The Illusion of Murder (24 page)

34

I check in first before Frederick and wander a bit, looking over the hotel as I wait for him.

The Grand Oriental is a fine, large hotel, with tiled arcades and airy and comfortable corridors, furnished with easy chairs and small marble-topped tables which stand close enough to the broad armrests for one to sip the cooling lime squashes or the exquisite native tea or to enjoy the delicious fruit while resting in an attitude of ease and laziness.

I have found no place away from America where smoking is prohibited, and in this lovely promenade the men smoke, consume gallons of whiskey and soda, and peruse the newspapers, while the women read their novels or bargain with the pretty little copper-colored women who come to sell dainty handmade lace, or with the clever, high-turbaned merchants who snap open little velvet boxes and expose, to the admiring gaze of the charmed tourists, the most bewildering gems.

My wide eyes see deeply dark emeralds, fire-lit diamonds, exquisite pearls, rubies like pure drops of blood, the lucky cat’s-eye with its moving line, and all set in such beautiful shapes that even the men, who would begin by telling the vendors, “I have been sold before by some of your kind,” would end by laying down their cigars and papers and examining the glittering ornaments that tempt all alike.

“I could take up permanent residence here,” I tell Frederick when he joins me in the lobby.

I immediately plop down on a large lounge chair, feeling wonderfully lazy, sipping a lime squash, while Frederick enjoys a cold beer and a fine cigar.

He is both intriguing and attractive, when I’m not annoyed at him. I have met men like him before, men of the West who live by the gun—shooting buffalo and bears of course, not lions and elephants. Generally, they are hardened, solitary souls, rough-hewed in all aspects, who prefer the companion of prairie dogs over humans.

Frederick, though, is a cultured gentleman. Educated at prestigious Rugby, he told me that he had prepared to become a lawyer before abandoning law for stomping through the jungle, facing dangers, and treading where no European or American has ever been.

When I am with him my suspicions melt and I feel warm and comfortable, even a sense of freedom, feelings I don’t often get with men. Too often a man tries to pigeonhole me into a role as helpmate, a sex mate, or a kitchen maid—anything but an independent woman with a career.

Frederick nods toward a high-turbaned merchant who has snapped open little velvet boxes and exposed all types of jewelry to guests seated nearby. “You’ll find that most of the jewelry bought and sold in Colombo is sold in the corridor right here, in the Grand Oriental Hotel. It’s much pleasanter than visiting the shops.”

“I heard on the ship that the gems in Colombo are a good value.”

“Quite so. No woman who lands at Colombo ever leaves until she adds several rings to her jewelry box, and these rings are so well known that the moment a traveler sees one, no difference in what part of the globe, he says to the wearer, inquiringly, ‘Been to Colombo, eh?’ Let’s get him over to show his wares.”

“Sounds like fun, but I can’t afford it, nor can I add anything to my valise—there’s no space.”

“Then, you can add it to your finger or around your neck so your case remains unburdened.” He holds up his hand to quell my objection. “I know I have been a bore and cad toward you. I want to make it up to you.”

I catch my breath. This gorgeous man is going to buy me a gem. I would love a blue sapphire to match his dazzling eyes.

He turns to call over the gem merchant when a woman so beautiful that she puts to shame the sparkling rubies and sapphires of Ceylon glides toward us.

Frederick pauses in mid-motion, freezing in place, and gawks as if the Queen of Sheba has entered.

“Oh there you are, Nellie dear.” Sarah flutters her handkerchief at me. She is not wearing her netted veil, but has it in her hand. “I was worried that we’d end up at different hotels.”

“Good heavens!”

The exclamation comes from Frederick. It was a shout, but one that was barely audible, a shouted whisper, hoarse and full of awe, surprise, and amazement.

I hear his quiet exclamation loud and clear, and I know exactly what the next words will be.

“Sarah Bernhardt!”

A man of the world, cultured and educated, would no doubt have seen her on the stage in London and Paris. His tone is that of a love slave worshipping a goddess.

The gem merchant gives me a look and I shake my head, sending him away.

Like all men who have gazed upon the Divine Sarah, Frederick’s mind was gone, destroyed, no longer capable of rational thought or action. At the moment Frederick wouldn’t remember to buy me a lump of coal if I was freezing.

Scrunching back, I shrivel up, tucking in my chin, clutching my arms to my body, curling my fists, feeling small and gawky, an ugly duckling in the presence of a graceful swan.

35

We part for our rooms to unpack and freshen up with an invitation for Sarah and me to join Frederick in two hours for
tiffin
, which he tells us is the name for lunch on the Indian subcontinent.

The invite places me in the awkward position of grinning and bearing the fact that I must share his attention with one of the most desirable women in the world … or sulk in my room.

I graciously accept rather than succumb to my lower instincts and appear petty and jealous.

After a cool, refreshing bath, I dress hastily and leave my room. I have an errand to run and need to get it done before I meet them for lunch.

I decide a rickshaw will get me to my destination faster than pedaling my feet.

There is a definite scent as we move along the street, and it is not the city making it. Besides dressing in nothing but a sash around their private parts, these rickshaw drivers cover themselves in an oil or grease. When the day is hot and they run and sweat, one wishes they were wearing more clothing and less oil! The grease has an original odor that is entirely its own.

I have a shamed feeling about going around the town in a cart drawn by a man, but after I have gone a short way, it occurs to me that this work is the way the man earns an income to feed his family.

