Tomb of the Golden Bird, page 39
Margaret’s rigid form relaxed and she let out a long sigh. Sethos glanced at her and then looked away. “Thank you,” he said ironically. “Now, sir, perhaps you will explain why you lied to me?”
“You know the rules,” Smith said. “You were told what you needed to know. Nothing more.”
“The devil with your bloody rules,” growled Emerson. “I need to know everything—who was plotting against whom and why and wherefore. And if you mention the bloody Official Secrets Act I may lose my temper.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Smith piously. “Very well. I am prepared to break certain rules in order to set your minds at ease—and prevent you from stirring up trouble.”
“Proceed,” I said, taking pen in hand. Smith started to object, but wisely decided not to.
“There was only one conspiracy,” he began. “Bashir’s group and the malcontents in Iraq were part of the same plot, though neither group was aware of the other, or of the real aim of the people behind the affair. Both had been infiltrated by men who meant to use them to attain their own ends—professional killers, trained in the techniques of assassination. Poor fool that he was, Bashir meant no harm to anyone. These people and their bloodless coups…Really, they oughtn’t be let loose without a chaperon.
“When Ramses and his wife suddenly decided to go to Cairo, the assassins took alarm. They knew the message was not a fraud and they feared he was about to expose the real conspiracy. They were tracking you two from the moment you arrived, and you made no effort to elude pursuit. Breakfasting in full view of the world on the terrace at Shepheard’s! Somehow or other—we may never know how—Bashir got wind of their intentions and tried to warn you. He was a martyr, if you like,” Smith concluded, with a nod at Ramses.
We paid Bashir the tribute of a moment of respectful silence. He had repented of his errors in judgment and possibly saved the lives of Ramses and Nefret. Then Emerson said, “Three murders. Why?”
“Is it not cui bono a rule of criminal investigation?” Smith asked. “Who profits? Ask yourself what would have happened had these crimes been committed.”
His air of superiority was grating. Ramses, who disliked him anyhow, said, “Egypt and Iraq would have dissolved into chaos. Britain would be forced to intervene. Possibly a full-fledged military intervention and the reestablishment of a formal mandate.”
“Quite right,” said Smith, with a gracious nod. “And who would have profited from that?”
“The jingoists and imperialists in Britain,” I suggested. “There has always been a vociferous majority who believe the European powers have the right, if not the duty, to rule over those they consider to be their inferiors.”
“And who else?”
It was, surprisingly, Sethos, who lost his temper. “The jingoists aren’t the cause, they are the means used by the real instigators. Behind them are the people who expect to make money from British control. Oil in Iraq, cotton and foodstuffs in Egypt. And cheap labor in both countries. The financiers, the leaders of industry. The shadowy group I spoke of. Shadowy because they will never be held to account. In the end it all comes down to money. That’s all they care about; they are indifferent to the lives they affect and the deaths for which they are ultimately responsible.”
Smith appeared somewhat put out. Sethos had anticipated his speech and delivered it with a passion he could never have matched.
“Essentially, that is the case,” he said, propping his long chin on his folded hands.
“Then these people will never be brought to justice,” I said.
“Never. Nor even identified. They don’t give direct orders; they confer and hold committee meetings and drop veiled hints.”
“‘Who will free me from this turbulent priest?’” I murmured.
“Not even as direct as that, Mrs. Emerson,” Smith said. “But the message is clear to their subordinates, and so it goes down the chain of command, until it reaches the individuals who direct the actual operations. Even supposing we could trace the initial instigators, we couldn’t hold them accountable. They would express horror and dismay and deny that they so much as hinted at such a thing.”
“It’s a damned depressing picture,” said Emerson, chewing on his pipe.
“I find it so,” said Smith; and I saw a trace of emotion flicker across that masklike face. “All we can do is forestall, if possible, the deadly results and perhaps identify a few of the minor criminals. At least we’ve got a line on two of them. Malraux and Farid.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, with a somewhat hypocritical air of regret. “But I’m afraid you haven’t. Suzanne and Nadji have nothing to do with this.”
