CHAPTER FOUR
Candor Is Not a Conspicuous Characteristic of Criminals
What is a grandson of yours doing in a place like this, Abdullah?" I demanded.
Abdullah's eyes fell before my indignant gaze. "It is not my doing, Sitt Hakim. I would have taken him into my house. He would not come. He would rather be starved and beaten by this criminal than—"
"Be a servant to the Inglizi," the boy interrupted. His eyes, feral as those of a trapped animal, darted around the room. I stood in one doorway and Emerson in the other, so flight was impossible. He might be cornered, but he was still defiant; he pursed his lips and spat—not at me or Emerson, for he was not so rash as that, but between the feet of Ramses. My son's expression did not change perceptibly. However, I could have told David that he had made a serious error in judgment.
"You prefer to be a slave to this man?" Emerson inquired evenly. "The Inglizi do not beat their servants."
The boy's lip curled. "They hire them to fetch and carry and then dismiss them. I learn a trade here. I learn—" He brandished the scarab at Emerson. "The signs are right. I know what they mean!"
"Oh, indeed," said Emerson. "Read the inscription, then."
It had been copied from one of the commemorative scarabs of Amenhotep III; I recognized the names and titles, which David rattled off, indicating the signs with a filthy forefinger, but he stuck after a while. Ramses, who undoubtedly knew the text by heart, opened his mouth. Catching his father's eye, he closed it again.
"It is well done," Emerson said. "And so is the workmanship. What else have you made for Hamed?"
The boy gave his master a wary look and shrugged. Hamed, who had settled himself on a stool, decided it was time to assert himself.
"Father of Curses, you are the greatest of men, but by what right do you break into my house and question my apprentice? I will show you my poor collection if you like. Let the boy go. He knows nothing."
"The boy may go when he chooses," Emerson said, in the same mild voice. Hamed, who knew that voice, swallowed audibly. "And where he chooses. David, we are hiring workers. If you come to us, now or at any time, you will be well treated."
He moved away from the door.
David looked from him to Hamed, and, for the first time, directly at his grandfather. Abdullah's stern face did not change. I was the only one, I believe, to see the look in his eyes.
Ducking his head, the boy ran out the back door.
"Oh, go after him," Nefret cried. "We cannot leave him with this terrible old man."
"The choice must be his," Emerson said.
"Yes, yes." Hamed shot Nefret a malignant look. "The young Sitt has a tender heart, she knows nothing of evil. You did wrong to offer him a place with you, Emerson Effendi. The boy is dangerous, he will attack like a wild dog. I keep him only out of charity."
"A quality for which you are well known," Emerson said. He tossed the scarab negligently into the air and waited till the last second before catching it. Hamed squawked in alarm. "Well, my dears—"
An outburst of cries, thuds and thumps interrupted him. They came from beyond the door through which the boy had vanished. Emerson vanished in his turn, for he, like myself, had recognized an all-too-familiar voice. How Ramses had slipped out without being observed I did not know, but he obviously had, for he was not in the room.
A short passage, more like a rough tunnel than a corridor, led into a room cut out of the rock of the hillside. The only light came from a few small crude pottery lamps, but it was sufficient for me to see, not only the traces of paint on the walls, but the tableau vivant before me.
Emerson had separated the two boys and held them apart, one hand on Ramses's shirt collar and the other gripping David's bony shoulder. I could not tell what damage Ramses had inflicted on the other boy, but it was evident that at least one blow had struck Ramses, for his prominent nose was streaming blood.
Both were too breathless to speak at first. Then Ramses dragged his torn sleeve across his face and gasped, "He was eavesdropping, Father. He ran when I confronted him and I went in pursuit and when I cornered him, for, as you see, this is a dead end, he—"
David called Ramses something extremely rude in Arabic. Ramses called him something so much ruder that even Emerson blinked, and David's eyes widened—with, I thought, a certain degree of admiration. Emerson shook them both.
"There are ladies here," he said, in the same language. "The Inglizi do not use such words in the presence of women. Perhaps you did not know that, David. But you, Ramses—"
"I apologize, Mother," Ramses muttered.
"You had better apologize to Nefret too," I said, moving farther into the room so that Nefret could enter.
"Oh, good Gad. I did not see her there. However, I cannot suppose that she understood."
"Wrong again," said Nefret. "You called him—"
Ramses raised his voice. "Mother, Father, he was—"
"Eavesdropping?" Emerson released his grip on the boys. They exchanged threatening glares but deemed it wiser to leave it at that. "He lives here, Ramses, and you are a visitor. What he does is none of your affair."
"I will not apologize to him," Ramses said sullenly. "He hit me first."
"What a cowardly excuse!" Nefret exclaimed. "He is younger and smaller than you. For shame, Ramses! Poor boy, did he hurt you?"
She placed a gentle hand on David's arm. Ramses appeared to be struck dumb—with indignation, probably. David was even more surprised. He looked from the slim fingers, pale against his skin, to the face that smiled so bewitchingly at him, and for a moment . .. But I decided I must have imagined that fleeting response, for he darted out, brushing past Nefret and bumping into Hamed, who sent a flurry of curses after him.
"Have a look, Peabody," Emerson said, picking up one of the clay lamps and approaching the nearest wall. "The old rascal has built his house smack up against an Eighteenth Dynasty tomb. The corridor leading to this chamber was an ancient thief's tunnel. One of Hamed's ancestors, no doubt."
"How do you know it is Eighteenth Dynasty?" I asked curiously. "There is almost nothing left of the decoration."
