The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (34 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Emerson stood staring up at the hillside, his hand shading his eyes. He was, as usual, without a hat. “May I have a moment of your time, Father?” Ramses asked. “What the devil is Bertie doing up there?” “Continuing his survey, I suppose. May I —” “Certainly, my boy, certainly. Something about that new section?” “No, sir. Something about the Albions. I would be happy to assist in whatever you’re planning, if you care to let me in on it.” Emerson’s eyes shifted warily from side to side, around, and behind. “Promise you won’t tell your mother?” “I’ll try not to. But you know how she —” “Yes, yes, I do know. But this time, by Gad, I think I’m one step ahead of her. Come over here where she can’t hear us.” His mother was two hundred feet away but Ramses let his father draw him aside. “Well, sir?” Emerson took out his pipe. “It struck me as somewhat strange that the Albions would select that particular part of the valley. There is no more reason to expect a big find there than anywhere else. Unless they had a hint from someone.” He lit a match and puffed. “A hint such as the fragment of wall painting?” Ramses asked. “Khonsu. He is a god and he has human hands.” “As do many other gods,” Emerson said. “But the Albions, for all Sebastian’s book learning, haven’t much experience, and at the moment they are at a loss as to where to look.” “For Jamil’s tomb?” “I see the idea does not surprise you. What made you think of it?” “I don’t like the Albions,” Ramses said. “Any of them.” “I am glad to see you are beginning to trust your instincts,” his father said approvingly. “As Mother would say —” Emerson’s scowl made him abandon that thought. “I don’t like their behavior toward Jumana,” Ramses elaborated. “Their attitude toward Egyptians is characteristic of their class and nationality — bigoted and prejudiced, in other words. After his initial blunder Sebastian has leaned over backward to be polite to her. Nefret thinks it is because they hope to ingratiate themselves with us, but there could be another reason.” His father nodded. “Go on.” “Let’s go at it from another direction. Jamil was getting financial support from someone. We assumed it was Yusuf, but there were those interesting items of European manufacture among his supplies. The Albions asked you to introduce them to a few tomb robbers. I don’t believe it was a joke. They had been asking around Gurneh, and Albion mentioned that ‘Mohammed’ had put them on to someone. What if that someone was Jamil?” “Mohassib’s first name is Mohammed,” Emerson said. “It might have been Mohassib, or Mohammed Hassan — or any one of several other Mohammeds. Those two are the most likely, however. Both had spoken with Jamil, both were afraid of him. What better way of conciliating him than to introduce him to a wealthy patron? Then Jamil was inconsiderate enough to get himself killed before he disclosed the location of the tomb. The Albions believe there’s a chance he confided in Jumana. An outside chance, but that’s what they have been reduced to.” “And Jamil promised that in exchange for their support he would sell them the objects from the tomb once he’d cleared it. My thought exactly.” “If I know Albion, he’d insist on more than promises,” Ramses said. “Oh, well done,” Emerson said approvingly. “Yes, he’d want proof of the find, and — a little something on account? Something as fine as the cosmetic jar?” “Possibly. It’s all conjecture, and we can’t . . . Father, no!” “Can’t do what?” said Emerson, fumbling with his pipe. He was too late; his face had betrayed him. “Search their rooms. Don’t deny it, Father, that is what you were thinking.” “You thought of it, too, or you wouldn’t have been so quick to read my mind.” The accusation was accurate, the grin conspiratorial, but Ramses tried to look stern. “That sort of thing is more in Mother’s line.” “We can’t have her doing something like that,” Emerson said. “It’s against the law.” Ramses couldn’t resist the grin. He began to laugh. “It’s a tempting thought, but not really practical. Even if we found illegal antiquities, we couldn’t confiscate them or prove where they came from. Jamil may have dropped enticing hints to the Albions, but they don’t seem to know any more than we do.” His father’s abstracted expression told him he hadn’t got the point across. “This is all conjecture,” he insisted. “Logical and consistent, but without substantiating evidence. We can’t even be certain that Jamil told the Albions about the hand of the god. It may have been pure coincidence that they chose to dig in that spot.” “Well, we will soon find out.” “Ah. Those alternate sites you suggested?” “Mmmm.” Emerson sucked on his pipe. “None of them has any connection with a divine representation. If the Albions are solely interested in excavation —” “Ramses!” His mother’s voice had considerable carrying power. Emerson twitched guiltily and Ramses turned. She was on her feet, waving some object at him. It appeared to be a large piece of pottery — an ostracon. Ramses waved back. “We may as well stop for lunch,” he said. “Sennia has told me twice already that she’s faint with hunger.” “Where is she?” Emerson turned, scanning the terrain. “Probably in the shelter, investigating the basket, which would explain why the Great Cat of Re has also abandoned us. I must speak to her about overfeeding the creature, it’s getting absolutely obese.” “He,” Emerson corrected. Sennia, and the cat, were where he expected. The others