Covert in Cairo, page 13
“You don’t even know yourself,” I said under my breath. What would it take to persuade Clifford that his pal, Fredrick Fredricks, was indeed a bad sort, a German spy, and a scoundrel?
“What about Carter?” Clifford had the good sense to change the subject. “Isn’t he our chap? He nearly punched Jean-Baptiste at the ball.”
“His alibi holds.” I stirred milk into my tea. In my head, I sang along with “What Child is This,” one of my favorites and a melody sure to stay with me all day. At least the music was soothing… that and the tea. Ahhh. I was feeling better already.
“You’ll never believe it.” Kitty’s eyes danced. “He and Lady Evelyn—”
I reached under the table and pinched her leg.
“Ouch!” She glared at me. I’d promised Lady Evelyn to keep her secret. And once Clifford knew it, the entirety of Cairo, if not all of Egypt and Continental Europe, would know it too.
“Carter and Lady Evelyn?” Clifford rubbed his hands together. “She is a lovely girl.”
Seventeen-year-old girl, to be exact. I changed the subject before he could dive headfirst into gossip. “Let’s review our list of suspects.” I flipped the page in my notebook. “Who shall we interview next?”
“I love a good intrigue as much as the next person, but aren’t we getting distracted from our mission?” Kitty poked at her rice pudding. “We’re supposed to locate Fredricks and foil any plans to blow up the Suez Canal, remember?”
A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “Fredricks was having us on.” Having me on, more like. “My hunch is that, disguised as the stranger, he purposely dropped the map, and left clues on the tablecloth, to throw us off the scent of his true plan.”
“Which is?” Clifford used his knife to corral his last spoonful of beans.
“Uniting the Muslim world against the British.” I gritted my teeth. “And turning our territories against us.”
“Good lord.” Clifford dropped his cutlery and stared at me. “You can’t be serious, old bean.”
“I believe Agent Relish was attacked because he discovered La Sultana’s performances at the Isis Theater are coded messages.” I slathered a second piece of toast with thick-cut marmalade. “We have to find out what he knew. We have to get back to the theater and break those codes.” Poppy preferred her toast with butter, so I broke off a corner and buttered it.
If I was right, Fredricks had used the Suez Canal plot as a ruse to lure me to Cairo. The business about Crocodile Lake was old intel. I knew that from the file I’d seen back at the War Office. Captain Hall had assured me the canal was safe. Why did I still have an uneasy feeling?
“We’re not in the business of cannons and machine guns. We trade in information.” Information that can stop cannons and machine guns. “We need those codes.”
“I heard Relish died in hospital when some daft nurse gave him too much morphine.” Clifford scraped the last of his scrambled eggs onto his fork.
My cheeks burned. “That daft nurse was me!”
“Blimey.” The color drained from his face. “I had no idea, old thing. How did it—”
I sat my cup down a tad too hard and chipped the saucer. “It was an accident.” That grassy smell came back to haunt me. I pushed my plate away. “All the more reason we need to get to the bottom of this.” Two dead men, one a British agent. A theater full of secret codes, both German and Arabic. And Fredrick Fredricks conniving and scheming to overthrow the British Empire.
Sputtering, Clifford stared at me from across the table.
“What about Fredrick Fredricks?” Although she’d hardly eaten a bite, Kitty pushed her dish away too. “Could he be our man?”
The girl had read my mind. “He was attacked along with Agent Relish. Still, he could have killed Jean-Baptiste.” I tossed my napkin onto the table. “But why? Unless the Frenchman was a double agent.” I wrote Fredricks’s name at the top of my list of suspects.
I might as well write his name at the top of every page of my notebook. Whatever the crime, he was always a suspect. “We need to locate the scoundrel and detain him.” I felt sure the murders were connected to the code in La Sultana’s performance. “Due diligence requires we interview the other suspects, all of whom are easier to find at the moment than that slippery eel, Fredricks.”
