The Curse of the Pharaohs (10 page)

Emerson began to hum. He has a perfectly appalling singing voice and no idea whatever of pitch, but I made no objection, even when words emerged from his drone.

..
.from Coffee and from supper rooms, from Poplar to Pall Mall, The girls on seeing me exclaim, "O what a champagne swell!"

I joined in.

Champagne Charlie is my name, good for any

game at night, boys, who'll come and join me in a spree?

Emerson's hand reached for mine. In perfect harmony of soul (if not voice) we proceeded; and I did not feel that our melodies profaned that solemn spot since they arose from joyful anticipation of a noble work.

At the end of our stroll we found ourselves on the edge of a cliff looking down into a canyon. Rocky walls and barren floor were of the same unrelieved drab brown, bleached by the sunlight to the color of a pale and unpalatable pudding. A few small patches of shadow, abbreviated by the height of the sun, were the only breaks in the monotony—except for the rectangular black openings that had given the Valley of the Kings its name. They were the doorways of royal tombs.

I was gratified to observe that my hope of relative privacy had been correct. The tourists had departed to their hotels, and the only living objects to be seen were shapeless bundles of rags that covered the sleeping forms of the Egyptian guides and guards whose work lay in the Valley. But no!— with chagrin I revised my first impression when I beheld a moving figure. It was too far away for me to see more than its general outline, which was that of a tall male person in European clothing. It appeared to be engaged in rapt contemplation of the surrounding cliffs.

Though we had never visited the tomb which was the object of our present quest, I have no doubt that Emerson could have drawn an accurate map of its precise location. I know I could have. Our eyes were drawn to it as if by a magnet.

It lay below, on the opposite side of the Valley from where we stood. The steep, almost vertical configuration of the cliffs framed it like a theatrical backdrop. At the foot of the cliff was a long slope of rock and gravel, broken by heaps of rubble from earlier excavations, and by a few modern huts and storage buildings. A triangular cut into the gravel framed the doorway of the tomb of Ramses VI. Below this, and to the left, I saw the stout iron gate to which Karl had referred. Two dusty bundles—the alert guards Grebaut had appointed to guard the tomb—lay near the gate.

Emerson's hand tightened on mine. "Only think," he said softly, "what wonders that bare rock still hides! The tombs of Thutmose the Great, of Amenhotep the Second and

Queen Hatasu___Even another cache of royal mummies like the one found in 1881. Which of them awaits our labor?"

I shared his sentiments, but his fingers were crushing my hand. I pointed this out. With a deep sigh Emerson returned to practicality. Together we scrambled down the path to the floor of the Valley.

The sleeping guards did not stir even when we stood over them. Emerson prodded one bundle with his toe. It quivered; a malevolent black eye appeared among the rags, and from a concealed mouth a spate of vulgar Arabic curses assailed us. Emerson replied in kind. The bundle sprang to its feet and the rags parted to reveal one of the evilest faces I have ever beheld, seamed by lines and scars. One eye was a milky-white, sightless blank. The other eye glared widely at Emerson.

"Ah," said my husband, in Arabic, "it is thou, Habib. I thought the police had locked thee up forever. What madman gave to thee a task proper to an honest man?"

They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. In this case Habib's one serviceable orb displayed, for a moment, the intensity of his real feelings. Only for a moment; then he groveled in a deep obeisance, mumbling greetings, apologies, explanations—and assurances that he had given over his evil ways and merited the trust of the Antiquities Department.

"Humph," said Emerson, unimpressed. "Allah knows thy true heart, Habib; I have not his all-seeing eye, but I have my doubts. I am going into the tomb. Get out of the way."

The other guard had roused himself by this time and was also bowing and babbling. His countenance was not quite as villainous as Habib's, probably because he was somewhat younger.

"Alas, great lord, I have no key," said Habib.

"But I have," said Emerson, producing it.

The gate had been cemented into place across the doorway. The bars were stout, the padlock massive; yet I knew they would prove no lasting impediment to men who have been known to tunnel through solid rock in order to rob the dead. When the grille swung open we were confronted with the sealed doorway that had frustrated Lord Baskerville on the last day of his life. Nothing had been touched since that hour. The small hole opened by Armadale still gaped, the only break in the wall of stones.