"The majority of the private tombs in this area are of that period. And one can make out a few outlines here"—he moved the lamp—"and here. It appears to have been a banqueting scene, similar to those in the tombs of Ramose and Nebamon. This tomb was never finished. Observe that the back wall is still rough; the surface was not smoothed or plastered in order to provide an even surface for the draftsmen who laid out the outlines of the scene, and the painters who followed them. Hamed has enlarged the original tunnel, which was inconveniently narrow. And this opening was probably—"
We had all listened interestedly, for it is a privilege to hear an expert like Emerson expound on methodology; but when he approached the rough opening in the back wall, Hamed squawked in protest.
"Father of Curses, you go too far. That is a private place. The—the women—"
"You keep your women in this dark hole?" Emerson inquired. "As I was saying, Peabody, this opening was meant to lead into another rock-cut chamber, but it was never completed; and now it forms a handy storage cupboard for Hamed here."
The space was approximately ten feet square and five feet high. It was filled with sculptured forms. Stony faces stared out at us, some human in outline, some grotesque similacra of beast or bird—falcon and feline heads, ibis and crocodile. The shadowed eye sockets of a ram-headed sphinx sent out a glint of reflected light from a speck of mica in the stone.
"The sculptors' storeroom," Emerson remarked, as Hamed stamped and swore.
"They are copies, yes," muttered Hamed. "What is the crime in that?"
"None—unless you sell them as genuine." He hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. "Come, Peabody."
I waited until we were outside the house before I spoke. "Upon my word, Emerson, that was a somewhat abrupt departure. Why did you not remain until you had achieved your purpose? For I cannot believe—"
"I had not achieved my purpose, no. But it would have been useless to pursue the matter. I will have to return another time. Without," Emerson added, distributing an impartial glower among us all, "the rest of you. I might as well have shouted my business aloud to the whole of Gurneh!"
"Which you are doing now," I pointed out. A group of curious idlers had assembled while we were within, and Nefret was besieged by ragged urchins demanding baksheesh.
"Oh, damnation," said Emerson. Thrusting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a handful of coins and flung them.
This would have been a fatal error coming from anyone else—the only way to avoid repeated demands is to give nothing—but Emerson was well known to the Gurnawis, even the children. After scrabbling for and squabbling over the coins, the onlookers reluctantly dispersed, and we started back down the hill.
"Now then, Abdullah," said Emerson, in a more moderate growl, "what the devil do you mean by failing to warn me that one of your descendants was in the employ of that old villain? Had I but known I would have proceeded differently."
"I did not know that is where you were going," Abdullah muttered. "I thought you intended to visit our house."
"I do. We will go there now. Well, Abdullah? Who is the boy?"
"The son of my daughter."
"Where is his mother?" I asked.
"Dead."
"And his father?"
"Dead."
"Really, Abdullah," I said in exasperation. "Do we have to wring every word out of you? Never mind, I believe I am beginning to understand. You called him David, not Daoud. Was his father a Christian—a Copt?"
"He was nothing," Abdullah burst out. "Even Christians are People of the Book, but he gave himself up to drunkenness and cursing God."
"Hmph," said Emerson. "He sounds a very sensible—ouch!"
I had just given him a little pinch. Emerson's opinions on the subject of religion are somewhat unorthodox. (Heretical might be a better word.) Freedom of conscience is the right of every human being, and I would never dream of questioning Emerson's, but there are occasions on which a frank expression of opinion may be counterproductive as well as rude.
Plodding along ahead of us, Abdullah threw the phrases over his shoulder. "My daughter was here, living with her uncle. He was arranging a marriage for her—a fine marriage, a marriage any girl would want. Michael Todros stole her away, and by the time my brother found them out, she was to bear his child. What other man would have her then? And she . .." The words came hard to him, even now. "She would not leave him. When she died bearing the child I tried to take it, but Todros would not consent, and now—now he too is dead, dead of the drink and drugs given him by Abd el Hamed in payment for David's work, and still the boy will not give up his evil ways. Todros taught him to hate his mother's family, and he stays here, in the village of his kin, shaming them before their faces."
Nefret, close behind us, said, "Don't be sad, Abdullah. We will get him back."
"Quite right," I said firmly.
"Hmph," said Ramses.
Abudullah had exaggerated only a trifle when he said (though not in those precise words) that his renegade grandson lived too close for comfort. The house he and our men had hired was on the outskirts of the village; the residence of Hamed was visible from its door. We paid a brief call on them so that I could inspect the premises, for I felt obliged (by friendship as well as duty) to make certain they were comfortably housed. Since men seem to measure comfort by the degree of dirt and confusion that prevails, I deduced that they were very comfortable.
After the obligatory consumption of tea and bread, we mounted our donkeys. "So long as we are here, we may as well have a look round, eh?" said Emerson. "And show Nefret something of the area. She has not been here before."
"The nobles' tombs," Ramses suggested.
"No, no, it is too fine a day to spend underground," Emerson said, in a voice that brooked no argument. There are many sights of interest in Western Thebes, but I knew what was in his mind; his eyes were fixed on the hills to the north of where we stood—the brown, barren slopes of Drah Abu'l Naga.
We passed the temple of Deir el Bahri, where Emerson dismounted in order to walk with Abdullah and Daoud, who had accompanied us. His intention, I am sure, was to spare the poor donkey, but the truth is Emerson looks ridiculous mounted on a small donkey and superb when he is striding boldly forward, shoulders squared and head bared to the elements.
