Lion in the Valley (45 page)

"Kalenischeff,
however, was not trustworthy. I had dismissed him from my employ some months
earlier for that very reason. It would have been more discreet of
me
to have had him killed, but I am not so prone to needless slaughter as you
suppose. He was in no position to betray my identity—I take care that no one
shall be in that position—but if he had told all he knew, he could have
crippled some of my operations.

"I
kept an eye on him, therefore; and when I learned from Ronald Fraser that
Kalenischeff was about to betray both of us, I was happy to accede to his
request that Kalenischeff be disposed of. The wretch had decided to make a
clean sweep, collect as much money as possible, and leave Egypt for good. He
knew the Department of Antiquities would pay a tidy sum for information about
me."

"And
Miss Debenham offered an even larger sum if he would help her find Donald and
tell Donald of his brother's treachery."

"Precisely.
The girl proved resistant to the drug we used and made the mistake of running
away. As I told you, she was never in real danger; the weak muscles of a
woman—even yours, my dear—could not have struck a blow like the one that
destroyed Kalenischeff."

"But
Donald—poor Donald! You must clear him. That was an unworthy act, Mr.
Sethos."

"If
it will please you," Sethos said softly, "I will see to it that
Fraser goes free." He reached for my hand. I pulled it away. He shrugged
and sighed and smiled, and leaned back.

"Not
even a touch of the hand in return for my confessing to murder? So be it. I
told you I was a patient man.

"The
rest of the business should be clear to you now. Ronald never knew my real
identity. As Viscount Everly I encouraged him to join my little group because I
wanted to watch the fellow. I knew, of course, that Miss Debenham had fled to
you, just as I knew you had taken
Donald Fraser under your wing. I was not
surprised, since it is your habit to adopt every unfortunate innocent you come
across—by force, if necessary."

"It
is the duty of a Christian to help the unfortunate."

"It
is a Moslem's duty too. Strange, how the so-called great religions all insist
on the same weak virtues. Even the ancient Egyptians boasted of having given
food to the hungry and clothing to the naked."

"It
is a sublime and universal truth," I replied. "What you view as
weakness is the quality that makes us one with the Divine. 'And the
greatest
of these is love.' Or," I hastily amended, "as the word is
sometimes translated, charity."

"A
poor, feeble translation," said Sethos softly. His eyes held mine with
hypnotic power, I felt myself sinking deep into their velvety depths. Then he
lowered his gaze, and I let out a quick, involuntary sigh. His lashes were as
long and thick and curling as those of a pretty girl. I wondered if they were
his own.

"I
have always avoided the softer sentiments," Sethos went on reflectively.
"My feelings for you came on me like a hurricane, a great natural force I
was powerless to resist. I would have resisted them if I could. Even now I have
a strange foreboding—"

"You
have them too!" I exclaimed.

His
lashes lifted; laughter warmed his brown—his gray—his chameleon eyes, before
they darkened into somber pensiveness. "I used to view such premonitions
as the expression of an instinct developed by those who have reason to fear
danger. But now I wonder if there is not some higher fate that guides our
destinies. Not a benevolent deity; no one who studies the cruelty of man can
believe in a god who permits such atrocities. Only a vast, impersonal
something, with a perverted sense of humor! It would be strange, would it not,
if the solitary
weakness of a lifetime should be my
downfall? I sense that this may be so. You could redeem me, Amelia— you and you
alone. Only imagine what I might do for the world if my powers were turned to good
instead of evil. Help me, Amelia. Give me your hand—lead me out of darkness
into light...."

It
was a thrilling moment. I felt that at long last I understood this strange,
brilliant, and tormented man. I was moved—nay, I was inspired. My lips parted.
My breast heaved. My hand reached out. . .

Our
fingertips had not quite touched when the sounds of violence made both of us
start from our seats. The curtains swayed wildly as the door opened and slammed
back against the wall. There was only one person of my acquaintance who opened
a door in that manner! I pressed my hand to my palpitating bosom.

