The Hippopotamus Pool (3 page)

But I had not, and four months had passed since that conversation. We had delayed our departure longer than usual, in the hope of seeing an improvement that did not, alas, occur, and because there were a number of new arrangements to be made this year. For the first time Ramses and Nefret were to accompany us and I was determined their education should not be interrupted. It proved to be much more difficult than I had anticipated to find a tutor of either sex. Most of the applicants I interviewed had declined the post after hearing that they would be expected to spend the winter in a tent or an Egyptian tomb. (A few hung on until after
they
had been interviewed by Ramses.)

So when, shortly after our arrival at Shepheard's, I was approached by Miss Marmaduke, I could only regard it as an unexpected stroke of goodfortune. Her credentials were excellent, her recommendations had come from the highest social circles, and her reason for seeking employment could only increase her value in my eyes; for, as she explained, she had come out on a Cook's Tour and fallen in love with Egypt. Hearing from mutual acquaintances of our imminent arrival and our need of someone to educate the children, she had delayed her departure in the hope of obtaining a position with us—and, as she shyly explained, learning something about the antiquities of the country. This pleased Emerson, who had not been much taken with her when he first met her. He had hoped to begin training a lady Egyptologist but had been unable to find a suitable candidate. There were few women students at that time, since most professors would rather have had a homicidal maniac in their classes than a female. Miss Marmaduke had also some secretarial experience, and was quite willing to assist in the clerical duties all properly conducted archaeological excavations require.

(And the fact that Emerson had not been much taken with her was an additional point in her favor. Emerson is a very modest man. He has no idea of the effect he has on females.)

When the next waltz began and Emerson approached me I rose to meet him, determined to forget care in the pleasures of the dance. However, instead of leading me onto the floor he tucked my arm in his.

"Will you come with me, Peabody? I am sorry to rob you of your terpsichorean pleasures, but I feel sure that if given a choice, you would prefer the alternative I propose."

"My dear Emerson!" I exclaimed, blushing. "The activity to which I assume you refer would always be my first choice, but can't it wait? It would not be proper to leave the children unchaperoned."

Emerson gave me a surprised look and then burst out laughing. "That activity will certainly have to be postponed—though, my dear Peabody, I hope not for long. We have an appointment. It may be a complete waste of time, but there is an outside chance that the fellow has useful information. Now don't ask questions, we are already late. And don't fuss about the children. They are old enough to behave themselves, and Miss Marmaduke's presence should satisfy the proprieties. That's why she is here, hang it, to watch over the children."

"Who is the individual we are about to meet?"

"I don't know. But," Emerson said, forestalling the objection I was about to make, "the message I received from him this morning contained some intriguing information. Knowing where I plan to excavate this season, he offered—"

"He knows more than I, then," I said sharply. "When did you decide that, Emerson, and why is a total stranger more familiar with your thoughts than your own wife and professional partner?"

Pulling me along, Emerson crossed the landing and started up the last flight of stairs. "Cursed if I know, Peabody. That was one of the things that provoked my curiosity. It was a deuced odd communication; the writer was clearly a man of intelligence and education, but he was equally clearly in a state of some agitation, demanding secrecy and hinting at unspecified but horrible dangers that threatened him. His claim that he knows the location of an unrobbed tomb is undoubtedly balderdash—"

"What?" The word came out in a high-pitched squeak, for the rapidity of his movements had left me short of breath. "Where?" I demanded. Emerson stopped and looked at me reproachfully.

"You needn't scream, Peabody. At Thebes, of course. Specifically ... but that is what we are about to discover. Come along, my dear, come along, or this mysterious individual may have second thoughts."

A man stood before the door of our sitting room. He was not Emerson's mysterious visitor; he wore the uniform that distinguishes the employees of Shepheard's, and I recognized him as the suffragi who was on duty during the night hours. Seeing us, he sprang to attention. "Emerson Effendi! See, I have done as you asked. I have guarded your door. This person—"

"What person?" Emerson demanded, looking up and down the deserted hall.

