Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 27

CHAPTER 23

It is something to dislike one’s own defects, even if one sees them only in other people.

Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

The same English-speaking policeman waited for me in the manager’s office. The manager sat at his desk, the sign on the desk said “M. Faisal.” I bet the M. stood for Mohammad. Everybody was named Mohammad. It looked as though he’d be sitting in on the interview.

I didn’t know the policeman’s name, but he’s the one who spoke. “Mizz Darcy?”

“Yes.”

“Please to sit down.”

The manager, nervous as a cat in a cage, tried to smile at me. “Would you like coffee? Arabic coffee?” He addressed both me and the policeman and received nods from each. He left in a rush. To bring coffee? Or just to get out of the room?

“You have come to Yemen for why?” The policeman, after shaking hands with me, clearly didn’t want this to degenerate into a social get-together. He probably had to fight his natural hospitality.

“I am a journalist, as Mr. Faisal knows from my registration at the hotel. I am here to write about Yemen’s beautiful architecture for my newspaper in America.” I looked the policeman in the eye. “The Yemeni Embassy in Washington gave me a visa to work on this story.”

In fact, the Embassy had been thrilled to have an American coming to Yemen to provide information that might stimulate the dwindling tourist trade. They’d complied with my request in two days, and had wished me well on my journey. “Be sure to see Wadi Dhar!” said the young consular officer.

But this case was different. The policeman sat forward, straightened his uniform, and ignored my visa information. He was serious about his job. “This man, Mr. Petrovich. How you know him?”

“I didn’t know him at all, except we met on the plane as we arrived in Sana’a. He told me he was a businessman. He said he worked in irrigation and fertilizers. Beyond that, I know nothing.” I thought a moment. “He said he had a meeting after the plane arrived. I do not know who that meeting was with.”

The hotel staff would have told the police that Michael Petrovich ate with the blonde last night. I’d assumed the meeting was with her, but of course had no evidence of any kind. It wasn’t my job to point fingers.

“He did not speak of any other person he was meeting in Sana’a?”

“No.”

“And you, you will stay how long?” He was out of his depth but plowing ahead.

“My visa is for a month, but I don’t plan to stay that long.” Fearing this might sound ungracious, I quickly added, “Though I’d love to stay longer. Yemen is one of my favorite countries!”

The policeman’s serious face cracked just an iota into the usual gratified smile that praise of one’s native country tends to produce.

By this point, Mr. Faisal had returned with a waiter carrying a tray of Arabic coffee. He fidgeted with the pens on his desk. With a gesture, he begged to be excused again, the kind of gesture that means, ‘I’ll be right back.’ Why had the police asked him to stay in the first place?

But my interrogation was over. As Mr. Faisal stood, so did the policeman. “If you have information, you give us?” The remark had a question mark in its tone but sounded imperative.

“Yes. I will tell you if I learn anything.” I took the card he held out. ‘Lt. M. Surash,’ it said. Another Mohammad! He left, his camouflage uniform as crisp as his manner.

Thankfully, I was excused. And Mr. Faisal had remained, when he saw that there was no danger of a confrontation.

Before I could even rise from my chair, though, the door to the office opened with a bang.

The blonde stood in the doorway. She looked more mussed than last night but had changed her clothes.

“Is this then true?” she blurted out. Not California. Her grammar and accent pegged her as European—maybe Scandinavian. Michael’s girlfriend from last night.

M. Faisal jumped up, as though nature called. Police plus one disruptive female was bad enough; two were more than a man should have to bear.

“I must go,” the manager said. “Soon I return.”

I turned to her. “Perhaps I can help you. Are you asking about the man you had dinner with last night? About Michael Petrovich?”

She nodded, tension in the corners of her blue eyes. Instinctively, I made sure she was sitting down before continuing.

“I’m afraid he’s dead.” It was strange telling her this. For all she knew, since Michael had stopped to talk to me as they went to their table, I was another romantic interest of Michael’s.

“Dead? Dead? Michael is dead?” The young woman seemed shocked. Her lovely jaw hung open. Then she closed her mouth and her throat worked. She looked more fearful than grief-stricken, but it can be hard to tell about these things. I felt shocked, myself, and I had hardly known the guy.

