The Illusion of Murder (16 page)

Frederick Selous wants me to accompany him on a trip to shore.

And he is not married.

*   *   *

V
ON
R
EICH STEPS OUT
of the smoking lounge as I come by.

“Nellie, how are you feeling?”

“Hot and sore.” I could have added that I am more angry about the damage to my reputation than the bruises to my body.

“I see that I have competition for your favors,” he says. “That Englishman who wanders in jungles.” He gives me a knowing look. “A friend of Lord Warton’s.”

“Hmmm.” I suspect there is more to come. “You’re also a friend of Warton.”

“A business acquaintance. He needs money and can open doors for me.” He glances around. “I happened to see Warton and the jungle man huddling together at a very early hour. Watch out for them.”

What was that all about?
I wonder as I head back to my cabin. Certainly not jealousy on Von Reich’s part. He distributes his attentions toward women aboard rather indiscriminately. So why did he give me a warning?

I like the man from Vienna, finding him amusing, though not the Romeo he obviously aspires to be. He might have confided in me as a friend, or more likely out of sympathy for the terrible situations he inadvertently put me in.

Now what am I to think about Mr. Frederick Selous and his interest in me after I find out that he plotted with Lord Warton before approaching me on the deck? He didn’t approach me as a single woman he could casually pass time with aboard. For sure, he has joined with Warton to make sure that Nellie Bly, reporter, keeps silent about the murder in the marketplace.

Finding Mr. Selous both interesting and attractive despite his machinations, I shall be disappointed if his only interest in me is to sabotage my reputation.

I’m tempted to ask the steward what was done with the contents of the empty trunk I’d seen, but decide to leave well enough alone. But I’ll be on guard, especially with the gentleman who has invited me for a shore excursion.

19

Mr. Selous and I board a small boat to go ashore after we anchor at Ismailia. The boatmen who swarm the ship to carry passengers gathered at the bottom of the ship’s ladder suddenly become quiet and well mannered after Mr. Selous shouts down at them.

I don’t know what he said—something in Arabic, I imagine—but I’m certain that his size and powerful voice are intimidating. No doubt the long-barreled six-shooter in the holster strapped to his hip also influences their decision to act in a civilized manner.

“Planning to bag big game?” I ask.

“Just a precaution. The pilot boat carried news that there have been more disturbances in the country, though none reported in Ismailia.”

He starts to say something else but stops, and I don’t leave well enough alone.

“You were about to confess that you brought the pistol because I might be a Jonah. I certainly hope I’m not a magnet for trouble.”

“What I
was
about to say, is that I hope our little excursion ashore doesn’t bring any more hell into your life.”

“So do I.”

Lord Warton stares down from the railing as our little boat pushes off and nods to Frederick. Catching my eye, he gives me a nod, too, and I throw back a small smile that only includes my lips. If he reads my eyes, he’ll know exactly what I think of him.

As usual, his manner is haughty and condescending. And it isn’t the fact that he’s standing on a much higher vessel at the moment that leaves me the impression that he believes he’s looking down at someone beneath him.

Ismailia Bay is hot and calm and flat. I feel as if I am on a wooden plate floating across a pot of hot water. Frederick—he insists I omit “Mr.” and “sir” when addressing him—sensibly provided for a very large umbrella to protect me from the sun.

His own protection is a wide-brimmed safari hat that is rounder and appears softer than a cowboy hat. It reminds me a bit of the hats worn by the Argentine cowboys called gauchos. He’s dressed very casual in a lightweight tan shirt and pants, and well-worn, knee-high brown boots.

“To protect against snakes in the jungle,” he says, when I glance at the boots. “But I don’t expect to be bitten in Ismailia.”

Beggars, tumblers, and sellers of trinkets compete for our attention and for coins on the beach. A magician shows us a clever sleight-of-hand trick with a disappearing bead in a handkerchief and I reward him with a coin.

“Are you aware that a number of magicians from around the Mediterranean region boarded the ship at Port Said?” Frederick asks.

“No. Why are they on aboard?”

“A magic conference in New York, I’m told. One of those preternaturally wealthy American robber barons with an interest in the spiritual world has invited the finest magicians on Earth to demonstrate their powers. A rather large monetary prize awaits the conjurer whose trick can’t be guessed by a committee of judges.”

“Perhaps one of them can show us how Mr. Cleveland can manage to be both dead and alive at the same time.”

He stops and searches my face with his eyes. “What must I do to convince you that I am not lying to you about having spoken to John Cleveland?”

“I believe you are as mistaken about having spoken to the man himself as much as you believe I am mistaken about him dying in my arms.” Brushing a bit of lint off his coat, I look into his eyes with all sincerity. “The matter can be resolved by having one of those magicians who’ve come aboard conjure him up.”

“Mind what you wish for. Stranger things have happened in the land of the pharaohs.”

*   *   *

F
REDERICK HIRES A CARRIAGE
that takes us into the town. Ismailia is quieter and smaller than Port Said, a place the ship stops only because the government mail contract requires it. The streets are unpaved and even more rutted than at the Mediterranean port, but at least there are no mobs shouting for the blood of foreigners.

I spot an English language newspaper office, the
Ismailia Post
, housed with the cable office, a not uncommon arrangement since out of town news comes by wire.

“I try to pay my respects at news offices as often as I can,” I tell Frederick, certain that as a thoughtful gentleman, he will urge me to make a brief stop.

He glances in the direction of the establishment. “Yes, quite.” He suddenly points at a store selling musical instruments. “Those drums are fired clay with sheep’s guts stretched over one end. They make a rather good sound.”

I turn cold, then angry.
“Stop the carriage.”