I snapped my notebook shut. “Clifford, dear, why don’t you interview General Clayton and find out what you can? After all, he did challenge Jean-Baptiste to a duel.” I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. “Kitty and I will pay a visit to Lady Enid. Then we will reconvene to compare notes before the performance tonight.”
“Jolly good idea.” Clifford threw his napkin onto the table. “I’ll head for the Arab Bureau right now.”
I could always count on Clifford’s willingness to play Sherlock Holmes. While he tackled the gentleman, we could grill the lady.
“While you’re at the Arab Bureau.” I pulled the chemise from my handbag. “Can you get Major Lawrence or Miss Bell to translate this script?”
Clifford sputtered and blushed. “Women’s lingerie?”
I took out my notebook and pencil and transcribed from memory the other script I’d seen on the Harlequin jacket. Penning the Arabic letters was more like drawing than writing since I was clueless as to their meaning. They were so vivid in my mind’s eye, I could trace their shapes perfectly. I ripped the page from my notebook. “This too.”
Obviously still not recovered from touching silk lingerie, blank-faced, Clifford accepted the page.
“Surely you’ve seen women’s underwear before?” I grinned.
He was, after all, a grown man well into his late thirties.
“I say, Fiona.” His cheeks went as red as burnt ochre.
Suppressing my laughter, I patted his hand. “Off you go, old boy.”
Half an hour later, Kitty and I arrived at Lady Enid’s house. Like most British residents, General Clayton and Lady Enid lived near Azbakeya gardens. Their house was not as grand as our hotel, but not modest either.
A maid answered the door.
“British Intelligence.” I flashed my credentials.
The maid led us through an arched foyer, and showed us into the parlor, which was decorated with colorful pillows and fabrics in Egyptian style—except for dried fruit and glass Christmas ornaments hanging from a potted palm. A thick Persian rug covered the center of the room. A festive garden scene was woven into the rug’s orange background.
Orange and green fibers. I elbowed Kitty and whispered, “The rug.”
As soon as the maid left the room, graceful as a swan, Kitty swooped to the carpet and back up again in one nimble movement. She plucked a few fibers from the rug and dropped them into the pocket of her frock.
When the maid returned with a tea tray, Kitty and I were installed in a charming sitting area near a fireplace. The nights were chilly, yes. But a fireplace in Cairo seemed a bit excessive.
The maid poured us each a cup of strong brew and then offered milk and sugar. I took a splash of milk and Kitty took three heaped spoons of sugar. Whether to calm the nerves or invigorate the mind, a nice cuppa was always welcome.
A few minutes later, Lady Enid appeared, wearing a khaki riding jacket, matching skirt, and her jaunty slouch hat. To my surprise, her outfit at the ball wasn’t a costume but her normal attire. The entire ensemble hung off her like a flour sack, otherwise she could have been mistaken for a regular in the Royal Horse Artillery.
Unlike other ladies, her leathered face suggested she’d spent considerable time out in the sun without an umbrella.
Lady Enid didn’t flinch when I asked her whereabouts after the ball. As if expecting the question, she recounted overseeing the staff cleanup and then going to bed shortly after midnight.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Jean-Baptiste?” I sipped my tea, which was extraordinarily strong and bitter.
“No clue.” She shrugged and smiled. She poured herself a cup of tea as if I’d asked the whereabouts of a missing hairpin.
“Does this mean anything to you?” I pulled out my notebook and showed her Jean-Baptiste’s mysterious notation.
She took my notebook and studied it. “HG at GAI 11.” She repeated the phrase over and over like a mantra. Her eyes lit up and she slapped the notebook against her knee. “I’ll bet it means DAI, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut. It’s a beautiful facility. Too bad it’s still owned by the Germans.”
I blinked at her.
“The German Archeology Institute. GAI.” She passed the notebook back to me.
Aha! “Where might that be?” I took up my pen.
“You would have driven right past it. It’s between your hotel and the Arab Bureau.” She waved toward the east. “That handsome but boarded-up building.”
Of course. I remembered passing it. I made a note. So, Jean-Baptiste had met someone at the German Archeology Institute the night before he died.