“Then why did they run off?” Emerson demanded. “Run…Oh, no. No.” He clapped his hand to his brow. “Don’t tell me this is another of your—your—”
“Precisely,” I said. “They ran off—to be married. Suzanne did her best to win her grandfather over to the idea without actually asking his permission. She was afraid to risk that, but she hoped being with Nadji and other worthy Egyptians, seeing our fond relations with them would soften his prejudices. It was, as I could have told her, a forlorn hope. When he insisted on her returning to England with him, she felt she had no other choice but to elope with her lover.”
Ramses closed his mouth, swallowed strenuously, and said in a very gentle voice, “Would you mind explaining, Mother, how you arrived at this remarkable deduction? Are you going to claim you knew all along those two were in love?”
“As your father has indicated, I enjoy a certain reputation for settling romantic affairs,” I said modestly. “The complete indifference those two displayed toward each other was highly significant. They went to considerable lengths to ensure we would hire them both: Nadji for his unquestioned competence, and Suzanne because of the portfolio he had prepared for her. Who else would have conspired in that deception? You may have found your artist in Nadji, Cyrus.”
“Good,” Cyrus said, staring.
“Then where are they?” Nefret asked. “Why haven’t we been able to find a trace of them?”
“They have gone to earth with one of Nadji’s friends on the West Bank, I expect,” I said. “You believed he had none? But he was in the habit of visiting a certain coffeeshop in Luxor. He made acquaintances there.”
Emerson, who was familiar with my methods, hid a smile behind his big hand, on the pretense of fiddling with his pipe. Smith, who ought to have been familiar with them, eyed me askance.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Emerson, but all this is hindsight. And as yet unverified.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He had tried so hard, and he so wanted to punish someone. However, truth must out, whatever the consequences. And I resented his implication.
“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? Curse it, I don’t like fighting shadows, I want to get my hands on a flesh-and-blood villain.”
He was so downcast, I was tempted to admit him to my confidence. However, I decided not to. Though I was fairly certain of my deductions, it would have been unkind to raise his hopes and then be forced to destroy them. Instead I offered consolation of another nature. It proved to be acceptable.
Consulting my list of Things to Be Done at breakfast, I was able to cross out several items. Sethos and Margaret had been dealt with, at least for the time being. With two such domineering personalities, further upheavals were likely, but I could not worry about that. The situation of Nadji and Suzanne was well on the way to a satisfactory conclusion, with only one more step to be taken. I am not in the habit of leaving unpleasant tasks to others, so I set out for the Castle immediately after breakfast.
Cyrus came running out to greet me. “What the dickens have you been doing?” he demanded. “You left me stuck with that old villain Portmanteau, and he’s been driving me crazy. Even Cat is fed up with him, and you know she’s not easily upset.”
“I will deal with him forthwith,” I said, brushing dust off my trousers. “Tell him I want to see him.”
He was some time in responding, and when he came into the drawing room I observed that he had been comforting himself with brandy. Katherine was with me; having learned of my arrival, she could hardly wait to complain about her unwelcome guest. “He is no gentleman, Amelia, he ignored my hints that he should go to the hotel, and his language…!”
Sir Wiliam’s appearance caused her to break off. He had abandoned any pretense of gentility. Red-faced and unkempt, he wasted no time in being offensive.
“Well, Mrs. Emerson, what have you to report? You promised me—”
“I know where they are,” I said, raising my voice over his. “They are safe and very happy.”
If the last word reached Sir William’s ears, it never penetrated as far as his brain. “Where is she? Why didn’t you fetch her here? By God, when I get hold of that girl—”
“You no longer have any authority over her,” I said. “She is a married woman.”
Katherine gasped. “Those two? Married?”
“Well, that’s nice,” Cyrus said.
Sir William’s face went from red to purple and he was gobbling like a turkey cock. I watched him with, I regret to admit, more curiosity than compassion, until his breathing became so labored that he was forced to stop talking. I shoved him into a chair.
