The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

“He’s all right,” Nefret said. “Believe me. I always know when he isn’t.” I wanted to believe her. The bond between them was so strong that she had always been able to sense, not so much danger — Ramses was in trouble a good deal of the time — but an imminent threat to his life. She didn’t look as if she had slept well, though. None of us had. It had been almost twenty-four hours since we got the word that Ramses had been captured and we had spent most of that time discussing what we should do about it. Emerson does not bear waiting well. By late afternoon he had walked a good ten miles, pacing back and forth across the tiled floor of the saloon. “We cannot act yet,” I insisted, for the tenth time. “Give him a little more time. He’s got himself out of worse situations, and at least we know he was alive when he was last seen. Emerson, for pity’s sake, stop pacing. What you need is a nice hot cup of tea. Help me, Nefret.” Emerson said he did not need the confounded tea, but I needed something to do and so, in my considered opinion, did Nefret. The confidence she had expressed to us had not rendered her indifferent to the fate of one dearer to her than life itself; her breath came quick and fast, and her hands shook so badly I had to prepare the tea myself. Suddenly she sprang up. It was anticipation, not fear, that had made her tremble — the unbearable, final moments of waiting for an event greatly desired. As she turned toward the door, it opened, and there he stood. There was no mistaking him, though he was wearing a British uniform, and the brim of his pith helmet shadowed his face. I had not really been worried. Nefret’s instincts had never been wrong. All the same, I felt as if a set of stiff rods had been removed from my back and limbs. “Ah,” said Emerson, trying to appear unconcerned. “I had begun to believe I might have to go looking for you.” “I had begun to think so too.” Ramses removed his hat and unbuckled the belt with its attached holster. “You’ll never believe . . . Nefret!” Her face had gone dead-white. Ramses sprang to catch her as she crumpled. He held her to him in a close embrace, with her head resting on his shoulder. “Nefret — sweetheart — darling, say something!” “There is no need for such a fuss,” I assured him. “It’s only a swoon. Put her down.” “She’s never swooned in her life!” Ignoring my sensible suggestion, he dropped onto the divan, holding her tightly. Uttering incoherent ejaculations, Emerson snatched one of her limp hands and began slapping it. I selected a clean cup, poured tea, and added several heaping spoonfuls of sugar. A moment or two later Nefret stirred. “What happened?” she asked weakly. “You swooned,” Emerson said in a hoarse voice. “I’ve never swooned in my life!” Her color was back to normal and indignation brightened her blue eyes. “Put me down.” “It was my fault,” Ramses said wretchedly. “I shouldn’t have burst in like that. I suppose you thought . . . Are you sure you’re all right?” She smiled up into his anxious face. “I can think of something that would complete the cure.” I have no objection to public displays of affection between married persons or those about to be wed, but I did not want Ramses distracted. I said firmly, “A nice hot cup of tea,” and took it to her. Nefret pushed it away. “Give it to Ramses. He looks as if he needs it more than I do.” “I’m all right. Just a little tired. I haven’t had much sleep in the past forty-eight hours.” “Did you come in through the secret door?” Emerson asked. Ramses shook his head. He had acquired a few more scrapes and bruises, including a sizable lump on his temple. “There’s no need for secrecy now. The job is blown, Father. A complete disaster from start to finish.” Nefret studied him critically. “It would be nice if just once you could come back from one of your expeditions unbruised and unbloodied.” “It wasn’t my fault,” Ramses said defensively. “According to Chetwode, you heroically took on ten men so that he could get away,” Emerson said. “So he’s been here. It was only six,” Ramses added. “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Yes, he’s been here, and our cover is also blown. He insisted on delivering his message in person, and if he didn’t know my identity when he came, he does now. I — er — I forgot myself when he broke the news that you had been captured and were in ‘the merciless grip of the most dangerous man in the Ottoman Empire,’ as he put it. The fellow has something of a melodramatic streak.” “Hmmm,” said Ramses. “So