The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (2 page)

"Bah," said Nefret. But she left the room by way of the window instead of going into the hall toward the stairs. David took up the book and settled himself in his chair. I returned to my lists and Emerson to his manuscript, but not for long. The next interruption came from our butler, Gargery, who entered to announce there was a person to see Emerson.

Emerson held out his hand. Gargery, rigid with disapproval, shook his head. "He did not have a card, sir. He wouldn't give me his name or say what he wanted, neither, except that it was about some antiquity. I'd have sent him about his business, sir, only ... well, sir, he said you'd be sorry if you didn't see him."

"Sorry, eh?" Emerson's heavy black brows drew together. There is nothing that rouses my husband's formidable temper so much as a threat, explicit or veiled. "Where have you put him, Gargery? In the parlor?"

Gargery drew himself up to his full height and attempted to look superior. Since his height is only five and a half feet and a bit, and his snub-nosed face is not designed for sneering, the attempt was a failure. "I have stood him in the dining room, sir."

Amusement replaced Emerson's rising ire; his sapphire-blue eyes sparkled. Being completely without social snobbery himself, he is much diverted by Gargery's demonstrations thereof. "I suppose a 'person' without a calling card does not deserve to be offered a chair, but the dining room? Aren't you afraid he will make off with the plate?"

"Bob is outside the dining room door, sir."

"Good Gad. He must be a villainous-looking 'person.' You have whetted my curiosity, Gargery. Show him—no, I had better go to him, since he seems anxious to keep his identity a secret."

I went with Emerson, of course. He made a few feeble objections, which I brushed aside.

      The dining room is not one of the most attractive apartments in the house. Low-ceilinged and limited as to windows, it has a somber air which is increased by the heavy, time-darkened Jacobean furniture and the mummy masks adorning the paneled walls. Hands clasped behind him, our visitor was examining one of these masks. Instead of the sinister individual Gargery had led me to expect, I saw a stooped, gray-haired man. His garments were shabby and his boots scuffed, but he looked respectable enough. And Emerson knew him.

"Renfrew! What the devil do you mean by this theatrical behavior? Why didn't you—"

"Hushhhhh!" The fellow put his finger to his lips. "I have my reasons, which you will approve when you hear them. Get rid of your butler. Is this your wife? Don't introduce me, I have no patience with such stuff. No use trying to get rid of her, I suppose, you'd tell her anyhow. That's up to you. Sit down, Mrs. Emerson, if you like. I will stand. I will not take refreshment. There is a train at noon I mean to catch. I can't waste any more time on this business. Wasted too much already. Wouldn't have done it except as a courtesy to you. Now."

The words came in short staccato bursts, with scarcely a pause for breath, and although he did not misplace his aitches or commit a grammatical error, there were traces of East London in his accent. His clothing and his boots were in need of brushing, and his face looked as if it were covered with a thin film of dust. One expected to see cobwebs festooning his ears. But the pale gray eyes under his dark gray brows were as sharp as knife points. I could see why Gargery had mislabeled him, but I did not commit the same error. Emerson had told me about him. A self-made, self-educated man, a misogynist and recluse, he collected Chinese and Egyptian antiquities, Persian miniatures and anything else that suited his eccentric fancy.

Emerson nodded. "Get to it, then. Some new purchase you want me to authenticate for you?"

Renfrew grinned. His teeth were the same grayish-brown color as his skin. "That's why I like you, Emerson. You don't beat around the bush either. Here."

Reaching into his pocket, he tossed an object carelessly onto the table, where it landed with a solid
thunk.

It was a scarab, one of the largest I had ever seen, formed of the greenish-blue faience (a glassy paste) commonly used in ancient times. The back was rounded like the carapace of the beetle, with the stylized shapes of head and limbs.

The small scarabs were popular amulets, worn by the living and the dead to ensure good luck. The larger varieties, like the famous "marriage scarab" of Amenhotep III, were often used to record important events. This was obviously of the second type; when Emerson picked it up and turned it over, I saw rows of raised hieroglyphs covering the flat base.

"What does it say?" I asked.

Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin, as was his habit when perplexed or pensive. "As near as I can make out, this is an account of the circumnavigation of Africa in Year Twelve of Senu-sert the Third."

"What! This is a historical document of unique importance, Emerson."

"Hmmm," said Emerson. "Well, Renfrew?"

"Well, sir." Renfrew showed his stained teeth again. "I am going to let you have it at the price I paid. There will be no additional charge for my silence."

"Silence?" I repeated. There was something odd about his manner—and Emerson's. Alarm burgeoned. "What is he talking about, Emerson?"

"It's a fake," Emerson said curtly. "He knows it. Obviously he didn't know when he purchased it. Whom did you consult, Renfrew?"

From Renfrew's parted lips came a dry, rustling sound—his version of a laugh, I surmised. "I thought you'd spot it, Emerson. You are right, I had no idea it was a fake; I wanted an accurate translation, so I sent a tracing of the inscription to Mr. Frank Griffith. Next to your brother and your son he is the foremost translator of ancient Egyptian. His opinion was the same as yours."

"Ah." Emerson tossed the scarab onto the table. "Then you didn't need a second opinion."

"A sensible man always gets a second opinion. Do you want the scarab or don't you? I don't intend to be out of pocket by it. I'll sell it to someone else—without mentioning Griffith's opinion—and sooner or later someone will find out it isn't genuine, and they will trace it back to the seller as I did, and they will learn his name. I don't think you would want that to happen, Professor Emerson. You think well of the boy, don't you? I understand he is about to marry into your family. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if he were caught forging antiquities."

