Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (14 page)

digging? I can find all the men you want, good men who have worked for the Father of Curses before." Ramses explained that they had not come to excavate and felt sorry when he saw Yusuf's fat, affable face fall. Times were hard for the men of Gurneh. "But the Father of Curses said you would be digging in the Valley of the Monkeys," Yusuf protested. "Oh, did he?" Ramses didn't verbalize the expletives he would like to have added. The Valley of the Monkeys was what the Egyptians called the West Valley, because of the wall paintings in one of the tombs. It was part of Lord Carnarvon's concession, and nobody else had the right to excavate there. Emerson had mentioned in an offhand manner that they might just have a look at the tomb of Amenhotep III-as a favor to Howard Carter. Carter would probably not regard it as a favor. Emerson was up to his old tricks, trying to maneuver people into doing what he wanted them to do, by fair means or foul. "We may go out there one day to have a look round," Ramses said. "First of all I want to inspect Tetisheri's tomb. It is my father's chief concern." "Yes, yes." Yusuf's chin wobbled as he nodded. "You wish to go there now? Jamil will come. He is at your service while you are in Luxor, for anything you need. You will take him wherever you go. If you need more men, he will hire them for you." Nefret was looking at the open door of the house. Ramses glanced in that direction, and saw a small brown hand. The fingers were wriggling furiously. "Right," Nefret said, half to herself and half to the almost invisible eavesdropper. "Yusuf, I understand your daughter Jumana has been attending school. We would like her to work for us while we are here." "Yes, you will need a maidservant," Yusuf said complacently. "She is a good girl, clever with her hands. I will send her to the dahabeeyah-" "No!" Nefret moderated her voice. "I don't want a maid, Yusuf. I have heard she is clever in other ways, that she can read and write. We can use her as a-a secretary." "Secretary? You mean to write letters for you? On the dahabeeyah?" "Not on the dahabeeyah," Nefret said decidedly. The last thing she wanted was a bright, inquisitive young girl sharing their quarters. "We want her to come with us when we inspect the tombs." "You want to take her with us?" Jamil demanded, scowling. "She will only be in the way. She is a nuisance, always following me and wanting to do what I do." The little brown hand clenched into a fist. Yusuf glanced uneasily at his son, who was sitting at his feet. Jamil had spoken out of turn, anticipating his father's response, but it was obvious that he could do no wrong in Yusuf's eyes. "I don't know," Yusuf muttered. "I have never heard of such a thing. A woman's place is in the house." "Not always," Ramses said, with an amused look at his wife. "Think about it, Yusuf. We would be grateful for her help. And we would pay well for a skilled scribe." "Ah. Hmmm." Yusuf tugged at his beard. "So. I will think. Bokra (tomorrow) perhaps." Yusuf insisted on accompanying them to Tetisheri's tomb. Ramses tried to dissuade him; unlike his cousin Abdullah, who had been fit and capable into his seventies, Yusuf couldn't even get out of a chair without puffing and wheezing. He waved Ramses's objections aside. "The Father of Curses would be angry if I let you go into the hills without protection. Jamil, bring me my gun." The boy jumped up and ran out. When he returned, Nefret's eyes widened and Ramses stared in consternation. The weapon was an antique Martini, at least forty years old. It had been kept oiled and polished, but it was a single-shot, wildly inaccurate at long range, with a kick like a mule's. The only way you could be sure of damaging someone with it was to hit him over the head, and Jamil was fondling it in a way that made it more than likely he would shoot himself in the leg. "Yusuf, none of the men of Luxor would threaten us," Ramses said. "You don't need that." "No, no one in Luxor," Yusuf agreed, snatching the weapon from Jamil. "They all fear the Father of Curses and the Brother of Demons. But the Senussi have taken Kharga and Siwa and the Bedouin are in arms." "When did this happen?" "Some days ago," Yusuf said, with the vagueness about time typical of a man who does not own a clock or a calendar. "There is fighting in the north, near the coast, and it is said the Inglizi are falling back. The desert tribes from Cairo to Nubia are waiting to see who will win. If the Inglizi lose, they will attack." Ramses wondered how accurate Yusuf's report was. He wasn't surprised to hear that some, if not all, of the oases were no longer in British hands, but the chance of a band of bloodthirsty Bedouin attacking Luxor was preposterous. However, Ramses abandoned hope of persuading the old fellow to give up his cherished weapon. It took two of his sons to hoist Yusuf onto his horse, which was almost as fat as Yusuf, with a belly like a barrel and a decided disinclination to go faster than a walk. It seemed to take them hours to cross the desert stretch between Gurneh and the hills of the high plateau. As they plodded along side by side Yusuf explained that he had everything ready for them. "Every