Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (19 page)

What a crime that it was I, and not Billy, who was seeing the world. He’d been the avid reader of travel stories, the National Geographic, and so forth. But he’d only got as far as France before he’d been shot and gassed and had to come home again. The Lord works in mysterious ways, all right, and I didn’t approve of a good many of them. Not that the Lord cares, I’m sure.

After the rug seller and our guide came to an agreement about the price of the thing, and Harold turned over an edge of the rug and squinted hard at it for several seconds, I refrained from fainting from shock when the proprietor named his final sum, but merely handed over the dough. But . . . oh, boy. I’d never spent that much money on one thing in my entire life. Well, except for our Chevrolet.

Harold patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, Daisy. That’s a darned good price for that rug. Del’s the rug expert, but he’s taught me a lot, and I think that’s the genuine article.”

“What kind of genuine article?” I asked, puzzled.

“A genuine, authentic Egyptian rug made here and by Egyptians by their own hand. And from the looks of it, it was made a good many years ago.”

“Well . . . why wouldn’t it be?”

Harold chuckled. “I just mean that you got a bargain, sweetie. I turned it over to make sure it was woven by real people and not by any old rug-making machine.”

“I didn’t even know there were such things as rug-making machines.”

“Good Lord, yes.”

Shows how much I knew about anything.

We’d left the hotel early, and by about one o’clock in the afternoon, not only was our guide about to drop from all the souvenirs we’d loaded upon him, but I was about to expire from the heat.

“We’ll go back to the hotel and clean up a bit. Then we can have lunch there,” said Harold. “That all right with you?”

“Perfect,” I panted.

So we hoofed it back to the hotel. Our guide and Harold made arrangements with one of the hotel staff to get our purchases safely transported to our suites, and I, on a whim, staggered over to the reception desk, just to see if any letters had arrived for me since yesterday. To my utter astonishment, a letter awaited me.

It was from Sam. How very odd.

Harold joined me at the desk, and the reception person handed him a couple of letters, too. “All set. I’m having everything carted to my room.” He squinted at me. “Do you need something to drink, Daisy? Your face is flushed and you’re glowing with perspiration.”

Although I wanted to rip open my letter, Harold was correct. My mouth was as dry as the Sahara, which was almost appropriate; and I was sweating like a pig, which wasn’t, since Egyptians didn’t eat pork. I gathered all the spit left in me and said, “Yes, thanks.”

So we went to the bar, where Harold ordered some concoction with alcohol in it for himself and I asked for lemonade. Harold also ordered some sandwiches to be served with our drinks.

Fanning himself with his straw hat—he’d eschewed the pith helmet as being too hot almost as soon as we’d arrived in the country of Egypt—Harold said, “Phew. I’m glad we’re leaving tomorrow.”

I’d already polished off my first glass of lemonade and was working on my second when I said, “Me, too. I’m sure Pasadena gets this hot sometimes, but there’s something about the heat here . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the dust and poverty that makes this heat seem worse here than in Pasadena somehow.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

I ate about a half of a cucumber sandwich, but that was it for me. Harold didn’t seem to mind, as he finished the rest of the sandwiches on the platter. At least he didn’t scold me for not eating more.

“Small wonder everyone takes a nap in the afternoon here. In fact, I think I’m going to do that very thing.”

“Sounds good to me. After I finish the last of the sandwiches, maybe I’ll toddle upstairs and take a nap, too.”

By the time I’d finished my third glass of lemonade and eaten that half of a sandwich, I felt rested enough to make it to my room, where I flopped on the bed fully clothed and slept like the dead for a couple of hours.

I could hardly wait to get back home again.

* * * * *

I’d forgotten all about the letter from Sam until I awoke at about four that afternoon, rolled over, and felt the envelope crinkle underneath me. Then I sat up quickly, removed the envelope which, I regret to say, was rather damp from my having perspired all over it, and carefully opened it.

Dear Daisy,

You probably think I’m crazy to be writing you all these letters, but I’m very concerned about something I’ve learned recently.

