Lion in the Valley (16 page)

"The—who?"
Nemo stammered.

"The
Master Criminal. The mysterious individual who controls the illicit antiquities
trade in Egypt. Don't tell me that during your sojourn in the underworld of
Cairo you never heard of him."

"A
beggar and drag addict is not taken into the confidence of a professional
criminal," Nemo said thoughtfully. "But what you say is true; there
is such a man. I have heard rumors of him. It was—er—the name you used that
surprised me. I certainly never heard him called that."

"He
has a name, then? What is it?"

"He
has no name, only a variety of appellations. Those in his employ, I believe,
refer to him as the Master. To others, less intimately associated with him, he
is known as Sethos."

"Sethos!
A curious name. You know nothing more?"

Nemo
shook his head. "The men who work for the Master are the cream of the
criminal crop. To be chosen by him is a mark of honor. Even those who are not
in his employ are in deadly terror of him, and it is said that his revenge on a
traitor is swift and horrible."

"Fascinating,"
I exclaimed. "I am deeply indebted to you for the information, Mr. Nemo.
Please forgive me for suspecting you. Though it now appears I was, in a sense,
paying you a compliment!"

Nemo
did not return my smile. "You owe me no apology. What you have told me
changes nothing, Mrs. Emerson. You are right, I would not touch a hair of your
head, and your men could certainly overcome me; but you will have to bind me or
imprison me to keep me here. I must and will go."

"I
understand, Mr. Nemo. I know what has moved you to this decision. It is the
arrival of the young lady."

Nemo's
tanned cheeks paled. "You—you—"

"Looking
from the window last night you saw her," I went on. "A flower of
English womanhood, with the grace and charm that achieves its fullest
perfection in our favored nation. Seeing her must have reminded you of your
shame and of what you have lost."

Nemo
raised a trembling hand to his brow. "You are a witch, Mrs. Emerson!"

"No,
Mr. Nemo; only a woman, with a woman's heart. Our intellectual powers, never
doubt it, are fully equal to those of the so-called stronger sex, but we have a
greater understanding of the human heart. It was a woman who brought you to
this, was it not?"

A
muffled voice from the house interrupted the conversation at this interesting
juncture. I took my watch from my pocket and inspected it. "Time is
passing, Mr. Nemo. I must be about my business. We will discuss your situation
at a future time. Until then I count on you to remain. The young lady will keep
to her room today. You won't have to face her until I have spruced you up a bit
and decided on a story to tell her. Have I your word not to run away?"

"You
would take my word?" Nemo asked incredulously. "After I broke
it?"

"You
did not break it. You said you would try not to succumb." Another, more
irate shout from within reminded me of my duties. "I must be off. I am
going to Cairo today. I will see you this evening."

Nemo
shrugged. "Until tonight, then. Beyond that—"

"That
will do. Yes, Emerson. I am here; I am coming."

I
hastened within.

When
I set out shortly after breakfast, it was with the serene consciousness that I
had dealt with all the outstanding emergencies. Enid had been warned that she
must pretend weakness and keep to her room. We dared not risk her exposing her
ignorance of archaeology, which would certainly occur within five minutes of
her appearance at the dig. Mr. Nemo had been measured for a suit of clothes and
sent off, with Ramses, to supervise
the excavation of the causeway. Emerson
had been soothed and fed and encouraged by my solemn promise that our bed that
night would be under the open sky and the brilliant stars of the desert. (To be
sure, a canvas roof would intervene between us and the open sky, brilliant
stars, et cetera, but Emerson is particularly susceptible to poetic expressions
of that nature. And I confess that I was myself peculiarly stimulated by the
image thus evoked.)

