Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters Page A

assignment had been the railroad station. “No luck?” he inquired.
    “No. And you?” Emerson asked.
    “A man of his general description took the morning express to Cairo. It isn’t conclusive,” Ramses added quickly. “You know how obliging Egyptians are about supplying the information they think you want to hear. None of them remembered the portmanteau or that gaudy stickpin he usually wears.”
    A dismal silence fell. “It looks bad,” Cyrus muttered. “Now what do we do?”
    Everyone looked at me. It was most gratifying. “Have luncheon,” I said, and led the party into the dining salon.
    We were well known to the management of that excellent hostelry and had no difficulty in getting a table. Over a bottle of wine and a meal Cyrus hardly touched, we put our heads together. Cyrus’s first idea, that we should wire the Cairo police immediately, seemed the obvious course; but I felt bound to point out its weakness.
    “If Martinelli has learned anything from his former master, who was, as we all know, a master of disguise—”
    “Yes, we do know,” grunted Emerson. “Pray do not go off on a long-winded and wholly unnecessary lecture, Peabody. The bastard may have altered his appearance, but we must at least make the attempt.” He bit savagely into a roll.
    I took advantage of his tirade to finish my soup. I always say there is no sense in allowing worry to affect one’s appetite.
    “I agree,” said Ramses. “We are fortunate in being well acquainted with the assistant commandant of the police. Russell will act on our request without the necessity for explanations.”
    “What if he finds the jewelry?” Cyrus demanded.
    “Then we will have it back,” I replied. “No, Emerson, do not you go off on a long-winded and wholly unnecessary lecture. Russell owes us a great deal—at least he owes Ramses a great deal, for his services to the police and the military during the war—and we may be able to get out of this without Sethos’s name being mentioned. That is supposing Russell is able to apprehend Martinelli, which I consider to be unlikely.”
    Emerson had wolfed his food down at a great rate. Now he pushed his plate away and rose. “I will go to the telegraph office.”
    “How many telegrams do you mean to send?” I inquired.
    He stood looking down at me. “Two. Perhaps three.”
    I sighed. “I suppose we must. Do you have the addresses?”
    Emerson nodded brusquely and turned away.
    “Hmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “Who’re the other telegrams going to?”
    “You can probably guess,” Nefret said.
    “Reckon I can. Shall we retire to the terrace for coffee and some confidential conversation?”
    It was a bright, warm day. The twin terraces of the Winter Palace, reached by a pair of handsome curved stairs, were high enough above the road so that the clouds of dust kicked up by feet and hooves did not reach us, and the noonday sun sparkled on the river. Tourists were returning from their morning trips. Cyrus took out his cheroot case, and after asking our permission, lighted one. Wine and tobacco had calmed him, and his habitual keen intelligence was once again in the fore. In a way I was sorry for that. For years we had put Cyrus off about certain matters, some personal, some professional. Our responsibility for his present dilemma made it impossible, in my opinion, to keep the truth from him. Anyhow, we would have enough trouble keeping track of the lies we would have to invent for Russell and/or Lacau.
    “So you’ve kept in touch with your old pal the Master Criminal?” Cyrus inquired. “You even know his current address. Where the devil is he?”
    “I’m not sure where he is at this moment,” I admitted. “He has a house in Cornwall and a flat in London, but he travels a great deal.”
    “I’ll just bet he does,” Cyrus said. “All right so far, Amelia. Now—who the devil is he?”
    I looked at my children, who were seated side by side, their fingers entwined.