I straightened from my slump, shocked. Good heavens, was another flu pandemic abroad in the world, and was it particularly virulent in Egypt? I read on:

Your safety might be at risk. According to the bulletins we’ve been getting, white slavers are still at work in Egypt and other Middle-Eastern and African countries. These people don’t act like villains, you know, but are probably quite personable until they snatch you.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Did Sam Rotondo take me for an absolute ninny? White slavers, my foot. This was 1922, for goodness’ sake! Bristling, I continued to read his missive:

I know you think you can take care of yourself, and you probably think that since you’re a fraud, you’ll be able to spot another one at ten yards, but these people are smart and cruel and can be vicious.

My mouth had dropped open at the word “fraud.” Blast Sam Rotondo to perdition, anyway! I was not a fraud! Maybe I couldn’t actually raise spirits from the grave to chat with their living friends, but I always strived to help people with my work, and I resented being called a fraud. Well . . . Oh, very well, maybe I was a fraud, but I was neither cruel nor vicious, and Sam knew that!

Please be on your guard. I’m sure Harold is a good friend and will try to look out after you, but he’s every bit as naïve as you are. Look out for people who seem too friendly upon first meeting and who attempt to get chummy whether you want them to or not.

I’m not trying to scare you, but I’ve been reading the police bulletins, and I know what I’m talking about. Please be careful. You tend toward rash actions, and if you act impulsively around these organized criminal gangs, rashness might just get you kidnapped or killed. You may not be thinking clearly these days, what with the grievous—

My eyes got stuck on the word grievous. I’d known ever since I’d met him that Sam was no dummy, but I’d never have suspected him of having a vocabulary large enough to include the word grievous. Although I felt like crumpling his darned letter up and heaving it at the waste-paper basket next to the desk, I restrained myself and kept reading. I also tried to keep in mind that Sam was trying to help me out. The fact that he clearly believed me to be an idiot shouldn’t negate his good intentions on my behalf.

Only they did. Nevertheless, I kept reading.

—what with the grievous loss you’ve recently suffered, but keep your eyes open and your wits about you. You’ve got wits. I know that. It just seems to me that you don’t use them quite as often as you should. I hope you won’t take my words amiss.

As if! I didn’t use my wits, my foot! If Sam Rotondo were standing in front of me, I’d stomp on his big, fat policeman’s shoes. Or, better yet, I’d have Spike piddle on one of them. He did that once when he was a puppy, and I’ve loved him all the more for it ever since then.

You’re probably steaming mad at me right now, but I honestly only wanted to warn you about the gangs that may be operating in Egypt while you’re there. You don’t want to get entangled with the police in Egypt, I’m sure. I hear they’re a good deal harder on their prisoners than we here in Pasadena are.

Sincerely,

Sam

Offhand, I couldn’t recall a single other person who could aggravate me the way Sam Rotondo could. Well, Harold’s father had been an ugly specimen, but when he was around he didn’t shove himself into my life the way Sam did. Furious, I slammed the letter on the desk and retired to the bathroom to take a cool bath and wash my hair, which felt as though it had acquired pounds of sand and dust during our perusal of the
souks
.

I was still steaming internally when I joined Harold for dinner that night, although my outsides were much cooler than they’d been when I’d come home from shopping that afternoon. And I didn’t intend to answer Sam’s latest letter, either. So there.

Very well, I know my reaction was childish, but it was still my reaction. I wasn’t about to allow Sam Rotondo, of all people, to spoil the remainder of my visit to Egypt. Not that I’d been enjoying it a whole lot before his letter arrived. Still . . .

“You look a little flushed, Daisy. Are you feeling all right?”

I glanced at Harold over my menu. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Hmmm. Your cheeks are very pink. Maybe you got a touch too much sun today.”

“Probably.” Drat it! If there was anything I didn’t want, it was healthy-looking pink cheeks! No self-respecting spiritualist would run around with pink cheeks. Fortunately, I knew from whence the color in my cheeks had come, and it wasn’t from the pernicious sun. It was from the pernicious Sam Rotondo. Because I didn’t want to worry Harold, I didn’t tell him about Sam’s fairy story about criminal gangs of white slavers.

