Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (23 page)

“I’m sure that’s so, but evidently a thief managed to get in anyway.”

Shaking his head, the hotel man muttered, “Impossible.”

The uneven temper that had been plaguing me since Billy’s death, suddenly soared as high as my fever, and I snapped, “Clearly it’s not impossible, because it happened. Or do you think I broke that bottle for the fun of it?”

Clad in western clothes, but with a fez on his head, the man pressed his hands together and bowed at me. “I beg your pardon, madam. You’re right, of course. Did you see what the man looked like?”

Had I? I pondered the question for a moment before answering. I hadn’t seen his face at all, but he sure wasn’t dressed like a westerner. “Actually, I think he wore a short robe, belted at the waist. I’m pretty sure he had on some kind of trousers—you know. The kind that look as though they’re wrapped about someone’s legs. And I think he wore a fez.” Which made me wonder if maybe I’d hit his shoulder rather than his head, which might have been protected by the fez. I wanted to get Pa one of those fezzes as soon as I was up to shopping. I thought they were ever so much more attractive than turbans. Not that it matters at this point in my narrative. Sorry for the diversion. “I don’t think he was a westerner, I mean. His clothing was light-colored.”

“Good God, Daisy! Do you mean to tell me one of those poor fellows from the street had the effrontery to invade your room?”

The hotel guy shook his head. “Highly unlikely. Those peasants never darken these doors.”

“Maybe somebody paid him to do it,” I suggested, my own personal middle-class roots bristling at his referring to the populace of his own country as peasants. What the heck did he think he’d be if he hadn’t been lucky enough to snag a job in a fancy hotel, anyway?

Harold, fists on hips, surveyed the room. “Well, will you get someone up here to clean up the glass and the ginger ale? I think Missus Majesty should be moved to another room.”

“No!” I didn’t mean to holler, but the notion of moving all my things and my suffering sick self to another room made me want to cry again. “Please. Just clean up the mess and . . . and . . . I don’t know. Post a guard at the door or something. Heck, we’re on the third floor, aren’t we? Can anyone get in through the windows?”

Harold moseyed over to the window, opened it and looked out. “There’s no balcony or anything, and we’re three stories up. I doubt anyone could gain access this way. Anyhow, the window was closed just now, and you said the fellow escaped via the door.”

“Right,” I said. It was comforting to know I didn’t have to worry about thieves—or whatever the reverse of a thief is—accessing my room by way of the window.

“But why would anyone want to break in to your room, Daisy?”

“I don’t know, Harold. Unless Sam Rotondo was right and some smugglers stashed something in my suitcase. But I searched through all my bags and didn’t see anything in them that didn’t belong there. And everything that was supposed to be there was. If you know what I mean.”

“I understand. Hmm. Perhaps I should go through my own luggage.”

“Might not be a bad idea.” The hotel man—I guess he was the manager or held some other important post—still stood in the middle of my room wringing his hands, and my temper rocketed again at his uselessness. “Will you please get someone in here to clean up this mess? I’ve been very ill, I still feel horrid, and I need to get back to bed.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Right away.” The poor man scurried away, and I felt guilty for having barked at him.

Slumping, muscles aching, insides churning, I pleaded with Harold, “Will you please get me three aspirin tablets and another bottle of ginger ale? I feel so awful.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to keep the aspirin tablets down?”

“I don’t know, but I sure hope so. My head’s about to fall off. I forgot to take the bromide powders the doctor left. I suppose I should take them, too, if you wouldn’t mind mixing them for me.”

“Happy to,” said Harold.

I’d been resting rather like a limp beanbag in my chair. When I managed to lift my aching head, I saw that the hall was still full of people clustered about into a big clump and peering into my room. I glared at them all and said, “Of all the nerve! Go away, will you? The excitement’s over.”

Harold evidently hadn’t been paying attention to the crowd at the door, because he went over and shooed them all away. “Sorry to have disturbed your sleep. Missus Majesty’s room was invaded by an intruder, but he got away. I recommend everyone lock your doors.”

