Read Herring on the Nile Online
Authors: L. C. Tyler
‘Presumably your client is Purbright,’ I said.
‘He might be travelling under that name,’ said Proctor. His tone implied that I had used underhand means to obtain confidential information.
‘Why does he think his life is in danger, though?’ I asked. I was reluctant to continue the conversation longer than I had to, but professional curiosity made me ask. As I say, I
don’t know many real-life detectives. And this was, after all, a research trip. Not a holiday.
‘He received a letter a week or two before he was due to leave England. A tip-off from somebody well inclined towards him. It said that a couple of people who did not wish him quite so
well were on his tail and were planning to follow him here. That’s when Mr Raffles wisely contacted me.’
‘Raffles being the real name of your client?’
‘Precisely. Clever of you to spot that, Ethelred. I can see why you’re a successful crime writer.’
I turned and looked at Proctor. It was not always easy to tell when he was being sarcastic and when he was merely being stupid – something that may well have helped him in his chosen
vocation as a low-rent private investigator.
‘And why are you telling me all this?’
‘A further pair of eyes, Ethelred – that would be six eyes in all, including Mr Raffles’ own. Also six ears. Three noses. I’m good, but even I can’t be everywhere
at once.’
‘The name Raffles is vaguely familiar,’ I said. ‘What has he done that might upset anyone?’
‘Successful businessmen make enemies, Ethelred. Pure envy, most of it. It is indeed a sad reflection on the society in which we live that honest citizens go in fear for their own
safety.’
Though that was possibly true as a generalization, it did not prove that Raffles was an honest citizen himself or that he had received a death threat on account of his integrity and charitable
nature.
‘So, are we working together again?’ Proctor enquired.
The invitation was like having my skin rubbed with slimy sandpaper.
‘Working with you before was not a happy experience,’ I said. ‘The only good thing I can say about our previous collaboration is that it was brief.’
‘Always joking, eh? I could make it worth your while, though, Ethelred. A couple of crisp tenners has to be useful to a mid-list author like you.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said, ‘I have some work to do.’
‘Writing a literary masterpiece?’ The irony in his voice was unmistakable.
‘Stranger things have happened, Mr Proctor,’ I said.
Four
Q: Our readers are always interested in how writers work. Describe the room you are writing in now.
A: It’s pretty plush actually. There is a large bed in the middle of the cabin and a couple of armchairs upholstered in blood-red velvet. There is also a rather ornate,
brass-bound, mahogany bureau, on which my computer is currently resting. Good taste seems to be slightly different in Egypt. A door leads to a small private veranda, with a rather fine iron
railing, from which I shall, in due course, be able to watch the world go by.
Q: What books are currently on your bedside table?
A: There’s an enormous bowl of fruit taking up most of it – complimentary I think. I also have my copy of
Egyptology Made Easy.
It looks pretty authoritative
and has some nice pictures, though one pharaoh tends to look much like another – possibly because of centuries of inbreeding.
Q: I always think crime writers must be very clever to think up all of those plots. How do you do it?
A: Thank you. Most crime writers would agree with your general premise. In terms of plotting, I tend to do one of three things. Sometimes, like Agatha Christie, I offer up a
whole crowd of potential murderers before revealing that the killer was the least likely of the bunch. Sometimes, conversely, I like to give lots of clues pointing to the real murderer early on.
This tricks experienced crime readers into rejecting the genuine murderer as being far too obvious – the simple double bluff. Most of all, however, I like to present the reader with half a
dozen dead certs, only to reveal at the end that it wasn’t murder at all. The only problem is when your readers don’t spot all of the twists they are supposed to. Readers who
can’t keep up with you are a nuisance – though readers who are cleverer than you are a nuisance too. Actually, clever readers are a real pain in the neck.
Q: And finally, tell us one thing about yourself that nobody will know!
A: My bath towel has been arranged on my bed in the shape of a camel.
That’s fascinating. Thank you very much, Peter Fielding!