he lingered long enough to see that, did he?” “He claimed he had hoped to come to your assistance, but the odds were too great, and he was obliged to follow your orders. It was at this point that your mother and Nefret came rushing in —” “We were in one of the secret passages,” I explained. “Very useful devices. The news that a British officer had come here with a message naturally aroused our interest, so we —” “Also forgot yourselves,” said Emerson. “My dear, the damage was already done. Lieutenant Chetwode did not seem at all surprised when we popped out of that cupboard.” “He’s going to put you in for a DSO,” Nefret said. “How nice,” said Ramses, with sardonic amusement. “So you sat here drinking tea while, for all you knew, I was undergoing hideous tortures?” “We were discussing what steps to take in order to rescue you,” I explained. “And how to go about them in the most efficient manner.” “I know, Mother. I was joking.” “I would be the last to deny that a touch of humor is seldom amiss,” I said. “However . . . Lieutenant Chetwode told us what transpired up till the time he ran away. So you need not repeat that part.” “Did he happen to mention that we would have made it out without running or any other inconvenience if he hadn’t tried to shoot Ismail Pasha?” Nefret gasped and Emerson swore, and I said evenly, “I take it he did not succeed?” “No. He hadn’t a chance of killing him. The governor’s considerable bulk was in the way and there was a good deal of commotion. It was my fault, really,” Ramses went on wearily. “I suspected he was armed and took one pistol away from him before we left. I should have had the sense to realize Cartright would anticipate that and provide him with a second weapon. I didn’t search him. I ought to have done.” “Stop berating yourself and tell us what happened,” I said. “From the beginning, please, and in proper order.” His narrative agreed for the most part with the one Chetwode had given us, up to the point where Chetwode had fired at the suspect. He had then fled — obeying Ramses’s order, as he had claimed. “I did tell him to run,” Ramses admitted. “The damage was done, and in the confusion no one could tell which of us had fired. The governor’s guards went after me and matters went as one might have expected. I got on reasonably well until someone threw a stone. They were about to escort me to the governor when who should appear but . . . This is the part you’ll find hard to believe.” In his youth Ramses had been appallingly verbose and given to an excessive use of adverbs, adjectives, and other descriptive flourishes. I had found this extremely exasperating, but the sparse, uninformative narrative style that was now his habit sometimes vexed me even more. Admittedly, the events themselves were enough to hold us spellbound; no one uttered a word until he had finished. “So,” I said. “He attempted at first to win you over with kind treatment and flattering words. When you refused to tell him what he wanted to know, he chained you to the wall of a cell and left you. You managed to free yourself, found the guard had left his post, and escaped. As simple as that.” “You have often told me,” said Ramses, “to stick to the facts, avoiding rhetorical flourishes and —” “Curse it,” I exclaimed. “Er, hmph,” said Emerson loudly, while Nefret laughed and Ramses gave me one of his most charming smiles. “What about another nice cup of tea, Peabody? And you, my boy. Perhaps just a few words of additional explanation —” “There was a woman involved,” I said. “Wasn’t there? Who?” Ramses’s smile died a quick death. “You’d have been burned at the stake in the seventeenth century.” “Quite possibly,” I agreed, taking the cup Emerson handed me. “Again, Ramses, from the beginning.” So we were treated to a description of Sahin Pasha’s beautiful, desirable daughter, and the pasha’s remarkable offer. Once he had been forced to speak, Ramses made an entertaining story of it, and even Emerson grinned reluctantly when Ramses quoted the Turk’s comments about multiple wives. “Excellent advice, my boy. It’s cursed strange, though. He couldn’t have been serious.” “You think not?” Nefret asked. It was the first time she had spoken since Ramses began his story. He gave her a quick look and shook his head. “He couldn’t have supposed I would agree — or keep my word if I did.” “Oh, you’d have kept your word,” Nefret murmured. “I didn’t give it. It does seem to me,” Ramses said emphatically, “that I am entitled to some credit for preferring torture and death to infidelity. She was a damned attractive