The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense Read Online Free PDF Page B

seldom asked anything for herself. In fact, it was an admirable idea; the village near Cairo where the northern branch of Abdullah’s family lived was not far off, and Sennia would be under the close supervision of dozens of affectionate friends who would prevent her from getting into mischief. I expressed my approval, and Gargery was pleased to agree. Nobody asked Horus for his opinion. “Where is Ramses going?” demanded Sennia, who was nothing if not persistent. “Somewhere you cannot go. We will be back in time for tea.” I left her pouting and Gargery fingering some object in his pocket which I hoped was not a pistol, though I feared it was. He took his duties as Sennia’s guard very seriously. After I had collected Emerson and made him put on a waistcoat and tie, and had changed my blouse, which bore several sticky handprints, we left the hotel and strolled along the Muski, waving away offers from cabdrivers. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Don’t be coy with me, Peabody,” said Emerson amiably. “You are going to the suk, aren’t you, to bully, harass, and interrogate antiquities dealers about Sethos.” “I thought I might ask a few questions of a few people, yes. Wouldn’t that be preferable to having the children prowling about the city after nightfall, with Nefret decked out as Ramses’s — er — his — um —” Emerson shuddered. “Good Gad, yes. But — but she didn’t mean it, did she?” “She meant it.” It is a nice healthy stroll from Shepheard’s to the Khan el Khalili, along the Muski and through the old Fatimite city with its mosques and gateways. Yet how the character of the city had changed! Motorcars and motorbicycles wove hazardous paths among horse-drawn cabs and donkey-drawn carts and caravans of camels. Uniforms were everywhere, the men who wore them as diverse as their insignia: tall rangy Australians and bearded Sikhs, dark-skinned Nubians and pink-cheeked boys fresh from the English countryside. It was a depressing sight. These men, now so bright-eyed and cheerful, were destined for the battlefields of Palestine and Europe, from which most would never return. The Khan el Khalili at least had not changed — the same narrow lanes, covered with matting and lined with small shops selling every variety of goods from silks to carpets to silver. Peddlers and sellers of sweetmeats wended their way through the crowds; a waiter, carrying aloft a tray with small cups of Turkish coffee, hastened to the shopkeeper who had ordered it. Not far from the mosque of the venerated Saint Hosein is the area given over to the stalls of the booksellers, and it was here I hoped to rid myself of the amiable but inconvenient presence of my spouse. Somewhat to my surprise he did not put up much of an argument. “You are calling on Aslimi, I suppose,” he said. “And perhaps a few others.” “Very well.” Emerson took out his watch. “I will give you three hours, Peabody. If you aren’t back by then, I will come looking for you.” “Anything but that!” I exclaimed jestingly. Emerson grinned. “Quite. Enjoy yourself, my love, and don’t buy any fakes.” Aslimi did deal in fake antiquities, as had his father, who had met a very ugly death in his own shop some years before. At first I did not recognize him. He had gained an enormous amount of weight and was almost as fat as his father had been. Seated on the mastaba bench outside his shop, he was importuning passersby in the traditional fashion and in a mixture of languages: “Oh, Howadji, I have beautiful antiquities! Monsieur et madame, écoutez-vous!” and so on. When he saw me he broke off with a gurgle and began wriggling, trying to stand. “Good morning, Aslimi,” I said. “Stay where you are.” Aslimi swallowed. “The Father of Curses —” “Is not with me.” “Ah.” Aslimi put his hands on the approximate region of his waist and sighed heavily. “He gives me pains in the stomach, Sitt Hakim.” “It is as God