Lighting a candle, Emerson held it to the opening and we both looked in, bumping heads in our eagerness. I had known what to expect, and yet it was dampening to the spirits to behold a heap of rocky rubble that completely concealed whatever lay beyond.

"So far, so good," Emerson remarked. "No one has attempted to enter since Baskerville's death. Frankly, I expected that our friends from Gurneh would have tried to break in long before this."

"The fact that they have not makes me suspect that we have a long job ahead of us," I said. "Perhaps they are waiting for us to clear the passageway so they can get at the burial chamber without having to engage in boring manual labor."

"You may be right. Though I hope you are wrong about the extent of clearance necessary; as a rule the rubble fill does not extend beyond the stairwell."

"Belzoni mentions climbing over heaps of rubble when he entered Seti's tomb, in 1844," I reminded him.

"The cases are hardly parallel. That tomb had been robbed and re-used for later burials. The debris Belzoni described ..."

We were engaged in a delightfully animated archaeological discussion when there was an interruption. "Hello, down there," called a loud, cheery voice. "May I join you, or will you come up?"

Turning, I beheld a form silhouetted against the bright rectangle of the opening at the head of the stairs. It was that of the tall personage I had noticed earlier, but I could not see it clearly until we had ascended the stairs—for Emerson promptly replied that we would come up. He was not anxious to have any stranger approach his new toy.

The form revealed itself to be that of a very tall, very thin gentleman with a lean, humorous face and hair of that indeterminate shade which may be either fair or gray. His accent had already betrayed his nationality, and as soon as we emerged from the stairway he continued in the exuberant strain typical of the natives of our erstwhile colony. (I flatter myself that I reproduce the peculiarities of the American dialect quite accurately.)

"Well, now, I declare, this is a real sure-enough pleasure. I don't need to ask who you are, do I? Let me introduce myself—Cyrus Vandergelt, New York, U.S.A.—at your service, ma'am, and yours, Professor Emerson."

I recognized the name, as anyone familiar with Egyptology must have done. Mr. Vandergelt was the American equivalent of Lord Baskerville—enthusiastic amateur, wealthy patron of archaeology.

"I knew you were in Luxor," Emerson remarked unenthusiastically, taking the hand Mr. Vandergelt had thrust at him. "But I did not expect to meet you so soon."

"You probably wonder what I am doing here at this gol-durned hour," Vandergelt replied with a chuckle. "Well, folks, I am just like you—we are birds of a feather. It would take more than a little heat to keep me from what I mean to do."

"And what is that?" I inquired.

"Why, to meet you, sure enough. I figured you would get out here just the minute you arrived. And, ma'am, if you will permit me to say so, the sight of you would make any effort worthwhile. I am—I make no bones about it, ma'am, indeed I say it with pride—I am a most assiduous admirer of the ladies and a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness."

It was impossible to take offense at his words, they displayed such irrepressible trans-Atlantic good humor and such excellent taste. I allowed my lips to relax into a smile.

"Bah," said Emerson. "I know you by reputation, Vandergelt, and I know why you are here. You want to steal my tomb."

Mr. Vandergelt grinned broadly. "I sure would if I could. Not just the tomb, but you and Mrs. Emerson to dig it out for me. But"—and here he became quite serious—"Lady Baskerville has set her heart on doing this as a memorial to the dear departed, and I am not the man to stand in a lady's way, particularly when her aim is so fraught with touching sentiment. No, sir; Cyrus Vandergelt is not the man to try low tricks. I only want to help. Call on me for any assistance you may require."

As he spoke, he straightened to his full height—which was well over six feet—and raised his hand as if taking an oath. It was an impressive sight; one almost expected to see the Stars and Bars waving in the breeze and hearing the stirring strains of "Oh Beautiful America."

"You mean," Emerson retorted, "that you want to get in on the fun."

"Ha, ha," said Vandergelt cheerfully. He gave Emerson a slap on the back. "I said we were alike, didn't I? There's no fooling a sharp lad like you. Sure I do. If you don't let me play, I'll drive you crazy thinking of excuses to drop in. No, but seriously, folks, you're going to need all the help you can get. Those Gurneh crooks are going to be on you like a hornets' nest, and the local imam is stirring up the congregation in a fancy way. If I can't do anything else, I can at least help guard the tomb, and the ladies. But look, why are we standing here jawing in the hot sun? I've got my carriage down at the other end of the Valley; let me give you a lift home and we can talk some more."

