The Ape Who Guards the Balance (43 page)

“I refuse to sit waiting like a child whose papa is busy elsewhere. It is broad daylight and I will be well-mounted.”

Katherine followed me downstairs, expostulating all the while; but when we reached the courtyard we found Ramses sitting cross-legged on the ground, chatting with the gatekeeper and one of the gardeners. The latter gave Katherine a guilty look and hastened away.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” I demanded.

Ramses uncoiled himself and rose in a single motion. “I haven’t been here long. Father is still in the Valley, but he said he would leave shortly and that we are to go straight home. Good afternoon, Mrs. Vandergelt.”

“Good afternoon,” said Katherine, with one of her catlike smiles. “Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, ma’am, Father said we were to go at once.”

He insisted on my riding Risha, and mounted my amiable but plodding mare. “What is your father up to?” I inquired.

“He is lying in wait for Mr. Paul and Sir Edward, I believe. With M. Maspero’s dahabeeyah arriving tomorrow, he is increasingly concerned about the contents of the burial chamber.”

“He would be. I do wish I could persuade him not to interfere. Maspero is already vexed with him.”

The horses were picking their way through the rocky defile that led from the Valley when I heard something that made me look round. It took me a moment to locate the source of the agitated bleating, for the goat’s dusty coat was almost the same color as the surrounding rock.

Risha stopped at a touch. I dismounted and started toward the animal, which appeared to be caught by the leg.

“Damn it, Mother!” Ramses shouted. “Watch out!”

Since I am not as stupid as my children believe I am, I had immediately realized this might be a ruse, but I was not at all averse to a confrontation. In fact, I had been hoping for some such thing. My hand was in my coat pocket, therefore, when the man appeared from behind a boulder and started toward me. He carried a knife, so I had no compunction about taking out my pistol and firing at him. As I pulled the trigger Ramses flung himself on the fellow and both of them fell to the ground.

“Curse it,” I cried, hastening to them. “Ramses, what the devil do you mean by . . . Ramses, are you wounded? Speak to me!”

Ramses rolled over and sat up. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his dark brows had drawn together. I had seldom seen a more impressive scowl, even on the face of his father. He drew a deep breath.

“No, don’t speak,” I said hastily. “Compose yourself. Heavens, I do believe I have killed the fellow! ”

There was certainly a bloody hole in the front of the man’s robe. His eyes were wide open, in the unseeing stare of the dead. The rest of his face was hidden by a tightly wound scarf.

Ramses’s lips were moving. I wondered whether he was swearing or praying—no, not praying, not Ramses—or perhaps counting to himself, as I had once suggested as a means of controlling one’s temper. Whatever he was doing, it achieved the desired result. When he spoke his voice was reasonably calm.

“I doubt it, Mother. This appears to be an exit wound. He was shot in the back, by someone concealed among the rocks. Stay here and stay down.”

Before I could stop him he was gone, surefooted as a goat over the tumbled rocks. Within a few seconds I had lost sight of him.

The dead man was not very good company. I crouched beside him, listening anxiously for the sound of another shot. I heard nothing; even the Judas goat, as I believe I may term it, had stopped complaining. I hoped it was not seriously hurt, but I decided I had better not leave the dubious cover of the rocks in order to find out. If Ramses had not acted so precipitately I would have gone with him, or at least insisted that he take my pistol. Young people are so impulsive. There was nothing I could do now but wait.

It seemed a long time before Ramses returned, as silently and suddenly as he had vanished. He was carrying a rifle.

“Ah,” I said, as he sat down beside me and placed the rifle on the ground.“The would-be assassin had fled, I take it.”

“Yes. He was up there.” Ramses folded his arms and rested them on his raised knees. He appeared quite composed and relaxed, except for his hands, which were tightly clasped.

“After shooting this person he dropped his rifle and ran?” I picked up the weapon and examined it. Ramses hastily shifted position.

“Mother, please put that down. There is a bullet in the chamber.”

“So I see. That is odd. Why didn’t he fire again?”

“He may have counted on one of us shooting the other,” said Ramses. Slowly and gently he removed the rifle from my hand and put it behind him. Then he lowered his head onto his arms. His shoulders shook.