joined them in time to save most of the chicken. Ramses’s lecture was not as forceful as he had intended it to be; the hurt looks he got from two pairs of eyes, one pair big and black, the other pair round and clear-green as peridots, had a softening effect. Apologetically he offered the cat a piece of chicken. Sennia had collected a few ostraca too, but the one his mother had found was outstanding — larger than most, the hieratic clearly preserved. He was touched to see how her face brightened when he expressed his appreciation. “Was this in the fill?” he asked, holding it carefully by the edges. “I’m surprised that any of our fellows would overlook something so large.” “Curse it, Peabody,” Emerson mumbled through a bite of cheese, “have you been digging illicitly?” “How could you suppose I would do such a thing, Emerson? Ali brought it to me. It has been properly recorded.” “Oh. All right, then.” “What does it say?” Nefret asked, leaning over Ramses’s shoulder. A loosened lock of hair brushed his cheek. He twisted it around his finger and smiled at her. “It appears to be a prayer — to Hathor, Divine Mother, Lady of Fragrance.” “You can translate it later,” Emerson declared, wiping his fingers on his trousers. “I want to finish that section today.” “I trust you have not forgotten we are dining with Cyrus this evening,” his wife reminded him. Emerson groaned. Cyrus grinned. “I asked Selim too,” he said significantly. “Hmmm,” said Ramses’s mother. “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Bertie, you haven’t told me how you are getting on. Not that I have any right to ask, I suppose.” “Don’t be a dog in the manger,” his wife said. “You have every right to ask, sir,” Bertie said earnestly. “It’s going well, I think. I’ve got most of the known tombs located now. This is a working copy, of course; I keep the master copy at home and add to it every night.” “Well done.” Emerson slapped him on the back. “Now — back to work, eh?” Not until later that day was Ramses able to arrange a private conversation with his mother. “Do you really intend to tell Cyrus about Khan Yunus? You know, Mother, that the Official Secrets Act —” “I do not consider myself bound by any document to which I did not agree in advance,” said his mother. Her chin protruded even more than usual. “We must tell Cyrus something. It isn’t fair to him to keep him wholly in the dark. Ramses . . . dear . . .” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I know you would rather not talk or think of the affair again, but if you will brace yourself, one more time . . . You have my word that Selim’s narrative will not get me in trouble with the War Office!” “All right, Mother. Dear,” he added, with a smile that brought a faint flush to her cheeks. It had taken Katherine Vandergelt a while to become comfortable with their Egyptian friends. She had had to come to terms with her prejudices, or at least conceal them — his mother hadn’t left her any choice! No one but a boor could have treated Selim with less than the courtesy his fine manners and inherent dignity deserved; Katherine’s greeting was warm and friendly. She displayed even more warmth toward Jumana, whose pallor and morose expression obviously shocked her, and kept pressing delicacies on her. Jumana, who had not wanted to come, but had been made to, pushed the food around her plate and looked wistful. Cyrus’s majordomo had outdone himself — “to welcome them home.” The table glittered with crystal, and the silverware shone. After dinner they retired to the sitting room for coffee. Selim knew what was on the agenda. He had been perfectly at ease up till that time; now he began to fidget and tug at his beard. Stage fright? Or fear that he would forget the lines in which he had been coached by the great Sitt Hakim? “All right now, Amelia, we’re ready,” Cyrus said, settling himself comfortably in a deep armchair. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” She smiled complacently and sipped her coffee. “Selim will tell it. Go ahead, Selim.” All eyes turned toward Selim, completing his discomfiture. As he confessed later to Ramses, he would rather have faced a horde of assailants, armed to the teeth, than those focused stares. He cleared his throat. “I am no storyteller,” he began in a voice several tones higher than his usual baritone. “Not like Daoud.” “All the better,” Cyrus said with a smile. “We know Daoud’s tendency to — er — embroider.” “Start with the motorcar,” Emerson suggested, seeing that Selim needed encouragement. “It was a fine motorcar, and you drove magnificently.” Once launched, Selim described the charms of the motorcar in loving detail and dwelled with excessive but pardonable enthusiasm on the perils of the long journey and his skill as a driver. “Khan Yunus is an ugly town, not like Luxor,” he declared. “There were many soldiers. The house of the friend of the Father of Curses was where we stayed; it was very dirty. It was there that the real adventure began!” “About time,” muttered Cyrus. “Khan Yunus, eh? What did you go there for?” Selim glanced at Ramses’s mother, who gave him an encouraging nod. He had got over his self-consciousness and was enjoying himself — as well he might, Ramses thought. Never, not even from his mother or Daoud, had he heard such a wild story. They had been summoned to Khan Yunus to rescue a beautiful maiden — the daughter of a Bedouin sheikh, their friend and ally — from the evil old man who had carried her off, with designs on her fortune and her virtue. It was Ramses who had gone after the maiden