I had been looking forward to the boat’s departure – its first nosing out into the stream, with the water churning aft and the whole journey still ahead of us. An
asthmatic coughing and rumbling from the distant engine room, and the oily plash of a giant paddle wheel alerted me to the fact that, with my own nose pressed against the computer screen, I had
just missed that moment. Through the cabin window I could now see clouds of steam rising and swirling around the boat. As the river rolled majestically northwards, we were now battling south
against the current, towards Esna. I opened the glass door onto my veranda, and stood for a while watching the flat landscape with its groves of ragged palm trees and low, square houses begin to
drift slowly by. It was a romantic moment that I had once envisaged sharing with Annabelle. Well, I could at least share it with my agent.
My knock on Elsie’s door went unanswered. I reasoned that she was most likely to be in the air-conditioned bar, demanding that yet more ice should be added to her drink.
The bar was however deserted except for the floppy-hat lady. She was drinking a purple-coloured liquid that looked much like Ribena. Though the purser had mentioned her name, I had already
forgotten it. We introduced ourselves. She proved to be called Jane Watson.
‘Did you see that ridiculous little man in pink shorts?’ she demanded. Even though I was not a foreigner, she chose to address me in a loud voice that would have been audible some
way off. She clearly either shared Elsie’s minimalist approach to tact or believed that most of the other passengers were deaf.
‘Herbie Proctor, you mean?’
‘Oh, so you know him? Sorry – is he a friend?’
‘No, not a friend. I met him once in France. We were staying at the same hotel.’ There had been rather more than that to it, but that was as much detail as I now cared to remember.
‘He’s a private detective,’ I added.
‘Well, I suppose even private eyes must go on holiday from time to time.’
‘He says he’s here on business.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I said. An early Christian martyr of the better sort might, perhaps, have forgiven Proctor his offer of a couple of ten-pound notes and decided not to blow his rather
flimsy cover. I was not, however, at that moment, feeling remotely charitable. ‘He is here to prevent a crime, so he tells me.’ I raised my eyebrows and gave her a lopsided smile.
I had naturally expected Jane Watson to share the joke, and to join me in mocking Proctor’s pretensions, perhaps returning to the subject of his ridiculous shorts, which certainly merited
further discussion. But the colour drained instantly from her face. I realized that, farcical though I found everything that Proctor did, others might take him seriously.
‘Sorry– I really didn’t meanto alarm you,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine there will be any trouble on a boat like this – still less that Mr Proctor would be
of any value to his client if there were.’
Jane Watson was far from reassured. ‘His client . . . who exactly is that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said lamely. I felt a bit like a comedian whose sure-fire gag has just died. Blowing Proctor’s cover had seemed fair game. But causing panic amongst my
fellow passengers hadn’t been my plan at all. Moreover, informing the world at large that Mr Purbright was the intended target, when I had no evidence for that other than Proctor’s
hints, now seemed unwise in all sorts of ways. ‘Look – forget I even mentioned it.’
Jane Watson’s look was severe. ‘I have to say that you have greatly worried me, Mr Tressider. You might at least tell me all of what Mr Proctor said or I shall not sleep a wink
tonight. That much you owe me, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sorry – I’ve obviously already said too much . . . what he said was in confidence and—’
‘In confidence? I would have said Mr Proctor had already been very free in divulging his client’s affairs. If he can tell you, I would have thought you could tell me. Or was he
telling you as a very close friend?’
‘Absolutely not. He’s no sort of friend of mine.’ I wished to clear that one up. ‘Mr Proctor’s client – the person he is protecting – is apparently a
businessman travelling alone. I don’t think I should say more than that.’
I smiled apologetically, but Jane Watson took no longer than I had done to solve that particular puzzle.
‘Travelling alone? The client then is either Professor Campion or Mr Purbright?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Campion doesn’t strike me as a businessman. But—’
‘So, in that case, he is here to protect Mr Purbright?’
‘Proctor didn’t actually say so.’
‘I can’t think who else it can be, can you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘This Proctor person – you are certain that he is just a private detective? Not, say, a policeman or MI6?’