day there was a letter! From the Father of Curses, from Selim, from the Sitt Hakim, telling us what to do. Never have I had so many letters in a few days!" "It is a good thing you had Jumana to read them to you," Nefret said without so much as the hint of a smile. Jumana's father grunted. The tomb was in an inconvenient location, halfway down a narrow cleft that split the cliff from top to bottom, and originally it could only be reached from above, by means of a rope. Emerson had widened the lower opening and had had steps built for their convenience while they were working on the tomb; he had torn them down when they finished, in order to make access less convenient for thieves (and the members of the Service des Antiquites). In place of the former stairs there was now a rope ladder, with odd-shaped pieces of wood fastened to the supporting ropes at irregular intervals. "It is safe," Yusuf insisted, as Ramses eyed the structure dubiously. "I have been up and down it many times. And it was Jamil, Brother of Demons, who took it to the tomb, descending a rope from the top of the cliff, with great danger to himself." "It was not difficult," Jamil said. "Dangerous, yes, but not difficult for me." Modesty was not an attribute admired by Egyptians. Jamil's boasting was not unusual; and, Ramses had to admit, it was probably justified. The boy was slim and well-built for his size, and the young men of the west bank were accustomed to scrambling up and down rock faces and along precipitous paths that would have daunted most Europeans. However, he refused Jamil's offer to ascend first-"to help you and Nur Misur." Even with Yusuf's weight anchoring the structure from below, it swayed alarmingly, but it seemed sturdy enough. When he reached the ledge outside the tomb entrance he called down to Nefret to follow. Jamil stood staring up at her as she climbed. That will teach him not to underestimate women, Ramses thought; she was unafraid and as nimble as a boy. The cleft was narrow and the sun was not high enough to shed light into it; when she joined him on the ledge they stood in a gray shadow, enclosed by stone, with only a slit of sky visible high above. "I'd forgotten what a gloomy place this is," Nefret murmured. Ramses put his arm round her and drew her away from the edge. "Let's have some light." The heavy iron gates added a Gothic touch; oil had been pumped into the locks with such excessive zeal that it had dripped, leaving dark streaks and a puddle or two. Nefret held the torch while Ramses got out the keys his father had given him. The locks yielded at last and he pushed one of the gates back. It groaned appropriately and Nefret chuckled. "All we need now are a few bats and a perambulating mummy." "I doubt if there are any bats. We sealed the place up as tightly as we could." There were no bats and no mummy, only stale air that caught at the throat. When they reached the antechamber with its beautifully painted reliefs, Ramses was pleased to see that the preservatives they had used, with all due caution, had not darkened or flaked. The rock-cut steps leading down to the burial chamber were uneven. She let him take her hand. He continued to hold it when they stood in the room they had emptied of its incredible litter-broken boxes, fallen jewelry, the queen's dismembered chariot. The only thing remaining was the huge stone sarcophagus. Nefret moved the torch slowly round the walls. The closed-in chambers were very warm. Her face glowed with perspiration and curling locks of hair had escaped from under her hat to frame her temples. Ramses said, "I've never kissed you in the burial chamber of a tomb, have I?" "Not yet." She turned into his arms. A short time later the torch went out. He didn't know whether she had switched it off or dropped it, and by then he didn't care. The darkness of that enclosed space, deep in the cliff, was like a black blanket, muffling all sensations except the exquisitely refined and concentrated sense of touch. Then she tightened her grasp and something hit him on the back of the head. "You didn't drop the torch," he murmured. "Darling, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to smack you with it." "Quite all right. I suppose we'd better get on with the job, though. I was thinking," he went on, as the light reappeared, "that it might make a nice little hobby to kiss you in every tomb in Luxor." "What a lovely idea. One down, how many hundreds to go?" "We'll keep track as we proceed. Everything seems to be in order here. We might come back another day and take a few photographs for Father." They made their way back to the entrance. Ramses closed and locked the gates. He took out his own torch and moved the beam slowly and methodically over the locks and the hinges. "I don't see any signs of tampering, do you? Remarkable. I rather expected some of the local lads would have a go at breaking in." "They know we removed everything that was portable. And didn't Father put a curse on the place?" "One of his best. He invoked every god in the pantheon from Anubis to . . .Well, I'll be damned. Somebody's been here. Look at that." Cut deep into the rock above the doors was the same odd device they had seen near several of the Amarna tombs-a circle