He Shall Thunder in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters

motorcar was still here I assumed you would be back sooner or later. Might one inquire —”
         “No, not yet,” said Emerson. “Was it here at Shepheard’s that you had your — er — accident?”
         “No, sir. It was at the Club. I dined there before coming on to meet you.” His lips closed tight, but Emerson continued to fix him with that cold blue stare, and after a moment he said reluctantly, “I got into a little argument.”
         “With whom?” his father inquired.
         “Father —”
         “With whom?”
         “A chap named Simmons. I don’t think you know him. And — well — Cartwright and Jenkins. Egyptian Army.”
         “Only three? Good Gad, Ramses, I had thought better of you.”
         “They didn’t fight like gentlemen,” Ramses said.
         The corners of his mouth turned up a trifle. Ramses’s sense of humor is decidedly odd; it is not always easy for me to ascertain whether he is attempting to be humorous.
         “Are you attempting to be humorous?” I inquired.
         “Yes, he is,” Nefret said, before Ramses could reply. “But he is not succeeding.”
         Ramses caught the eye of the waiter, who hurried to him, ignoring the urgent demands of other patrons. Being snubbed by the Anglo-Egyptian community has only raised Ramses in the opinions of native Cairenes, most of whom admire him almost as much as they do his father.
         “Would you like a whiskey and soda, Mother?” he asked.
         “No, thank you.”
         “Nefret? Father? I will have one, if you don’t mind.”
         I did mind, for I suspected he had already had more than was good for him. Catching Emerson’s eye, I remained silent.
         Nefret did not. “Were you drunk tonight?” she demanded.
         “Not very. Where did you go with Russell?”
         Emerson told him, in some detail.
         “Ah,” said Ramses. “So that was what he wanted. I suspected as much.”
         “He told us you had refused to help him find Wardani,” Emerson said. “Ramses, I know you rather like the rascal —”
         “My personal feelings are irrelevant.” Ramses finished his whiskey. “I don’t give a damn what Wardani does so long as David is not involved, and I won’t use any influence I may have with Wardani to betray him to Russell.”
         “The Professor felt the same,” Nefret said quietly. “He only wanted to talk to the man. We tried to warn him —”
         “How kind. I wonder if he knows that.” He turned in his chair, looking for the waiter.
         “It is time we went home,” I said. “I am rather tired. Ramses? Please?”
         “Yes, Mother, of course.”
         I let Emerson go ahead with Nefret, and asked Ramses to give me his arm. “When we get home I will rub some of Kadija’s ointment onto your face,” I said. “Is it very painful?”
         “No. As you have so often remarked, the medicinal effects of good whiskey —”
         “Ramses, what happened? That looks like the mark of a riding crop or whip.”
         “It was one of those fashionable little swagger sticks, I think,” Ramses said. He opened the door and helped me into the tonneau.
         “Three of them against one,” I mused, for I now had a clear idea of what had occurred. “Contemptible! Perhaps they will be too ashamed of themselves to mention the incident.”
         “Everyone who was at the Club knows of it, I expect,” Ramses said.
         I sighed. “And everyone in Cairo will know of it tomorrow.”
         “No doubt,” Ramses agreed, with — I could not help thinking — a certain relish.
         I had never known Ramses to drink more than he ought, or allow himself to be drawn into a vulgar brawl. Something was preying on his mind, but unless he chose to confide in me there was nothing I could do to help him.
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