Admiring the symmetry of his form and wondering where the devil he had lost his hat, I paid little heed to the monotonous cadences of Ramses's voice. He was riding beside Nefret. They appeared to be back on friendly terms, probably because Nefret was so anxious to learn that she was willing to put up with Ramses's condescending lecture. I did not doubt, however, that he would pay for that condescension in due course. Women have their little methods.
The sun was high overhead by the time we stopped, and I began to wonder whether I would get any luncheon that day. I feared not. Emerson's narrowed eyes had the intent sapphirine glitter that indicated he was hot on some archaeological trail from which it would take more than food to distract him. I persuaded him to let the others rest for a while—he would have disdained such a suggestion on his own account—and passed round the canteen of cold tea that hung from my belt.
There was little shade. The hills of Drah Abu'l Naga are not precipitous cliffs like certain other sections of the Theban mountains, but ascend more gently to a summit some five hundred feet above the plain. The rugged slopes are pockmarked with dark openings, the entrances to tombs now empty and long abandoned, many filled with rubble and drifted sand. Pale ribbons of paths wind back and forth and up and down, clearly visible against the darker buff of the rock. Emerson shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Those columns south of here belong to the temple of King Sethos I, Nefret. We'll have a look at it another day; there are some features of interest, but it is much later in date than the period with which we are presently concerned. And there"—he pointed toward the place where the hill sloped down to the desert plain—"beyond that spur is the road to the Valley of the Kings."
"Shall we go there?" Nefret asked eagerly. "I have never seen the royal tombs."
"Not today."
I managed to suppress a sigh of relief. I was beginning to be very hungry, and a few sips of tea had not gone far to assuage my thirst.
Emerson took a wad of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It appeared to be a rough map or plan, and we crowded round him, awaiting explanations. Instead of offering them Emerson said, "Hmph," and walked away.
We trailed after him, Abdullah towing the donkeys. After a short time Emerson stopped. "Hmph," he said again.
"Emerson, do stop grunting and exposit," I exclaimed.
"Hmph?" Emerson stared blankly at me. He went on, as if talking to himself. "There is no proper map. Why the devil doesn't someone make one?"
"Emerson!"
"You needn't shout, Peabody, my hearing is excellent," Emerson said reproachfully. "I am trying to locate the spot in which Mariette found the coffin of Queen Ahhotep. Impossible, I fear, since that bloody idiot—"
"The lady who owned the beautiful jewelry?" Nefret asked. "Was it in her coffin?"
She knew it had been, she was only trying to get Emerson back on track, and I must admit she succeeded better than I might have done.
"Quite right, my dear. You know the story, of course?" Without waiting for her to answer he proceeded to tell it. "It really is one of the most curious incidents in archaeological history. Mariette, that bloody—oh, very well, Peabody, I admit the fellow deserves the credit of founding the Antiquities Department, but the fact is he was more concerned with impressing noble visitors than conducting a proper dig. He was swanking around in Cairo when his unsupervised workmen came across the coffin, with the mummy and the jewelry. Even when he was notified of the discovery he didn't start for Luxor; he wrote a letter, the damned fool, and by the time it arrived, the local governor had got his hands on the coffin and opened it. The mummy was probably in poor condition, like others of the period, so the governor simply pitched the bones and bandages and sent the jewelry off to the Khedive in Cairo. By that time it had finally dawned on Mariette that he might be missing something; he managed to intercept the boat and rescue the jewelry."
"It is a miracle it wasn't stolen," Nefret exclaimed. "How could Mariette have been so stupid? Yet his is one of the great names of Egyptology."
"That sort of thing was only too common fifty years ago," Emerson answered. "Peabody would probably say one is obliged to give one's predecessors credit for what they did accomplish, but how anyone, at any time, could have been so feeble-witted as to suppose that a group of indigent, illiterate workers could resist the temptation . .. Ah, well. The most interesting point about the queen's coffin, and that of King Kamose, which was discovered under similar circumstances a few years earlier, is that both were found, not in proper tombs or tomb chambers, but buried under the rubble and loose scree at the base of these hills. Somewhere in this neighborhood." He gestured. There was certainly no sign of any excavation; the same tumbled rock, the same bare brown slopes stretched out to right and left.
"Thanks to Mariette's ineptitude, we can only guess as to the exact location," Emerson went on. "The mummies and funerary equipment were still in the coffins. Why they were left here instead of being removed to a cache of royal mummies like the one at Deir el Bahri we will never know; but here they remained, safe and forgotten, for three thousand years. Until that moron Mariette—"
"You have made your feelings about the gentleman quite clear, Emerson," I interrupted. "So you believe the original tombs must be close by?"
"Not necessarily."
"Then why ... No, don't tell me. Should we not return to the boat and continue the discussion there?"
"Nonsense, Peabody. It is only half past twelve."
Further debate was halted by the approach of an individual on horseback. I was pleased, though not surprised, to recognize Howard Carter.
"I thought it must be you passing by Deir el Bahri just now," he exclaimed, dismounting and shaking hands all round. "For I heard this morning that you had arrived. Since you did not stop, I set out to track you down."
"I am delighted that you did," I replied. "We were about to return to the dahabeeyah. Won't you join us for luncheon?"
He was easily persuaded, and Nefret was even more easily persuaded to mount his horse. She had learned to ride the previous year and a pretty picture she made, her slim brown hands light on the reins and tendrils of red-gold hair curling over her temples. Howard insisted on walking alongside her, though I assured him it was unnecessary. Nefret had an uncanny rapport with animals of all species, including the human. Howard, who had only met her once before, was instantly at ease with her.