divided by a sinuous waving line. "He didn't get in," Nefret said practically. "But how did he get here in the first place? One wouldn't want to climb up from below, the rock is too unstable. From above the only practicable method is sliding down a rope, and I wouldn't want to tackle that without help." "You wouldn't, but some of these he-man explorer types behave very stupidly. We can ask around. If he hired any of the locals, they'll tell you." Drops of perspiration slid down her face. He knew her throat must be as dry as his, and that she was anxious to get into the open air, but the oddity of the little cryptogram held him. "What does it remind you of?" he asked. Nefret blinked wet lashes and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. "Something. I can't think . . . Oh, I know! It's like the yin and the yang symbol-the opposing forces, masculine and feminine, dark and light, that make up the world. Perhaps our busy tourist is Chinese." "Someone is making his presence known, certainly. All right, love, down you go. Be careful." "You too." Her foot already on the topmost rung, she smiled up at him. "You can let go my wrist now." Ramses waited until she had reached the bottom before he started his descent. Further examination of the odd little symbol had told him nothing he did not already know or suspect. He hadn't mentioned it to Nefret because he didn't want to put ideas into her head. If she came to the same conclusion independently, it would be confirmation of his ... One couldn't even call it a theory, not yet. There were not enough data. He knew what he was looking for, but he still didn't know how to go about it.

7

As we stood staring down at the gruesome thing and Ismail sniveled in the corner, with his back to the scene, Emerson said, "That takes care of the question of whether or not to consult Russell. The police will have to be told of this." I was not at all averse to a little chat with Mr. Thomas Russell, the Assistant Commissioner of Police. I did not hold him wholly accountable for getting my son half killed (a number of other people shared the blame for that, including Ramses himself), but I had not had a chance to express my recriminations as forcibly as I would have liked. "It is the usual procedure after one has discovered a corpse," I remarked. "Hmmm, yes. Shall we telephone or send someone?" "The latter, I think. We must stay here with the body." "It isn't necessary for both of us to stay. You go back to the house and-" "You go." "Oh, bah," said Emerson. "Very well. Selim!" Selim was within earshot-by that time most of the men had gathered round, drawn by Ismail's howls of woe-but Emerson shouts as a matter of habit. Selim was as unwilling as we to leave the scene, so he delegated one of the other men as messenger, and Emerson scribbled a note on a page from his excavation journal. "Russell: Have found corpse at Giza. R. Emerson." "Is that all you intend to say?" I inquired. "What else is there to say? Anything more would be pure conjecture. Russell thinks he is a detective, let him come and detect." The messenger reluctantly tore himself away and the other men stood by, watching avidly as Emerson squatted by the body. I knew what he intended to do, and I was content to leave it to him. Mummies I have become accustomed to, though I never have liked them very much, and I have encountered quite a number of fresh corpses, but this one did not appear to be as fresh as it might have been. Rather than confess this weakness to Emerson, I found a more practical objection. "If you mean to finish excavating that corpse, Emerson, you ought to follow your own professional standards. You will need more light, to begin with." Emerson had to agree. The body lay in the shadow of the wall and a single torch gave limited light. While he was locating his own torch and showing Selim where to point it, I found one of the brushes we used for clearing delicate objects. He was gracious enough to accept this as well. It was not really necessary for him to mention fly larvae. "But that is rather odd, isn't it?" I asked, as detective fever overcame my temporary attack of squeamishness. "Surely a body buried in sand would be protected from insects, and it would suffer desiccation rather than decay." Emerson did not look up. He had brushed the sand away from the face and was working his way down. "Flies, of which there are a great number in Egypt, gather on a motionless body almost instantly. I would guess that the body was left unburied long enough for a busy insect population to infest it." "You need not go into detail, Emerson." "Rigor mortis, as I hardly need tell you, has come and gone," Emerson continued. "Hmmm. The effects of desiccation on top of decomposition are quite fascinating. It's a pity Nefret isn't here, she would appreciate this. Are you sure you wouldn't like a closer look, Peabody?" "It is most considerate of you, my dear, but I think not." "Too much even for you, eh?" Emerson chuckled. "There are no signs of animal attack, which suggests that the murderer did not leave him lying in the open." "So you agree it was murder." "He didn't walk out here on his own, dig a hole, lie down, and cover himself with sand," Emerson said acerbically. "Now why the