It
was Emerson! It was he! But what a sight he was! His hair stood on end, his
best dress shirt was in shreds; one sleeve had been ripped away from the seam
and huddled on his forearm like a ragged gauntlet. His face was disfigured by
reddening patches, and one eye was half-closed. Blood dripped from his scraped
knuckles, and in either hand he held a naked sword. Never in my life had I
beheld a spectacle that moved me more! I felt that my pounding heart must burst
the confines of my breast.

Before
the curtain had fallen back into place, Emerson whirled round. He let out a
startled remark, dropped one of the swords, and slammed the door shut but not
before a sinuous and tawny form had streaked through the opening. Emerson
dropped the bar into place just as the panels began to reverberate under a
fierce assault. Then he turned again. His gaze went straight to me.

"Amelia,"
he exclaimed. "For God's sake, put on some clothes!"

"Emerson,"
I replied, with equal passion. "Watch out!"

Emerson
ducked and a heavy silver bowl crashed into the door, skimming his disheveled
head. The cat Bastet sauntered toward Sethos. Her loud rasping purr blended
with the dying echoes of the sound of the bowl striking the door. Sethos
staggered as the cat twined affectionately around his ankles—she was, as I
believe I have mentioned, a large and muscular animal. Agilely he leaped away,
and the cat Bastet, deeply affronted, headed for the table and the stuffed
chicken.

After
a casual glance around to assure himself that Sethos had no other missiles
convenient to hand, Emerson looked again at me. "Has he harmed you,
Peabody? Has he dared ... Has he ... Good Gad, Peabody, seeing you in that
outrageous costume has filled me with apprehensions I scarcely—"

"Have
no fear, Emerson! He has not... He did not..."

"Ah!"
Emerson's chest swelled, completing the ruin of his best shirt. He shook the
tatters of his sleeve from his arm and flexed his muscles. "In that
case," he said, "I will only tear
one
of his legs off."

He
started toward Sethos, who retreated as delicately as Bastet might have done,
his hands hanging limp and loosely flexed.

"Emerson,"
I said.

"Please
don't distract me, Peabody."

"He
is unarmed, Emerson. Your scimitar—"

"Scimitar?
Oh." Emerson stared curiously at the weapon. "I took it from that
fellow out there," he explained. "Never saw such a hard head on a
human being. He was up and at me again almost at once. I expect,
though,
that they have overpowered him by this time."

Indeed,
the pounding on the door had ceased. "You did not come alone then?" I
asked.

"Certainly
not. Ramses—"

"Emerson!"

"And
a regiment of police officers." He transferred his gaze to Sethos.
"Your evil career is ended, you swine. But I shan't admit the police until
I have dealt with you. I promised myself that satisfaction, and I think I
deserve it."

Sethos
straightened to his full height. He was not as tall as Emerson, or as brawny,
but they made a magnificent pair as they faced one another in mutual animosity.

"Good,
Professor," he said in a low, drawling voice. "I promise myself some
satisfaction too, for I have yearned to come to grips with you. Give me the
other sword, and we'll fight for her like men."

"Emerson,"
I cried in some anxiety, for I knew my husband's temperament only too well.
"Emerson, you don't know how to fence!"

"No,
I don't," Emerson admitted. "But you know, Peabody, there can't be
much to it—whacking at one another in turn, and—"

"Emerson,
I insist... No. No, my dearest Emerson— I beg you, I implore you...."

A
pleased smile spread over Emerson's face. "Well, Peabody, since you put it
that way...." And to my horror he flung the sword away. It skipped across
the smooth marble floor in a series of musical ringing sounds. Even before it
struck the floor, Sethos moved— not toward that sword, but toward the first,
which Emerson had dropped at the door. Snatching it up, he swung on Emerson.

"Now,
Professor, we are more evenly matched," he
snarled. "I
know something of boxing, but I prefer not to meet
you
in that arena.
Pick up the sword—I give you that much."