The roads I’ve seen are perfect. I can’t decide, to my own satisfaction, whether the smoothness of the road is due to the entire and blessed absence of beer wagons, or to the absence of the New York street commissioners.

My destination is the local newspaper office at which I find two clever young Scots who run both of the city’s newspapers. They are quite excited by the story of my trip and ask many questions.

Inquiring about news coming out of Egypt, I’m told that there have been reports of murderous attacks by Mahdi terrorists but no mention of one in a Port Said marketplace, and I do not pursue the subject further.

When it is time for me to leave, I put into action my plan of deceit.

Knowing that the newspapermen are in constant touch with the local cable office, I pass them the draft of my cables and money to cover the transmissions to my editor in New York and to the London correspondent of the
World
. “Could I get you to send these off for me?” I ask sweetly. “I am tied up this afternoon…”

They kindly take charge of the dispatches, promising to cable them as soon as possible.

The New York message contains a brief summary of events since I left Port Said, omitting any reference to the attempts on my life or the incident in the marketplace; the London cable asks the correspondent for information about cutlery salesman John Cleveland and a background check.

I request a reply to Hong Kong since that would provide time for a thorough check.

Now I don’t have to worry about being followed to the cable office or being treated like an agent provocateur.

*   *   *

A
S
I
MAKE MY WAY BACK
for
tiffin
, I leave the rickshaw a few blocks from the hotel so I might enjoy the exotic sights on the streets, especially the snake charmers. They are almost naked fellows, sometimes with ragged jackets on and sometimes turbans on their heads, but more often the head is bare. They execute a number of tricks in a very skillful manner.

The most wonderful of these tricks, to me, is that of growing a tree. They show a seed, then place the seed on the ground and cover it with a handful of earth. They cover this little mound with a handkerchief, which they first pass around to be examined, that we might be positive there is nothing hidden in it.

Over this they chant, and after a time the handkerchief is taken off and having appeared up through the ground is a green sprout.

Those of us gathered around look at it incredulously, while the performer says, “Tree no good; tree too small,” and covering it up again he renews his chanting. Once more he lifts the handkerchief and we see the sprout is larger, but still it does not please the trickster, for he repeats, “Tree no good; tree too small,” and covers it up again.

This is repeated until he has a tree several feet high. Then he pulls it up, and shows us the seed and roots.

Then the trickster asks if we want to “see the snake dance?”

I say that I would, but that I will pay to see the snake dance and for nothing else.

All of us take steps back as the man lifts the lid of a basket, and a cobra crawls slowly out, curling itself up on the ground.

Like its Egyptian cousin, this is one of the deadliest creatures on Earth, yet the snake charmer moves casually about it, as if he’s dealing with a harmless garden snake.

The “charmer” begins to play on a little fife. The serpent rises up steadily, its neck fanning as it darts angrily at the flute, rising higher at every motion until it seems to stand on the tip end of its tail.

The snake suddenly darts for the man, but in a flash he cunningly catches it by the head and with such a grip that I see the blood gush from the snake’s month.

He works for some time, still firmly holding the snake by the head before he can get it into the basket, the reptile meanwhile lashing the ground furiously with its tail.

When at last the snake is covered from sight, I draw a long breath, and the charmer says to me sadly: “Cobra no dance, cobra too young, cobra too fresh!”

Quite right; the cobra is too fresh!

I generously tip the charmer for the sake of his family. I suspect snake charming is not an occupation with a bright future.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how the trick is done?”

Von Reich gives me a grin. I hadn’t seen him approaching.

“This one is obvious, isn’t it? The snake sways to the music—”

He is already shaking his head. “It cares nothing for the music. It’s the motion of the flute that the snake is following. Cobras are used because they seem to get transfixed by the motion and are relatively slow moving when they strike, at least compared to other snakes. That one was too young; it needs to be housebroken, so to speak.”

“Are you staying at the Grand Oriental?” I ask as we walk in the direction of the hotel.

“No, unfortunately, a lesser establishment. By the time I arrived, all the rooms were taken. I did not have the benefit of a seasoned traveler in these parts racing me to shore.”

I let the remark fly by without retort, but praise the Lord that the Wartons are probably not at my hotel, either.

The Viennese gentleman strokes his long golden mustache and gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as we walk.

“I am hurt, Fräulein, that you find the company of that English hunter much more pleasant than mine.”

“Not at all. I have accepted Mr. Selous’s overtures a few times because you have been busy romancing every available woman on board. Not to mention some who are supposed to be
unavailable.
”

He gives me a small chuckle. “I am merely trying to give a little companionship to lonely women.”

“Some of these lonely women I see you flirting with have husbands.”

“I’m doing their husbands a favor, too. They can enjoy their cigars and brandy, and I can enjoy their wives.”

He gets a big laugh out of his own wit and I join him.

“Well, at least you are honest about your evil intentions.” I decide to go on a fishing trip. “Did, uh, Lord Warton tell you that he made some rather nasty allegations against my character?”

“Little mention is made of you around his lordship because he tends to go into a fit of apoplexy whenever your name is spoken.”

Another roar of laughter from him.

“You understand, of course,” I say, “I am entirely innocent of wrongdoing.”

“Of course you’re
not
innocent, at least to him. He believes you are a nosy newspaper reporter who is determined to stick her nose into a controversy over who will keep control of that ditch that connects the Mediterranean to the Red Sea.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I believe you have a very pretty nose. And that it is going to get cut off if you keep sticking it in places where you shouldn’t.”