I
had sent Abdullah to hire a horse from the mayor of the village. It was the
finest steed in the neighborhood, a charming little brown mare that was
reported to be the apple of the sheikh's eye. Certainly the cost of her hire
bore this out, as did her shining coat and the confidence with which she
greeted me. I quite fell in love with her myself. Her high spirits matched my
own; when she broke into a gallop I made no effort to restrain her, but
abandoned myself to the joys of speed. I felt like one of the heroes of Anthony
Hope or Rider Haggard, dashing to the rescue. (Their heroines, poor silly
things, never did anything but sit wringing their hands waiting to be rescued.)

It
seemed only a few moments before I saw the first of the monuments of Sakkara.
Some energetic specimens of the tourist breed were already there, for next to
Giza, Sakkara is the most popular excursion in the Cairo region. One of the
guides told me where the archaeologists were working, and I was pleased to find
Mr. Quibell on his feet, notebook in hand, copying inscriptions. After I had
lectured him on the impropriety of standing in the hot sun too long, following
his indisposition, I asked after the young ladies.

Quibell
replied, with proper expressions of gratitude, that, thanks to my assistance,
all were recovering. They expected to finish their work at Sakkara within a day
or
two, after which they would join Petrie at Thebes. Miss Pirie had
particularly asked him to express her thanks to me, if he should be fortunate
enough to see me before they left. (Again the young man's blush, as he
mentioned the young lady's name, told me she would not long retain it, if he
had his way in the matter.)

I
was relieved to hear of their imminent departure, and pleased that I had had
the foresight to stop by in order to receive Quibell's thanks, for otherwise he
might have felt obliged to visit us again, and this would certainly have spelled
disaster for Enid. I offered, in duty bound, to examine the ladies; Quibell
assured me, with touching sincerity, that there was no need. Since I had a long
ride ahead, I did not insist.

We
parted with the friendliest compliments, and I proceeded northward to Giza,
where I left the horse at Mena House and hired a carriage for the trip to
Cairo. After completing my shopping, I arrived at Shepheard's in time for a
late luncheon, which I felt was well deserved.

Not
that this pause in the day's occupations was purely for sustenance and
recreation—no, indeed. My principal errand in Cairo was yet to be accomplished,
and as the first step, I needed to find out what the informed public knew about
the murder. Even before ordering my repast, therefore, I told the waiter to ask
Mr. Baehler to join me, at his convenience, of course.

The
dining room filled rapidly and I amused myself by watching the tourists. They
were a variegated group—stout German scholars and smart English officers,
shrill American ladies and giggling girls in the custody of sharp-eyed mamas.
At a nearby table was a group of young Englishmen, and from the number of
"your lordships" and "my lords" that sprinkled their
conversation, it was not difficult to deduce that the pale,
effeminate-looking
young man to whom the others deferred was a sprig of the aristocracy. Their
clothing was a bizarre combination of fine English tailoring and local
costumery—a striped silk
sudeyree,
or vest, with riding breeches, or a
gold-embroidered
aba
over a tweed shooting suit. None of them had
removed their fantastic headgear—turbans of cashmere and white silk shawls, or
tasseled tarbooshes—and several were puffing cigars, though there were ladies
present.

I
was ashamed to share their nationality, but after they had swaggered out I was
able to console myself with the thought that bad manners are not restricted to
any one country; not long afterwards an elderly American lady entered the
dining room, and her strident voice and loud complaints turned all eyes toward
her. She was attended by a plain, timid female, apparently a maid or companion,
and by a young man whose arm she held more in the manner of a prison guard than
a frail woman requiring assistance. She was tall and heavy-set, and her
voluminous black gown and veils were many years out of date. Her antique bonnet
was trimmed with tiny jet beads; with each ponderous step a little shower of
them fell, rattling like sleet on the floor.

From
the celerity with which the headwaiter approached her I decided she must be
very rich or very distinguished. He got short shrift for his pains; the old
lady rejected the first table she was offered, demanding one nearer the
window—which also happened to be nearer to me. She then criticized the
cleanliness of the silverware, the temperature of the room, and the clumsiness
of her attendants, all in tones that rang like a gong. Catching my eye, she
shouted, "Yes, you agree with me, don't you, ma'am?"

