Free Tomb of the Golden Bird by Elizabeth Peters Page A

"Not the Turf Club, Mrs. Emerson." The young man sounded as if he were quoting. "They have not yet recovered from your last visit. Take tea at Groppi's at five." I was ready for a refreshing cup of tea and one of Groppi's excellent pastries. The ambience was certainly more pleasant than the aggressive masculinity of the Turf Club; lamps with crimson shades cast a soft glow, and footsteps were muted by Persian rugs. Scarcely had I seated myself when a low voice greeted me by name. I looked up to see, not Smith's long nose and pointed chin, but the countenance of a younger man, with a forehead so high his features appeared to have been squeezed into the lower half of his face and miniaturized: a softly rounded chin, a button of a nose, and a mouth as sweetly curved as that of a pretty girl. "Mrs. Emerson, is it not? My name is Wetherby. We spoke earlier today. May I join you?" "By all means," I said. "And then you may explain why your superior sent you instead of coming himself." Mr. Wetherby edged himself into a chair. "He thought it better that he not be seen tete-a-tete with you at the present time. I am completely in his confidence, ma'am, and will report directly to him." "Hmmm," I said. "Very well. I must catch the evening express, so just listen and don't interrupt." My description of Emerson and Ramses's encounter with the arsonists caused him to purse his lips. "Why were we not informed of this earlier?" "I asked you to refrain from interrupting me. Why did your employer not respond more informatively to Emerson's telegram?" "His reply was the simple truth, Mrs. Emerson. We have no idea where the individual in question may be, and we are as anxious as you to locate him." "So you agree that the attackers were searching for—er—that individual?" "It seems likely," Wetherby said cautiously. Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he went on. "It has been almost six weeks since his last report." "And he was at that time where?" It goes against the grain for anyone in the secret service to give up any information whatever. Reluctantly he murmured, "Syria." "Doing what?" "Now really, Mrs. Emerson, you cannot expect me to answer that." "The Official Secrets Act? Such an unnecessary nuisance, these rules. Answer this, then. Who might his adversaries be?" "God only knows," said Mr. Wetherby, in a burst of genuine feeling. "You ought to be in a position to hazard a guess, since you know the nature of his mission," I persisted. "I know what he was supposed to be doing, Mrs. Emerson." "And you will say no more? I see." I glanced at my lapel watch. "I have not time to continue the conversation, Mr. Wetherby. You have been singularly unhelpful." "Believe me, Mrs. Emerson—" "Yes, yes. If it were up to you . . . Please remind Mr. Smith that he once offered to do anything possible to assist me or my family. We are in need of that assistance. I don't like to be spied on and harassed." The rosebud mouth broadened into a smile. "I don't blame you," Wetherby said. "I believe I can safely promise that my superior will take steps to relieve you of that inconvenience. A few false trails . . . You will let us know if you should hear from the individual in question?" "If you will do the same for me." "You have my word." For what that is worth, I thought. At least Mr. Wetherby had a sense of humor, which was more than I could say for Smith. Regretfully I abandoned the remains of my apricot tart, leaving Mr. Wetherby to pay the bill. I arrived at the railroad station in good time. All in all, it had been a profitable day, and after a leisurely meal in the dining car I sought my swaying couch in the consciousness of duty well done. I have never understood why I should dream of Abdullah at such irregular and seemingly unrelated occasions, nor why I always saw him as a young man, black-bearded and vigorous, instead of as the white-haired patriarch he had been at the time of his death. He scarcely ever turned up when I had a particular