Lost trumpet

58 THE LOST TRUMPET
“He did it with no hope or desire that the com¬
munist revolution would follow these activities.
The manager’s failure to appreciate music was the
cause.”
“Music ?”
“Here is Georgios himself. He speaks French.”
Simon piloted his cousin amid the tables to the
place where we sat. He was perhaps five feet in
height—or should I say shortness ?—with the large
head and serious eyes, no apron, and verily the
great sweep of moustache fresh brushed and glis¬
tening. He might have been forty years of age. He
bowed, sweepingly, astoundingly, favouring me with
a quick, commendatory smile. I looked a gravity
I did not altogether feel.
“Georgios, these gentlemen are archaeologists.
They and I are going out to Abu Zabal to dig in the
earth for ancient instruments. We want you to
come as cook—providing you will relate to MM.
les Americains your exact reasons for assaulting the
manager of the Avallaire.”
“Messieurs, he insulted my art!”
“Your cooking ?” Marrot, ever the quicker,
questioned with eyebrows and clipped French.
Simon’s cousin made a contemptuous gesture.
“Cooking! I could cook M’sieu’s hat and
the note-book of Colonel Saloney into a mess that
the three of you would devour with cries of delight.
Cooking—M’sieu’, I am the best cook in Cairo and
would long ago have been recognized as such but
for the jealousy and hatred of my skill among the