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Elliott looked towards the windows. Soft bright sunshine. He did not look back until he'd heard the door close. He waited a few moments, then picked up the telephone and asked for the front desk.
"You have an address for Henry Stratford?"
"He asked that we not give it out, sir."
"Well, this is the Earl of Rutherford, and I am a friend of the family. Please do give it to me."
He memorized it quickly, thanked the clerk and put down the receiver. He knew the street in old Cairo. It was only steps from the Babylon, the French night club where the dancing girl, Malenka, worked. He and Lawrence used to sit and argue in that club by the hour, when there had been dancing boys.
He reaffirmed his vow: whatever else happened, he would find out what he could from Ramsey before they parted as to what had really happened to Lawrence in that tomb.
Nothing would deter him from that, not cowardice, nor dreams of the elixir. He had to know what, if anything, Henry had done.
The door opened quietly. It had to be his man, Walter, the only one who would enter without a knock.
"Nice rooms, my lord?" Too solicitous. He had overheard the argument. He puttered about, wiping the bedside table, adjusting the shade of the lamp.
"Oh, yes, they're fine, Walter. They'll do. And my son, where is he?"
"Downstairs, my lord, and may I tell you a little secret?"
Walter leaned over the bed, hand up to his mouth as if they were in the midst of a crowd rather than in a large empty bedroom with nothing but an empty sitting room opening onto it.
"He's met a pretty girl, downstairs, an American. Name's Barrington, my lord. Rich family from New York. Father in the railroads."
Elliott smiled. "Now, how do you know all that already?"
Walter laughed. He emptied Elliott's ashtray of the cheroot, which had gone out because it burned Elliott's lungs so badly he couldn't smoke it.
"Rita told me, my lord. Saw him not an hour after we checked in. And he's with Miss Barrington now, taking a little walk about in the hotel gardens."
"Well, wouldn't that be interesting, Walter," Elliott said, shaking his head, "if our dear Alex married an American heiress."
"Yes, my lord, it certainly would be interesting," Walter said. "As for the other, do you want the same arrangements as before?" Again Walter assumed a highly confidential air. "Someone to follow him?"
He meant Ramses, of course. He referred to the shameful matter of the boy whom Elliott had hired in Alexandria.
"If you can do it quietly," Elliott said. "They're to watch him night and day, to report to me where he goes and what he does."
He gave Walter a wad of bills, which Walter tucked in his pocket immediately and then went out, closing the door behind him.
Elliott tried to take a deep breath, but the pain in his chest wouldn't allow it; very quietly he took one shallow breath after another. He stared at the white curtains ballooning over the open win
dows. He could hear the bustle and noise of British Cairo outside. He thought about the futility of all of this--following Ramses in the hope of discovering something, anything, about the elixir.
Absurd, really. A little bit of cloak-and-dagger that did no more than fuel Elliott's obsession. There was no doubt now as to what Ramses was; and if he had the elixir with him, undoubtedly he carried it on his person.
Elliott felt ashamed. But that was a small matter. The larger matter was the mystery from which he was utterly shut out. Might as well go to the man and beg for the gift. He had a good mind to call Walter back, to tell him it was all foolishness. But in his heart of hearts he knew he would try one more time to search Ramses' room; and the boy following Ramses might give him some clue as to the man's habits.
It was something to do, wasn't it, other than think about the pain in his chest and in his hip. He closed his eyes; he saw the colossal statues of Abu Simbel again. It seemed to him suddenly that this was the last great adventure of his life, and he realized that he had no regrets, that this excitement had been in itself a priceless gift to him.
And who knows, he laughed softly to himself. Perhaps Alex will find an American heiress.
Ah, she was lovely, and he so liked her voice and the divine sparkle in her eye, for that's just what it was; and how she'd push him lightly with her finger when she laughed. And what a pretty name she had, Miss Charlotte Whitney Barrington.
"And then we thought we'd go to London, but they say it's frightfully cold this time of year, and so gloomy, with the Tower of London and all, where they chopped off Anne Boleyn's head."
"Oh, it wouldn't be if I showed it to you!" he said.