devil would a killer keep the body of his victim lying round the house instead of burying it in the desert or throwing it into the river?" "Because he wanted us to find it. He couldn't carry it here in broad daylight, and the moon has been at the full. Last night was overcast." "The past several nights, in fact. He's been here for a while." Emerson went on digging carefully around the remains. "I wonder what they did with . . . Ah. Here it is-a sizable piece of canvas. I knew they must have bundled him up in something of the sort in order to facilitate transport and keep bits of him from falling off along the way. Considerate of them to remove it before they buried him, so that the lucky discoverer would get the full effect." He stood up. The body lay completely exposed. It was dressed in the ragged and horribly stained remains of a cotton galabeeyah. I will not describe the condition of the face and hands. "Let's get him out of here," Emerson said coolly. "Tell Ibrahim to rig some sort of litter." "I don't think Mr. Russell would approve of that, Emerson. Disturbing the crime scene-" "The devil with Russell. His CID people are blundering idiots. I won't have them tramping around in my tomb. However," Emerson conceded, fingering the cleft in his chin, "we will take a few photographs. Selim!" "I am here, Father of Curses," said Selim reproachfully. "I don't want you here, I want you to get the camera." Watching Emerson's methodical procedures, and adding a few little suggestions of my own, I agreed that we were quite within our rights to proceed with the investigation. At a location like this one, the techniques of excavation applied, and of course we had both had considerable experience with murder in all its forms. Selim took a number of exposures, from various angles, of the corpse and various parts of it. In the light of our pocket torches the makeshift grave and its occupant resembled a scene from a horror story. The shifting shadows gave an illusion of movement. Emerson, who is not at all sensitive to such things, went briskly ahead. I sat on a stretch of wall eating a sandwich left over from lunch, for we had missed tea. I rather regretted doing so when Emerson and Selim lifted the piece of wood that had been inserted under the body. The head rolled to one side, and the jaw dropped, opening the mouth in a silent scream. "All right, are you, Peabody?" Emerson inquired. "A fragment of cucumber caught in my throat," I replied, coughing. "Is it possible to tell how he died?" "No doubt of that," Emerson said, wiping his hands on his trousers. (I made a mental note to have them laundered immediately.) "His throat was cut. The poor devil may never have seen his killer; a man under attack from the front generally throws up his arms to protect his face, and his hands and forearms are unmarked. No skin or dried blood under his nails ..." "It was quick and relatively merciful, then," I murmured. "Thank heaven for that." "Bah," said Emerson. This is his usual reaction to a mention of God or heaven. Bending over, he examined the ground. "There are no signs of blood or other fluids under the corpse-another indication, if one were needed, that he was killed elsewhere. I would guess he's been dead at least two or three days. Hard to tell, without knowing where he's been during that time." "So he was killed before last night. The attack on us was not designed to keep him from speaking to us." "Not unless our attackers and his killer were not connected. That seems unlikely, on the face of it." "You had better hurry, Emerson. Russell will be here before long and it is getting too dark to see what you are doing." By the time Russell arrived, the velvety dusk of Egypt had fallen. Stars twinkled in the sky over Cairo. The moon had risen; it was several days past the full but still bright. Russell was accompanied by three of his men. Our people had left, except for Selim and Daoud. I had dismissed William, since he kept throwing up. "What kept you?" Emerson demanded. "I want to get this thing off my hands and go home to dinner." Russell took off his hat. "Good evening, Mrs. Emerson-Professor. My apologies for the delay. I was out of the office." "Playing cricket or some other damn fool game at the Sporting Club, I suppose," said Emerson. "Well, take him away. We've got him nicely bundled up for you." Russell turned his torch onto the recumbent form and examined it. "He's Egyptian." "Brilliant!" Emerson exclaimed. "Don't be rude," I said. "Conversations with you, Professor, are excellent exercises in self-control," Russell said. "I swore I would never again allow you to provoke me, but don't push me too far. I see you've moved the body. What else have you done that is improper if not actually illegal?" Brushing this bit of irony aside, Emerson proceeded to explain how and where we had come upon the remains. Russell did not interrupt, but I could hear him breathing stentoriously. "You took photographs? Well, that's something. Any clues as to the man's identity or the identity of his killer?" "I sifted the debris under the body and for several feet around," Emerson said. "The murderer did not leave his name and address. I can identify the victim for you, however. His name-his nom de guerre-was