But who?
“Do you know anyone with the initials HG?” Kitty nibbled on a tea biscuit.
I held my breath, waiting for the answer.
Lady Enid thought for a minute and then shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You might ask my husband. He knows everyone.”
I’d solved the second half of the code. I only hoped Clifford came back with the first. If anyone could drag it out of the general, it was good old unassuming Clifford.
13
THE HUNT
Back at the hotel, I took a table on the terrace to wait for Clifford while Kitty dashed up to the room to check on Poppy. Or perhaps to run another forensic test she’d learned at “boarding school” in France.
I ordered tea for myself, and for Kitty I ordered something called an aseer asab, a local concoction the color of pea soup, which she informed me was sugar cane juice.
A warm breeze carried the smells of the street below wafting up to the terrace. Pungent barnyard smells from passing horses and goats mixed with the aromas of spicy roasted meats and sweet treats from street vendors. The sounds of hawkers, carriages, and chatter reached the terrace too. A cacophony of smells and sounds as invigorating as the city of Cairo itself.
To think, back in London people were bundled up in heavy winter coats or sitting wrapped in shawls in front of their fireplaces. I smiled to myself. Hard to believe it was almost Christmas in the eternal summertime of Egyptian afternoons.
On the walkway below, travelers from the four corners of the earth passed by, enlivening the scene. Cairo was buzzing with life and Shepheard’s Hotel was its beating heart, at least as far as my countrymen were concerned.
After several odd looks from waiters and tourists alike, I examined my clothing and adjusted my wig. I wasn’t in disguise, so it couldn’t be a mustache gone awry or beard dangling off my chin. Deuced unnerving. Was a woman alone such an unusual sight?
I was about to go check myself in a looking glass when Kitty arrived. Her cheeks flushed as she took a seat across from me. She laid her beaded cat bag on the table. Such an adorable bag. I really needed to ask where she got it.
The waiter delivered my tea and Kitty’s disgusting green beverage. My floral china cup arrived on a matching saucer with a delicate biscuit accompanying it. The sugar juice came in a tall glass on a saucer with the same small biscuit.
“I’m truly sorry, Aunt Fiona.” The girl looked distraught. “But Poppy’s had another wee accident.”
Wee accident was right. “I trust you cleaned it up before the hotel staff find it and charge the War Office for damages.” I closed my eyes. Sigh. This must be what it was like to have a daughter.
“I say.” Clifford appeared out of nowhere. Beads of perspiration had formed on his ample forehead. “Let me settle up and then you girls come along.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face, which was beet red.
“What’s going on?” I hadn’t finished my tea—I’d barely started it—and I wasn’t about to leave until I had. “Come along where?”
“I went to the Arab Bureau to find General Clayton.” He sounded out of breath. “Who do you think I saw there?” He was panting. “Lawrence and Gertrude. They were arguing about some Bedouins they’d misplaced or some such.” He sucked in air.
“Why don’t you sit down and have a nice cuppa…” I patted the seat next to mine. “Before you burst a blood vessel.”
“We don’t have time.” He sat down anyway.
“Why ever not?” I stared at him.
His usually sleepy blue eyes were on high alert. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—”
“Well, spit it out, man.” If I didn’t keep him on track, it would be teatime before we found out what he was nattering on about.
“I went to the bureau—”
“Then what?” Kitty smiled encouragingly.
“Gertrude told incredible stories about living in the desert for weeks.” He smiled. “Can you imagine a woman alone in the desert?”
“Clifford, dear.” I gave him a stern look.
“Right. Well. I asked after General Clayton, you see.” He mopped his brow. “And Gertrude said she’d found him the morning after the ball sleeping in his office. Seems he and his wife had a huge row.”
“He didn’t go home after the ball?” There goes General Clayton’s alibi.
“What were they fighting about?” Kitty nibbled on her biscuit.
“That’s just it.” Clifford’s blue eyes danced. “Jean-Baptiste. And that’s not all…” He flashed a sly smile. “Gertrude said his white shirt was splattered with red stains.”
