Lion in the Valley (36 page)

"So
I believe. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Emerson, I am expecting a large
party—"

"One
more thing, Mr. Baehler, and I will detain you no longer. The name of the
safragi who was on duty in our part of the hotel while we were here."

"I
hope you don't suspect him of wrongdoing," Baehler exclaimed. "He is
a responsible man who has been with us for years."

I
reassured him, and upon learning that the man in
question was even
now at his station, I dismissed Mr. Baehler with thanks, and went upstairs.

I
remembered the safragi well—a lean, grizzled man of middle age, with a quiet
voice and pleasant features marred only when he smiled by a set of brown,
broken teeth.

The
fellow's smile was without guile, however, and he answered my questions readily.
Alas, he could not remember anything unusual about the porters who had
delivered our parcels. There had been a number of deliveries from a number of
different shops; some of the men were known to him, some were not.

I
thanked and rewarded him and left him to the peaceful nap my arrival had
interrupted. I was convinced he was unwitting. His demeanor was that of an
innocent man, and besides, if he had been aware of the identity of the delivery
man, he would have been pensioned off, like the other safragi—who was, I felt
sure, the same one who had claimed to have seen Donald inside the hotel. Sethos
rewarded his loyal assistants liberally.

Since
some of my inquiries had proved abortive, I found myself with plenty of time to
carry out my other business, and I determined to proceed with it rather than
pause for luncheon. Emerson would be occupied for several more hours, and if I
hurried, I could be back at the hotel before he got there.

I
was crossing the lobby when the concierge intercepted me. "Mrs. Emerson!
This letter was left for you."

"How
extraordinary," I said, examining the superscripture, which was in an
unfamiliar hand. There was no question of a mistake, however, for the name was
my own, and in full: Amelia Peabody Emerson. "Who was the person who left
it?"

"I
did not recognize the gentleman, madam. He is not a guest at the hotel."

I
thanked the concierge and hastened to open the sealed envelope. The message
within was brief, but the few lines set my pulses leaping. "Have important
information. Will be at the Cafe Orientale between one-thirty and two." It
was signed "T. Gregson."

I
had almost forgotten the famous private detective— as perhaps you have also,
dear Reader. Apparently he had seen me enter the hotel. But why had he written
a note instead of speaking to me personally?

I
consulted my watch. The timing could not have been better. I could visit the
shop of Aziz before keeping the appointment with Gregson.

Do
not suppose, Reader, that I was unconscious of the peculiarity of the
arrangement. There was a chance I might be walking into a trap. Mr. Gregson
could not be Sethos; his eyes were not black, but a soft velvety brown. Yet he
might be an ally of that enigmatic villain, or someone else might have used his
name in order to lure me into his toils.

This
seemed, on the whole, unlikely. I knew the Cafe Orientale; it was on the Muski,
in a respectable neighborhood much frequented by the foreign community. And if
my suspicion was correct—if Sethos himself lay in wait for me—I was ready for
him. I was alert and on guard, I had my parasol and my belt of tools.

However,
I felt it advisable to take one precaution. Going into the writing room, I
inscribed a brief note to Emerson, telling him where I was going and assuring
him, in closing, that if I did not return he was to console himself with the
knowledge that our deep and tender love had enriched my life and, I trusted,
his own.

Upon
rereading this, I found it a trifle pessimistic, so I added a postscript.
"My dear Emerson, I do not suppose that the M.C. will slaughter me out of
hand, since it would be more in character for him to hold me prisoner in order
to arouse in you the anguish of uncertainty as to my fate. I feel confident
that if I cannot effect my own escape, you will eventually find and free me.
This is not farewell, then, but only
au revoir,
from your most devoted,
et cetera, et cetera."

I
left the envelope at the desk with instructions to give it to Emerson no
earlier than 5
p.m.
if I had not
collected it myself before then.

Feeling
in need of exercise to work off the excited anticipation that poured through my
veins, I did not take a carriage but set off on foot toward the shop. Aziz was
a singularly unpleasant little man, but he was the sole survivor of a family
that had been intimately connected with the Master Criminal. His father and his
brother had been involved in the illegal antiquities trade; both had met
terrible ends the previous year, though admittedly not at the hands of Sethos.
Aziz had inherited his father's stock of antiquities and perhaps (as I hoped)
his father's connection with the genius of crime. It was worth a try, at any
rate.

Aziz
was out in front of his shop, calling to passersby to come in and view his
wares. He recognized me immediately; his fixed tradesman's smile turned into a
look of consternation, and he darted inside.

It
was a tawdry place, its shelves and showcases filled with cheap tourist goods
and fake antiquities, many of them made in Birmingham. Aziz was nowhere to be
seen. The clerk behind the showcase was staring at the swaying curtain through
which his employer had presumably fled. There were no customers; most of the
tourists were at luncheon, and the shop would soon be closing for the
afternoon.

"Tell
Mr. Aziz I wish to see him," I said loudly. "I
won't
leave until he comes out, so he may as well do it now."

I
knew Aziz was in the back room and could hear every word I said. It took him a few
minutes to make up his cowardly mind, but finally he emerged, smiling broadly.
The lines in his face looked like cracks in plaster, one had the feeling that
if the smile stretched another half inch, the whole facade would crumble and
drop off.

He
greeted me with bows and cries of delight. He was so happy I had honored his
establishment. What could he show me? He had received a shipment of embroidered
brocades from Damascus, woven with gold threads—

I
did not much care for Mr. Aziz, so I did not attempt to spare his feelings.
"I want to talk to you about Sethos," I said.