Asad." After a time I said, "Really, Mr. Russell, you need more practice in self-control. Such language!" Russell was bent over the body, inspecting the awful face more closely. "It could be," he muttered. "We found his eyeglasses," Emerson said. Russell snatched the twisted frames from his hand. "Anything else you forgot to mention? How, for example, you recognized a man you'd seen only once and whose present appearance is certainly not-er-lifelike?'' "As to that," said Emerson, hands on hips, shoulders thrown back, brows thunderous, "how is it that you neglected to warn us that Asad had escaped?" "Stop shouting, both of you!" I exclaimed, for the constables, awaiting their chief's orders, were listening with openmouthed interest. "Take the body away," I continued, addressing those individuals. "At once. Mr. Russell will follow you shortly." They did as I directed, of course. As soon as the cortege was out of earshot, I addressed Russell. "There are several points that need to be cleared up. We will discuss them here and now. I apologize for not inviting you to return to the house with us, but I prefer to have as little to do with you as is possible. Nothing personal, you understand." I described Ramses's encounter with Asad and our futile efforts to locate him. Russell and Emerson kept trying to interrupt my orderly exposition, but I was in no mood for displays of masculine illogic. I was hungry and it was past dinnertime. Mahmud would certainly have burned the soup. "So you see," I concluded, "that Asad must have had information that was dangerous to some unknown party-presumably the same party who told him of Ramses's masquerade. The identification is certain to my mind. If you doubt it, you must have on file a description of his physical attributes which will settle the matter. You will of course keep us informed of the progress of your investigation. And," I added, for I was unable to resist a little touch of sarcasm, "if you hear that any other spies or terrorists have escaped, it would be kind of you to inform us before one of them succeeds in assassinating Ramses. Good night, Mr. Russell. Come, Emerson." "Just a moment, Mrs. Emerson. Please." "Be quick, Mr. Russell. It is probably too late for the soup, but I have hopes of the roast beef." "I . . ." He shook his head vigorously, like a dog after a dip in a pond. "I forget what . . . Oh, yes. Is it true that Ramses has left Cairo?" "He is in Luxor and will remain there for several weeks. I am glad you reminded me, Mr. Russell," I went on. "I meant to tell you that this business must be kept quiet. There must be nothing in the newspapers." "I can't control the press, Mrs. Emerson!" "Yes, you can. You people do it all the time. I do not want to be badgered by journalists and I do not want Ramses to hear of Asad's death. He might feel obliged to do something about it." "I see." He tugged at his ear. "I'll do my best. The fellow was Egyptian, so perhaps the press won't take much of an interest." Emerson growled deep in his throat but did not deny this outrageous remark-outrageous because it was true. I was turning away when Russell spoke again. "After they were arrested, the members of Wardani's organization were handed over to the military. I was not informed of this man's escape." "Really? How strange." "I trust you are not questioning my word, Mrs. Emerson." "No," said Emerson, before I could reply. "It's typical of the bastards not to trust anyone outside their own little circle. Who the devil was it, I wonder, who was responsible for keeping the information under wraps?" "I don't know," Russell said shortly. "I wish I did. If you had seen fit to report what were unquestionably police matters, I would have been able to ask questions. You and the rest of your family have the most terrifying nonchalance about people trying to kill you!" "We didn't want the police getting in our way," I explained. "I expected you would say that. May I suggest that cooperation might be to our mutual advantage? I will pass on any information I get if you will do the same. We are on the same side, you know." "Against the bloody War Office," said Emerson, with a chuckle. "At least we have the same aim," Russell said, tactfully avoiding a direct answer. "The safety of your son. I think well of him, you know." The roast beef was rather dry, but we were too hungry to be critical. We did not discuss the case during dinner, despite some rather pointed questions from Fatima, who was serving, and some coughing and shuffling from Gargery, who was listening at the door. They knew we had discovered a body-the word had spread with the rapidity of a brushfire, as it always does-but insofar as they were aware, the dead man had been a stranger. I was determined to keep it that way. By morning Gargery was in a state of extreme exasperation. He was delighted that we had a corpse on our hands; he had been secretly hoping for some such thing ever since we arrived. Not that he was an unkind or uncaring individual, but as he had once remarked, "If there's got to be a murder, madam, it might as well be us that gets the use of it." He had got his wish, and here we were selfishly trying to keep him from getting the use of it. Fortunately the morning post included the