I startle both Frederick and the driver, who reins in the horse and looks back at me.

“You can have this back.” I shove the umbrella at Frederick and step down from the coach, slamming the door behind me.

Frederick stares gravely at me. “What are you doing?”

“I saw your look. You’re trying to divert me from the cable office. You invited me along to make sure I don’t send my editor the story about spies in the marketplace.”

“Regardless of what you think, you must understand that you risk arrest if you send an inflammatory cablegram.”

“I don’t intend to send one. But when I do, you will not be able to stop me.”

I wave down another carriage and tell the driver to take me back to the beach.

I am so mad, I’m ready to howl at the moon and foam at the mouth.

The scheme to keep me on a leash and my lips sealed smacks of Warton in his role as the self-appointed, self-righteous arbiter of my conduct.

I didn’t plan to send a cablegram. I had considered it, but rejected the notion because I’m a foreigner in what amounts to a war zone and I know I could be arrested if I dashed off something sounding of spies and government cover-ups. Besides, I would be going off ill-prepared because I don’t have all the facts. If the story was proved to be wrong, my reputation as a credible journalist would forever be tainted.

The newspaper world in New York is a battlefield, where a publisher’s heart beats with the same rhythm as the paper’s circulation figures. Mr. Pulitzer would drop me like yesterday’s news if I made a mistake that allowed his competitors to hee-haw.

The same is true about the race I’ve undertaken. Sitting in a jail in Egypt, or even being detained for questioning for a few hours while my boat sails, would cost me the race … and my career, my very lifeblood. The
World
has made my trip a lead story, boasting that its reporter will succeed. If I don’t beat the eighty-day mark, I will not only curl up and die from shame, but Mr. Pulitzer will make sure I am a pariah in news reporting.

By the time I reach the beach and hire a boat to take me out to the ship, my anger has evaporated, and the heat and dark thoughts have filled me with weariness and a sense of anxiety to which I can’t put a name.

I feel so alone, so exposed, halfway around the world from friends and family, and not a soul I can turn to. Lord, what I would give to have the man who has trekked pathless jungles and faced charging beasts as a friend and ally. Instead, with every word and thought, my relationship with him goes deeper into a morass.

I realize that the source of the anxiety when I’m being rowed out to the ship is a question.

When is the next shoe going to drop?

20

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary …
sings in my head as I take my late-night constitutional from bow to stern. Perhaps the poem slipped into my thoughts because it was a night in the “bleak December” that Poe’s raven knocked on the door of the lover distraught over the death of the lovely Lenore.

December has come to me, too, and this first day of it is indeed a bleak one—the dark and angry clouds that hung over me have followed me aboard and put me in a melancholy gloom. The thick atmosphere from heat coming off the Arabian Desert presses down on me despite the stingy breeze provided by the forward motion of the ship.

It’s a starless night with a moon that is a pale ghost doing nothing to relieve the darkness, bringing to mind my mother’s belief that ghosts are spirits who have stayed behind because they have unfinished business and need help to cross over to the hereafter.

John Cleveland, of course, is the ghost haunting my mind’s attic and I haven’t been much help in getting his spirit to rest in peace. I don’t want him to end up like Edgar Allan Poe’s character whose soul is trapped beneath the raven’s shadow, to be lifted—“Nevermore!”

Stop it!
Groaning, I hit the side of my head with my palm to knock some sense into it. I don’t know why my mind is always conjuring up these strange thoughts. I’m too superstitious, too willing to accept that there is phenomena beyond my five senses. I’ve even been wondering whether breaking the scarab and throwing it overboard brought an ancient Egyptian curse into my life.

I don’t have to worry about threats from the spirit world—I have plenty to deal with in this one. I just have to keep my own feet grounded and remind myself that the man who instigated Mr. Cleveland’s death puts on his pants one leg at time, the face in the porthole was a real person trying to frighten me, and that the only ghouls around are done on stage with mirrors.

When I reach the bow, I give a quick look behind me to make sure no one is watching because I don’t want to get caught and really give the captain a reason to throw me overboard. Slipping under the rope, I ignore the
NO ENTRY
sign.

The bow is the least-visited area of the ship, roped off to keep passengers from strolling through because it’s where the equipment for hauling up the anchor and raising sails is stored. There’s also a danger of being swept overboard as the ship plows through the sea.

I enjoy my late-night visits to the bow because it gets both port and starboard breezes when the ship is underway, and unless the anchor is being raised or lowered, it’s the quietest place onboard. When we’re in rough seas, I sometimes sneak onto the bow to feel as if I’m riding a giant sea creature as the ship plows deep into waves and then rears back up, blowing back saltwater spray.

I know I’m not the only one violating the captain’s order. The woman in black, also a nocturnal deck walker, uses the area, too. Knowing she desires privacy, I’m careful to avoid the bow when I see her there. I’m glad I don’t see her tonight for I really need this time to be alone.

Away from the deck lights, it’s midnight black as I carefully step over chains and steel cables, and weave around the big winches and lifeboats. I reach the forward end of the ship, my little haven of peace and quiet, and I suddenly realize how tired I am as I lean on the railing and let the warm wind ruffle my hair and clothes. Heat tends to drain my energy and we’ve had days of it in this hot, dry climate that is also afire with political passions.

I hear something behind me and turn as a man slips out from under the canvas cover of a lifeboat—an Egyptian, clad only in a loincloth.

With a large knife.

Letting out a yell, I make a dash amidships but my foot trips on a cable stretched between machinery and I go down, hitting the deck full and flat facedown. His feet find the same cable and he goes down to my left with a startled cry.