I
turned my back and applied myself to my soup, and to the book I had brought
with me—the new translation
of Herr Erman's delightful account of
Life
in Ancient Egypt.
Wandering through the barley fields with the happy
peasants, I was soon so absorbed that Mr. Baehler had to touch me on the
shoulder before I was aware of his presence.

For
once, conversation with this pleasant man, who usually knew all the gossip
about Cairo's foreign community, proved to be a waste of time. He knew no more
than I—less, in fact, for he informed me that Miss Debenham's whereabouts were
unknown. Her fiance had arrived—

"Her
what?" I exclaimed.

I
am sure my voice was not raised much above its normal pitch, but for some
reason all conversation in the dining room happened to stop just at that
moment. The elderly American lady shouted, "What is it, ma'am? What's the
matter, eh?"

"Her
affianced husband," Mr. Baehler said softly.

"I
know what the word means, Mr. Baehler." I picked up my spoon, which I had
dropped onto the table in the stress of the moment. "I was not aware that
Miss Debenham was engaged to be married."

"Nor
was I, until he came here looking for a room. Unfortunately, I was unable to
accommodate him on such short notice. He said he had been hunting in the Sudan
and, upon hearing the shocking news, had at once hastened to the lady's
side."

"Only
to find she had disappeared. He must be in great distress."

"No
doubt," Baehler said expressionlessly.

"But
that is a curious story, do you not think? First he leaves his affianced wife
to disport herself alone in Cairo while he is amusing himself in the Sudan.
Then he rushes to assist her—but surely not from the Sudan. It would take weeks
for the news to reach an isolated
camp, and for him to make the return
journey."

Baehler
looked uncomfortable. "That had occurred to me, Mrs. Emerson. I can only
assume the gentleman was on his way back, or had actually arrived in Cairo,
when he learned of the murder."

“Humph.
I must speak to him. Where is he staying?''

"I
sent him to the D'Angleterre. Whether he was successful in obtaining
accommodations there, I cannot say. And now, Mrs. Emerson, if you will excuse
me—"

"Miss
Debenham is not a murderess, Herr Baehler. And I intend to prove it."

Baehler,
who had risen to his feet, took the hand I extended and raised it gallantly to
his lips. "Mrs. Emerson, if you set out to prove the sun rises in the
west, you could certainly convince me. I must return to my duties now. My
respectful compliments to your distinguished husband and to Master
Ramses."

After
he had left the room, I thought of several questions I had meant to ask,
including the name of the man who called himself Miss Debenham's fiance.
However, upon further consideration, I decided I had better ask Miss Debenham
herself—and ascertain as well why she had deceived me. The young lady had a
good deal of explaining to do if she wished to retain my good will.

I
gathered up my parcels, my parasol, and my handbag. As I was leaving, the old
American lady shouted, "Good day to you, ma'am. It has been a pleasure
talking with you." Realizing that she must be a trifle senile, I gave her
a pleasant smile and waved my parasol.

Once
outside the hotel, I bargained for a carriage and had just got in when one of
the vendors accosted me. "Flowers for the lady," he cried, thrusting
a bouquet into my hands.

"I
don't want flowers," I said in Arabic.

"They
are for you, sitt," the fellow insisted. "You
are
the Sitt Hakim, wife to Emerson Effendi? Yes, yes, I know you; a gentleman told
me to give these to you."

The
nosegay was a charming ensemble of red rosebuds and fragrant mimosa, framed in
green leaves and tied with a silk bow. The flower seller bowed and retreated
without even waiting for the usual tip, so I had no choice but to keep the
flowers, which I was not reluctant to do, for I have a particular fondness for
roses of that shade. I decided they must have come from Mr. Baehler—a token of
friendly esteem, and an apology for his somewhat abrupt departure. It was the
sort of gesture a gentleman of his refined courtesy might make.