This explanation and word of caution provoked many shocked exclamations in a variety of languages. But everyone hurried back to their own rooms, which was all I cared about. As soon as they left, a chambermaid showed up and did an excellent job getting rid of the glass from the broken ginger-ale bottle and mopping up the spilled liquid. A dark, damp blotch remained on the lovely rug—a Turkish one, I’m sure, given that we were in Istanbul—but I figured it would probably dry out and be not much the worse for wear eventually.

Bless Harold’s heart, he brought me the aspirin, ginger ale, and a glass of boiled water into which he’d stirred the bromide powders. I downed the aspirin, then the powders, which tasted ghastly. Fortunately, there was more ginger ale left in the bottle, so I drank it down, too. By that time, the chambermaid had finished her work.

I said, “Thank you,” because I’m polite, even though I’ve read that people in other countries tend to ignore their servants.

“Yes,” said Harold. “Thank you very much. Here.” He handed the woman a bunch of coins, which seemed to startle her a good deal. Smiling broadly, she bowed herself out of the room, shut the door behind herself, and Harold and I were alone.

“Do you want me to stay here the rest of the night, Daisy?” he asked. “I could sleep . . . um . . . somewhere.” His gaze swept the room, as did mine, and I assumed neither of us could find anywhere suitable for Harold to lay his head except the bed, and that was mine.

A knock at the door startled the both of us. After we exchanged a glance of mingled suspicion and alarm, Harold walked to the door and said, “Who is it?”

“Mister Ozdemir, the manager. I’ve brought a guard, who will sit outside Missus Majesty’s door for the remainder of the night.”

Opening the door, Harold revealed the hotel fellow who’d recently left the scene of the crime and a largish fellow clad in big, puffy trousers tucked into black boots with tassels on the sides, a short jacket and a striped head scarf, which I’m sure has a name although I don’t know what it is. He had what looked like a serviceable and extremely large knife or dagger thrust through the red sash at his waist. His appearance was exotic, to say the least, and he was one of the most astonishingly handsome men I’d ever seen in my life. Even in my enfeebled condition, I couldn’t help but stare and wish I didn’t look so terrible myself.

“Thank you very much, Mister Ozdemir. And thank you, too, Mister . . . ah . . .”

“This is Ali,” said Mr. Ozdemir. “He is a hotel employee who generally serves as required when guests of particular eminence stop here.”

“I see. Well, thank you for allowing us to use his services,” said Harold. “I don’t know what’s going on that Missus Majesty’s room was entered, but I appreciate the guard.”

Mr. Ozdemir bowed, Ali bowed, Harold bowed, and then he shut the door.

“Good,” said he. “I feel better about leaving you alone now.”

“Me, too.” It was kind of good to feel better about something. The rest of me didn’t feel much better at all.

No. That’s not true. I was no longer throwing up, and it looked as though the aspirin tablets were going to remain where they belonged, in my tummy. And since earlier in the evening, I’d only occasionally been hit by hideous stomach cramps which made me run for the bathroom. While my stomach still cramped as I sat in the chair, I felt no particular need to . . . well, never mind. Whilst sitting in that chair, watching Harold, Mr. Ozdemir, the chambermaid and Ali, I’d had time to think about things, however, and I decided upon a course of action. It wasn’t one I particularly wanted to take, but having had someone invade my room in the middle of the night had scared me enough to do it anyway.

“I’m going to send Sam Rotondo a telegram in the morning, Harold.”

He’d been bending over, smoothing the covers on my bed—which I considered quite kind of him—and he straightened so abruptly, I thought his spine might crack. “You’re what?”

“He’s already said he’s worried about us and is going to meet us somewhere. He probably expects to find us in England, but as long as we’re staying in Istanbul for a while, I’ll just let him know we’re here.” I mulled and frowned for a second. “Although I suppose I’d better call it Constantinople, just in case he doesn’t know where Istanbul is.” Bother. It was hard enough with my female friends got married and changed their names. But a city? I didn’t approve. Not that anyone in Turkey or anywhere else cares what I thought.