‘MI6? Good grief, no. He’s just a cheap private investigator, operating more or less on the right side of the law. Most of his work is probably spying on cheating husbands and
process serving.’
‘And you think Mr Purbright has actually employed him as some sort of bodyguard?’
‘I really don’t know – but if Herbie Proctor is right, then Purbright is merely an alias.’
‘An alias?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, let’s get this straight – Mr Proctor is convinced Purbright is a businessman travelling under an alias, and that he can in some way be of service to him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But . . .’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Jane Watson. For some reason I had cheered her up enormously. She had finally seen the joke and was now positively beaming.
‘Look,’ I said, wishing both to reassure her and prevent her from jumping to any more conclusions than she already had, ‘the most likely thing, it seems to me, is that Herbie
Proctor is simply on the wrong paddle steamer and that Purbright is nothing to do with him. Please therefore don’t mention this to anyone else. Though I am reasonably sure Mr Purbright is in
no danger, I have no wish to alarm the whole boat.’
‘I see. That’s what you’d like, is it? Yes, on reflection, I agree that it would be unwise to worry the others as you have me. That was thoughtless of you, though it has
afforded me a certain amount of innocent amusement. And there is
certainly
no cause to trouble Mr Purbright, who I am sure wishes only to enjoy himself. We shall therefore both keep this to
ourselves. How well do you know this Proctor person?’
‘Reasonably well. We spent a few unpleasant days together in a hotel in the Loire.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘I’ve really no idea, though I hope not. I should think it would be difficult to import a gun into Egypt.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, frowning. ‘Well, at least we don’t have to worry about a shoot-out on board the boat. And does he have any idea who might be
threatening his client?’
‘If he does, he didn’t tell me,’ I said.
‘Male or female?’
‘He implied there was more than one.’
‘
More than one
? This gets more and more interesting.’
‘Does it?’
‘Oh yes. There aren’t many of us on the boat. If Mr Proctor is right, then it would seem to me that about half of us must either be trying to kill poor Mr Purbright or to protect
him. You alarmed me at first, Ethelred – I may call you Ethelred, mayn’t I? – but I am beginning to feel that your ridiculous Mr Proctor could liven up the cruise
considerably.’
‘He’s not my Mr Proctor.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Ethelred, let me give you some advice. If your life is ever in any danger, do not pin your hopes on a man in bright pink shorts.’
I nodded. I’d never planned my life any other way.
‘We’ve done Italy, we’ve done Greece, so we just
had
to do Egypt. It was the complete set of ancient civilizations or nothing. No half measures.
That’s how it is with us.’
The young American flashed me a smile. His friend punched him on the arm and then turned and pointed a finger at me.
‘Just don’t tell Tom about Mesopotamia. Or Assyria. You know, I’m beginning to think we’ll
never
get back to Kansas.’
‘John is
dying
to get back to Kansas,’ said Tom.
‘You both come from Kansas then?’ I asked.
‘No, New York,’ said Tom.
The two young men burst out laughing, as if I had missed something obvious.
‘It’s just that Tom keeps telling people he has the feeling we’re not in Kansas any more,’ explained John. ‘It wasn’t funny, even the first twenty
times.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Don’t believe anything Tom tells you anyway. His father is a prominent and well-respected New York mobster. That’s how we can afford this trip.’
‘Don’t believe anything John tells you. His father worked for Nixon. John didn’t hear anyone speak the truth until he was seven. It’s a foreign language to him. Even now
he speaks it with an accent.’
This conversation had now been going on for five minutes. Its great advantage was that I was not called upon to say a lot, but I wasn’t sure that I knew much more about the pair of them
than I had before I met them. I was reasonably sure they came from New York and that they were both lawyers. One of them had possibly been educated at Brown, the other almost certainly at
Princeton. One of their fathers might well have been a Nixon aide way back. They had been to Paris and London in addition to the other places they had mentioned. But most of the conversation so far
had been one long private joke, the key to which was always slightly beyond my grasp. They reminded me of two large puppies bouncing around, their play constantly verging on, but never quite
becoming, a genuine scrap.