"I took up my duties on January first," he explained, after I had congratulated him on his appointment. "But my new house is not yet ready, so M. Naville has most generously allowed me to stay at the expedition house of the Egypt Exploration Fund."
"Hmph," said Emerson, whose relations with M. Naville (like his relations with most archaeologists) were not of the most cordial. Before he could enlarge on his opinions of the gentleman I said, "It will be a great responsibility, Howard, and you will have a great deal to do."
"More than one man reasonably can, I fear," Howard admitted. "But M. Maspero was good enough to assure me that I have his full confidence and support. He has just been here, you know. What a pity you missed him by only a few days."
"Isn't it," said Emerson.
"The territory is enormous," I said. "And your duties include, I believe, not only conservation and protection of the monuments but excavation and supervision of other excavations."
"Not your excavations," Howard said with a smile. "You certainly do not require supervision from anyone, much less me. But please let me know if I can be of assistance in any way. Is it to be the Seventeenth Dynasty cemetery this season?"
The subject occupied us until we reached the Amelia, where Abdullah and Daoud left us. Emerson interrupted his lecture long enough to present Miss Marmaduke, who was waiting in the saloon. She had finished sorting Emerson's papers and asked what she should do next.
"If you have no duties for me this afternoon, I thought I might take a little walk," she said hesitantly. "I am so anxious to see the wonderful temples and the Colossi."
"You have been here before, though, haven't you?" I asked. "On the Cook's Tour?"
"Yes—yes, of course. I meant, see them again. The tours do not give one much time."
"Good heavens, Emerson, what a slave-driver you are," Howard said with a laugh. "An ardent student of Egypt who has not been allowed to explore? Insist on your rights, Miss Marmaduke. You will find Mrs. Emerson a strong supporter."
"Leave off inspiring my staff to mutiny, Carter," growled Emerson.
Howard, who knew him well, only grinned, but Gertrude cried out, "Oh, sir, I did not mean—"
"Then you should learn to say what you mean. You won't get anywhere in this group by beating around the bush." But his irresistible smile and the softening of his keen blue eyes brought an answering smile and an even softer look to Gertrude's face. Curse it, I thought, if Emerson goes on in this way he may find himself in an extremely embarrassing situation.
Do not suppose for a moment, Reader, that I was jealous. Jealously is an emotion I despise, and anyhow, it was obvious that Emerson had not the slightest interest in poor Gertrude.
It was agreed that we would escort Howard back to Deir el Bahri after luncheon and then show Gertrude some of the sights of Thebes. It would not have been sensible to let her go off on her own, for she had not the strength of character to resist beggars, importunate donkey drivers and antika sellers, and Howard's jesting remark had made me realize we had rather neglected her. I still had no proof that Gertrude was a spy and an enemy; if my suspicions were in error we owed her the same courteous treatment any employee should receive.
That settled, Emerson turned the conversation to the subject that was his real concern. He thought he was being subtle, but it is impossible for Emerson to deceive me.
"I trust that among your other projects you mean to stamp out the trade in illegal antiquities," was how he began.
Howard glanced at me. I gave him an encouraging nod, which emboldened him, I believe, to venture an opinion that, though correct, was bound to irritate Emerson. "Professor, you know as well as I do that it is impossible under present conditions. I will attempt as best I can to thwart or arrest tomb robbers and illicit diggers, but once the stolen antiquities reach the dealers, there is little I can do. They always claim they didn't know the objects were acquired illegally, and I can hardly demand the arrest of the ones who are consular agents for foreign governments."
"True," I said sympathetically. "Nor can you arrest the foreign collectors who buy from the dealers."
"Arrest?" Howard looked horrified. "Good heavens, no; what a scandal that would cause! It isn't only private citizens, but officials of certain museums. I name no names, you understand."
"Why the devil not?" Emerson demanded. "We all know you are referring to Budge. He is not the only offender, but he is certainly the worst. Confront the swine. Tell him—"
"Emerson," I exclaimed. "You must not say such things. Howard, pay no attention. You will only get yourself in trouble if you follow my husband's example. Tact, my dear Howard. You must be tactful."
"Well, of course," Emerson said virtuously. "That is my method. Tact, subtle persuasion."
"Such as calling Mr. Budge a rascal and threatening to knock him flat?"
Howard's long chin quivered as he strove to repress his amusement, but when he spoke it was with utter sincerity. "Professor, your forthright manners and absolute integrity have been an inspiration to us all. A man might do worse than to emulate you. I want you to know—that is, I am well aware that I owe this appointment in large part to you and Mrs. Emerson. Your influence with M. Maspero—"
"Nonsense," said Emerson gruffly.
"But, sir—"
"Let us hear no more about it." Emerson reached for his pipe. "Has anything unusual turned up on the market lately?"
"There is always something," Howard said wryly. "As a rule I don't hear of it until it has been purchased by a collector."
Emerson gestured impatiently. "Be specific."
"Well... I suppose there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you. Recently a wealthy American tourist showed me a number of objects he had purchased in Luxor. They made me wonder whether some rich and important tomb had not been discovered. Please," he added hastily, seeing Emerson's expression, "don't ask me for the gentleman's name. I am hoping to interest him in supporting our work here and I would not like him to be—er— discouraged."
"You mean threatened," I said, while Emerson sputtered indignantly. "We will not press you for the gentleman's name, Howard, but there can be no objection to your telling us where he acquired the artifacts, can there?"