“Blood?” I nearly choked on my biscuit.
Clifford nodded, obviously pleased with himself. “We’ll find the general at the Gezira Sporting Club. But we need to hurry.”
Good grief. “That dreadful place with the fox hunts and overheated English hounds?”
“Yes.” Clifford’s face lit up. “We’ve got to hop it if we’re going to catch the start of the hunt.” He glanced at his watch.
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“We’re going on a hunt?” Kitty downed the dregs of her disgusting green drink. “Count me in.”
Had the girl lost her mind? “We’re going to the club to find the general. Not to engage in nasty blood sports,” I huffed.
Before I knew it, talking a mile a minute, Clifford had bustled us out to a taxi. “Gezira Sporting Club, please. And hop it. We don’t want to be late for the hunt.”
The cab driver looked us over and shook his head. “No ladies allowed.”
“You don’t transport ladies?” I’d never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.
“The sporting club doesn’t allow ladies on the hunt.” The driver gave an apologetic shrug. “Ladies can attend tea parties and dances.”
“Tea parties and dances.” Arms akimbo, I stood on the curb, wondering what to do next. “Blasted boys’ club.”
“Sorry, old girl.” Clifford opened the back door to the taxi.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I stepped in front of him. “You aren’t going without me—”
“What about me?” Kitty said. “I can shoot as well as any man.”
I gave her an approving nod. “Without us.”
“But, but, but…” Stammering, Clifford stepped away from the taxi. “No girls allowed, old thing.”
“Don’t you worry.” I patted his arm. “Give us ten minutes to change and we’ll be presentable to your hunting pals, old thing.”
Slightly more than ten minutes later—and much giggling from Kitty—we had transformed into Rear Admiral Arbuthnot and Harold the helpful bellboy.
It would have been more exciting to try a new disguise but reusing two of my past personae was more economical. Shopping at Angel’s Fancy Dress in London was not inexpensive. And the War Office refused to pay for my “getups,” as Captain Hall called them.
Kitty’s petite frame and fresh face made it difficult for her to pass as a man. But she made a very pretty boy. With some adjustment, Harold the helpful bellboy became Harold Arbuthnot, the rear admiral’s younger brother.
Ahh. To think, I first kissed Archie dressed as Harold the helpful bellboy. Ever since, he’d teased me about my mustache. Again, I remembered his gold pocket watch. What had Fredricks done to Archie? Pickpocketed? Kidnapped? Or worse? My hands trembled as I applied my own mustache.
Pull yourself together, Fiona, old thing. You’ve got a murderer to catch and a German plot to foil.
I straightened my beard and admired my transformation in the looking glass. My strong chin and angular face made for a passable masculine visage. In my sailor whites, polished boots, and cap, I looked rather handsome, if I did say so myself.
Kitty’s navy-blue suit with its short jacket and gold buttons looked a bit out of place. But we’d have to devise a believable backstory for her on the way to the club. I gave her a pencil mustache and tucked up her ringlets into a blonde pompadour wig.
Yes, we made a nice couple of chaps.
On the way out, I snagged Kitty’s fox-fur stole off her bed and stuffed it into my satchel.
“Why are you taking that old thing?” She tried to grab it from me.
“You’ll see, old thing.”
The Gezira Sporting Club was only ten minutes from the hotel in an exclusive section of Cairo. During the taxi ride, I pumped Clifford for information about the Arabic text written into the hem of the chemise and Harlequin jacket.
“You did ask, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.” His tone was indignant.
He was so wound up and distracted, I feared I’d never get it out of him. As usual, he launched into a longwinded story about Gertrude Bell and Major Lawrence, this time involving a portable bathtub brought into the middle of the Sinai desert.
“Clifford!” I had to get rather cross with him.
Finally, he spilled the beans. “Baron Max Von Oppenheim, rich German banker and amateur archeologist, is working with the Ottoman Empire to stir up anti-British sentiment among Muslims in our territories.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Including Egypt, India, and among the local Bedouins.”