It was not like Ramses to yield to weakness, even after the event. I was touched, for I felt sure it had been my danger that had unmanned him. I patted his shoulder. “Now, now,” I said. “There, there.”

Ramses raised his head. His lashes were wet. Not until then did I identify the peculiar sound he was making.

“Good Gad,” I gasped. “Are you laughing?”

Ramses wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I beg your pardon.”

“Granted,” I said, relieved. “Your father does that sometimes.”

“I know.” He sobered. “Laughter is somewhat inappropriate, however. Look here.”

He pulled the scarf from the man’s face, disclosing a nasty sight. The jaw was askew and horribly swollen, the mouth distorted.

“I thought his posture and build looked familiar,” Ramses said. “This is one of the guards who was at Layla’s house.”

“No wonder your hand was hurt. You broke his jaw.”

“Evidently. He’s been going around like this for days, without medical attention. Poor devil.” Ramses turned the body over. There was another hole in the man’s back, smaller than the one in front. “He was expendable, injured as he was, and he had failed in his job. Like Yussuf. They gave him another chance—a slim chance, as he knew, but you might have been alone and unarmed. And if he failed, this was a more merciful death than the . . . crocodile.”

I shivered. “What shall we do with him?”

Ramses bent over the body and began searching it. Aside from the knife and a packet of tobacco there was nothing on the fellow except a cord around his neck, from which hung a silver amulet.

“Didn’t do him much good, did it?” remarked my son “We’ll notify the police. Nothing more we can do.”

“The goat,” I reminded him, after he had helped me to mount.

“Yes, of course.”

The goat was not hurt, only pinned by the rock. It went gamboling off as soon as Ramses freed it. I was relieved, because we had enough animals as it was, and this one was of the masculine gender.

Emerson was not pleased when he learned what had occurred. I was prepared to defend Ramses, but I did not have to. Emerson was not angry with Ramses.

“Curse you, Peabody,” he cried heatedly. “The old wounded-animal trick, for God’s sake! Will you never learn?”

We had retired to our room and I was at that moment held tightly in his arms, so my reply was somewhat muffled.

“It is irresistible, Emerson; it can never fail with any of us. Besides, there is a limited range of possibilities open to even the most inventive adversary.”

Emerson was still laughing when he put his hand under my chin and tilted my face up into a more convenient position.

Sometime later I sat on the edge of the bed watching while he performed his ablutions.

“I hope you will excuse me for laughing,” he remarked amid his sputtering and splashing. “But really, Peabody, making excuses for the paucity of imagination of an enemy . . .”

“Ramses laughed too,” I said.

“Ramses?” Emerson turned and stared at me, water dripping off his chin.

“Yes, I was quite astonished. The alteration of his features was amazing. I had not realized how strongly he resembles you. In fact, he is quite a nice-looking lad.”

“He is a handsome devil,” Emerson corrected. He added, grinning, “Like his father. I won’t ask what you said to provoke Ramses to such an extraordinary reaction, since it wouldn’t have struck you as amusing.”

“I don’t remember. But I believe Ramses’s analysis of the event was correct. She is using up her forces rather callously, isn’t she? Three so far, if the girl was one of them.”

“She must have been, willingly or not,” Emerson muttered. “What did she know that made her so dangerous to them?”

“Come and have your tea, my dear. Perhaps inspiration will come to you.”

The others were assembled on the verandah when we went out. The only missing member of the party was Sir Edward. His absence was immediately noted by Emerson, but no one could explain it.

“Unless,” I suggested, “he has gone to Luxor with Mr. Paul. As you yourself pointed out, Emerson, he is not in your employ.”

“He does seem to be losing interest in us,” Nefret remarked. “Has he given us up as a bad job, do you suppose?”

She was sitting on the ledge next to Ramses, who had politely drawn his feet up to make room for her.

“One could hardly blame him,” said Ramses. “The only thing we have been able to accomplish is running ourselves into one trap after another.”

There was, I thought, a decided note of criticism in his voice. “What else can we do?” I demanded. “We are walking about blindfolded, with no notion as to where our opponents are hiding. And there is one positive aspect: she has one less ally now.”

“You notified the police?” Emerson asked.

Ramses nodded. “They will collect him eventually, I suppose. If the jackals and the buzzards leave anything.”