I considered it fortunate that Mr. Stackville didn’t show up during our meal to spoil our last evening in Egypt.

We made an early night of it, and I was in bed and asleep by ten o’clock. The next morning, I dressed in a pretty blue lightweight traveling costume and wore white sandals and a white straw hat along with it. I felt far from cool in my costume, but at least I wasn’t as hot as poor Harold, who had to wear one of his white linen suits or be considered by fellow tourists as totally beyond the pale. Stupid traditions. I think everyone who visits Egypt in August should be assigned loose white robes to wear, but nobody asked me.

Our luggage was loaded and we were just about to step into the motor that would take us to the train station when Mr. Stackville hurried up to us. He looked perturbed. I didn’t care about his state of perturbation. I wanted to get out of there, and didn’t appreciate this interruption of our plans on his part.

“Missus Majesty! Mister Kincaid! Please wait up a minute.”

I didn’t wait. I climbed into the automobile. Harold, much more polite than I, hesitated and turned to greet Mr. Stackville with a smile that appeared genuine to me. Clearly, Harold didn’t share my opinion of the pushy Mr. Stackville. “Oh, good. Glad you’re here, old man.” He stuck out his hand. “Daisy and I can’t take this heat, so we’re departing for cooler climes today.”

“You’re leaving?” Stackville said, as if thunderstruck.

His reaction seemed peculiarly odd to me, and I stared at him through the window of the automobile, trying to discern the motive of what seemed to me to be exaggerated surprise. Not being a mind-reader, no matter what Sam Rotondo accuses me of, I couldn’t do it.

Evidently Harold was taken aback by Stackville’s alarm, too. “Why, yes. It’s just too damned hot here for us. Sorry we won’t be around to chat anymore, but you see how it is. My sister’s health is a trifle fragile. Has been ever since . . . well, since the tragedy.”

So he was blaming our early departure on me, was he? Well, I couldn’t say as how I blamed him. One almost has to make up little white lies occasionally in order to abide by the rules of social convention.

Mr. Stackville bent over and peered at me through the window. “Where will you be going?”

And why, exactly, was our destination of interest to Mr. Stackville? I thought he was being quite pushy. As usual. Therefore, before Harold could reply with our complete itinerary, I said, “Oh, we haven’t decided yet. We’ll take the train to
Constantinople and decide where to go from there.”

Harold blinked at me but didn’t contradict me.

“Are you sure you want to leave Egypt so soon? Before you’ve seen everything? I’m sure the weather will break before long.” Stackville was beginning to sound downright worried, and I recalled the letter from Sam I’d read the night before and which had annoyed me so much.

Hmm. Perhaps Sam wasn’t merely being an obnoxious butter-inner after all. Could Stackville be . . .? But no. The notion was absurd. White slavery was utter nonsense, and to think that Mr. Stackville was an honest-to-God white slaver was merely silly.

Maybe.

Before Harold could say anything more to Stackville, I spoke rather sharply to him. “Come along, Harold. We’ll miss the train. Good-bye, Mister Stackville.” You may notice I refrained from saying it had been a pleasure meeting him.

“But . . .”

But nothing. Harold climbed into the automobile next to me, tapped the driver on the shoulder, and we took off, leaving a huge plume of dust to follow along behind us. I hoped Mr. Stackville and his pretty white suit got smothered in the stuff.

As soon as he was settled and the car was moving, Harold turned to me. “I know you don’t like Stackville, but why were you in such an all-fired hurry to get away from the hotel? We have plenty of time to catch our train. We could at least have had a last drink with him or something so as not to appear totally rude.”

I contemplated a lot of things before answering Harold’s question. Should I bring up Sam’s letter and his reference to slavery gangs preying on tourists? If I did, Harold might well scoff. I’d scoffed at first when I’d read the letter. But Stackville’s behavior when he saw us loading our trunks into the car that would take us to the train station added a certain amount of weight to Sam’s words. Still and all, just because I disliked Stackville didn’t mean he was a criminal. And I didn’t like to be laughed at any more than anyone else does.