long-awaited letter from Nefret, which served as a temporary distraction. It also roused Emerson from his normal state of early-morning stupor. Gargery's attempts to read the letter over his shoulder were not well-received, however. "She says they are well and happy," I informed my surly butler. "The rest of it concerns archaeological matters, which would not be of interest to you." "I do not know why you should suppose that, madam," said Gargery stiffly. "We all of us take a deep interest in that there tomb you were so busy with for so long." "Tetisheri? Well, there is nothing in the letter about that. They had just arrived in Luxor." "Was there anything for Miss Sennia, madam?" "They sent their love, of course. Emerson, what on earth is the matter?" "She will expect more than that, madam. She will expect-" "Hell and
damnation!" Emerson bellowed. "-a personal letter," Gargery finished. "I am sorry, but they-" "I had a feeling-a hideous foreboding-" "Emerson!" I shouted. "You needn't scream, Peabody!" "Miss Sennia will-" "Gargery!" "There is nothing wrong with my hearing, madam." They were both glaring at me, but at least I had got them to be quiet. I decided to deal with Gargery first. "There is no letter for Miss Sennia, so she will have to accept it." Emerson examined his cup. "More coffee, Gargery." "Are you sure you want more, sir?" "Yes, I'm sure. What an idiotic question." Gargery added a dribble of coffee to Emerson's cup. "Far be it from me to hurry you and madam, sir, but I must leave shortly to take Miss Sennia to school." "Yes, quite," Emerson said absently. He was rereading Nefret's letter. The import of Gargery's comment finally penetrated. He looked up with a scowl. "Since when has it been necessary for you to stand over me while I finish my breakfast? Go." Gargery's jaw set. After a chat with me, he and Fatima had agreed on a compromise. They would take it in turn to serve breakfast and dinner, alternating each week. (Implicit in the agreement was the right of both to listen at the door.) He was a man of his word and would stick to it, but he was unwilling to give up a single minute of his allotted time. After he had stamped out, taking the coffeepot with him, I turned to my husband. "Now, my dear Emerson, what is the trouble?" I inquired sympathetically. "Tell me about your premonitions." Emerson's eyes narrowed into sapphirine slits. "I never have premonitions, and I don't believe in yours-never have, never will." "You just this minute said-" "Did I? No, I didn't. And if I did, I didn't mean it." Emerson snatched up the pile of unopened letters and began looking through them. "Nothing from Russell," he remarked. "We can hardly expect word so soon. Let's not discuss it here. Have you finished breakfast?" "I want another cup of coffee." Emerson's wandering eye moved across the table and failed to find the object it sought. "Where the devil is the coffeepot?" "Gargery took it away," I replied. "Pure spite, I presume. I fear you were right when you- Ah, Fatima. Thank you. The Professor was just asking for more coffee." She offered more of everything, which we refused. Still she lingered. "Was there a letter from Nur Misur?" "Yes. She posted it as soon as they arrived in Luxor. They are well and happy. You can read it if you like, and tell the others." Her face glowed with pleasure. "Thank you, Sitt Hakim. Is there any more news?" "Here's a letter from Katherine Vandergelt," said Emerson, tossing it to me. "Do you want to wait while we read it, Fatima?" Sarcasm was wasted on the good woman. "Yes, Father of Curses, please." "Well, this is good news!" I exclaimed. "Bertie has got pneumonia-" "Really, Amelia!" Emerson exclaimed. "Your habit of looking on the bright side has gone too far. What is good about pneumonia? It is preferable to gangrene or lockjaw, I suppose, but-" "If you will please allow me to finish my sentence, Emerson? In fact," I admitted, "it was something of a misstatement. He has had pneumonia and is much better, but the doctor believes a warm dry climate will hasten his recovery. Katherine and Cyrus are bringing him to Egypt. They will be here next week." "Ah," said Emerson. It was certainly modified rapture, but I had not expected him to admit how much he missed the Vandergelts. His pleased expression was admission enough. Fatima was more effusive. "It is very good, Sitt. Will they stay with us?" "I hope we can persuade them to remain with us for a time, but Katherine expressed her intention of taking Bertie on to Luxor. The climate there is much more salubrious, as you know. She has asked us to make sure The Valley of the Kings is got ready for them." "I will begin the cleaning," said Fatima. "We may as well be on our way," said Emerson. "There is no privacy in this house. Peabody, I warn you: If there is a confounded journalist lurking outside, I will throw him in the river." "The newspapers cannot have got wind of this so soon. Anyhow, they won't be interested in the death of an anonymous Egyptian." How I could have overlooked the obvious, I cannot imagine. How often in the past had we found ourselves and our activities featured in sensational newspaper stories? Should the Reader be unfamiliar with that past, I will answer what would otherwise