"You dastardly old—old villain," I cried. "How dare you imply that David would do such a thing?"

"I am not implying anything, Mrs. Emerson. Go to the dealer
from whom I got this, and ask him the name of the man who sold it to him."

From Manuscript H

Ramses spun round in his chair, dropped his pen, and swore.

"I did knock," David said, from the doorway. "You didn't hear?"

"I'm trying to finish this."

"It's almost teatime. You've been at it all day. And you haven't touched your luncheon tray."

"Don't you start, David. It's bad enough with Mother and Nefret badgering me all the time."

Frowning, he examined the meticulously traced hieroglyphic signs. The pen had slipped when David opened the door, turning an owl into a monster with a serpent's tail. He reached for a piece of blotting paper and decided he'd better wait until the ink had dried before trying to repair the damage.

"You were very ill." David came in and closed the door. "We were all worried."

"That was months ago. I'm perfectly fit now. I don't need to be reminded to eat my porridge and go early to bed, as if I were a child."

"Nefret is a medical doctor," David said mildly.

"She never finished her training." Ramses rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Her perseverance in pursuing her medical training under the restrictions that women suffer is admirable. I only wish she wouldn't practice on me!" He picked up a glass from the tray, took a sip, and made a face. "The milk's turned."

David came in and closed the door. "What about beer instead? I just now took them out of the ice chest."

The brown bottles were sweating with cold. Ramses's stiff shoulders relaxed and he gave his friend an appreciative nod. "That was a happy thought. David, I apologize for what I said this morning."

"Friends need not always agree. It is unimportant."

"It's not that I disagree with your views. I just don't think—"

"I know. It doesn't matter, I tell you."

He offered Ramses a cigarette and lit it for him before lighting his own. It was like the old days, when they had sneaked away
from Ramses's mother to indulge in the forbidden pleasures of smoking and drinking beer. Ramses wondered if David had deliberately set the scene.

They hadn't been as comfortable together since David had become involved in a cause Ramses considered both dangerous and futile. He sympathized with the desire of the new generation of Egyptians for independence, but he felt sure it had no chance of success at the present time. Egypt was a British protectorate in all but name, and with the political situation in the Middle East so unsettled, Britain could not risk losing control of a country close to the Suez Canal. The recent appointment of the redoubtable Kitchener of Khartoum to the post of consul general unquestionably signaled a hardening of policy toward the nationalist movement. David had a brilliant career and a happy marriage ahead of him. It would have been madness to risk them for exile or prison.

"I wondered if you had seen this." David pulled a slim volume from his coat pocket.

Ramses accepted the change of subject with relief. "Percy's masterpiece? I knew Nefret had it, but I haven't read it."

"Have a look at this chapter. You're a fast reader. It won't take you long."

He'd put a bit of paper in to mark the place. "It's a good thing you brought the beer," Ramses said, taking the book. "I suspect Percy's prose will require the numbing effect of alcohol."

I had been a prisoner for two weeks. Zaal visited me daily. In the beginning it was to threaten and sneer, but as time went on he developed a queer penchant for me. We spent many hours discussing the Koran and the teachings of the Prophet. "You have a brave heart, English," he said one day. "I hope your friends pay the ransom; it would sadden me to cut your throat."

Naturally I did not intend to wait until my unhappy father and affectionate friends could come to my rescue. After I had recovered from the injuries received during my capture, I spent several hours each day in such exercises as the limited confines of my dungeon cell permitted. Shadow-boxing, running in place, and vigorous calisthenics soon restored my strength. I concealed these activities from Zaal. When he entered my cell he always found me reclining on the divan. I hoped that my pretense at feeble
ness and his own natural arrogance would lead him to become overconfident. One day he would come alone, without his guards, and then—then he would be at my mercy!

I was awaiting his usual visit one afternoon when the door was flung open to disclose, not Zaal, but two of his thugs, supporting a third man between them. They had stripped him of his clothing except for a pair of loose drawers; his brown skin and unkempt black hair betrayed his race. His head was bowed and his bare feet dragged as they pulled him into the room and threw him onto the divan.

Zaal appeared in the doorway, grinning fiendishly. "You have your medicines, English. Use them. He is the son of my greatest enemy, and I don't want him to die too quickly."

The door slammed and I heard the rattle of bolts and chains.

I turned to look at my unexpected guest. He had slid from the divan and fallen onto his back. A black beard and mustache framed features of typical Arab form—thin lips, a prominent hawklike nose, and heavy dark brows. There were a few bruises on his chest and arms, but he was not seriously hurt. Most probably he had fainted from fear.

I brought him round, but when I lifted him to a sitting position and attempted to give him a sip of brandy he spat it out.

"It is forbidden," he said, in guttural Arabic, and then repeated the statement in stumbling English. He was younger than I had supposed, tall for an Arab but slightly built.

"I speak your tongue," I said. "Who are you, and why are you a prisoner?"

"My father is Sheikh Mohammed. I am Feisal, his eldest son. There is a blood feud between him and Zaal."

"It will not be a matter of ransom, then?"

The youth shuddered convulsively. "No. He will torture me and send my head—and other parts of my body— to my father."

"Then we must escape, and soon."

"We?" He stared at me in astonishment. "Why should
you take the risk? Zaal will not harm you. Surely your friends will pay the ransom."

I did not bother to explain. Only an Englishman would have understood.