“And Miss Bell’s suggestion that I—? That the doorman thought—?”

“Oh, don’t mind Gert,” he advised with a patience that reminded me that he’d also found it necessary to overlook her tactlessness. “She really is quite extraordinary. There’s a saying here: If you think you understand Middle Eastern politics, they haven’t been explained to you properly. Gerty knows every nuance. No one in the West can match her. Still, she can be a bit—”

I didn’t catch his last word, but I confess: I supplied my own.

With that, he left the cart and disappeared inside the Continental, returning presently with the news that Miss Bell had been as good as her word. At her telephoned request, my room was ready; the deposit paid to the Semiramis would be forwarded to the Continental by the local Cook’s branch office.

When I tried to thank Colonel Lawrence, he giggled again—this time, I gathered, to indicate the absurdity of gratitude for a small service willingly undertaken. A bellman appeared to transfer my luggage from cart to lobby. Lawrence apologized for leaving me on my own. He had to return to the Semiramis “before Gert sorts out Mesopotamia on her own,” whatever that meant.

There was the dragoman to pay. He wanted ten piastres, given the extra trouble he’d been put to, but we settled on eight. When I turned to say good-bye to Colonel Lawrence, he was already halfway down the block, apparently intending to walk back to his hotel. Farewells, I was to learn, were a nicety the colonel frequently found dispensable.

Rosie was indeed made welcome, even though she chose to relieve herself just outside the entry. (“Better out than in, madam,” said the very dark gentleman who whisked away the evidence.) A few minutes at the desk, and two bellmen were assigned to ferry my things up three flights of stairs and down a quiet, carpeted corridor at the end of which was an ornately carved door. This was opened to reveal a high-ceilinged and airy room. “Will this do, madam?” I was asked.