"I can deny you nothing, Mrs. Emerson. He bought them from Ali Murad. As the American consular agent, Murad feels himself secure. You won't get anything out of him."
"You think not?" Emerson bared his teeth. The expression was certainly not a smile.
After luncheon we rode back with Howard to Deir el Bahri, and lingered for a while admiring the temple and discussing the astonishing career of its builder, Queen Hatshepsut, who had proclaimed herself pharaoh. When I first beheld the site, only a few unimpressive fragments of the structure were visible amid huge heaps of piled-up sand and rock and the tower of the Coptic monastery which had given the place its name. (Deir el Bahri means "Monastery of the North.") Several seasons of work by the Egypt
Exploration Fund had stripped away the covering, including the monastery, and exposed one of the most beautiful and unusual temples in Egypt— colonnades rising in successive steps toward the frowning cliffs that framed them, ramps leading toward the rock-cut sanctuary.
"In my opinion," I said, as we stood before a series of reliefs depicting the queen's birth, "Hatshepsut ought to be adopted by the women's suffrage movement as its patron saint or symbol. Coolly and efficiently, without civil war, she supplanted her nephew Thutmose III and proclaimed herself a man and a pharaoh! She was the first—"
Ramses cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Mother—"
I raised my voice. ".. . the greatest of those remarkable Eighteenth Dynasty queens who were directly descended from Tetisheri herself. At that time, as all reputable scholars agree, the right to rule passed through the female line, from mother to daughter. Unless he married the heiress princess, the king could not legitimately claim the throne."
"Hence the prevalence of brother-sister marriages in the royal family," Nefret said. "It makes perfectly good sense when you think of it in those terms."
"Hmph," said Ramses critically.
Nefret laughed. "Why, Ramses, I had no idea you were such a romantic. Love doesn't enter into royal marriages, my boy, not even in your civilized European societies."
I don't know whether it was the laugh, the patronizing "my boy" or the horrid accusation of being a romantic that incensed Ramses most. His face darkened. "Confound it, I am not—"
"That will be enough of that," I said sharply. "Nefret is correct; and according to Egyptian religious dogma the princess had special sanctity because her father was not the king, but the god Amon himself, as these reliefs we are inspecting indicate. Here you see Hatshepsut's mother— um—er—greeting Amon, who has come to her to—er ..."
Pipe between his teeth, Emerson grunted, "Amon bears a striking resemblance to the queen's husband, Thutmose II, don't you think?"
"No doubt the god embodied himself in the king," I admitted.
"It would have been damned difficult for him to do the job without a body," said Emerson.
I decided we had gone as far as we ought with that subject. Nefret was trying not to laugh, and Gertrude looked shocked.
"Here," I said, moving the party on with a few little nudges, "we see the delivery of the great obelisks for the queen's temple at Karnak. They were made for her by Senmut, one of the most talented of her officials, who was Steward of Amon—"
"And her lover," said Nefret.
"Good Gad," I exclaimed. "Who told you that?"
"Ramses," was the demure reply.
"I don't know where he got that idea." I hurried on before Ramses could tell me where he got that idea. "The queen would never have taken a lowborn lover. Her dignity and pride would have prevented it, and the nobility of her kingdom would have resented it bitterly."
"The same objections have been made to the rumors about Her Gracious Majesty Victoria and a certain groom," Emerson agreed.
When Emerson is in one of those moods it is impossible to keep him quiet. Abandoning the career of the great queen Hatshepsut, I turned to Howard. "You were responsible for copying these paintings, I believe? Have you any recent sketches to show us?"
Fortunately he had. After we had admired them we left him to his work.
I rather expected Emerson would drag us back to Drah Abu'l Naga, but evidently he had abandoned the idea of serious work for that day; we went in the other direction, in order to visit the Ramesseum and the temple of Medinet Habu. There were not many tourists, since most of them prefer to "do" the West Bank in the morning, but there were enough to annoy Emerson, and both places teemed with ragged children demanding baksheesh, self-appointed "guides," and sellers of dubious antiquities. Needless to say, none of them approached us.
Miss Marmaduke made a good show of enjoying herself. She stuck close to Emerson, for which I could not entirely blame her; not only was he a mine of information but his presence kept her from being harassed by the hovering beggars. Since she was incapable of doing it efficiently I had to keep an eye on Ramses, who kept wandering off.
By the time we started back, the sun was sinking westward and I decided it was too late for tea. We had an early dinner instead. Gertrude drooped over her plate, and confessed, when I courteously inquired, that she was very tired. "My fatigue is mental as well as physical, Mrs. Emerson. There has been so much to absorb! The Professor's wonderful explanations of Egyptian religion have given me a great deal to think about. If you will excuse me, I will go straight to bed."
"You will soon become accustomed to our pace," Emerson said, but the corners of his mouth quirked in a way I knew well. Had he deliberately set out to tire Gertrude? The ruse had not succeeded with Ramses and Nefret; both were bright-eyed and full of conversation, and when Emerson suggested they retire, Ramses protested.
"It is only nine o'clock, Father. I want—"
Emerson drew him aside. He thought he was speaking softly, but Emerson's best attempt at a whisper is audible ten feet away. "Your mother and
I have an appointment in Luxor, Ramses. No, you cannot accompany us; I need you to stand guard. I know I can depend on you."
Ramses began, "What—"
"For once, my son, do not argue. I will explain later."
