Night Train to Memphis by Elizabeth Peters Page A

anywhere on the boat, that ‘they’ had access even to my room. That was where I had
been standing when the pot fell – under my own balcony.
    Too damn many people had access to my room. I let my toes float up to the surface of the water and studied them pensively, remembering the agitated faces of the staff members who had been
interrogated. Perry had insisted I report the incident immediately, and Hamid, the purser, had hauled the obvious suspects into his office.
    Hamid was in charge of the domestic arrangements on the boat, the civilian equivalent of the captain. A slim, handsome man of indeterminate age, he radiated an air of calm competence. I had
already wondered if he might be Burckhardt’s mysterious agent; he had keys to all the rooms and a perfect excuse to enter them. He could always claim he was checking up on his staff.
    If he was in disguise, the disguise was excellent. In his crisp, tailored uniform, his hair greying attractively at the temples, he was the perfect model of an efficient hotel manager. And, I
reminded myself, he wasn’t the only one who had a key to my room. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how many stewards there were. One replenished the liquor cabinet (he was a Copt,
since handling alcoholic beverages might have offended Muslim sensibilities); another picked up and delivered laundry; a third cleaned and changed the beds. Hamid lined them up in a cringing row
and questioned them in vehement Arabic. They protested their innocence volubly and passionately. The most obvious suspect was a kid named Ali, who was responsible for the overall cleaning,
including the care of the flowers. He looked no more than eighteen – a graceful, smiling boy with the thick dark lashes many Egyptians have. He denied everything. Yes, he had watered the
flowers and clipped the dead blooms; everything had been in perfect order when he left the room, he had made certain to replace the pots securely in the stand. He wrung his hands. Then he started
to cry.
    That was when I put an end to the proceedings. They were a waste of time, and I can’t stand masculine tears. Ali cried even harder when I said I didn’t blame him.
    Hamid and Perry went with me to my room. As I had begun to suspect, there was nothing wrong with the flowers on my balcony. Every pot was still in place and firmly anchored.
    The most logical explanation, proposed by a visibly relieved Hamid, was that one of the passengers in an adjoining room had been fooling around with the flowers. He would investigate, of course
. . . I said fine, and got rid of him and Perry. He wouldn’t investigate very hard, not with this lot of passengers, and I knew perfectly well that the pot had fallen from my balcony even it
it hadn’t originated there.
    I blew bubbles off my hand and decided I had better start looking for some more crooks. The sight of John had thrown me off balance and distracted me, but he obviously wasn’t the only
malefactor on board. I had suspected that before; the flowerpot incident proved it. I had a perfect opportunity to investigate, since this was like one of those old-fashioned English country house
murder mysteries: all the suspects gathered together, isolated from the outside world. I would interview all of them, including the ones I hadn’t had a chance to talk with; I would mingle and
be charming and very, very clever. And very, very careful.
    II
    Aside from the other distractions, such as wondering who was going to hit me next and with what, my luxury cruise developed another hitch. Mary wanted John and me to
‘make up.’ She began her campaign that night, leaving her chair and running to greet me when I entered the dining room. ‘We saved a place for you, Vicky. You’ll join us,
won’t you?’
    Short of knocking her down and walking over her, there was no way I could get away from the little hands that clung to my arm and towed me with remorseless goodwill towards a table. John was on
his feet, waiting.