while their mamas cheer them on.” We had not been seated long before a bevy of fluttering maidens descended on us. Some made straight for Ramses, while those who favored more indirect methods greeted Nefret with affected shrieks of pleasure.
“Darling, what have you been doing? We haven’t seen you for ages.”
“I’ve been busy,” Nefret said. “But I am glad to see you, Sylvia, I intended to pay you a little call. What the devil do you mean, writing those lies to Lia?”
“Well, really!” one of the other young women exclaimed. Sylvia Gorst turned red with embarrassment and then white with terror. The glint in Nefret’s blue eyes would have frightened a braver woman than she.
“You know of Lia’s situation,” Nefret said. “A friend would wish to avoid worrying or frightening her. You’ve written her a pack of gossip, most of it untrue and all of it malicious. If I hear of your doing it again I’ll slap your face in public and—and—”
“Proclaim your perfidy to the world?” Ramses suggested. The corners of his mouth were twitching.
“Not quite how I would have put it, but that’s the idea,” Nefret said.
Sylvia burst into tears and was removed by her twittering companions.
“Good Gad,” Emerson said helplessly. “What was that all about?”
“You were very rude, Nefret,” I said, trying to sound severe and not entirely succeeding. “What was it she told Lia?”
“Something about me, I presume,” Ramses said. “No doubt you meant well, Nefret, but that temper of yours—”
Nefret shrank as if from a blow, and he stopped in mid-sentence. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
“You shouldn’t have reproached her, Ramses,” I said, watching Nefret hasten toward the door of the hotel, her head bowed. “She had already begun to regret her hasty speech, she always does after she loses her temper.”
“I didn’t mean what she thought I meant.” He looked almost as stricken as Nefret. “Damn it, why do I always say the wrong thing?”
“Because women always take everything the wrong way,” Emerson grumbled.
When Nefret came back she was smiling and composed, and accompanied. Lieutenant Pinckney, looking very pleased with himself, was with her. Naturally, with a stranger present, none of us referred to the small unpleasantness. Emerson would not have been deterrred by the presence of a stranger, but he still had no idea what the fuss had been about.
After greeting Lieutenant Pinckney I allowed the young people to carry on the conversation. As my eyes wandered over the faces of the other patrons, I was reminded of something Nefret had said: “I feel that everyone I see is wearing a mask, and playing a part.” I had the same feeling now. All those vacuous, well-bred (and not so well-bred) faces—could one of them be a mask, concealing the features of a deadly foe?
There was Mrs. Fortescue, clad as usual in black, surrounded as usual by admirers. Many of them were officers; many of them were highly placed. To judge from her encounter with Ramses, the lady (to give her the benefit of the doubt) was no better than she should be. Philippides, the corrupt head of the CID, was also among those present. Was he a traitor as well as a villain? Mrs. Pettigrew was staring at me, and so was her husband; the two round red faces were set in identical expressions of supercilious disapproval. No, surely not the Pettigrews; neither of them had the intelligence to be a spy. The swirl of a black cloak—Count de Sevigny, stalking like a stage villain toward the entrance of the hotel. He did bear a startling resemblance to another villain I had once known, but Kalenischeff was long dead, killed by the man he had attempted to betray.