After Ramses had departed I said, "Another mysterious appointment, Emerson? I warn you, you will have a revolution on your hands if you persist in your high-handed methods. Have I not earned your confidence? Do I not deserve your trust? Will you—"
"Yes, yes, my dear. Only make haste, it is getting late."
I had only time to snatch up a parasol as Emerson led me from the room.
Our small boat was waiting, and so too were Abdullah and Daoud. Once we were on board, Daoud pushed off and then took his place at the tiller.
Moonlight cast a silvery path along the dark expanse of water, and the lights of the town seemed reflected a thousandfold in the starry vault of heaven. Emerson's arm stole round my waist.
The setting was romantic in the extreme. I was not. Emerson had taken Abdullah and Daoud into his confidence while keeping me in the dark, and what is more, they were only a few feet away. I sat stiff as a statue until Emerson's arm tightened to such a degree that the breath left my lungs in an explosive gasp.
"Peabody, will you please stop grunting and squirming?" Emerson hissed. "Abdullah will think I am—er—forcing my attentions on you. I don't want him to overhear."
My well-known sense of humor conquered my annoyance, for really, it was an amusing idea—that Emerson would force his attentions on me (or that Abdullah would disapprove if he did). Physical resistance would have been undignified, so I yielded to his embrace.
"Where are we going?" I demanded.
"To the antiquities shop of Ali Murad."
"You have made an appointment?"
"Certainly not. We will drop down on him like a pair of thunderbolts."
"An apt image," I agreed. "What are you hoping to find, Emerson?"
"Well, now." Emerson released me and took out his pipe. He had given up any pretense of whispering—it is not something he is very good at anyhow—and I noticed that Abdullah was leaning in our direction, listening as hard as he could. So he too was in the dark as to Emerson's real purpose.
"One of the local thieves has found that tomb, Peabody," Emerson said. "It is the only possible explanation for recent events. The ring our midnight visitor showed us must have come from Tetisheri's burial, unless you are credulous enough to believe it has been handed down from generation to generation since the second millennium before Christ. If thieves are atwork in the tomb, other objects must have been taken too. They would end up in the antiquities markets in Luxor."
"That is why you went to see Abd el Hamed in Gurneh!"
"Precisely. He is related to every tomb robber in the village. They bring their stolen goods to him and he passes them on to the antiquities dealers. I meant to drop in on him without warning and have a look round, but by the time we finished dealing with the boy, the element of surprise had been lost."
He paused to swear. He was having trouble getting his pipe lit in the stiff breeze.
"It is a logical theory," I admitted. "But I see one difficulty, Emerson. No—two. If the tomb has been located, it will soon be too late, if it is not already too late, to save it. The Gurnawis are master thieves. And—my second point—if Mr. Shelmadine was involved with the people who found the tomb, why would he offer to show it to us?"
Emerson gave up trying to light his pipe. Stuffing it into his pocket he replied, "Your viewpoint is unduly pessimistic, Peabody. At the very worst we can locate the tomb itself, and it is unlikely that the contents have been completely removed. The local thieves of Gurneh do not—cannot—work with the efficiency and openness of a legitimate archaeological team; not only must they operate in secret, but they dare not flood the market with objects whose source would eventually be questioned. Remember the Abd er Rasul brothers. They had been taking papyri and ushebtis from the royal mummy cache for almost ten years before they were caught, and there was still a good deal left."
"Yes," I breathed, my imagination fired. "But my second point—"
"I knew you were going to bring that up," Emerson said. "Leave it for the moment, Peabody; we have arrived."
Declining the offer of a carriage, we set out on foot. There were a good many people still abroad, for visitors preferred to rest during the heat of the afternoon and resume activities after the temperature had dropped, and during Ramadan the shops remained open long into the night. Ali Murad's house, which was also his place of business, was near the temple of Karnak. One of his employees stood outside the open door, inviting passersby to enter by catching hold of their sleeves and tugging at them. When he recognized Emerson his eyes opened very wide and he darted toward the door.
"No need to announce us," Emerson said genially, intercepting the fellow and ushering me in. "Ah, there you are, Ali Murad. I trust business is good?"
It appeared to be excellent. There were half a dozen customers in the small room and Murad himself was in obsequious attendance upon themost prosperous-looking pair—Americans, I deduced, from their peculiar accents.
Ali Murad was a Turk, with great curling mustaches; a red fez perched on his head and rings covered his hands. His control was better than that of his hireling; only a fleeting grimace betrayed his surprise and alarm.
"Emerson Effendi," he said smoothly. "And his lady. You honor my poor house. If you will be seated and take coffee with me—"
"I am sure Abdullah would be delighted to accept the invitation," Emerson said, taking me by the arm. "This way, Peabody."
He moved with catlike quickness, reaching the curtained doorway at the back of the shop before Ali Murad could intercept him. Abdullah was close on our heels.
I had visited the shop before, but had never gone beyond the front room. Obviously Emerson had. The doorway led into a small odorous vestibule. Before the curtain fell back into place, cutting off most of the light, I saw a floor of cracked tiles and a pile of rags and papers under a flight of narrow stairs. Without pausing, Emerson headed up the stairs, towing me after him. Abdullah had not followed us. I deduced that he had been instructed to prevent anyone else from following us. Indignant cries from the shop supported this assumption.
At the top of the stairs Emerson paused long enough to light the candle he took from his pocket. The house was larger than it had appeared from the street; a regular rabbit's warren of corridors and rooms filled the upper floor. Emerson kept hold of my hand and I kept tight hold of my parasol. People may jeer all they like about my parasols—Emerson often does— but there is no more useful article to be had, and mine were specially made, with heavy steel shafts and tips rather more pointed than is customary.