“I would recommend brandy but for the fact that you appear to have taken too much already. I would take you to see Suzanne but for the fact that you would only abuse her and her husband. The die is cast, Sir William, and you can’t do a cursed thing about it. Your only recourse is to get yourself out of this house, across the river, and on to Cairo as expeditiously as possible. Perhaps (it does not seem likely, but all things are possible), perhaps in time you will come to your senses and attempt to reestablish friendly relations with your granddaughter.”
“Never!” Sir William wheezed. “No kin of mine. Out of my will. Not a penny!”
“I will have the servants pack his bags,” Katherine said. She hurried out.
“And I,” said Cyrus, his eyes twinkling, “beg to differ with you, Amelia. A little more brandy, or perhaps a great deal of brandy, is just what he needs.”
With the departure of our dear ones imminent, we found ourselves in a whirl of social activity. Selim and Daoud put on a splendid fantasia, and we celebrated New Year’s Eve in the American style, with a glittering ball at the Castle. Cyrus had brought a musical ensemble all the way from Cairo. After a vigorous waltz with Emerson I needed to catch my breath, so I joined Katherine at one of the tables. She gave a guilty start when she saw me, and then burst out laughing.
“Caught in the act,” she said, indicating her heaped plate. “But on the whole I have been good, Amelia.”
“An occasional indulgence never hurt anyone,” I said. “You do seem much stronger and healthier, Katherine.”
“And wiser, I hope. Cyrus tells me this is the time to make resolutions for the new year…”
Her eyes moved to a couple whirling past—Nadji and Suzanne, whose healths we had all drunk in Cyrus’s best champagne. They were to work with Cyrus for the remainder of the season, Nadji as staff artist, and Suzanne as Jumana’s assistant.
“Seeing Sir William’s appalling behavior,” Katherine resumed, “made me realize that I had not overcome my own prejudices. It was like a caricature of my worst attitudes. Look at those two—blissfully happy—and I would once have said their marriage was doomed from the start.”
“They will have difficulties to overcome,” I admitted. “Including the differences in their religions. However, marriage is always a chancy business, Katherine. I have known individuals who appeared perfectly suited, by family background, religion, and nationality, who were thoroughly miserable.”
“So you believe in taking the chance?”
“Certainly. What is life without some risk?”
She laughed and cut off another another bit of frosted cake. “That is my resolution, then. To take a few risks, and let others take theirs.”
“Ah,” I said. “Excuse me, Katherine. I have just remembered something I must do.”
Jumana was dancing with Sethos, who was, in my opinion, holding her too tightly. She did not seem to mind. When the waltz ended, I asked if I might have a few minutes of her time.
“The next is Ramses’s,” she said, glancing at her dance card.
“He can wait. This cannot, it has gone on too long. You do care for Bertie, and not only as a friend. Don’t deny it. Why won’t you marry him?”
Jumana went white and then bright red. “How did you know?” she gasped.
“Detecting romantic attachments is one of my talents,” I replied. “Why won’t you?”
She looked me straight in the eye. “It would break his mother’s heart. She has been good to me. I will not go where I am not wanted.”
“Pride,” I said, shaking my head. “It is cold comfort when one is unhappy, Jumana. Why not take a chance? Who knows, you might be pleasantly surprised.”
Ramses turned up to claim his dance; I handed Jumana over to him with a comfortable feeling that matters were proceeding nicely. I took the additional precaution of saying a few words to Bertie, and sure enough, by the end of the evening we had another pair of lovers to toast. Cyrus’s look of pride and pleasure was very nice to see, and so was Katherine’s maternal embrace. The engaged couple appeared to be somewhat stupefied. But they would get over it.
All in all, it was a thoroughly satisfactory evening. The final touch was delivered in the form of a telegram, which we found waiting on our return home. Mr. Smith was as brief as Emerson would have been, but much more original. “The wrong has failed, the right prevailed. Happy New Year.”
I had always suspected the man had the rudiments of a sense of humor.
Our own family gatherings were made more poignant by the knowledge that they were for the last time. The last game of chess (lost by David), the last little books of Charla’s, to be delivered to the grandparents in England, the last of Fatima’s magnificent teas, the last visits to the Valley of the Kings.