Before Ali could reply, a form emerged from behind a turn in the corridor. It moved as silently as the specter it resembled; enveloped from shoulders to heels in folds of dark fabric, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over its brow, it came to a halt some feet away. The nearest light was behind it and I felt sure it had chosen that position with deliberate intent, for the brim of the hat shadowed its features.

"Ah," said Emerson, his good humor restored. "You are the gentleman who requested an appointment? I apologize for being late; it was all Mrs. Emerson's fault. You don't object to her joining us, I hope?"

"Not at all." The comment was brief, the voice low and husky—obviously disguised.

Emerson opened the door. "After you, my dear Peabody. And you, sir, come in."

I had left one lamp burning, for a number of unpleasant experiences had taught me it is unwise to enter a totally darkened room, but it gave only enough light to assure me that there were no assassins or burglars lying in wait. I was about to press the switch that would turn on the overhead lights when a hand closed over mine. I let out a little cry of surprise and Emerson exclaimed, "What the devil—"

"My heartfelt apologies, Mrs. Emerson," said the stranger, releasing my hand—and just in time too, for Emerson had already seized him by thecollar. "I did not mean to startle you. Please don't turn on the lights. I am taking a terrible risk by coming here; allow me to preserve my anonymity until we have reached an agreement—if that can be done."

"Confound it," Emerson exclaimed. "I warn you, Mr. Saleh ... Ah, but am I to take it that the name you gave me is not your own?"

"It will suffice for the present." The stranger had moved away, into a pool of shadow. He raised his hands to his face. Was he praying? I thought not. An anticipatory shiver of excitement rippled through my limbs.

Emerson emitted a loud groan. "Oh, good Gad! Are we to have another of these melodramatic distractions? I suppose one season of simple archaeological excavation, uninterrupted by criminals, was too much to expect. Had I but known ... Well, curse it, the damage is done. Even if I were to follow my instincts, which tell me to throw you out the door before you can utter a word, Mrs. Emerson would insist on hearing you out. She dotes on melodrama. If you have adjusted that mask to your satisfaction, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, sit down and start talking. I am a patient man, but my time is valuable and I strongly suspect that this will be—"

"He can't start talking until you stop, Emerson," I said. "Take that chair, Mr.—er—Saleh. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, coffee, brandy, whiskey?"

"Whiskey. Thank you."

Mumbling to himself, Emerson waved me toward the sofa and went to the sideboard. Ignoring his complaints, I seated myself and studied the stranger curiously. The black cloak had fallen back; under it he wore ordinary European clothing. The name he had given was Egyptian, but the fact that he had accepted an alcoholic beverage meant he was not a Muslim—or at least not a very good one. I was unable to make out his features, since the mask of black silk covered his entire face and was fastened, in some manner I could not ascertain, under his chin. An orifice roughly oval in shape exposed his lips, and I assumed there were other openings to permit vision, though not even a gleam of eyeballs was visible under the brim of his hat.

Emerson handed me a glass and offered another to our visitor. He put out a hand to take it.

He must have been watching me as closely as I had examined him; seeing me stiffen, he let out a little coughing sound that might have been a laugh. "You are quick, Mrs. Emerson. Was that why you offered me refreshment?"

"It was an outside chance," I said calmly. "But it is more difficult to disguise one's hands than one's face. The spots of old age can be covered, but not the protruding veins that are equally distinctive. Scars, calluses, birthmarks, the very shape of palm and fingers—or, as in this case, adistinctive article of jewelry. ... Since you did not take the precaution of removing your ring before you came here, may I take it that you would not object if I asked to examine it more closely?"

"I had intended to let you do so, in confirmation of the story I am about to tell you." He removed it from his finger and placed it on the palm I had extended.

Even an uneducated tourist would have recognized the basic design. In pharaonic times, scarabs were popular amulets, which carried a hieroglyphic inscription or a name on the flat undersurface. Replicas, some honestly proclaimed as such, some purporting to be ancient, were sold to tourists by the hundreds. In this case the scarab was not of the common faience or stone; it was, or appeared to be, solid gold. It had been fastened to the shank of the ring in a manner familiar to me from ancient examples: twisted gold wires on either side of the scarab-shaped bezel allowed it to pivot. When I turned it over I was not surprised to see the hieroglyphic signs that spelled a name. I recognized the name, but it was not one of the ones commonly found on such trinkets.