girl, too.” “Now, now, don’t quarrel,” I said. “It was the girl who helped you escape?” Ramses nodded. “There was no way I could get those chains off by myself. She’s an efficient little creature,” he added thoughtfully. “She’d brought me a caftan and headcloth, and even a knife. She also offered to steal a horse for me, but I pointed out — somewhat rudely, now that I think about it — that it would only have made me more conspicuous.” Nefret looked as if she wanted to say something — I knew what it was — but she restrained herself. It was Emerson who voiced the same thought that had, of course, occurred to me. “He let you go. The girl was acting under his orders or with his cooperation.” “That idea had, of course, occurred to me,” I said. “But it doesn’t make sense. He might have intervened to take you from the governor’s men, but why would he connive in your escape so soon thereafter?” “Damned if I know,” Ramses said. “No doubt you are prepared to speculate, Mother. It is a useful process that clears away the underbrush in the thickets of deduction.” I did not at all mind his teasing me. It was such a relief to have him back with us, alive and relatively undamaged. “Certainly,” I said. “Let us begin with the assumption that he intended to save your life. If he had not taken you from the governor’s guards you would have been treated far less courteously.” “I would be extremely surprised to discover that Sahin Bey — Pasha, I should say — acted out of kindness,” Ramses said. “He had an ulterior motive, and I doubt it was finding a husband for his daughter.” “Why, then?” Emerson grunted. “If he wants to turn his coat and come over to us — unlikely on the face of it — he wouldn’t need a good word from you. The War Office would sell their souls and those of all their mothers and grandmothers to get the head of the Turkish secret service on our side.” Ramses scratched absently at the scraped flesh on his jaw. “I agree, Father.” “All the same, HQ must be notified.” “I’ve already done so. Why do you suppose I’m wearing this bloody damned uniform? I was in the water long enough to wash the dye off my skin, but I hadn’t any clothes except the bare necessities, and I’d never have got to General Chetwode looking the way I did.” Ramses added, “I expect the officer I waylaid holds a bit of a grudge; I had to borrow his uniform without his consent. He oughtn’t wander so far from camp.” Emerson knew his son too well to misinterpret his lighthearted manner. “What did General Chetwode say?” Ramses shrugged. “What could he say but ‘Bad luck, old boy, glad you made it back after all’? Our Chetwode had already left for Cairo to make his report.” “He was in something of a hurry to get out of town, wasn’t he?” Emerson mused. “How much did you tell the general?” “I am not telling anyone any more than I have to,” Ramses said tightly. “Nobody is telling meanything. I’ll be damned if I can understand who is actually running this stunt. Apparently General Chetwode didn’t know what his nephew intended to do, he was only told we were going to investigate and reconnoiter. I didn’t mention the girl, or Sahin’s proposition. The general is under the impression that I cleverly escaped all by my little self. I’m sorry, I ought to have come here straightaway, but —” “Bah,” said Emerson gruffly. “You did what you had to do. I still say the girl couldn’t have managed it on her own. The young, spoiled daughter of an aristocrat, raised in the harem —” “She’d been exposed to Western ideas and Western schooling,” Ramses interrupted. “Your basic point is well taken, however. Someone helped her, but it need not have been her father.” “Ah,” said Emerson. “I’m sorry, Father. I ought to have made a greater effort to find him.” “Don’t be absurd,” I said forcibly. “You could not have eluded recapture for long, and if you had not turned up, your father would have gone into Gaza looking for you.” “Perhaps I ought to have let him go in my place.” Ramses leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. The dark stains of exhaustion under his eyes were very visible. “I made a thorough muckup of the whole business. I’m sorry . . .” Nefret was sitting cross-legged on the divan next to him. She stood up, the bracelets on her ankles and wrists jingling musically. “Stop saying you’re sorry!” “Quite right,” Emerson exclaimed. “I am the one who should apologize, my boy, for badgering you. Go and get some rest.” Ramses sat up, propping his heavy head with his hands. “It might have been him. There wasn’t time to get a good look. I couldn’t determine whether the soldiers were guarding a prisoner or protecting a holy man. But the mere fact that I am here, and not in Sahin’s cell, is a strong indication that Sethos is in Gaza. Unless that is what we are meant to believe . . . Sorry. I seem to be adding to the deadwood instead of clearing it away.” “You didn’t have time to question the girl, I suppose,” I said. “And don’t say you’re sorry again!” Ramses summoned up a feeble grin. “Yes, Mother. I did ask who had helped her. She claimed no one had, that it was all her doing.” “She lied,” I said. “Quite understandable; she wanted the credit and your — er — gratitude.” Ramses shook his head. “I don’t think so. Her fear was genuine.