“Horrible,” David murmured.

“Yes, it is, rather,” Ramses agreed. “But I doubt they would be able to identify him in any case. He was not a local man, or I would have recognized him on the occasion of our first meeting.”

A gloomy silence fell. Then Emerson said in a meditative voice, “I think I may just run over to the Valley for a while.”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “How can you think of such a thing?”

“Well, curse it, Peabody, there is nothing we can do about the other business, is there? Maspero arrives tomorrow, and the tomb—”

“If you attempt to leave this house I will—I will—”

“What?” Emerson asked interestedly.

Mercifully the sight of an approaching rider provided the necessary distraction. “Here is Sir Edward,” I said. “He will tell us what has been happening.”

Sir Edward was pleased to do so. At Emerson’s insistence he described the day’s activities in excruciating detail. “Well,” said my husband grudgingly, “it appears we will at least have a complete photographic record. How much longer—”

“For pity’s sake, Emerson, leave off interrogating the poor man,” I said. “He hasn’t had an opportunity to drink his tea.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sir Edward accepted a sandwich from the tray Fatima offered and nodded his thanks. “I don’t want to monopolize the conversation. How was your day?”

So the story of our little adventure had to come out. Sir Edward appeared shocked. “I do beg, ma’am,” he said, “that you will take more care. The old injured-animal trick—”

“I will lecture my wife if lectures are required,” Emerson said, scowling fiercely.

“Will you be here for dinner this evening, Sir Edward?” I inquired.

“Yes, ma’am. I won’t be going out this evening. That is . . . You have no other engagements, do you?”

“I had thought,” Emerson began.

“You are not going to the Valley, Emerson.”

Sir Edward choked on his tea. After wiping his chin with his serviette he exclaimed earnestly, “Please, sir, I beg you won’t think of it. It will be dark soon, and the danger—”

“He is right, Emerson,” I said, with a nod of appreciation at Sir Edward. His concern was so sincere I regretted having been suspicious of him. “We will spend a quiet domestic evening here. You have not kept up your excavation diary as you usually do, and I have a number of notes to be set in order.”

“And I,” said Sir Edward, “will give David a hand with his photographing of the papyrus. If he will allow me, that is.”

David started. He had been in a brown study, and I knew what the subject of it must be. He replied with his usual gentle courtesy that he would be very glad of assistance, and that he had rather fallen behind.

“If you have time, I would like to ask you about some of the objects in the burial chamber, Professor,” Sir Edward added. “I was struck by the fact that the inscriptions on the coffin appear to have been altered. Can you tell me . . .”

That sufficed to get Emerson’s attention, and that of Ramses as well. Led by Sir Edward’s intelligent questions, the two of them talked nothing but tomb throughout dinner. I put in a word or two, and Nefret added her opinions when she could make herself heard. It was a most fascinating discussion, but I will spare the general Reader the details, which are related elsewhere.
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The only one who did not participate was David. He spoke very little as a rule, because he was too polite to interrupt, and that is sometimes the only way to join in our conversations; but formerly his smiling attention had betokened his interest. Now he sat like the skeleton at the feast, picking at his food. I confess I was relieved when Sir Edward and Nefret took him off to the photographic studio.

The rest of us settled down to work; and very pleasant it was to be occupied with familiar tasks. Emerson muttered and mumbled over his excavation diary, interrupting himself now and then to ask me or Ramses to verify some detail. Ramses, whose hand was almost back to normal, scribbled away at his notes; and I turned again to the Book of the Dead, as it is (erroneously but conveniently) named.

Any scholar would admit the religious texts are difficult. They contain a number of words that are not in the standard vocabulary. Certainly they were not in mine! I had kept a list of unknown words, meaning to ask Walter about them. It now covered several sheets of paper. I was frowning over one of them when Ramses rose, stretched, and came to lean over my chair.

“The Weighing of the Heart still?” he said. “You were working on that yesterday. Are you having any difficulty with it?”

“Not at all,” I said, turning my paper over. I had every intention of consulting Walter about my difficulties, at an appropriate moment, but I could not quite bring myself to ask Ramses for assistance. It was a weakness of character, and I admit as much, but no one is perfect.