Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Since he’d already spoiled my bath for me, I decided I might as well pull the plug and get out of it. If a gang of thieves was going to break in and either steal me blind, fill my luggage with drugs, kidnap me to sell to a sultan or plant coded messages in my underwear drawer, I sure didn’t want to meet them naked. So I dried myself with one of the hotel’s fluffy towels, put on my clean nightie and robe, and went back to bed, mentally thanking the doctor and the chambermaid for the fresh, clean sheets.

  And then, so exhausted I could hardly maintain my annoyance with Sam, I crawled under the covers and went to sleep.

  * * * * *

  It beats me to this day what awoke me in the middle of that miserable night. Groggy and aching in every bone and muscle, and with eyelids that felt as though they’d been glued together after someone had sand thrown in my eyes, a very slight noise gradually penetrated another dream in which I’d been captured by a handsome sheik and carried to his tent on the desert. Yes, my family and I had gone to see The Sheik, starring Rudolf Valentino, earlier that same year.

  I turned over with a soft groan, the noise stopped, and that’s when I became fully conscious. Well, more or less. I still felt as though I’d been dropped onto the shimmering desert from the top of the Great Pyramid on the hottest day of the year, from which I gathered that my fever had returned. The doctor had said it might get worse at night, but that he believed the illness was running its course.

  And then I recalled the forgotten bromide powders I was supposed to have stirred into some boiled water and drunk down before I went to bed. Huh. If I’d taken them, that noise probably wouldn’t have awakened me.

  That noise . . .

  Then it dawned on me that there shouldn’t have been a noise in my room in the middle of the night, and fright fought with fever. I wanted to pull the covers over my head and pretend the noise had been a figment.

  But it hadn’t been.

  Oh, Lord. Now what? Could one of Sam’s slave-stealing gangsters have invaded my room for some fell purpose? Could Sam himself have done so? How’d he get here so fast, and what was he doing in my room?

  No. No. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  The noise came again. It sounded as if it was over by the closet, which was where my vision would land if I could pry my eyelids apart. Wonderful. Very carefully, I opened my gummy eyes and tried to focus them in the dark room. Couldn’t do it. And the noise came again. Someone had just opened the closet door, from the sound of it.

  If I rolled out of bed and ran for the sitting-room door, assuming I could stand on my rubbery legs and my head didn’t fall off—which it felt as if it might do even as I lay there—I probably wouldn’t get to the door before the crook did. Should I merely open my mouth and confront whoever it was or scream bloody murder?

  No. Definitely not. Not only was I unsure that my voice would work the way I wanted it to but my head already hurt. Having it bashed with a big stick or the butt of a gun or whatever this particular villain carried on his person wouldn’t help my condition at all.

  Well . . . there was always ginger ale. Harold had set two bottles of the stuff on my bedside stand along with a bottle opener in case I got thirsty during the night. For my purpose, I didn’t want to open the bottle.

  As silently as possible, I tested my various muscles. They seemed to work, even if they ached. Slowly and carefully, I reached for a bottle on the bedside table. Since I couldn’t see in the dark, I bungled the job, knocking one of the bottles over. I swear, that was the loudest noise I’d ever heard in my life.

  Whoever was at the closet jumped back out of it—I saw that much—and made a flying run out of the bedroom and headed for the sitting-room door. I figured what the heck, did some leaping of my own, which wasn’t quite as successful as the other person’s, grabbed the bottle I hadn’t knocked over, and gave chase, out of the bedroom and across the sitting-room floor. We were definitely not evenly matched. I manage to get one good whack at the person’s head before he disappeared out through the door of my room.

  Then it was that I set up a screech that would have done a Halloween witch proud. The suffragi—or whatever those guys are called in Turkey—who, as usual, was napping on his chair in the hallway, fell out of same, jumped to his feet, and gave chase to the retreating figure. But whoever my nighttime visitor had been, he took the stairs and was out of there lickety-split. I stood swaying in the doorway, one hand holding a broken ginger-ale bottle and the other clinging to the jamb, when other doors along the corridor began opening and people started pouring from their rooms, alarmed by my screech, I suppose.

  Harold, whose room was next to mine, rushed up to me, tying the sash of his dressing robe. “Daisy! What the devil just happened?”

  I dropped the broken ginger ale bottle and flung myself at Harold, crying. Honest to goodness, I don’t really cry all that much as a rule, but you have to remember that, even without my midnight visitor, I’d been through an ordeal that day, and I was still sick as a dog, not to mention grieving over the death of my husband. “Harold! Somebody broke into my room! I hit him with a ginger-ale bottle, but he got away.”

  “Good God.” I’m sure Harold didn’t mean to be less than gentlemanly when he took me by the shoulders and moved me aside so he could enter my room, where he turned on the electrical lights and glanced around.

  “Be careful of the glass, Harold.”

  Harold checked the floor and managed to elude the fragments of ginger-ale bottle. “What was he doing in your room? Did he try to . . .” Harold’s face was white as a bleached sheet when he turned to gape at me, a horrified expression on his face.

  I knew what he was worried about, and I hurried to assuage his worst fears. “No. Whoever it was wasn’t after me. He was after something in the closet.”

  “The closet? What the devil did he want in the closet?”

  “I don’t know. According to Sam Rotondo, there are criminal gangs all over the place in this part of the world, doing everything from smuggling drugs to kidnapping women to be slaves, and they prey on hapless tourists. I suspect I’m a hapless tourist.” And then my legs gave out. Harold caught me before I could hit the floor.

  Some hotel official, looking regal and with a magnificent moustache, bustled up as Harold led me into my room, and I allowed Harold to explain what had happened to him. As for me, I stumbled into the room, avoiding broken glass and spilled ginger ale, and managed to get my robe on before I flopped onto a chair, where I proceeded to ache all over. I really wanted to take some more aspirin, but couldn’t quite summon up the energy to go to the bedside stand and get myself some.

  Harold and the hotel official, who appeared totally shocked, entered the room, and I managed to warn them about the broken glass before either of them could step on it.

  “I don’t understand,” said the hotel fellow. “Things like this don’t happen in the Sultanahmet. We’re top of the line, you know. A first-class establishment.”

  “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 thoug
ht.

  “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.