The Serpent on the Crown by Elizabeth Peters

no one knew where they had gone. The hotel maid was so unnerved at being questioned she could only dither and deny knowledge of any kind. We decided to postpone further investigation. Questioning all the hotel guests would take hours, and was likely to produce as much imaginative fiction as fact. Had I not known this from my previous acquaintance with criminal investigations, it would have been brought home to me when we attempted to make our way across the lobby. As soon as we emerged from the lift we were surrounded by a curious crowd, all asking questions, some claiming to have vital information. I was forced to employ my parasol in order to pass through, and one importunate fellow, who had announced himself as a journalist, followed us all the way to the dock.
    We took our places in the boat. It was a beautiful night, as most nights in Luxor are; moonlight rippled along the water and the stars were bright. I glanced at my watch. “Late again. Fatima will be wroth.”
    “And Maaman will be weeping into the soup,” Nefret said. “Well, Mother, what do you make of this?”
    “There are only two possible explanations,” I said, settling myself more comfortably on the cushioned bench. “Either Mrs. Petherick left of her own accord or she was carried away against her will.”
    “How could anyone carry her off without being seen?” Ramses demanded. “Abdul isn’t the brightest lad in Egypt, but even he would have noticed a man encumbered with a struggling, screaming woman—or even an unconscious woman, who was, to put it tactfully, a well-rounded armful.”
    “You noticed that, did you?” Nefret murmured. “Perhaps he lied.”
    “Not to me. Oh, hell,” Ramses said, running his fingers through his windblown hair. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. If he had been threatened or extravagantly bribed he wouldn’t have been able to greet me so unselfconsciously, or look me in the eye. He’s terrified of Father. Anyhow, he’s an honest man, in his fashion. No, Mother. The lady has pulled another stunt. She had plenty of time to get out and away before I reached her room.”
    “Leaving everything she owned?”
    “Packing a suitcase would have spoiled the effect,” Ramses said.
    “But then honest Abdul must have lied when he said she had not come out of her room.”
    “Not necessarily. He wasn’t smack in front of her door the whole time; he admitted he’d left his post once or twice or, yes, Brother of Demons, perhaps more often, to sneak a cigarette with one of the other men or answer a call of nature. She could have got past him if she was quick and careful. A kidnapper couldn’t have done.”
    In my opinion he was now jumping to conclusions. Admittedly his was the most obvious interpretation, but clever criminals are capable of ingenious schemes. If the villain had been disguised as a servant and Mrs. Petherick as a rug or bag of laundry…I decided not to pursue the subject, since Ramses was in a rare state of exasperation.
    “I wonder if we should notify your father of this latest development,” I said.
    “Why bother? He’ll read about it in the Cairo newspapers tomorrow.”
    “Oh, good Gad. I suppose he will, won’t he? He isn’t going to like this at all.”
    “Particularly,” said Ramses, “when he reads the comments we made to the press.”
    “But we didn’t say anything,” I protested. “Except that those who had information should give it to Mr. Salt.”
    “That won’t prevent the journalists from quoting us,” said Ramses.
    “I wonder what Abdullah would say about all this,” I mused.
    “Have you dreamed about him lately?” Ramses’s voice was studiously noncommittal. The family was still skeptical about those strange dreams, but they were more than dreams to me, so realistic that they were like seeing my dear departed friend in the flesh. He had given his life for mine, acting as instinctively as a father who throws himself in front of a threatened child. He had