The upper floor was not unoccupied. I heard soft, unpleasantly suggestive sounds from behind some of the closed doors. I could also hear the sounds of footsteps in rapid pursuit of us. Either Ali Murad had got past Abdullah or the latter had been instructed only to delay him.
Finally Emerson stopped and held up his candle. I spun round, ready to defend him, for Murad had caught us up. When he saw my parasol he stopped and cried out, raising his ringed hands.
"Don't be such a bloody coward, Murad," Emerson said. "You don't suppose a lady like Mrs. Emerson would attack a man in his own house, do you? This is the right room, I believe. I hope you have the key; I would regret having to kick the door down."
Watching Emerson like a man in the presence of a savage dog, Murad made one final attempt at dignity. "You break the law, Emerson Effendi. You defy the Star Spangled Banner. I will summon the police."
Emerson laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall.
Cursing under his breath, Ali Murad unlocked the door. The windows of the room were covered with heavy wooden shutters; from the quantity of dust that shrouded them I concluded they had not been opened for a long time. There was no need for light. Potential customers were never brought here, the merchandise from this special storeroom was carried down to them.
A few tables and a few shelves, cluttered with small objects, constituted the furnishings. Ali Murad's housekeeping left a great deal to be desired. The artifacts had not been arranged in any particular order; ushebtis lay next to vessels of stone and pottery, and on top of ostraca. The floor had not been swept for heaven knows how long; the litter covering it would probably repay an excavation in itself.
As Emerson moved slowly round the room, one object after another appeared in the limited candle glow and then vanished again into shadows. He stopped before a slab of stone, square-sided except for its rounded top. It was a stela from some tomb, probably Nineteenth Dynasty, to judge by the quality of the sculptured scene at the top. Hieroglyphic inscriptions covered the rest of the surface.
I heard a grinding sound. It emitted from Emerson—from his teeth, to be precise—but he moved on without comment. His behavior made Ali Murad very nervous. Like me, he knew that when Emerson controlled his temper to that unusual degree it was because he was up to something.
The objects in the room were genuine and every one of them had come from an illegal source—stolen by workers from a legitimate excavation or pillaged from a site that was supposed to be protected. Inspectors like Howard Carter had an impossible job; they could not guard every tomb and every temple in Egypt, and so long as collectors were willing to pay high prices for carved blocks and painted scenes, so long would the monuments be vandalized.
Leaning haphazardly against the back wall, or laid carelessly on the floor, were appalling examples of that vandalism—sections of paintings and bas-reliefs which had been hacked from the walls of tombs. I recognized one fragment, depicting the serene profile and elegantly coiffured head of a high nobleman, as part of a scene I had observed only five years earlier in a tomb at Gurneh.
I was standing quite close to Ali Murad, so I was conscious of a gradual stiffening in his posture when Emerson began examining the fragments, holding the candle close to each one in turn. At one point he let out a barely audible sigh of relief—and then caught his breath as Emerson turned back to a particular piece.
It was painted, not carved. The colors were bright and clear, except where dust had blurred them.
Before I could make out the details Emerson whirled round, holding the candle high. Whether he intended it or not, this had the effect of exaggerating the shadows that outlined his strongly marked features, which had not worn a pleasant expression to begin with. He looked positively demonic.
"Where did you get it?"
Ali Murad's voice broke like that of Ramses. "Effendi—"
"I'll have it out of you by one means or another," Emerson said.
Ali Murad's face, equally distorted by shadow, was a mask of pure terror. I suspected that Emerson was not the only one he feared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, as the quaint saying has it, he grasped at a frail strand of hope. "It is known that the Father of Curses does not employ the kurbash."
"Certainly not," Emerson agreed. "A whip is the weapon of a weakling. A strong man does not need it, nor does he resort to empty threats. You will tell me what I want to know because I am the Father of Curses, and my threats are not empty. Who was it? Mohammed Abd er Rasul? Abd el Hamed? Ah. I thought so. You see, Murad, how easy it was?"
He stripped off his coat and wrapped it carefully around the painted fragment before lifting it in his arms. Ali Murad's face shone greasily with perspiration, but at this act of flagrant brigandage he mustered enough courage to protest.
"You cannot do that. I will complain—"
"To the police? Come now. In violation of all my principles I am leaving you with the rest of your stolen goods. I won't even tell those American tourists the limestone head is a forgery. One of Abd el Hamed's, I would guess; it is not at all bad. Take the candle and light us down."
Abdullah, still on guard at the door, stood aside to let us pass. "All is well?" he inquired, in the tone of one who had expected nothing less.
"Yes, certainly," said Emerson, in the same tone. Turning to Ali Murad, who stood holding the lighted candle like a torchbearer, he bade him a pleasant good evening.
There was no response from the antiquities dealer. He appeared to be unaware of the fact that hot wax was dripping onto his hand.
As soon as we were out of the shop, Emerson handed Abdullah the fragment of painting. He walked close beside me, but did not offer me his arm, and his eyes kept moving, inspecting each passerby and examining every dark doorway. I did not really believe Ali Murad would attack us in order to retrieve his property—if one could call it "his." He had appeared to be thoroughly cowed, not to say petrified. However, I thought it wiser not to distract Emerson with conversation, and so I waited until we had reached the boat and were under way before I spoke.
"You did not look to see whether any other artifacts from the tomb might be there."