be a rhetorical question. Very often. Egyptological exploration fascinates the general public. That is understandable. I would not have objected to a reasoned, accurate description of our excavations, but-purely by chance-we had been involved in several cases of mysterious death with seemingly supernatural overtones, and it was those criminal cases that attracted the lurid imaginations of the press. Kevin O'Connell of the Daily Yell had been the first and the worst offender; it was he who invented "the Curse of the Pharaoh," and that word-curse, that is, not pharaoh-was to haunt us for years. But Kevin had become a friend and had toned down his rhetoric accordingly, and it had been awhile since our criminal cases had involved any but normal murderers, thieves, and forgers. What I had overlooked was the fact that Miss Minton was in Cairo, looking for an excuse to seek us out and willing to revert to the most despicable variety of yellow journalism in order to gain her end. When we reached Giza she was already there, notebook and pencil in her hands, confronting Selim. Her back was to us; Selim's back was flat against the wall of the mastaba. He had retreated as far as he could and could retreat no farther, for she had him neatly cornered. She had always been good at that. Emerson let out a roar and broke into a run. Miss Minton turned, cool and smiling. Selim could have got away then, but I give him credit; he stood his ground, though he looked as if he were glued to the wall, and his lips were moving-probably in prayer. "Don't be angry with him," Miss Minton said. "He hasn't told me anything I didn't know." "Curse it," Emerson began. "Now, Emerson, be calm," I said. "I ought to have anticipated this. I suppose, Miss Minton, that you have informants in the police department?" "In all government departments," she corrected. "It is customary. Now, Professor, perhaps you will tell me in your own words how you happened to discover the body." Emerson's eyes bulged. "I will be everlastingly damned if I do!" "Emerson, can't you see that she is trying to get you worked up so that in the heat of anger you will say something indiscreet? It is an old trick of the profession." Miss Minton's insufferable smile faded. Her prominent chin jutted out. "You are mistaken, Mrs. Emerson. I had to follow up the story, it was too delicious to resist, and God knows I haven't been able to get anything of interest out of the military." Emerson's countenance resumed its normal shade. He has a frightful temper, but he can control it if he must. He saw what she was getting at, and so, of course, did I. "Very well," he said. "Selim, you may go." Selim was glad to do so. I indicated one of the packing cases we used as seats. "Sit down, Miss Minton. Let us not beat around the bush. What do you want from us?" "A story, Mrs. Emerson. What can be the harm in that? Half Cairo knows of the body by now, its discovery cannot be kept secret. If you won't give me an interview, perhaps I might talk with your son and daughter-in-law." "Unfortunately my son and daughter-in-law are not in Cairo." "So it is true that they have gone to Luxor. Why?" "What the devil business is it of yours?" Emerson demanded. "Don't make a mystery of it, Emerson," I said sharply. "They are taking a little holiday and making a brief tour of inspection of the Luxor monuments, particularly the tomb of Tetisheri." "There has been an increase in theft, I believe." "It is only to be expected under present circumstances. The more remote the site, the greater the difficulty of proper supervision." "But the situation is serious enough for you to send Ramses there. That leaves you badly shorthanded, doesn't it?" "No," said Emerson. "Er-somewhat. It is a question of-" "Of priorities," I interrupted, seeing that he was about to make a mess of things. "We have answered your questions candidly and openly, Miss Minton." I rose from my packing case to indicate the interview was at an end. "I trust you will not make a sensational story of the extraneous corpse. It has nothing to do with us, and we don't want a lot of ghoulish sightseers coming round to bother us." "You have no idea why the murderer buried it in your tomb?" "None whatever." She did not even say good-bye. Emerson waited until she had passed out of sight before he spoke. "Well done, Peabody. You are a damned fine liar when you put your mind to it." "Thank you, my dear. As you know, I never prevaricate unless it is absolutely necessary. I fear, however, that you missed the point of that exchange. I shall write immediately to Nefret and tell her she must prevent Ramses from seeing the newspapers. I only hope my letter reaches Luxor before Miss Minton." "Good Gad, Peabody, aren't you jumping to unwarranted conclusions? What makes you suppose she is going to Luxor?" "Didn't you understand those questions about tomb robberies? She believes I lied to her, which of course I would have done had I felt it to be expedient. The silly, romantic creature is hoping Sethos is still alive." The inspection of Tetisheri's tomb had been paramount. That accomplished, Ramses couldn't make up his mind what to do next-or rather, he knew what he ought to do, but he didn't know how to go about it. Assuming, he told