“But . . . how long did it take us to get here? Surely we’ll be long gone by the time he gets here.”

I shrugged. “Knowing Sam, he’s probably already on his way. Knowing how he uses his police connections, I’m sure he’s made arrangements for correspondence to reach him wherever he is, and to get her by a faster means of travel than the ones we used.”

“Good God. But why do you want to wire him, Daisy? That doesn’t sound like you at all. Are you sure you’re not suffering a relapse?”

“Only maybe a relapse into common sense. I’ve received two letters in two days from him, warning me about gangs of various sorts who prey on tourists. Lots of people have knocked on my door and then run away when I asked who was there, and now somebody has actually invaded my room in the middle of the night. As much as I hate to admit Sam might be right about anything, I’m afraid he’s right about us being targets of some kind of criminal activity.” I shook my aching head. “But I can’t figure out what kind. I swear, Harold, I’ve gone through every bag and suitcase I brought with me, and I haven’t seen anything that’s not supposed to be there—or anything missing, either.”

Harold stared at me for what seemed like a minute or ten before muttering once more, “Good God.”

I understood his astonishment. I wasn’t in the habit of calling upon Sam for help. Quite the opposite, in fact. But things had changed drastically, and I wouldn’t mind having a trained police detective around, even one who annoyed the heck out of me more often than not.

Chapter Eighteen

I stayed in bed for another two days and only got up and about briefly on the third and fourth days of my ordeal. During those two days, I managed to write a couple of letters in between naps and assure Harold that I was getting better. Which was true, although I remained weaker than your average kitten.

Dr. Weatherfield visited me twice each day and reported he was satisfied with my progress. My fever still showed up in the evenings, although it had gone down
to almost normal during the day, and my body still ached, although not as much as it had when I’d first got sick, so I supposed his diagnosis was correct. I was no longer nauseated and no longer had the other problem and, while I still didn’t feel like eating anything, I did manage to get down a couple of the washed and sanitized apples. Along with copious amounts of liquid, which Dr. Weatherfield assured me over and over again at every visit, was essential.

“You need to replace the water your body lost while you were so sick, you see. I’ve spoken about the matter with Mister Kincaid, and he’s agreed to keep you supplied with lemonade and ginger ale.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Weatherfield was a nice man, but I longed for Doc Benjamin almost as much as I longed to be home. There’s nothing quite as icky as being sick when you’re thousands of miles away from the comfort of home. And my dog. I needed Spike next to me in bed, offering fur and sympathy.

Harold had taken my message to the telegraph office early the morning after the break-in, and he might as well have waited there for a response, one came so quickly. It was terse to a degree:

On my way. Don’t move. Sam

“Good God, does that mean we have to remain in
Constantinople while your tame detective makes his way from Pasadena, California, to Turkey?” Harold asked, staring with dismay at the telegram.

I shook my only nominally aching head. “Naw. He’s probably already halfway here. Anyhow, we might as well get back to London and stay there where it’s cooler and everyone speaks English. As soon as Doctor Weatherfield says I can travel, and after we see some of the sights in Istanbul, let’s just go. Sam can’t stop us, and he might just make it to Istanbul before we leave.” It occurred to me that whoever seemed to be after us possibly could stop us, but I didn’t care a whole lot at that point. I wanted to go home.

“Do you think it’s safe? I mean, we don’t even know who’s after you.”

“Me? Do you really think it’s just me? Maybe whoever it is
is
after the both of us. Has your room been ransacked or anything?”

Harold grimaced at me, which was no more than I deserved. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have told you if my room had been ransacked, Daisy Majesty? I know you’ve been sick, but your brains haven’t fallen out of your head, have they?”

“All right, all right,” said I pettishly. “No need to get nasty.”