"It would have taken too long. You saw what a jumble the place was. I wanted to be in and out before the fellow could muster enough courage to call for help. This is enough. It proves what I suspected."
"Well done, my dear. How do you know this fragment comes from the tomb we are after?"
"I am familiar," said Emerson modestly, "with every tomb in Egypt and its decorative reliefs. That fragment is unknown to me."
The claim was dogmatic enough to verge on arrogance. Coming from Emerson it carried conviction, but not necessarily proof of his conclusion.
"But Tetisheri's tomb?" I persisted. "I was under the impression that queens' tombs of this period were not decorated."
"No queens' tombs of this period have been found," Emerson retorted somewhat acrimoniously. "We don't know whether or how they were decorated. If you will accept my conclusion for the moment, I will explain my reasoning when we have an opportunity to examine the fragment more closely."
"Certainly, my dear. I would never dream of questioning your expertise."
"Hmph," said Emerson. "We are on the right track, Peabody, I have no doubt of it. The next step is to—er—persuade Abd el Hamed to tell me which of the local looters brought the piece to him."
"And then we will—er—persuade the looter to lead us to the tomb. Oh, Emerson!"
"It may not be so simple, Peabody."
"No," I agreed. "For there are at least two groups of criminals after our tomb. One wishes to assist us, the other—"
"Amelia." The little boat had come gently to rest against the bank, but Emerson did not rise. Turning, he took my hands in his and bent over me. I had the distinct impression, even before he spoke, that he was not about to make a romantic gesture.
"I know what you are thinking, Peabody. Don't say it. Don't even think it."
"I had no intention of saying anything of the sort, Emerson. I know how the mere mention of that man's name maddens you—"
"What name?" Emerson's shout echoed across the quiet night. "We never knew his name, only a collection of aliases—several of them invented by you. Master Criminal indeed!"
"His men called him the Master, Emerson, you cannot deny that."
"I am not denying anything," Emerson declared untruthfully. "Devil take it, Peabody, I knew you were thinking of Sethos when you started to quote that absurd statement of Riccetti's. Assist us, indeed! No one is going toassist us! Riccetti was lying, and Sethos is dead. Why do you persist in romanticizing that rascal? He came to your rescue only because he wanted you for himself, the contemptible swine! He did his damnedest to exterminate me. Amelia, will you please stop thrashing around like that? You are not paying attention."
"You are shouting, Emerson. And squeezing my hands quite painfully."
His grip relaxed. Raising my hands to his lips, he kissed each finger in turn. "Forgive me, my dear. I admit I have felt an occasional trifling, fleeting touch of jealousy of that .. ." He glanced over his shoulder at Abdullah. "What are you grinning about, Abdullah?"
"I am not grinning, Father of Curses. It is the light." . "Oh. And," Emerson resumed, "I wondered for a time whether he really was dead."
"We saw him die, Emerson."
"I wouldn't put it past him to survive solely in order to annoy ME," Emerson declared. "However, Riccetti's reappearance proves that Sethos's organization is leaderless. The vultures are gathering."
"How extraordinary, Emerson! The exact same metaphor occurred to me only the other evening."
"That does not surprise me in the least."
"Then you admit that Riccetti may not be the only villain who is trying to take over the illegal antiquities trade? That Mr. Shelmadine was a rival of Riccetti's and was foully murdered in order to prevent him from disclosing information?"
"Confound it, Peabody, will you stop that? I admit nothing of the sort. I haven't the ghost of an idea why Shelmadine called on us, and neither have you, and I have not the strength to hear the sort of theories you are likely to propose."
There was a brief silence.
"Are you feeling well, Peabody?" Emerson inquired. "You failed to interrupt me."
"Our discussion had reached an impasse," I said. "We have not enough information to reach a conclusion—except that there are obviously two different groups of criminals involved. One wishes to assist us, the other—"
"Don't be a fool, Amelia," Emerson snarled. "That statement was Riccetti's, and I don't believe it for—"
He did not complete the sentence. The quiet of the night was rent by a piercing falsetto shriek. It was succeeded by the sounds of violent struggle, easily identifiable by me since I had become accustomed to them. It was not difficult to locate their source. We had landed as close to the dahabeeyah as Daoud could manage.
I observed that last detail as I leaped agilely out of the boat. The muddy bank was rather slippery; only the support of my trusty parasol prevented me from falling headlong. Emerson had not waited for me; he was already some distance ahead, covering the ground with great bounds. As he reached the foot of the gangplank a dark form rushed down it with such precipitation that Emerson, caught off balance, was sent sprawling.
I hesitated for a second, unable to decide whether to pursue the fugitive, assist my fallen spouse, or find out what had transpired on board. Another shrill cry from the deck decided me. Emerson regained his feet; dripping mud and cursing vehemently, he preceded me up the gangplank.
Someone had had the presence of mind to fetch a lamp. Nefret it was who held it; her hand was steady, though her face was as white as her nightdress. In its glow I beheld a scene like the conclusion of a stage melodrama. Blood spattered the deck and there were fallen bodies everywhere.
The cat Bastet sat beside one of the bodies, ears pricked and eyes glowing eerily. The body stirred and sat up.
Ramses's nose was bleeding again. The galabeeyah he wore in lieu of a nightgown had been torn half off him, baring his thin shoulders. In his right hand he held a long knife.
I looked from my son to the unconscious form of Gertrude Marmaduke, and then to the third recumbent body. Blood blurred the features, but I recognized the ribs and the festering toe and the bruised shins.
"Ramses!" I cried. "What have you done now?"