We declined this offer, and Mr. Vandergelt took his leave, remarking, "You haven't seen the last of me, folks. You're dining with Lady Baskerville tonight? Me, too. I'll see you then."

I fully expected a diatribe from Emerson on Mr. Vandergelt's manners and motives, but he was uncharacteristically silent on the subject. After a further examination of what little could be seen we prepared to go; and then I realized Habib was no longer with us. The other guard burst into a garbled explanation, which Emerson cut short.

"I was about to dismiss him anyway," he remarked, addressing me but speaking in Arabic for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "Good riddance."

The shadows were lengthening when we started the climb up the cliff, and I urged Emerson, who was preceding me, to greater haste. I wanted ample time to prepare for the evening's encounter. We had almost reached the top when a sound made me glance up. I then seized Emerson by the ankles and pulled him down. The boulder which I had seen teetering on the brink missed him by less than a foot, sending splinters of rock flying in every direction when it struck.

Slowly Emerson rose to his feet. "I do wish, Peabody, that you could be a little less abrupt in your methods," he remarked, using his sleeve to wipe away the blood that was dripping from his nose. "A calm 'Watch out, there,' or a tug at my shirttail would have proved just as effective, and less painful."

This was a ridiculous statement, of course; but I was given no time to reply to it, for as soon as Emerson had ascertained, with one quick glance, that I was unharmed, he turned and began to climb with considerable speed, vanishing at last over the rim of the cliff. I followed. When I reached the top he was nowhere in sight, so I sat down on a rock to wait for him, and—to be candid—to compose my nerves, which were somewhat shaken.

The tentative theory I had briefly considered in Cairo was now strengthened. Someone was determined to prevent Emerson from continuing the work Lord Baskerville had begun. Whether the latter's death had formed part of this plan, or whether the unknown miscreant had made use of a tragic accident in order to further his scheme I could not then make out, but I felt sure we had not seen the last of attempts aimed at my husband. How glad I was that I had yielded to what had seemed a selfish impulse and come with him. The apparent conflict between my duty to my husband and my duty to my child had been no conflict. Ramses was safe and happy; Emerson was in deadly danger, and my place was at his side, guarding him from peril.

As I mused I saw Emerson reappear from behind a heap of boulders some distance from the path. His face was smeared with blood, and his eyes bulged with rage, so that he presented quite a formidable sight.

"He got away, did he?" I said.

"Not a trace. I would not have left you," he added apologetically, "but that I felt sure the rascal had taken to his heels the moment the rock fell."

"Nonsense. The attempt was aimed at you, not at me— although the perpetrator does not seem to care whom he endangers. The knife—"

"I don't believe the two incidents can be related, Amelia. The hands that pushed this rock were surely the filthy hands of Habib."

This suggestion made a certain amount of sense. "But why does he hate you so much?" I asked. "I could see you were on bad terms, but attempted murder...."

"I was responsible for his being apprehended on the criminal charge I spoke of." Emerson accepted the handkerchief I gave him and attempted to clean his face while we walked on.

"What was his crime? Stealing antiquities?"

"That, of course. Most of the Gurneh men are involved in the antiquities game. But the case that brought him to justice, through me, was of a different and very distressing nature. Habib once had a daughter. Her name was Aziza. When she was a small child she worked for me as a basket girl. As she matured she turned into an unusually pretty young woman, slight and graceful as a gazelle, with big dark eyes mat would melt any man's heart."

The tale Emerson proceeded to unfold would indeed have melted the hardest heart—even that of a man. The girl's beauty made her a valuable property, and her father hoped to sell her to a wealthy landowner. Alas, her beauty attracted other admirers, and her innocence rendered her vulnerable to their wiles. When her shame became known the rich and repulsive buyer rejected her, and her father, enraged at losing his money, determined to destroy a now-valueless object. Such things are done more often than the British authorities like to admit; in the name of "family honor" many a poor woman has met a ghastly fate at the hands of those who should have been her protectors. But in this case the girl managed to escape before the murderer had completed his vile act. Beaten and bleeding, she staggered to the tent of Emerson, who had been kind to her.