Emerson
shrugged. "It wouldn't be much use to me," he remarked.
"However..." And with the catlike quickness he could sometimes
summon, he snatched the wine decanter and brought it crashing down on the edge
of the table. Bastet, who had been eating the chicken, soared up with a yowl of
protest; the decanter shattered; and the table collapsed, spilling food and
broken glass. The air glittered with crystal shards, like drops of clear hail.

Emerson
ripped the silken covering from the couch and wrapped it round his left arm.
"Now then," he said. "Come on, you bas—excuse me, Peabody—you
villain."

They
circled one another in taut silence. Sethos lunged. With a quick twist of his
body, Emerson stepped inside the other man's guard and jabbed at his face with
the broken bottle. Sethos jumped back. His next move was a slash, from left to
right; Emerson beat it back with a blow across Sethos' forearm. The blade
whistled past his side. Sethos retreated again, giving Emerson a chance to
snatch up the silver tray. It served as a makeshift shield; with its aid he
took the offensive, striking the sword back each time it approached, and
jabbing with the decanter.

In
my opinion there is never any excuse for violence. It is the last resort of
people and nations who are too stupid to think of a sensible way of settling
their differences. The sight of two pugilists beating one another to a pulp
sickens me; the idea of little boys being taught to "fight like men"
revolts and repels me. Was I therefore filled with disgust at the bloody battle
that raged between these two men of intellect and ability?

No.

The
sight of Emerson's muscles rippling under his bronzed skin—of the ferocious
smile that bared his strong white teeth—of the grace and vigor of his
movements—roused an answering joyful ferocity in my bosom. My breath came in
gasps, my cheeks burned. For a few moments I was not a civilized, sensible
woman; I was a primitive female crouched in her cave as two savage male beasts
fought to possess her.

It
was a most curious and interesting sensation.

A
wicked feint and even quicker riposte struck the make-shift shield aside.
Sethos' blade bit deep into Emerson's arm. He gave a grunt of annoyance rather
than pain and lunged forward. Only Sethos' sideways turn of the head saved his
eyes; the glass scored a row of ragged cuts down his cheek. Wounded and in need
of a respite, the combatants broke apart, both dripping blood, both panting,
both glaring.

"This
is ridiculous!" I cried.

Neither
man paid the least attention, but my fit of temporary insanity had ended
abruptly at the sight of the blood spurting from Emerson's wound. Masculine
pride is all very well, and I hoped Emerson was enjoying himself, but I was
cursed if I was going to stand by and see him cut to ribbons just so he could
have the satisfaction of dying to defend my honor.

I
ran toward the door. Emerson did not take his eyes off Sethos, but he saw me.
"Peabody," he gasped. "If you open—that door—I will—I
will—oof!" I heard Sethos' blade ring on the silver platter. I snatched up
the scimitar Emerson had flung away and turned for an appraisal of the
situation.

It
was far from reassuring. Even as I turned, the final blow was struck. Too late,
I thought wildly—too late to admit the helpers waiting outside, too late even
to
reach my stricken spouse and stand side by side with him, sword in
hand! Sethos' blade came down on the platter again and knocked it out of
Emerson's grasp. As the sword hung motionless from the impact for a split
second, Emerson dropped the decanter and caught his opponent's arm in both
hands.

They
stood frozen in matching strength, Sethos' efforts to free his arm and
Emerson's efforts to hold it producing a temporary equilibrium. Slowly Sethos'
arm bent. The sword quivered in his straining hand. Beads of sweat broke out on
Emerson's brow. The rose-pink wrappings on his arm were crimson now, but his
grip never weakened.

Then
the end came. The sword fell from Sethos' fingers, and Emerson's hand, slippery
with blood, lost its hold. Quick as ever, Emerson reached for the fallen sword.
Sethos, just as quick, leaped back against the wall. He looked at me.
"Amelia—farewell!" he cried— and vanished.

Emerson
bounded forward with a series of oaths that exceeded anything I had ever heard
him utter. The slab of marble through which Sethos had vanished closed again,
in Emerson's face. "Damn!" said Emerson, beating on the slab with the
scimitar and then with his fist. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!"