“Did you know him well?” Nothing like getting to the point. “And, by the way, I’m Elizabeth Darcy. What is your name?”

“Christine,” she muttered, almost sullenly. “Christine Helmund.” The tragic blue eyes reminded me of Ilsa, in Casablanca. “I am with International Volunteers. Michael knew some of our projects. Came to see us. No, I didn’t know him very well…” Her voice trailed off.

That might be true or it might not. They’d looked like old acquaintances. I’d assumed last night that she was the reason he didn’t accompany me to the hotel the night we landed. “How did you know him?” I asked.

“Michael is a businessman. With French firm.” Her blue eyes swiveled to the side, away from my gaze; the same movement she’d used to scan the dining room last night. Who was she looking for? Apparently not the Brit, since he’d left as she arrived.

“When did you last see Mr. Petrovich?” I asked.

“He walked with me home and left me. I did not see him after.”

Well, I couldn’t disprove it. And the mysterious Brit had been lurking about. He’d been surprised at the sight of Christine and Petrovich entering the dining room. Why? If there was a connection, I’d like to know. This young woman seemed a weak link.

Mr. Faisal had summoned up the courage to return, and with some misgiving I turned Christine over to him. This young woman wasn’t going to pieces there in the office, though she might later. She had become eerily calm, a hardness in her eyes.

On impulse, I handed her a card. “Come to see me if you wish.” Now, why did I do that? Reporter instinct, natural kindness (my personal choice), or prurient interest in her relationship with Michael?

I went up to my room to change, carefully avoiding the room from which Michael’s body had already been removed. Mrs. Weston was sound asleep, making a perfect circle, paws covering eyes.

I jotted a three-line e-mail note to Mac outlining the murder of Michael Petrovich—omitting the fact that I’d met him as well as any mention of suspicious Brits and international beauties—and promised to look into the matter.

I glanced out the window and thought about my duplicity with the policeman. Why hadn’t I mentioned the Brit going into the room? The cage-like jail in the souq with its ghostly inhabitant flitted through my mind. Back to when I thought I might become that ghost. Better to find out what I could on my own. Oh, Halima. I needed you then. I need you now.

It seemed like hours since that dawn wake-up. White dusty sunlight had erased early morning shadows from Jebel Nabi Shu’ayb to the west, bringing out all the sharp edges of Sana’a. The change from sunrise and its magic to the white sameness of mid-morning added to my sense of shock. I still couldn’t believe Petrovich, was dead. Inshallah, God willing, it wasn’t an omen for how Halima’s problem would end.

I rested a little while on the bed, Mrs. Weston close beside me. It had been quite a morning and was only nine o’clock now. But lying around wasn’t going to help. I patted the cat, arose, adjusted my clothes, and went back down the stairs. I’d treat the murder of my seatmate as I would any other murder. Just cover it, to the extent the Trib was interested.

After all the excitement, the hotel staff went quietly about its routine in the hall: sweeping the stone floors; changing the beds and hanging tan sheets out on a windy clothesline; moving dust on every surface so that for a few moments, fingerprints wouldn’t show up as visible tracks.

There was a constant stream of whispers among the employees, though. One could tell from the atmosphere this was no ordinary day at the Dar al-Hamd.

What did they think about last night’s murder? Could there have been fingerprints? Had there been a second cup or glass? Only the police would know. Unless I could find a way to get close to them and gain their confidence, they wouldn’t tell me anything. For all I knew, I was a suspect in their eyes. I wished for a moment I were an official investigator and could get hold of the murder weapon, the jambiya itself. I wished I were a doctor.

Mac back in Washington had expressed interest in the murder, of course, so I was off to the U.S. Embassy to pick up tidbits. News people love murders. Well, doesn’t everybody who doesn’t have to deal with it first hand? Murder is the ultimate tragedy or evil, both for perpetrator and victim. It’s also the ultimate revenge, the last great chance to wipe success off the face of your competitor, to get even with your enemy.

Michael had clearly been murdered. What was the motive?

Walking away from the hotel to do some investigating for the crime that had stabbed its way into my preoccupation with Halima (and the Sana’a story I’d promised the Trib,) I noticed that dust had blown up around the Dar al-Hamd’s front entrance, making little dunes where none had been last night.

Dust to dust. I walked a little faster.