Mr.
Aziz turned pale. "No, sitt," he whispered. "No, please,
sitt—"

"You
know me, Mr. Aziz. I have nothing else to do this afternoon. I can wait."

Aziz's
lips curled into a wolfish snarl. Turning on his gaping clerk, he clapped his
hands. "Out," he snapped.

When
the clerk had gone, Aziz locked the door and pulled the curtain. "What
have I done to you, sitt, that you wish my death?" he demanded tragically.
"Those who betray this—this person—die. If I knew anything of this—this
person—which I do not—I swear it, sitt, on my father's grave—the mere fact that
you were heard to mention his name in my shop would be the end of me."

"But
if you know nothing about him, you are in no danger," I said.

Aziz
brightened a trifle. "That is true."

"What
do they say of him in the bazaars? You do
not endanger yourself by
repeating what all men know."

According
to Aziz, no one really knew anything, for Sethos' men did not gossip about him.
He was known only by his actions, and even these were obscure, for his
reputation was such that every successful crime in Cairo was laid at his door.
Aziz believed he was not a man at all, but an efreet. It was said that not even
his own men knew his true identity. He communicated with them by means of
messages left in designated places; and those few who had seen him face to face
were well aware that the face he wore that day was not the one in which he
would next be seen.

Once
started, Aziz rather warmed to his theme, and rambled on at length, repeating
the legends that had accrued to this mysterious person. They were no more than
that for the most part—wild, fantastic tales that were fast becoming part of
the folklore of the underworld.

"Very
well," I said, glancing at my watch. "I believe, Mr. Aziz, that you
have told me all you know. Sethos would never enlist a man like you; you are
too great a coward, and you talk too much."

He
let me out and locked the door after me. Looking back, I saw his face, shining
with perspiration, peering fearfully at me through a crack in the curtain.

I
hoped Emerson had done better, but feared he had been no more successful than
I. By a combination of cleverness and terror, Sethos seemed to have done an excellent
job of covering his tracks. If I had not had the meeting with Mr. Gregson to
look forward to, I would have been somewhat discouraged.

It
was thirty-five minutes past one when I arrived at the Cafe Orientale. Mr.
Gregson was nowhere to be seen, so I seated myself at a table near the door,
ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons. They were all men. I believe
there is some nonsensical convention against ladies patronizing cafes. Either
Mr. Gregson was unaware of this unspoken rule, or he paid me the compliment of
realizing that I was supremely indifferent to such things.

I
summoned the waiter with a rap of my parasol and a crisp command in Arabic, and
ordered coffee. Mr. Gregson arrived before the coffee. I had forgotten what a
fine-looking man he was. The smile that illumined his face softened his austere
features.

"You
came!" he exclaimed.

"You
asked me to, didn't you?"

"Yes,
but I scarcely dared hope . . . No, that is not true. I know the ardent spirit
that moves you. I knew you would rush in where lesser women fear to
tread."

"I
did not rush, Mr. Gregson, I walked—into a respectable cafe filled with people.
The only danger I faced was that of social ostracism, and that has never been a
matter of concern to me."

"Ah,"
said Gregson, "but I am going to ask you to accompany me into an area that
is not so free of peril. I tell you frankly, Mrs. Emerson—"

He
broke off as the waiter came with my order. Curtly he ordered, "
Kahweh
mingheir sukkar.''

"You
speak Arabic?" I asked.

"Only
enough to order food and complain that the price is too high."

The
waiter returned. Mr. Gregson raised his cup. "To the spirit of
adventure," he said gravely.

"Cheers,"
I replied, raising my own cup. "And now, Mr. Gregson, you were telling me
frankly ..."

"That
the mission I am about to propose is one in which you may reasonably refuse to
join me. But I think I have—persuaded, shall we say?—one of Sethos'
henchmen
to talk to us. How much the fellow knows I cannot tell, but he is reputed to be
as close to that genius of crime as anyone, and I believe it is an opportunity
not to be missed. I would not bring you into this, except that the man insisted
you be present. He seems to have confidence in your ability to protect
him—"

"Say
no more," I exclaimed, rising to my feet. "Let us go at once!"

"You
do not hesitate," Gregson said, looking at me curiously. "I confess
that in your position I would be highly suspicious of such a request."

"Well,
as to that, it is quite understandable that the fellow should select me as a
confidante. You are a stranger; whereas, if I may say so, my reputation for
square dealing is well known. The man may even be someone I know personally!
Come, Mr. Gregson, we mustn't delay an instant."

As
we penetrated deeper into the heart of the old city, the narrow winding streets
took on the character of a maze, composed of dirty crumbling walls and
shuttered windows. The latticed balconies jutting out from the upper stories of
the tall old houses cut off the sunlight, so that we walked through a dusty
shade. There were few Europeans or English among the pedestrians, some of whom
stumbled in a drugged daze, their eyes fixed on vacancy.

Since
the streets (if they could be called that) turned and twisted, I was able to
keep a watchful eye to the rear. Mr. Gregson noted my glances. "You are
uneasy," he said seriously. "I should not have brought you. If you
would rather return—"

"Keep
walking," I hissed.

"What
is it?"

"We
are being followed."

"What?"

"Keep
walking, I say. Don't turn your head."

"Surely
you are mistaken."

"No.
There is a man behind us whom I have seen twice before—once outside
Shepheard's, and again loitering near the cafe. A slight fellow wearing a white
gibbeh
and a blue turban."

"But,
Mrs. Emerson, that description would fit half the men in Cairo!"

"He
has been careful to keep the sleeve of his
gibbeh
across the lower part
of his face. I am certain he is following us—and I intend to capture him.
Follow me!"

Turning
abruptly, I rushed at the spy, my parasol raised.