You know how Sethos operates. If it was he who arranged my escape, he’d have found a way of supplying her with everything she needed while leaving her with the impression that the whole thing had been her idea.” “But how did he manage it?” I demanded. “He had less than twelve hours to come up with a plan and carry it out. He must have known the identity of Sahin’s prisoner, for surely he would not have taken such a risk for a stranger. How did he find out it was you?” “That question hadn’t occurred to me.” Ramses sat up straighter. “And it may be significant. Could that have been why Sahin didn’t pop me into his little cell straightaway? Damn it, yes! He put me on display — beardless and bareheaded, easily recognizable — and when they did take me downstairs they paraded me through most of the house first. If Sethos was staying in the same house . . .” His brief animation faded. “It still doesn’t answer the most important questions.” “Yes, yes,” Emerson said gruffly. “We’ll talk about it later. Take him away, Nefret.” Ramses got slowly to his feet. “Take me where?” “To my little private cubicle,” Nefret said, drawing his arm over her shoulders. “Are there any peepholes in the walls?” “Probably. Does it matter?” “That depends.” He smiled down into her upturned face and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “I don’t suppose it does matter,” I admitted. “By this time everyone in town will know we have dealings with British officers, and that we may not be what we seem. I do strongly urge, however, that you rest instead of — er —” “Of course, Mother.” Nefret turned her head and gave me a bewitching smile. “That was an extremely impertinent and unsolicited bit of advice,” Emerson said, after they had left the room. “She’ll look after him. And — er — cheer him up. The boy is too hard on himself.” “He always has been,” I said, taking no notice of the criticism. “It wasn’t his fault, it was the fault of the confounded War Office. Shall I begin packing?” “No, my dear. What’s your hurry?” “I would have supposed,” I said, with a certain amount of sarcasm, “that you would want to go in pursuit of the conscienceless villain who sent your son to risk torture and death.” “All in due course, Peabody. We went to considerable trouble to get this close to Gaza, and I’m damned if I am going to leave before I’ve learned what we came here to learn.” “And how do you propose to do that?” “We could wait for him to come to us. That is your favorite method of investigation, I believe.” “You mean Sethos, I suppose.” “Sethos or anyone else who decides we are a threat to his plans.” He settled himself on the divan and beckoned to me. “Come and sit by me, my love. We’ve had little enough privacy these past few days.” I acceded at once, but as his strong arm wrapped round me and drew me close to his side, I felt obliged to remind him of the peepholes. Emerson only chuckled. “It is time I paid a few attentions to my elder wife. Give me a kiss.” “In English?” I exclaimed. “Kisses are a universal language,” said Emerson. I was so touched by this poetic sentiment, I suffered the prickles of the beard without objection. When I had got my breath back, I said suspiciously, “You are in a very cheerful mood, I must say. What are you concealing from me?” “I have no intention of concealing anything from you, my dear. I didn’t want to keep Ramses from his bed — er — his rest any longer; but he made an interesting point. If Sethos was staying in the same house . . . He must have been, mustn’t he? Not only did he know Ramses’s identity, but he had access to the girl. Now listen closely, Peabody . . .” “Yes, my dear.” I rubbed my stinging cheek. “He wouldn’t have approached her as Ismail Pasha. It would have been an unnecessary risk. He disguised himself as someone else . . . and I know who.” “Well, so do I.” “Confound it,” Emerson shouted, removing his arm and