and succeeded, after many dangers, in rescuing her. Selim described some of the dangers, which included a duel with scimitars. Ramses covered his face with his hand. “He does not like to have his courage praised,” said Selim. “But it was not over. The evil old man sent men to take her back, and we had to fight them off and escape, in the night, with enemies pursuing us and the town in flames. We stole horses from under the very noses of the Australians! But I have not told you about the ragged beggar, who was a policeman in disguise — and a good disguise it was; he had fleas and smelled bad. The evil old man was a thief, you see, who had stolen jewels from many rich ladies and important antiquities from the Cairo Museum. The beggar was trying to catch him and bring him to justice, but in the end it was not he who captured the villain, it was Ramses.” “It was not,” Ramses exclaimed, driven beyond endurance. “It was Father, with —” “Hmph,” said Emerson loudly. “Very well told, Selim. You see, Vandergelt, it was just another of our attempts to assist the police. It is the duty of every citizen.” “How about the maiden?” Cyrus inquired. “You didn’t bring her home with you?” Selim sighed and looked soulful. “The — er — policeman took her away,” Ramses said. He’d had as much as he could stand. “He was her lover, I think,” Selim added. “Oh, I see. You mind if I ask a few questions, Selim?” Selim had enjoyed himself, once he got well under way, but he knew better than to risk an interrogation by Cyrus Vandergelt. He got hastily to his feet. “I must go. It is late. Thank you for your kind hospitality.” “Now see here, Amelia,” Cyrus exclaimed. “We mustn’t detain him, Cyrus, he has other responsibilities. Jumana, you are excused as well. Selim will take you home.” “But I want —” “You have been ill. You need your rest.” “I feel much better!” She looked almost her old self, eyes bright, cheeks pink. The eyes were fixed on Ramses, with an expression that made him want to run for cover. His mother snapped, “Do as you are told.” Ramses went to the door with Selim while Jumana was collecting her wrap. “I owe you for that, Selim,” he murmured. “I only said what the Sitt Hakim told me to. But why are you angry? I know what you did, and if I had done such things I would tell everyone. But,” Selim said, struck by a new idea, “we do it to make the men fear us and the women admire us, yes? All men fear the Brother of Demons, and you have won the heart of the only woman you want. When Nur Misur looks at you, it is as if the sun were shining in her eyes.” “I’m not angry, Selim.” Ramses embraced him in the Egyptian manner. “You are a good friend — and a shameless romantic.” “And what is wrong with that?” Selim’s grin faded into a scowl when Jumana came out of the house. He mounted his horse and hauled her up in front of him with no more ceremony than if she had been a sack of grain. Ramses heard them exchanging insults as they rode off. Serves them both right, he thought. When he returned to the drawing room, his mother had taken charge of the proceedings. “Unbelievable or not, that story is what Selim told Daoud. By the time Daoud finishes embellishing it, it will bear little resemblance to fact.” “And I’ll sound like even more of a posturing ass,” Ramses said sourly. “Stop complaining,” his mother said. “Goodness gracious, I did
the best I could! It was necessary to account for our absence in some way. Our friends at Atiyeh saw the motorcar and realized we were preparing for a long desert trip. By the time we left Khan Yunus, everyone knew who we were; they will pass the story on, and sooner or later our activities will be gossiped about throughout Egypt and Palestine.” “It was a pretty good yarn,” Cyrus admitted. He lit one of his cheroots and leaned back. “And no wilder than a lot of your adventures. I’m sorry, though, I can’t believe in the beautiful maiden. Khan Yunus is only ten miles from Gaza. Need I say more?” His knowing smile brought a responsive twinkle to her eyes. “Oddly enough, Cyrus, the beautiful maiden is one of the true facts. However, there is no use denying that our mission involved more serious matters. You’ve known for some time that we have had dealings with the secret service, haven’t you?” “A fellow would have to be pretty durned stupid not to have strong suspicions, Amelia. With a war on, and the way you keep appearing and disappearing without explanation, and your expertise in certain areas . . .” His eyes moved to Ramses. “Well, I’m not asking for details. I just hope to God the filthy business is over soon. You can’t keep on taking chances without something bad happening, and we couldn’t spare you. Any of you.” “Amen,” Katherine said. “Er — quite,” Bertie added. “It is over,” declared Emerson, squirming a little in the warm flood of friendship. “A bloo — — excuse me, Katherine — a blooming nuisance too. Now we can —” “Just one more question,” Cyrus interrupted. “You don’t have to answer it, but I’m real curious. Was that so-called beggar anybody I know?” Caught off-guard and at a loss as to how to answer, Emerson turned for help to his wife. “You have met the gentleman,” she said smoothly. “And he’s on our side now?” “Oh, yes. Cyrus, would you think me rude if I asked for a whiskey and soda?” She looked so smug, her son had to fight to keep from laughing. Trust his mother — she never lied “unless it was absolutely necessary,” and this time she had spoken the literal truth. Cyrus had been well acquainted with Sir Edward Washington, but it had not been that gentleman he meant.