himself sourly, that his imagination hadn't got completely out of hand. For the next two days they wandered with seeming aimlessness and great enjoyment around the west bank-carrying out a preliminary survey, as Ramses thought of it-revisiting the scenes of our misspent youth, as Nefret put it, rather more accurately. A visit to Abdullah's tomb was one of their first acts; they stood in silence by the simple monument for some time before Nefret said quietly, "It would be nice to believe that he knows we're here." "Do you believe it?" Her hand slipped into his. "Mother does. I told you she dreams of him. He said Lia's baby would be a boy and that they would name it after him. Now, don't tilt your eyebrows at me, I know the odds as well as you do! It's strange, though, that she always sees him in the same place-the cliff behind Deir el Bahri, on the way to the Valley. He loved that view and so did she-watching the sun rise over the eastern cliffs, seeing the light spread across the river and the fields." And that is why she dreams of it, Ramses thought. He found it rather moving, though, and because he was embarrassed to admit it, he said practically, "I wish I could dream about him; I'd ask for advice on where to look for our hypothetical tomb robbers." "My dear boy, they aren't hypothetical. Just because we haven't found them yet-" "It's not likely that we will. This whole trip is a waste of time. Do you suppose I don't know why everyone conspired to get me to Luxor?" "Do you mind?" "Mind being alone with you, sans friends, family, and Sennia? I expect I can endure it a little longer." She twined her fingers more tightly through his, and he went on, "If we were looking for one mastermind, like Sethos or Riccetti, we might have a chance of solving the case, but this is the same old business that's always gone on here. There are probably a dozen people involved, all local men and all extremely good at their trade. Catching one or two of them wouldn't put a stop to the thefts." He waited for her to contradict him, hoping she would-and hoping she wouldn't-but she accepted his statement without appearing to question it. "A more sensitive woman might consider she'd been insulted by that remark about wasting time," she remarked, dimpling. "It's true you've only kissed me in eleven tombs-" "So far." He put his arm round her and kissed the dimples and her smiling mouth. It might have seemed incongruous, even profane, in the silence of that deserted cemetery, but if he had been given to fancies, which of course he was not, he might have imagined he heard a deep, satisfied chuckle in a well-remembered voice. So they climbed the cliff behind Deir el Bahri at dawn and stood in silence watching the sunrise, and wandered around the village of Gurneh, where ancient tombs stood side by side with modern houses, and he kissed her in ten more burial chambers. Getting into several of them were exercises in endurance, since they were partly filled with rubble and popular with bats. On only one facade did he find the strange cryptogram. The tomb, which had belonged to the vizier Ramose, was of great historical importance and outstanding beauty. Ramose had served under Amenhotep III and his heretic son, and one wall of the tomb showed the latter king in two startlingly different ways: on the left, King Amenhotep IV, depicted in conventional Egyptian style, with the goddess Maat; on the right, the same man after he had changed his name to Akhenaton and abandoned the classic canons of Egyptian art and the gods of his fathers in favor of the one god, Aton. If Nefret had observed the cryptogram she made no comment. Ramses was not surprised to see it there. The reliefs of the vizier and his family were among the most exquisite in Egypt. They were particular favorites of his mother. Among their other obligations was to be royally entertained by various members of the family. When they returned to the Amelia one evening after an interminable dinner given in their honor by Yusuf, Nefret flung herself down on the divan in the saloon and groaned. "I can't go on eating like this! And did you see the way Jumana was glowering at us? We promised we'd let her come with us, and we haven't." "I will be damned if I am going to feel guilty about not encumbering myself with that child." Ramses stretched out next to her, wondering if he would ever want to eat again. "But perhaps it's time we got to work." "We've been working," Nefret protested. "Think of all those bat-infested tombs we've explored." "In a rather haphazard fashion. We haven't been on the east bank at all." Nefret pulled her feet up and knelt beside him. "Why should we? The tombs are all on the west bank." "Well, we ought to have a talk with Legrain. His storage magazines were robbed. And we could try terrorizing the antiquities dealers. "Not for another day or two. We still have a lot of tombs to visit." She slid her fingers into his hair and began stroking his temples. "Does your head ache?" "No, but feel free to go on doing that. By the way, I keep forgetting to ask-has there been anything of interest in the post?" "Not much." "Nothing from Mother?" "Oh, yes. But it was just family news. Turn over and I'll rub your back." "It's not my back that needs to be