fixing me with an evil glare. “You’re doing it again! You always claim you —” “But, my dear, it is obvious.” “Oh? Then you tell me. Or shall we play our old game, each of us writing the answer and sealing it in an envelope?” We had played this little game often, and I will admit, in the pages of my private journal, that I had maneuvered Emerson into committing himself first on certain occasions when I was not entirely certain of my conclusions. On this occasion I did not hesitate. “Why, my dear, I think we are past that childish sort of competition. I will be happy to tell you. He disguised himself as Sahin Pasha.” Emerson let out a whoop of laughter. He sobered almost at once, however, and began stroking his beard. “Really, Peabody, that is deuced ingenious. But . . . No, it is impossible. What led you to that remarkable deduction?” “Your turn next,” I said playfully. “Whom did you suspect?” “I need my pipe,” Emerson muttered. “What did you do with it?” I hadn’t done anything with it. Muttering to himself, Emerson rummaged through his voluminous garments until he located the thing and his tobacco pouch. I helped him to light the pipe, keeping a wary eye out for sparks in his beard. “Well,” said Emerson, settling back onto the divan and puffing away with enjoyment. “Where were we?” “You were about to tell me whom you suspected of being Sethos.” The comfort of his beloved pipe had given Emerson new courage. “The servant,” he said decidedly. “The fellow who brought the tea? It was drugged, Emerson.” “Well, of course. It would have been a dead giveaway for him to ignore his master’s orders. People don’t look at servants,” Emerson went on. “And Sahin had borrowed the house and, one must suppose, the staff from someone else.” “It isn’t like Sethos to choose such an inconspicuous role.” “No, he much prefers to make a spectacle of himself. It would be a coup much to his taste to take over the role of someone as well known as Sahin.” He looked so chagrined that I felt obliged to offer his vanity a little encouragement. Husbands appreciate these gestures. “There are some things I don’t understand, though,” I said. “How could Sethos deceive Sahin’s men and his household and even his daughter?” “Oh, that,” said Emerson, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sethos has fooled more observant individuals than a handful of dull-witted guards. The girl may have seen very little of her father; I don’t suppose Sahin was the sort of papa who plays games with his children.” “Well, perhaps I am wrong,” I said handsomely. “Without knowing more about the household than we do, it is impossible to know for certain how he managed it.” “I don’t know how he managed it,” Emerson admitted. “Or what is behind all this maneuvering. But I have a feeling — yes, my dear, call it a premonition if you like — I have a feeling we will hear from my eccentric — er — acquaintance before too long. And since it appears that far too many people know our identities already, we may as well leave off pretending to be respectable Moslems. What do you say I borrow a bottle of whiskey from one of our chaps?” “I have considered the advantages and disadvantages of abandoning our masquerade, and in my opinion the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. The people we were trying to keep in the dark already know the truth, and the presence of the famous Father of Curses can only inspire respect from others. However, there is no need for you to borrow anything.” I reached behind the cushions and drew out the parcel I had kept in my personal charge during that long, wearisome journey. It was a large and rather lumpy parcel, as I knew to my sorrow, since I had sat on it most of the way. “Good Gad!” said Emerson, as I extracted the bottle, which I had wrapped in certain articles of clothing. “We will have to use plain water or drink it neat, like Cyrus. The gasogene was too large, and fragile besides.” Emerson’s smile faded. “What else have you got in there?” he asked suspiciously. “Trousers, shirts, and boots for me and Nefret — you saw them the other day — my knife, and hers — my belt of tools — and —” “No!” Emerson exclaimed, his eyes bulging. “You cannot suppose I would venture into danger without it.” I had spread the articles out on the divan. I added my parasol. Emerson’s lips writhed, but the light of forlorn hope lingered in his eyes. “Please. Tell me it isn’t . . .” I took hold of the handle and gave it a twist and a pull. “My sword parasol, yes. The one you were kind enough to give me.” Emerson reached for the bottle.