AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Ah…’ The potbelly took a deep puff of his water pipe. ‘Information… A most expensive thing to buy. And most delicate. Too delicate for company. Leave us, my dear.’ He slapped one of the cushions that was sort of draped around him from behind. ‘Go on, Vattene!’
The cushion grumbled something. And then, what I had hitherto taken to be a skin-coloured cushion rose to her feet. The half-naked woman curtsied, and hurried away. I stared after her in horror until I could feel Mr Ambrose’s grip around my hand tighten once more.
The fat man’s little pig eyes landed on me. ‘Perhaps it would be better if the Signora leaves, too. We wouldn’t want any secrets to come popping out of that pretty little mouth of hers, now, would we?’
I opened said pretty little mouth to tell him what exactly I thought of him, and where he could stuff his water pipe, but the pressure of Mr Ambrose’s hand stopped me.
‘She stays.’
Ha! I had to work very hard to suppress a triumphant grin - and it still didn’t work. So what? I liked triumphant grins on my face.
‘Very well.’ Bertolino shrugged. ‘It is your funeral. Now - what is it that you wish to know, Signore?’
‘I am looking for a certain group of men.’
The potbelly’s mouth twitched. ‘That should be no problem. Just give me their descriptions. I know every alley of this city.’
‘Ah, but they are not in the city.’
‘I see. That complicates matters slightly, Signore.’
‘And what complicates them further is that I do not know their descriptions.’
‘Their names?’
‘I do not know those either,’ Mr Ambrose admitted.
‘Maledetto!’ Again, that twitch of the fat lips. ‘No names, no faces… How do you know they exist at all, these men you seek?’
‘Because,’ Mr Ambrose told him, his voice ice-cold, ‘they have been killing people.’
The lips stopped twitching. ‘Ah. An effective way of proving your existence to the world.’
‘Indeed.
And also a good way to interrupt business. The men I seek, they have been killing people who are transporting goods. Specifically camel drivers, and other members of caravans that take goods across the Sinai Peninsula, both from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea and vice versa.’
‘Oh, those enterprising gentlemen?’ One of Bertolino’s eyebrows rose. ‘Their deeds are well known to me. There have always been bandit attacks on caravans, but they… they are a different sort. They have made quite a reputation for themselves. You should tread carefully, Signore Thomson.’
Mr Ambrose met the small, mean eyes of the man head-on. ‘So should they.’
Bertolino sat there and puffed on his pipe for a moment, sizing up the lean, hard figure opposite him.
‘Yes, maybe they should.’
A man in fez and kaftan approached Bertolino, and bowed. The fat man’s attention was distracted from Mr Ambrose, and he waved the newcomer closer.
‘You there! What do you want?’
‘A message for you, Signore.’ Bending forward, the newcomer whispered something into Bertolino’s ear. The potbelly nodded, and rose with a groan.
‘Excuse me, for a moment, Signore Thomson, will you? There is a slight matter I must attend to. I won’t be a moment.’
‘Certainly, Signore. I shall wait here.’
I waited impatiently for the fat man to wobble away. The moment he was out of hearing range, a flood of words, kept at bay far too long, burst from my mouth.
‘That… that man! And this place! Bloody hell, I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s abominable! It stinks of chauvinism even more than it stinks of those blasted pipes! Have you seen the men staring at those women?’