I handed the ring to Emerson, who studied it with a scowl as Mr. Saleh began to speak.

"This jewel has been handed down from generation to generation for over three thousand years. It is the symbol of the office of High Priest of the ka of Queen Tetisheri, whose name you see on the scarab. Only the body perishes; the immortal spirit, the ka of the Egyptians, passes on from one fleshly tenement to another. It has been my sacred duty over the long centuries to ensure the survival and the rebirth of that great queen. In my first incarnation, as Heriamon of Thebes, I was her faithful—"

Emerson's roar made the window glass rattle. "Hell and damnation!"

"Emerson!" I exclaimed. "Do calm yourself. And be careful of the ring, it is twenty-two-carat gold and quite fragile."

"Peabody, I will be damned if I will put up with this sort of thing." The blood that had rushed to his tanned face turned it a pretty shade of mahogany, but he put the ring carefully into my hand before clenching his own hand into a fist and shaking it under my nose. "Reincarnation! Either he is a lunatic or he is inventing this lunatic tale in order to cover up a more sinister plan." He jumped to his feet and lunged at the stranger.

Warned by Emerson's initial scream of rage, the stranger had also risen. The pistol he now held in his hand brought even my impetuous husband to an abrupt halt. "Hell and damnation," Emerson repeated, in a softer but even more ominous voice. "What is it you want, then? If you dare lay hands on my wife—"

"I have no intention of harming either of you," was the quick response.

"I go armed for other reasons, but I was not unprepared for your reaction. Only hear me out. What harm can it do?"

"Go on," Emerson said curtly.

"What I told you is true. This body is only the latest of many my ka has inhabited. You may believe it or not; that is immaterial to me. I mentioned it only to explain the source of the knowledge I am about to offer you. I know the location of her tomb. I can lead you to it—a queen's tomb, with its treasures intact."

Emerson's breath caught. He did not believe it—but oh, how he wanted to! He would not have sold his soul for wealth or the face that launched a thousand ships, but a royal tomb! Mephistopheles himself could have made no offer more seductive to the heart of an Egyptologist, even that of a scholar who prizes knowledge above vulgar fame. Emerson's contributions to the field of Egyptology had won him the acclaim of his peers (and, I am sorry to say, a certain degree of vulgar fame as well), but he had never made that one outstanding discovery all archaeologists dream of. Could this be such a discovery?

"Where?" he demanded.

"Drah Abu'l Naga." The stranger stepped back and lowered the pistol. Like me, he had observed the signs, not of belief but of the desire to believe.

In the days when he possessed a beard, Emerson had been wont to tug at it in moments of deep thought. Now sans beard, at my insistence, he had to content himself with rubbing the cleft in his chin. "Logical," he muttered. "But if you know anything about Egyptology, which you obviously do, you could have reasoned that out. Devil take it, Saleh, or whoever you are, what are you really after? If you know where such a tomb is located, why would you offer it to me?"

"If I told you the truth, you would not believe me. No"—for I had attempted to return the ring to him—"it is mine no longer. The trust has passed on."

"See here," said Emerson, controlling his temper more successfully than I had imagined possible. "If you are implying that Mrs. Emerson is your successor—future incarnation—oh, the devil!"

"You, not she," was the calm reply.

I held my breath, anticipating the threatened explosion. To my surprise, Emerson relaxed and a glint of humor warmed his stern face.

"That is a more seemly alternative than the other. Just how is the transfer of personality and/or sacred duty effected, Mr. Saleh? I trust you don't expect me to undergo the standard purification rituals. Mrs. Emerson disapproves of beards, but I doubt she would allow me to shave my head, andnot even for the honor of being high priest of Tetisheri would I give up my roast beef and—er—certain other activities."

"Mockery is your defense against the truth, Professor. You will learn soon enough that our fates are foreordained; your destiny will come upon you and you will accept it. Until that time, believe, if you prefer to do so, that I have come to ask your help for purely practical reasons.